Murder in Court Three (17 page)

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.'

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.

It took time for her to buzz open the outer door and she came to the door of her flat with wet hair, wearing a man's silk dressing gown. More flustered than he had seen her, she grabbed his bottle and pushed him into the sitting room with instructions to pour himself a drink, all the time gabbling apologies and saying something about the bloody telephone.

It was a fine, big room with a high ceiling, more comfortable than stylish. The walls were adorned with an eclectic collection of paintings. Melanie appeared to like vivid colours and busy street scenes. To Baggo's eye most looked rather good. Beside the substantial wooden fireplace hung a painting of a woman's head with a fish lying across her crown. Baggo checked the signature and it was a Bellany. He hoped it was not one of Tam Walker's efforts. A tray of glasses and bottles sat on a table by the bay window. He mixed himself a generous gin and tonic and took a seat. He could hear the whir of a hair-dryer and wondered how long this lady would make him wait.

Just over five minutes later Melanie reappeared, her hair artfully loose, her make-up subtle. She wore a brightly-coloured, loose cotton dress that might have come from India. She poured herself a gin and tonic at least as strong as his, and without asking, took his glass and topped it up with more gin than tonic. ‘Don't worry,' she said, ‘I have the e-mails but let's enjoy dinner first. Any interesting developments?'

He told her about Dolan but restrained himself from describing No's humiliation. He did not mention his spat with Flick. Subconsciously influenced by the painting beside the fireplace, he told her about Tam Walker.

‘Don't worry about that one,' she interjected, nodding towards it. ‘It has excellent provenance.'

When he finished she screwed up her face. ‘Do you really think that these murders in the West and Knox's killing are linked to the fraud? The connections are so tenuous.'

‘But they're there, and that's why we need to look for something we've missed so far. But what about your day?'

‘I've been listening to speeches. Yawn, yawn. I quite envied Smail's wife. She's sat through the whole thing but once Mark finished dealing with the case against her husband she upped and offed and didn't come back till nearly three when it was time for Smail's counsel to address the jury.'

‘Really? When did she go?'

‘I don't know. Some time before twelve. Why?'

‘It would have been possible for her to have killed that guy in Glasgow.'

‘Oh, yes. Hmm.' She drank her gin. ‘I hope you won't need me as a witness. I think I'd be hopeless, too ready to admit I might be mistaken.' She took another sip. ‘Today went well, you know. Mark was brilliant this morning, totally brilliant. He made it so simple. We had three defence speeches this afternoon, bricks without straw, I should say, but you never know with a jury. The trial should finish on Monday.'

‘Gracious.' If he was going to make anything of their relationship he would have to move quickly.

Melanie moved the conversation to her holiday plans (Machu Pichu with an old friend from school) and then it was time to eat.

A low sun dazzled him as he entered the west-facing kitchen. She pulled down the blind and lit two candles. A CD of
Turandot
playing in the background, they sat opposite each other at a sturdy wooden table, eating a casserole of chicken thighs flavoured with apricots, turmeric and other spices she refused to divulge, served with quinoa. She had opened the wine to let it breathe and he could see that she loved and understood food. As he ate he was aware of her glancing at him, anxious that he should enjoy her dish. His grunts of appreciation and readiness for a second helping told her all she needed to know. When they were finished she produced a platter of exotic cheeses.

They talked easily about holidays, travel, childhood. He loved her infectious giggle, indeed everything about her. As she fiddled with the controls to repeat
Nessun Dorma
, he poured the last of the wine, wondering what to do next, tempted to forget about the e-mails.

‘Now, coffee and work,' she said with a sigh. ‘At the bar you get used to having nice evenings spoiled.'

Side by side on the sofa, they sipped dark, strong coffee and went through the ring binder containing copies of the e-mails with which Knox had tormented Burns during his last afternoon in court.

