Murder in Court Three (4 page)

Lines of concentration creased her plump face. ‘There was one e-mail he took a lot of time over. Far more than I thought necessary. Do you remember? It was from Burns to Maltravers, the planning consultant, quite early on. It gave lots of detail about the project, boring stuff like what sort of soil and grass they'd be working with. It showed Burns was driving the whole thing, but he pretended he didn't understand his own e-mail. It was pathetic, really. But that's not a reason for anyone to kill Knox.'

‘I agree. Your new boss, Mr Radcliffe is a bit of a character.'

‘Quite. He really had me going with that wind-up. But he's a nice man.'

Baggo nodded slowly. ‘He seems very bright.'

‘Yes. And he's always immaculate. He spends most of his time in the small print of contracts that are worth a fortune but as clear as mud. He was advised to prosecute for a while to develop his career, but he seems to be enjoying it. He's really fair and that makes him deadlier.'

‘Knox was impressive, too.'

‘Yes, but far more aggressive. You'll notice the change of style straight away.' She frowned. ‘I'd better go and change, but there was something Knox said after court on Friday that I didn't understand. He'd been wiping the floor with Burns then came out of court and muttered something about us having to re-think the whole thing.'

‘Did you not ask him what he meant?'

‘He didn't encourage questions from his junior.'

‘And you have no idea what he meant?'

‘No. Now I must go and change.' As she left the room, he admired her slightly too tight skirt and generous hips. She did not wear a wedding or engagement ring. He would definitely ask her out, perhaps after court today.

He ambled along to take his seat in court, all pine panels and artificial light. He sat just behind and to the side of the dock, where he might possibly overhear something the accused whispered, and got his notebook and biro ready. He looked round and exchanged nods with Lance Wallace, who was sitting beside a man in his forties with a craggy face. This man wore a dark suit and had the stern demeanour of a reluctant guest at a wedding or funeral. Baggo recognised him as PC McKellar, uncomfortable out of uniform but not to be messed with.

The clerk took his seat at the table in the well of the court and told the judge's macer to call the case. Flapping the wide sleeves of his black gown, the small, bald official hurried off with the cheery self-importance of a master of ceremonies.

Three men slowly rose from different areas of the public benches and sat in the dock. They neither looked at the others nor did they speak. Lachlan Smail, ruddy-faced with thinning ginger hair, stared straight ahead. To his left, Gideon Maltravers, the tallest at well over six feet with a lightly-tanned complexion, inspected his fingernails. His light blue linen suit gave an impression of style and arrogance. To his left was Joe Thomson, the eldest of the accused, whose misshapen nose, punched back into a leathery, brick-coloured face, made Baggo think of pub brawls. They were joined by a fourth, younger than the rest and handcuffed to a security officer. John Burns's dark eyes flashed round the court in a manner that was street-wise yet desperate. The officer shuffled him past the other accused to sit on the right of Smail.

As counsel took their places round the table, Baggo noted how Melanie had secured her long, brown hair in a French Roll, making the curls of her white wig stick out at the back. She sat up straight, pert and demure, her Parker ball-point ready to resume note-taking.

Baggo's increasingly erotic imaginings were cut short when the macer shouted ‘court' and everyone stood for the judge's entrance. Lord Tulloch, a big, lumpy man with incongruously delicate pince-nez glasses, strode in and bowed. The lawyers bowed back then everyone sat down.

The judge, an imposing figure in his white gown adorned with red crosses, got straight to the point. ‘I have not brought the jury back yet because there is something I want to say. Everyone will no doubt be aware that the Advocate-Depute prosecuting in this case, Mr Knox, died suddenly during the weekend. This is neither the time nor the place to pay tribute to a very fine lawyer. We have another experienced counsel to take his place and so the trial may proceed. When I bring the jury back, I am minded to say that Mr Knox has died during the weekend, and he has been replaced by another Advocate-Depute. They must not speculate about Mr Knox's death. Nor must they allow it to affect in any way their view of the evidence in this case. Does anyone have any submission they wish to make?'

