by Ian Simpson
Flick wished he would reveal more of his thoughts but she said, ‘All right. Make sure and keep me informed.’ Hoping she would not regret it, she placed the painting in the passenger footwell.
Aware of her hesitation, Baggo said, ‘I will do the right thing by you, never fear.’
She said, ‘I think we should probably pay an official visit to the judge tomorrow morning. I’d like you to come along.’
‘Let us see what tomorrow brings,’ he replied.
His Delphic remarks worried Flick. There were times she thought he had been too ready to take a leaf out of No’s book.
For the rest of the day she fretted over the lack of a case to put before a jury, hoping against hope that one of her team would uncover a smoking gun. That evening she shared her frustration with her husband.
‘It’s the price of total integrity,’ Fergus told her. ‘If you can’t find adequate evidence and won’t make stuff up, from time to time criminals will go free.’
‘What would Inspector No do in this situation?’ she asked. ‘Not that I am thinking of …’
‘I didn’t imagine otherwise,’ he said, smiling. ‘But even No would struggle to frame a High Court judge. With career criminals it was different. He’d look round for an unsolved crime and frame them for that.’
‘In fairness to No, I never saw him invent a case against a completely innocent person. They’d always have done something, even if it wasn’t what they went down for.’
‘It’s hard to think of a crime he could realistically pin on Hutton.’
‘Baggo seemed to have an idea, but he wasn’t keen to share it with me. He just said something about doing the right thing by me.’
‘Well I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about,’ he said. He put his hand on her stomach. ‘It feels as if you have a loose maul developing in there,’ he added proudly. ‘Has it dropped a little?’ he asked.
‘A bit,’ she admitted. She had felt some twinges that afternoon and was beginning to be concerned that the child might be early.
20
When Baggo arrived at the fraud trial, Lord Tulloch was charging the jury. As one pm approached, he told them that he would continue for about half an hour in the afternoon, then adjourn until Monday morning, when he would give them some brief final directions before asking them to consider their verdicts. It was essential that they should be in no hurry when they deliberated, so he was not going to put them out on a Friday afternoon.
When the court rose for lunch, Baggo sought out Melanie. She greeted him with a warm smile and squeezed his arm.
‘Things are hotting up,’ he whispered to her. ‘I have to speak briefly with Mrs Smail, over there, then I need to pick your brains. I’ll explain.’
Ignoring her puzzled exclamation, he went to where Nicola Smail stood in the foyer, waiting for her husband to finish talking to his counsel.
She looked at him coldly.
‘May I ask what you did yesterday at lunch time?’ he asked.
‘Why?’
‘A man was killed then and I believe you were away from here for three hours or so.’ As he spoke he searched for a reaction but saw none.
‘Shopping. I went shopping.’
‘Can you show me a till receipt that would show when and where you bought something?’
‘I bought nothing except a sandwich and some juice to have in Princes Street Gardens and paid cash.’
‘Did you know Johnny Dolan?’
‘I don’t think so. Who is he?’
Baggo was not going to play along. He wanted to surprise her, throw her off her stride. ‘When did you last see your son, Mrs Smail?’
An expression of pure hatred on her face, she looked as if she might slap him. ‘How dare you?’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Well? You do have a son, do you not? He’s about twenty-six and was adopted.’
The colour drained from her face and she glanced to where her husband was still talking to his counsel. ‘Not so loud, please. He doesn’t know we’re in touch. And you’re right. I did meet him yesterday at lunch time. He was up here on business. He’s an accountant in London, but you obviously know that. And it has nothing to do with you.’
This time it was Baggo’s turn to be surprised. He stuttered his thanks and went over to where Melanie stood waiting for him.
‘Problem?’ she asked.
‘I tried to put a bit of the jig-saw in the wrong place. Now let’s go and get something to eat.’