The e-mails had been sent during the early stages of the scam and at face value they showed Burns to be the driving force. Those from him displayed a detailed grasp of what was involved. In evidence he claimed that he had copied and pasted from other sources, including e-mails from his co-accused. He had been no more than a collator for them. None of the accused had done themselves any good by blaming the others, in Melanie's opinion. She thought they would all go down, with the possible exception of Maltravers, the planner, ‘even if he is a sleazeball,' she added.

Aware of their thighs touching, Baggo was having difficulty concentrating and turned another page when he exclaimed, ‘That's it!' He went back to the previous e-mail, which had been sent by Burns to Maltravers and read aloud from it: ‘“The soil type is Regosols, which you will know is well-drained and weakly developed. It is loose and very coarse and many golf courses on the East of Scotland are built on it, including Culrathie near Montrose. Fescue grass would be ideal for us as it has been at Culrathie. The environmental lobby are notoriously difficult to predict, but they are likely to focus on the harmful effects of the necessary fertilisation on wild life. It may be that we might have to pay more in order to obtain eco-friendly fertiliser. I suggest that we retain meadow grass as our rough so we do not alter the natural environment too much. An undertaking to introduce Marran grass near the water might be environmentally popular. It is vital that our fairways should be of the highest standard and we should insist on Fescue for them.”'

‘Fescue sounds like a Shakespearean character.' She stuck her hand out in a dramatic gesture. ‘“Forsooth, Master Fescue, art thou a fool?” “Nay my lord. I am a seed. Sow me well and I shall make the finest fairways in all Christendom.”' She turned to him, grinning. ‘Not bard but not bad?'

For the first time he appreciated how irritating Flick must find him. He knew he had hit on something important and was impatient to talk it through with her. ‘On Friday, Knox said something to Rab Bertram, his ex-pupil,'

‘Devil,' she interrupted.

‘About revisiting the Culrathie inquiry when there had been all sorts of issues about soil and grass types and wildlife. They had to learn all about them.'

‘So?'

‘One, that evening it was still in the forefront of Knox's mind. And two, in that inquiry he was junior counsel and Hutton was his senior.'

She sat back, coming to grips with the implications. ‘So Knox decimated Burns, who knew far less about soil and grasses than he did. Then it dawned on him that if Burns couldn't have written that e-mail, Hutton was one of those who could. The penny dropped for Knox on Friday afternoon?'

‘Exactly. And Knox said something to Hutton after dinner but before the archery. Hutton said it was a cheeky remark about the archery, but maybe Knox told Hutton he'd rumbled him. Suddenly we have a High Court judge as a suspect.'

‘And Hutton killed Knox before he could tell anyone? But why should Hutton write the e-mail?'

‘Search me. Perhaps his was the brain behind the fraud.'

‘That's ridiculous, isn't it? He's a High Court judge who reputedly made a fortune at the bar, enjoys a good salary and has a cracking pension to look forward to.'

‘He's not happy. He's strived in his profession to reach the summit but now that he's there he hates the view. When I talked with him last night he seemed almost bored with the job.'

‘But not bored enough to take up serious crime, surely? It's a nice thought, though, 'Orrible 'Utton banged up beside the poor buggers he's sent down.' Thoughtfully, she twisted a lock of hair round a finger then said, ‘Of course it might be the other side of that coin. Perhaps, unknown to Burns, Knox was the hidden brains behind the fraud. He made sure he prosecuted it to control what came out, but on Friday he showed too much knowledge in cross-examining Burns. And it was for Burns that the penny dropped. He realised that the guy prosecuting him had actually set up the whole thing. Presumably because Knox had double-crossed him, Burns decided to have Knox killed. And he had the contacts to do it.'

‘I hadn't thought of that,' Baggo admitted, ‘but it is not very likely. One thing is for sure, you twist things beautifully. And you will do very well at the bar.'

She beamed. ‘That's two things, but I'm not sure I like being called a twister.'

‘It is a sincere compliment, believe me.' He took her hand and kissed it in a courtly manner.

‘Then you are forgiven. Personally I think the two theories are equally unlikely. Come on, I fancy a drink. Do you? I have a nice Glenmorangie.'