There were mutters of ‘No, my lord' from counsel. The jury were brought in, the judge addressed them, Burns resumed his place in the witness box, and Radcliffe stood up. ‘Good morning, Mr Burns,' he said, a pleasant smile on his face.

As Melanie had said, Radcliffe was nicer than Knox, and much more polite, but Baggo found him even more boring. Cross-examination was a bit like cricket, he thought, only with an important difference: the questioner kept on bowling at the witness, but no matter how often the batsman was caught out, he never moved from the crease.

It was not long before his thoughts drifted back to Melanie.

‘Now we're off to the Grange. The Dean of the Faculty of Advocates is expecting us,' Flick told di Falco as he reversed the car out of the India Street gutter, causing a van coming down the hill to swerve. ‘Do you know your way round Edinburgh?'

‘Not very well, ma'am,' he admitted.

‘I don't think that matters. The council kept changing the road lay-out for the tram works. Apparently the public money that's been lost through the Nicklaus golf course fraud is dwarfed by the cost of these trams, which no one wanted.'

After an interminable wait at temporary traffic lights and an inspired change of lanes which caused a lorry driver to wave his fist, they reached a quiet road, again cobbled, with large grey stone houses set back from the street behind front gardens full of rhododendrons, azaleas and camellias.

Flick was undecided about how much information she should give the Dean. As di Falco put the Police card back on the dashboard she took a deep breath.

A clump of lily-of-the-valley was flowering beside the front step. Flick inhaled its clean scent as the heavy door opened. A tall lady wearing a maroon skirt and a red blouse smiled at them. She carried no fat and held herself upright. Her brown hair was in a short bob and her pale skin had no make-up. She had applied some dark red lipstick and Flick could see hair on her upper lip. ‘Good morning, officers,' she said.

Di Falco produced his warrant. ‘Good morning, ma'am. Is your husb …'

Flick cut in quickly. ‘Dean of Faculty, thank you for seeing us.'

‘Not at all,' the Dean said, her eyes drawn to Flick's belly. She put her hand on di Falco's arm. ‘You're not the first and you won't be the last to make that mistake. You are Detective Inspector Fortune and Detective Constable di Falco, I presume.'

As di Falco stammered his apologies, the Dean led them into a study and gestured to seats facing the massive desk in the centre of the room. As she fetched coffee and biscuits, the officers took in the shelves on three walls groaning with legal books up to shoulder height. Above the bookshelves, paintings of still life and city scenes dominated the space up to the high ceiling. Flick thought she recognised the bold colours and confident brush-strokes of Morocco. Family photographs in an assortment of frames sat on the bookcases. This time there were no dead animals. Most of the photos had been taken in cities or on sunny beaches. One showed the family, all open-mouthed on a Disney ride. The Dean's husband was a cheery-looking man, slightly shorter than his wife. They had a son and a daughter, both teenagers. Flick had to look twice to identify the happy mum, usually in jeans, her hair tousled, as the Dean.

‘You will want to know what I can tell you about Mr Knox.' Coffee poured, de-caf for Flick, the Dean got straight to the point. ‘The answer is not much, I'm afraid. I saw him early on Friday evening and said hello, but that was it. I can't remember seeing him after dinner.'

Flick chose her words carefully. ‘We're trying to get a picture of who saw whom after dinner and during the archery contest. Can you help us about others on the top table?'

‘During the archery contest I was fully engaged as a spectator. The Captain-General was with me through dinner and we watched the contest together. The same goes for the Secretary of State for Scotland. The occasion was his idea, actually. He's a member of both the Faculty of Advocates and the Royal Company of Archers. We're older than them. We started in 1532 as against their 1676, but we'd never done a combined celebration, although over the years there has been quite an overlap in membership. Last Friday went very well, but for the murder. The Archers looked particularly splendid in their dark green dress jackets.'

‘I gather that the tables were cleared straight after dinner and there were no speeches?' Flick asked.

