Murder in Court Three

by Ian Simpson

  Either Baggo’s persistence or the implied threat of bad publicity made Smith relent, and he led him down the cells corridor. From a cell at the far end emanated a barrage of foul abuse in a cockney accent. The parentage and sexual habits of Glaswegians were being slandered. From the other cells Baggo could hear low, dangerous rumbles. He thought that if he failed to get No out that afternoon the ex-inspector would be lucky to escape from the city alive.

  No did not appreciate the precariousness of his situation. ‘You took your bloody time. These clowns don’t know their arses from their elbows. They’ve treated me like a fucking criminal. I’ll have their guts for garters, just see if I don’t.’

  ‘Noel, listen …’

  ‘I’ve only been in this blasted city for a few hours before I find a body. I tell them and they lock me up. I’m not staying here another minute, Baggo. They can find their own fucking bodies from now on.’

  ‘And the first one will be yours unless you shut up. Now. Or I walk out and leave you here.’

  The two men tried to out-stare each other. This time Baggo won. Speaking quietly as if to an over-excited child he said, ‘Wimbledon CID is in the past. Now I am in charge and you must do as I say. You are in a very deep hole yet you continue to dig. If you are to get out of here you will have to apologise to a lot of people, including Sergeant Smith, the custody sergeant, who wishes to keep you here. Now what on earth happened? What made you lash out?’ As he finished he could barely believe he had spoken to Inspector No in that way. A couple of years earlier he had been terrified of him.

  The mirror image of that thought process went through Osborne’s mind. He knew he had to do as Baggo said or his future would be bleak. He slumped onto the hard surface, equally uncomfortable for sitting or lying, his head in his hands.

  ‘You must never tell anyone,’ he said. ‘I wanted to solve your case. I tried to join these Catholic maniacs and they put me through what they said was their initiation routine, but they were just taking the piss. I was in too far to back out so I whipped myself like they told me to. Yes, with a fucking cat-o’-nine-tails.’

  Baggo tried to turn his spontaneous laugh into a cough.

  ‘They’re all fucking sado-masochists, Baggo. But they’re not honest perverts like Miss Whiplash clients. They dress it up as fucking religion. After they’d had their fun at my expense I left. On my way out I found the body and phoned you. Then I dialled 999. These Glasgow goons wanted me to wait with the sado-masochists and one touched my sore back so I lashed out. Next thing I knew I was on the ground in cuffs, into the meat wagon and here I am in fucking Guantanamo Glasgow.’

  Baggo turned away, his shoulders shaking. ‘You are going to have to apologise if you are to get out,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Apologise? For what?’

  ‘For hitting an officer who was doing his duty, for repeated abusive rudeness to the Glasgow police, actually all of Glasgow if it comes to that. Think, Noel, just think of the alternative. Sergeant Smith would pack you off to the place they keep the criminally insane, you know. You have to start acting like a retired Detective Inspector. Now I’m going to call Smith and I’m going to talk to him. When we come back you are going to be as nice as ninepence. Very apologetic. Itching to give quotes praising the Glasgow police to Good News. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Baggo looked down on his old boss. Wet with sweat and dishevelled. Utterly despondent. He felt a little sorry for him, an emotion he’d thought he would never experience. ‘Don’t expect miracles,’ he said.

  * * *

  He owes me big-time, Baggo thought as he steered his way through busy traffic to the M8. He had told Smith that Osborne had been in so many tight spots as he cleaned up the East End that finding the body had sparked off an episode of traumatic stress disorder. He had hit out not realising it was a policeman who had put his hand on his shoulder. It stemmed from an incident when “Coffin” Bob Trotter had caught up with him in a dark alley off Mile End Road. Baggo pleaded with the sergeant to be allowed to take the fine old crusader for justice away, so he could be properly looked after.

  In the passenger seat beside him, No sat hunched and sulky. With Baggo glaring at him and the sergeant looking sceptical, he had grovelled as he’d never done before. He had guaranteed brilliant quotes in the paper. And yet it had been a close-run thing. He had even been made to sign a disclaimer agreeing that he had suffered no ill-treatment at the hands of the police and that he had refused medical attention.