‘Why not? I'll quickly skim the rest of these e-mails, but I'm sure we've hit gold.'

He finished reading as she returned with the drams. He extracted the important e-mail from the binder and folded it carefully before putting it in his pocket. She fed the
Turandot
CD into the player in the sitting room and pressed some buttons. Then she sat down beside him on the sofa and put a hand on his knee.

‘
Nessun Dorma
again?' he asked, his hopes of a sleepless night rising.

He did not return to his B and B until breakfast time.

* * *

The door leading to the kitchen closed as Baggo crept into his B and B and upstairs to his room. He quickly showered and changed, and went down for breakfast as if it were an ordinary morning. But it was not. The last eight hours would be etched on his memory for life. Melanie the advocate had raised the bar for sexual ecstasy and as he dressed he giggled happily and shamelessly at the dreadful pun. During the walk back he had received a text from Flick: ‘Hope you can make briefing @ 9. Many developments. F.' It seemed she was on her way to forgiving him and he wanted to reciprocate. He would need to hurry.

‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant,' the landlord had a sarcastic note in his voice as he placed a plate of bacon and egg in front of him.

‘Good morning. It is another lovely day, I see.'

‘And this is a splendid time for a walk, before it gets hot.'

Baggo ignored this, bolted his breakfast and set off for Cupar.

Thanks to some fast driving on the M90, he was on time for the briefing. Flick nodded at him in a way that was neither friendly nor unfriendly and began to go through the information that had come to hand during the last twenty-four hours. Smiling at Baggo, Wallace pointed out that if Osborne had not been there to find Dolan's body, everyone might have assumed that it was just another Glasgow low-life meeting a violent end. Baggo then talked about the Burns/Maltravers e-mail.

When he finished, Wallace said, ‘But you can't get away from the fact that the Dean's husband gives Hutton a virtual alibi for Knox's murder and he has an unshakable one for Dolan's as he couldn't have been sitting in the Appeal Court in Edinburgh and stabbing Dolan in Glasgow at the same time. He could have killed Walker, of course, but a judge doing that? Surely not.'

Flick said, ‘It could have been a joint venture, Hutton with Eloise Knox. She has no alibi for her husband's death, or for Dolan's, and it could have been a woman's voice that called to Dolan.'

Baggo said, ‘At least with a Hutton/Eloise conspiracy we have motives – her unhappy marriage and the insurance money. None of our other suspects has a decent motive that I can see.'

‘Let's assume Dolan was killed because he had seen or heard something important regarding Knox's death,' Flick said. ‘The killer must have read the paper and immediately identified Dolan as the informant. Gary Thomson is the only person connected with this business who knew Dolan. And don't forget that Hutton tried to give him that lenient sentence.'

Baggo said, ‘Might Dolan have tried previously to blackmail the killer, whoever that was? Perhaps they met and couldn't agree or something went wrong, and so he decided to settle for the easier twenty thousand from the paper.'

‘Our problem is we've theories galore but precious little evidence,' Flick sighed.

The phone rang and Wallace answered. ‘It's for you,' he mouthed at Baggo.

It was Pete Bothwell. Sounding sheepish, he said that Mona McBride had phoned him ten minutes earlier, looking for the reward. She said she had a painting in her flat that Tam had given her, telling her that if anything happened to him, she should show it to the police. ‘Maybe you'll give me an exclusive on this,' he added hopefully.

‘Maybe,' Baggo said. ‘But don't dare put anything in the paper without my say-so. Thank you anyway,' he added, fancying that Flick had seemed impressed by his assertiveness.

When he told the rest what had been said, Flick announced that she would go through to Coatbridge immediately. ‘We don't want anything to happen to this bit of evidence,' she said.

Baggo detected the hand of her husband, Fergus, in Flick's change of attitude towards him, but he wanted things to be right between them and he followed her into her office after the briefing.

‘Again, I'm sorry about Osborne,' he said.

She sat in her chair, rubbing both sides of her stomach as she had the previous day. ‘It was very careless, but I'm sorry I went off the deep end.'