‘Yes.' The Dean smiled. ‘Advocates can be loquacious when speaking yet impatient when they're supposed to be listening. We didn't want to risk anyone heckling the Captain-General. I stood up, made the Loyal Toast, and declared: “Let the games begin.” Shades of ancient Rome, unfortunately complete with a fatality.' She shuddered.

‘When was that, roughly?'

‘About twenty to ten. I had been told it would take twenty minutes to clear the tables and set up the archery butt and so it did.'

‘Can you remember seeing Chief Superintendent Traynor at any time after the meal?'

The Dean's face gave nothing away. ‘Personally, no, but my husband told me that during the archery he had been looking for his wife. My husband's an accountant in town. He's at work this morning.'

‘And Mrs Traynor. Did you see her after dinner?'

‘No, Inspector, I did not. And neither did my husband, at least not until much later. Are you prepared to say why you are interested in the Traynors?' The tone was light and she raised her eyebrows.

Flick pursed her lips. She searched the Dean's intelligent, inquisitive face and made up her mind. ‘There are rumours.' She paused. The Dean was not going to help her out. ‘About Mrs Traynor and Mr Knox.'

‘Yes?'

Had she said too much already? ‘And we need to find out if these rumours are true.'

‘And that's the real reason why Fife officers are investigating this Edinburgh murder?'

It was useless denying it but she couldn't admit it. ‘I couldn't comment on that.'

‘But I might think it?' She smiled. Flick shrugged.

The Dean nodded. ‘You have been as frank as you can be with me, so I shall return the favour. First, for all that we deal in hard evidence in our work, Parliament House is a mine of tittle-tattle, most of it unreliable. There has been talk about Farquhar Knox and Lynda Traynor over the last few weeks, and the latest story is that they went off together during the archery to have sex in Court Three. What evidence exists to support that I cannot be sure, but it is what people are saying.'

‘It's an odd place to choose, surely?' Flick asked.

The Dean smiled. ‘About forty years ago there was a solicitor who was wild, and completely fearless. There was a ball at Parliament House during which he was discovered having sex with a friend's wife on the bench of, I think, Court Nine. I'm ashamed to say he has had his imitators.'

‘Like the mile-high club?' di Falco interjected excitedly.

‘What might that be, young man?' the Dean asked severely, then smiled as he started to babble. When she saw the glare that Flick aimed at him, she shook with silent laughter.

Flick wanted to get back to the point. She asked, ‘So this rumour about Mr Knox and Mrs Traynor having sex in Court Three will be widely-known, ma'am?'

‘It's the talk o' the steamie, as we say.' Her mild Scots burr broadened before reverting to normal. ‘We were out to dinner on Saturday and heard all about it. What we were told was that one of the bar's great gossips, Percy Oliphant, effectively spied on them going along the darkened corridor and sneaking into Court Three while the archery was on. Now that's hearsay, and it may well have been distorted in the re-telling.'

‘We should speak to Mr Oliphant,' Flick said.

The Dean opened the laptop on her desk and pressed some keys. ‘I'll give you his contact details,' she said. ‘It's in everyone's interests that this is cleared up as soon as possible. I would be grateful if you would take what I am saying on a Chatham House basis?'

‘Certainly,' Flick replied. Di Falco looked bemused.

‘Percy Oliphant is one of our more exotic birds, Inspector. He is one of the few who continue to wear pin stripes and black jacket, usually with a colourful tie and a bowler hat. His natural habitat is licensed premises. Here.' She pushed a slip of paper across the desk. Flick noted the bold, clear handwriting.

‘Did your husband see Mrs Traynor later in the evening, ma'am?' di Falco asked.

‘Yes, he did. She was with the Chief Superintendent about half past eleven. They left together, but my husband says they appeared to be barely speaking. He told me that during the archery, when Traynor asked if he'd seen his wife, he didn't appear unduly anxious or upset. You may want to question my husband but I anticipated this interview and took care to find out exactly what he could say.'

‘Thank you,' Flick said. ‘I'm afraid it probably will be necessary to get a statement, but there's no rush. Did your husband say what Mrs Traynor was wearing?'