  Neither man wanted to be the first to speak. At Harthill Services Baggo stopped and got out of the car to phone Melanie. The court day was over and she sounded pleased to hear from him. She readily agreed to take home the file of e-mails that Knox had concentrated on the afternoon before he was killed, and to Baggo’s delight, invited him to come to her flat at seven for dinner.

  Osborne’s resolve broke as they passed Livingston and Edinburgh spread out before them. ‘What can I say?’ he whispered.

  ‘“Thank you” would be a good start.’

  ‘Thank you, Baggo. I always knew you’d come through as a good ’un.’

  A bit later Osborne showed what was really troubling him. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? About the whipping?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man. I couldn’t hold my head up. Please. Remember all I taught you back in our Wimbledon days?’

  ‘Still depends.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘One, you come good on your promises to Sergeant Smith. We need to keep the Glasgow people sweet. Two, you praise Inspector Fortune to the skies. Three, you put what I tell you to into Good News.’

  ‘Of course, of course, no problem.’

  Baggo glanced at him. ‘Four.’ He paused.

  ‘Four?’ The dismay was audible.

  ‘Four, you do as I tell you, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Come on, Baggo …’

  ‘Or else …’

  ‘Bastard.’

  They drove in silence to the G and V. Osborne attracted some unfriendly stares from the receptionists as he made for the lift. They were not used to the Glasgow police checking up on their guests and they didn’t like it one little bit. They particularly disliked their guests being called ‘inmates’.

  * * *

  Flick watched Baggo walk to his car and speak with di Falco. She could see he had been upset by what she had said. That made her feel marginally better but anger still burned inside her. She was not yet ready to listen to the small voice at the back of her head that told her she was over-reacting. Di Falco approached, opened the passenger door and got in. Whatever Baggo had said made him tentative and he sat quietly while Flick marshalled her thoughts, a notebook and pen in her hand.

  ‘Do you have the number of the person who called the paper yesterday?’ she asked.

  He sat up brightly. ‘Yes, ma’am, and it was Dolan’s. Before I left the scene I rang it and I could hear a phone in Dolan’s back pocket. They hadn’t moved him and it gave the SOCOs a fright.’

  ‘Hm.’ She rang Wallace who, with McKellar, was in Edinburgh talking to witnesses. He told her that the fraud trial had been going on all day with the usual break for lunch. No one involved in it could have stabbed Dolan in Glasgow at about one pm. She told him to check Lord Hutton’s activities then to visit Eloise Knox and find out if she had an alibi, not only for that lunch time but also for Tuesday evening when Walker was killed. Lastly, he should do the same check on both Traynor and his wife.

  ‘You drive,’ she said to di Falco. ‘I have more phone calls to make. And we’re going to Dunfermline.’

  As di Falco negotiated the mid-afternoon traffic out of Glasgow, Flick spoke to Spider Gilsland on her phone. Left behind in Cupar, he was collating new information from all sources as well as pursuing his own inquiries on his computer. First of all, McKellar had reported, the Dean’s husband, who knew Lord Hutton slightly, remembered him queuing at the bar after the archery and
before the dancing. They had not spoken but Hutton had appeared distracted and had failed to catch the barman’s eye a couple of times. Bar service had been slow the Dean’s husband had told McKellar.

  Spider had done more research into the people working at the function, particularly the waiters. He had spoken on the phone to those who had recruited and organised the staff, pressing them as best he could. Then he had cast his net wider.

  When he began to describe what he had found out about Gary Thomson, Flick could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘I thought I’d start with his death by dangerous driving case, and it’s quite a story. It all came out in the plea in mitigation. He had been adopted by the Thomsons and when Mrs Thomson’s father died he drove up north to Inverness for the funeral like the rest of the family. It was before his finals and he drove from Dundee. The funeral went as well as could be expected but at the wake the lawyer told the relatives what the will said. It seems the old man was quite rich. Basically, the bulk of the estate was to be divided among the grandchildren, of whom there were five, including Gary. But the old man had been very specific: only blood relations were to benefit from his estate. Gary was to get nothing.