They found a place where they could get sandwiches and coffee. As they ate, Baggo described his morning. ‘That painting contains a message and I am sure we have only understood part of it,’ he said.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘You have a lot of paintings. Do you know an artist who might be prepared to have a look at it and give us some ideas?’
She screwed up her face. ‘Let’s see. Yes, I’m sure Brenda would help if she’s around.’
‘Brenda?’
‘Yes, Brenda Lenaghan. She’s a successful professional artist and lives down the coast. She’s a friend of the family, actually.’
‘Would she see us this afternoon?’
‘I’d have to phone first and I don’t have her number to hand. Look, I’m going to have to get back to court. Why don’t you wait till Tulloch adjourns for the weekend and give me a lift to my place? I’ll ring her from there, and if she says yes we’ll set off straight away.’
Baggo took her hand and kissed it. ‘You are a star,’ he told her.
* * *
‘Ooh, how exciting!’ Brenda Lenaghan trilled as Baggo sat on the edge of her sofa and explained his problem. ‘I love mysteries. What a wonderful start to the weekend.’
Baggo had immediately taken to the artist, who welcomed them with tea and scones and whose neat, stylish appearance was not what he had expected. As she looked from him to Melanie, a twinkle in her eye, he could tell she had already worked out the nature of their relationship.
‘How naughty!’ she exclaimed when Baggo produced the painting. ‘He was a jolly good craftsman, with an excellent technique,’ she said after examining it closely. ‘John Bellany would have known he hadn’t painted it, but few others could say this was a fake.’
‘What do you think he is trying to say?’ Baggo asked.
‘Well, it looks like a treasure island out to sea, but I’m sure you spotted that. The face is strange though, as if he is painting two people.’
‘Two people?’
‘Yes. It’s the same face basically, long and quite thin, with that curiously short lower jaw, but the painting sends out conflicting signals about age.’
‘Or gender?’
‘I think age. Look at the silvery streaks in the hair and the knowing eyes. That points to old. But the skin is fresh and unlined, young looking. It’s a male head judging from the Adam’s apple. I think he’s painting a father and son, and they’re both interested in the treasure island. Might one of them be a lawyer? That thing on the crown might represent a legal wig.’
‘We think so.’ Baggo agreed then covered the object on the head with one hand and put his thumb and forefinger in the shape of a V where a beard would go. ‘Gary Thomson,’ he said under his breath. The two women looked mystified. ‘If he is his son …’ he added, working out the implications.
‘Have I been helpful?’ Brenda asked.
‘More than that, I think you may have cracked the case,’ Baggo told her. ‘Now I am afraid we must go. Please do not spill any beans about our visit.’
As she waved goodbye, Brenda wished them good luck. ‘You make a lovely couple,’ she added with a mischievous grin.
* * *
Melanie was gobsmacked when on the way back to Edinburgh, Baggo told her about Hutton’s role at Thomson’s trial. She could scarcely believe an intelligent judge like Hutton would expose himself to the trouble that would come his way, should it became known that Gary Thomson was his son. If he was, and if Kn
ox had found out, it would have been a motive for murder.
‘I should really tell Flick,’ Baggo was saying, ‘the trouble is, she will probably want to interview Hutton and Gary Thomson under caution tomorrow morning. And they will both shut their mouths like clams. We will be left with a lot of circumstantial evidence but not nearly enough to convince a jury. Tell me, if we could nail down only one of them, which one should it be?’
‘Hutton, obviously. He must have been the main mover and we can’t have a criminal sitting as a High Court judge.’
‘Right. I agree. But how do we expose him?’
Squinting into the late afternoon sun, she gazed over fertile fields towards the distant Pentland Hills. ‘Everyone has a weakness, an Achilles heel. I can hardly believe he tried to give his son a lenient sentence. If that got out it would be a resignation matter. He shouldn’t have gone within a mile of the case.’
‘But how do we use it, preferably netting Gary Thomson as well? We’d need DNA evidence to prove the relationship.’