  ‘Understandably, he was very upset. But stupidly he sank a dram, made a bit of a scene and left. He tried to drive down to Dundee but mistakenly thought a bit of the A9 was dual carriageway when it wasn’t and he overtook a van on a bend. There was a Fiat coming in the opposite direction.

  ‘It was a head-on crash. His injuries were minor but a young husband and wife who had been in the Fiat were killed. Their baby daughter survived but is now disabled. From what I could gather from the reports it could be lasting brain damage.

  ‘Gary narrowly passed the breath test and went to trial claiming that his driving had been merely careless and not dangerous. Apparently quite a few have made the same mistake on that stretch of road. But the jury would have none of it and he finished up serving six years. He got parole after three and he’s been out for eighteen months now. But wait for it, ma’am, the trial judge was Lord Hutton.’

  ‘Him again,’ Flick gasped. ‘Did Knox have anything to do with the trial?’

  ‘No, ma’am. But there’s more. After the trial Hutton sentenced him to one year. He said the case was at the lower end of the spectrum of dangerous driving, and there was nothing wicked about what he did, so a long sentence was inappropriate. There was an almighty stushie – a fuss you’d say, ma’am. All the road safety people and the families of the dead couple were furious, the crown appealed and it was the Appeal Court that upped it to six years because of the particularly tragic consequences.

  ‘After the accident Gary Thomson went to pieces. He dropped out of uni, where he was a bit of an IT wizard, and refused to have anything to do with his adoptive family. At the time of sentence he had traced his birth mother and his counsel said that gave him some security. But it’s a sad story, ma’am.’

  ‘Very. You’ve been busy, Spider. Well done. Can you find out more about his birth parents?’

  ‘Not so far, ma’am. These things are very confidential. After an adoption order is made the process is sealed and kept in the sheriff court where it was made. His order was made twenty-six years ago in Dunfermline, but that is all I have been able to discover.’

  ‘Well done anyway,’ Flick said, anxious not to be seen as being grumpy after falling out with Baggo.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. And please tell Billy I’ve learned more at my computer screen than he has charging round the country.’

  ‘Tell him yourself over a pint or two – after we’ve cracked this case. Keep going, Spider we’re not there yet.’

  ‘Hang on, ma’am, I have more. John Burns has a mother who is old and in a home, The Beeches, in Crieff. The fees are paid every month from a bank account in the Caymans. I am trying to get beyond their wall of secrecy but am not optimistic. I thought you might be interested, ma’am.’

  ‘I certainly am. I might even buy you a pint myself. You’re lagging behind Spider,’ she said to di Falco so they both could hear.

  As di Falco drove quickly and well to Dunfermline and found a parking space near Gary Thomson’s flat, Flick’s mind turned over the baffling quantity of data now available. She looked forward to kicking it about with Fergus that evening, but she knew he would tell her to mend her fences with Baggo sooner rather than later.

  Out of breath after trailing up the two floors to Thomson’s flat, Flick was mildly surprised by the alacrity with which he answered his door, having been told on his intercom they were the police.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, barely opening the door.

  ‘Detective Inspector Fortune and Detective Constable di Falco. May we come in?’ Flick said as evenly as she could, scrabbling for her warrant.

  ‘Suppose.’ Ignoring the warrant, he shrugged and headed for his sitting room, letting the door swing behind him. Flick tried not to show any reaction to the messy squalor in which he lived. She thought he looked curious, as if his whole body had been put in a roller and elongated. The stained tee shirt and frayed jeans did not improve his appearance. All three remained standing, Flick not wanting to sit on anything in this flat.

  ‘Can you tell us what you were doing at lunch time today?’ she asked.

  He showed no reaction. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘So we can eliminate you from an inquiry.’

  ‘Or stick me in it.’

  ‘Well, can you?’

  ‘Yes. I was in bed. I did an early shift at Tesco then had a sleep. I’m only just up.’ He pointed to his bare feet. ‘I’ll show you my bed if you like. It’s probably still warm.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can back you up?’

  ‘Tesco will corroborate my shift, but I was the only person in my bed. Worse luck.’

  His accent was broad, his delivery laconic. Knowing his story, Flick recognised someone embittered by life. Hope, ambition and happiness were for other people, not him. He had wiped out two innocent people and crippled a child in an accident. Could he have intentionally killed two or three more? Flick told di Falco to check his bedroom. Thomson went with him, leaving her in the sitting room. She looked at what was on the coffee table. Apart from food containers and IT magazines there was nothing of note.

  Di Falco and Thomson returned. ‘His bed was warm, ma’am,’ di Falco said.

  ‘What about Tuesday between five and eight in the evening? What were you doing then?’ Flick asked.

  ‘Tuesday? Let’s think. One day blends into another for me. Yes, I remember, late shift at Tesco.’

  ‘Thank you. We will check up, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’

  Softening her tone and hoping to reassure the young man, Flick said, ‘Mr Thomson, we’re aware you were adopted. I wonder if you’d be prepared to tell us the identities of your birth parents? It would assist our inquiry and we won’t tell anyone who doesn’t need to know.’

  At first he looked astonished then he pursed his lips in anger. ‘None of your fucking business,’ he said deliberately. ‘Now if that is all, I’d like to go for a walk in the sunshine.’

  Flick knew it would be counter-productive to push further. She thanked him and they left.

  As di Falco drove back to Cupar she checked her phone and found a text from Wallace: ‘Hutton in Appeal Court all day today.’

  ‘Alibis are emerging like bulbs in springtime,’ she muttered. ‘Let’s visit Tesco.’

  The Dunfermline Tesco was not far out of their way as they drove to Cupar. While di Falco interviewed the store manager, Flick picked up a hand basket, intending to buy a few groceries.

  Half an hour later she hefted a full trolley-load into the boot. When she climbed into the passenger seat, di Falco told her that Thomson’s shifts had been as he said and that the manager regarded him as a good, reliable employee, too bright to stack shelves indefinitely.

  As they approached Cupar, Flick’s phone rang. It was Wallace. Eloise Knox had not been in when he and McKellar had first
called about four pm. ‘Her son,’ Wallace spat out the words, ‘said he was unaware of his mother’s whereabouts and if we really had to trouble her we should return later. We went to the Traynors’ house and saw both the Chief Superintendent and Mrs Traynor. Their son was at home too. It seems they’ve gone to ground. They alibi each other for Tuesday evening and today lunch time but no one can support them, except that they were in to receive a call from Glenalmond about eight pm on Tuesday. They said they’ve been staying at home, keeping their heads down.’

  When the officers returned to India Street, Mrs Knox was back and told them she had been out to dinner with her solicitor on Tuesday. Their table at the Restaurant Martin Wishart had been booked for seven-thirty. McKellar had subsequently confirmed this with both the solicitor and the restaurant. But, she had told the officers, no one could vouch for her whereabouts at lunch time. She said she had driven to a long-time favourite spot in the Campsie Hills, just north of Glasgow, and gone for a long walk. ‘So if she was spotted on the M8 today, she had an explanation, and we didn’t say why we were asking,’ Wallace added.

  It sounded a bit suspicious to Flick. She congratulated Wallace and McKellar on good work. Before she rang off, a thought occurred to her. ‘One thing, was Nicola Smail away from the fraud trial for longer than usual at lunch time?’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line. ‘Yes, she was away for a bit. Sorry, ma’am. We didn’t think to mention that.’

  ‘Well check it tomorrow,’ she snapped, and immediately regretted her irascibility.

  Back in the Incident Room, she brought her spread-sheet up to date. Surveying the new data, she told the baby, who was kicking wildly, ‘Stay still, will you? Mummy needs to think.’

  19

  A hot shower to flush the stench of the cells from his pores and more after-shave than usual made Baggo feel good as he put on clean clothes for his date. A date it was, as he had in mind more than an evening looking at e-mails. Pausing to buy a bottle of vintage Bordeaux, as advocates seemed to like claret, he enjoyed a leisurely walk through streets cooling with an evening breeze and reached Melanie’s door at five to seven.