She put her hand on his knee. ‘Remember what they say about politics being the art of the possible? Well, so is law and maybe policing is as well. Use one to catch the other.’
He put his hand on hers and squeezed. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, and spent the remainder of the journey driving on automatic pilot, deep in thought. She chatted about the traffic, East Lothian villages and the countryside. He appeared not to hear so she too fell silent.
As he patiently negotiated the traffic on the city by-pass, his mouth started to twitch. Still in a cocoon of concentration, he slowly nodded his head. By the time they returned to her flat he was in a state of high excitement. ‘I have had a brainwave,’ he said, pulling her back as she made to get out of the car. ‘Listen and tell me if you see a flaw in my plan which I must execute instantly. There is no time to lose.’
Twenty minutes later she climbed out, frowning. ‘Good luck,’ she said huffily and went to her front door without a backward glance.
She had listened carefully and approved his plan, adding some refinements. When he phoned Flick she had enabled him to allay the inspector’s fears that entrapment was involved: ‘We are not getting him to commit a crime – if he does, it will be totally his choice,’ she had scribbled on a note as Baggo initially struggled to respond. Flick’s ultimate agreement to the proposal was to a large extent due to her. When Baggo phoned the man he called Inspector No, she got out of the car to insist to a hovering traffic warden that they were engaged on urgent police business. Yet he refused point blank to let her come with him. Deflated and offended, wishing him luck was all she could bring herself to do.
* * *
It was five past seven that evening when Osborne stood on the doorstep of Lord Hutton’s house in India Street. He was very nervous. Judges were a species he loathed. The crap they spouted from the tops of their ivory towers made him want to vomit. They were also scary. He had not spoken to one outside a court, but he could not forget the day at the Bailey when he had been caught out in a porky pie and the judge had looked over his half-moon glasses. Speaking quietly he had said, ‘I hope you realise, Detective Inspector, that perjury is a very serious crime, and anyone, even a police officer committing perjury, is likely to spend several years in prison. Do you understand that?’ Then the old bastard had smiled. ‘Yes,’ he had replied, his mouth dry. ‘I shall take a careful note of the rest of your evidence,’ the judge had said, raising his eyebrows at the jury. His mind frozen, terrified to commit himself to anything, defence counsel had him on the ropes. He was stammering, avoiding the questions and all the time visualising the gates of Wormwood Scrubs, when the crown barrister threw in the towel and another villain had gone free. That had been nearly twenty years ago but the details were still horribly vivid in his mind.
This judge he was about to doorstep was supposedly a hard man. Osborne tried to tell himself he’d be powerless off the bench, but he didn’t believe it.
He turned to check that Pizza, whose real name he had forgotten, and the photographer were standing behind him. They were, but did not give him any confidence. Pizza looked terrified, and spottier than ever. The photographer, called Bill, was overweight and in the warm weather had BO that a skunk would be proud of.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
The other two nodded so he rang the bell.
After a nerve-jangling wait the judge answered the door. Tall, severe, frightening. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.
As the camera flashed Osborne spoke. ‘Lord Hutton, we’re from Good News and we …’
Hutton’s face withdrew and the door swung. After many years of making unwelcome calls, Osborne instinctively jammed his left foot in the gap. The last time he had done that he had worn heavy shoes but the flimsy slip-ons he had bought in Spain were less robust. ‘Ouch,’ he exclaimed as the judge slammed the stout wooden door against him.
Remembering his script, Osborne spoke loudly. ‘Is Gary Thomson your son, Lord Hutton? Is that why you gave him only one year for killing two people? Were you and Gary Thomson involved in the Nicklaus golf course fraud? Did Farquhar Knox find out? Did you or Gary Thomson kill Knox to keep him quiet? Did you or he kill Tam Walker?’
‘We have information and the public has a right to know,’ Pizza squeaked behind him.
‘Give us your side of it,’ Osborne urged. ‘Come clean to us and we’ll be fair to you.’
They could hear scrabbling behind the door. Then Osborne felt an intense pain in the toes of his left foot as, using all his strength, Hutton brought a metal-tipped walking stick down on it. The intruding foot was pulled back immediately and the door was firmly closed. Job done, Osborne limped away with his companions.
* * *
Observing from his car, parked further up India Street, Baggo phoned Osborne to check that the message had been delivered and to repeat that nothing was to appear in the paper without police permission. Then he rang Flick to report. She had been held up by road works near the bridge but reckoned she would be with him in about twenty minutes. A quarter of an hour later she phoned back, excitement in her voice. Gary Thomson was working a shift at Tesco and had received a call. Looking worried and thoughtful, according to McKellar who was watching him, he had continued to work normally but with his shift finishing at eight he would soon be off. Baggo reported no sign of movement from the judge.
Soon after, Flick and di Falco joined him in his car to wait. It was nearly nine o’ clock when Wallace phoned Flick. He and McKellar had followed Gary Thomson to his flat, where he had picked up some things and headed for the bus station. The officers had detained him in respect of Knox’s murder and were taking him to Cupar for interview. The bag he was carrying had contained some clothes, his passport and five thousand pounds in cash.
‘Right,’ said Flick. ‘Are we ready?’
‘Showtime!’ Baggo said, wishing he was as confident as he sounded.
Baggo and di Falco behind her, Flick rang the judge’s doorbell. He took time to answer, and when he did the door opened a crack, allowing no room for a foot. ‘What is it?’ he barked.
‘Lord Hutton, it’s Detective Inspector Fortune with two colleagues. I’m sorry to trouble you at this time but there are some questions we must ask you.’
There was no response and the door did not move. Di Falco got ready to put his shoulder to it and the officers exchanged glances.
Before any action was taken, Hutton held the door open. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said grudgingly. As they passed him they could smell alcohol. The judge led the way to the kitchen and sat at the large, wooden table. At one end were dirty plates, the remains of a Chinese carry-out and an open laptop. Nearer the judge’s seat were a phone, legal papers, a red-backed notebook and loose sheets of scrawled notes. Conveniently near his right hand sat a dictating machine and a wine bottle Baggo recognised from his previous visit. Hutton poured more wine into his own glass and looked at the officers who stood irresolutely at the opposite end of the table.
He did not offer them any.
‘You have interrupted my train of thought. I must finish this judgment then you can ask your questions,’ he said. With them standing watching, he picked up the dictaphone and for nearly ten minutes spoke into it, pausing from time to time to consult the material in front of him. The officers could not help being impressed by the flow of logical, grammatical, erudite language in which Hutton explained his decision, apparently unaffected by the drink he had consumed. The theory on which they were working seemed increasingly unlikely as the judgment rolled off his tongue.
At length the machine clicked and he put it down. He took a large mouthful of wine. ‘Well?’
Flick took a deep breath. ‘Does the name Gary Thomson mean anything to you, Lord Hutton?’
A flicker of his eyes said it did. He screwed up his face, apparently in thought. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You tried him and gave him one year for causing the deaths of two people by dangerous driving. The Appeal Court increased it to six years.’
‘Oh yes.’ He nodded as if it had just come back to him.
‘Is he your son?’
Hutton looked genuinely taken aback. ‘How is that any business of yours, Inspector?’
‘I am investigating two murders and a fraud, and my suspicions are beginning to crystallise. I should tell you that Gary Thomson has been detained. He was found with his passport and a large sum of money, doubtless trying to leave the country. He has questions to answer about the murder of Mr Knox and the fraud.’
A muscle under Hutton’s left eye twitched. ‘Why on earth should he kill Knox?’
Flick leaned forward and put her hands on the table. ‘Did Mr Knox have something on you?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as Gary’s parentage, which puts a totally different slant on the lenient sentence.’