‘A long, black dress.' She smiled. ‘Actually, he said she was “a stunner”. I'll leave you to work out what that might mean.'

Wishing di Falco would not giggle sycophantically, Flick took a note. ‘Do you know Mrs Knox?' she asked as an after-thought.

‘Eloise? Yes, of course, but not well.'

‘Did you, or perhaps your husband, see her during or soon after the archery?'

‘I'm afraid I can't help you there, Inspector. I asked my husband that question and he didn't remember seeing her either.'

Their business concluded, the officers left, Flick having taken advantage of the Dean's offer to use her loo. As di Falco walked ahead to the car, the Dean took Flick's arm. ‘Well done for taking this on,' she said quietly. ‘Just remember that murders are ten-a-penny but your children are special. You must look after yourself. And your baby.' As if to emphasise the point the baby delivered a mighty kick to Flick's womb.

* * *

The next person on their schedule was the Captain-General of the Archers, Lord Craigdiller. He lived at Craigdiller Hall, some distance down the A7 then through a Sat-Nav-testing maze of minor roads. The verges and hedgerows were thick with new growth and the heavy scent of oil seed rape was in the air. Eventually they found a drive snaking into trees. The paint on a sign had peeled but the Sat-Nav insisted they had arrived.

‘He looks like the gardener but I bet it's His Lordship,' di Falco said as, bumping along the pot-holed surface, they approached an elderly man in dungarees using a stick to poke at a large heap of rotting tree-stumps. He stopped half on the verge beside the man and asked if they were on the Craigdiller Hall drive.

The man straightened and glared through the open window. ‘Mebbe, but whit's yer business?' he growled. Flick barely understood him.

Politely, di Falco explained.

‘Richt oan,' the man said and resumed his poking.

They rounded a bend and the hall stood proud and grand before them on a rise, surrounded by mossy lawns. As they drew near, the thin gravel, poor pointing and tired paintwork told their own story. On one side of the house a marquee jutted out. The dark stains on the dirty white panels suggested semi-permanence. This was probably a venue for weddings, Flick thought. She wondered if the old man beside the drive really was the laird, as the Scots would call him.

The doorbell at least functioned well. Its strident ring summoned what sounded like a pack of dogs barking and scratching at the heavy door. A posh male voice shouted ‘Quiet' and the noise became a whimper. The door opened and the officers were greeted by a middle-aged man wearing tweed plus-fours, two black Labradors sitting at his feet. This was Lord Craigdiller, who welcomed them with the matter-of-fact joviality he probably used for paying guests at a shoot.

The dogs took their cue from their master and they sniffed and licked at the officers all the way into the drawing room. While di Falco stood, Flick perched on the edge of a finely-crafted chair that did not look as if it had been re-upholstered since the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. She faced the laird and his wife across the great stone fireplace where the ashes of a wood fire remained. After some general questions she asked about the Traynors.

Tweedy, un-made-up and with hair looking as if it had been cut by a hedge-trimmer, Lady Craigdiller spoke with a cut-glass accent and did not mince her words.

‘That man Traynor was the most awful bore. He had been put beside me at dinner and all he could talk about was the deployment of police personnel in Edinburgh.'

Thanks to a table plan provided by Maclean, Flick had known that Chief Superintendent Traynor had sat between Lady Craigdiller and the wife of the Lord Provost while his wife had Lord Craigdiller and the Secretary of State as her companions. She nodded sympathetically, hoping to encourage indiscretion.

‘I had expected some cracking stories, true-life Rebus stuff you know, but he was just a blasted pen-pusher. Are all senior policemen like that?'

While di Falco shrugged and pulled a face, Flick said, ‘He's noted for his organisational skills.'

Lady Craigdiller snorted. ‘He could hold his drink, though. I'll say that for him.'

‘Did he have a lot to drink?' Flick asked.

‘He hoovered up a bottle of nice Beaune without any effort. But he was just as tedious after as before. As far as I was concerned, it was a dire evening. On my other side was the Dean's husband. An accountant. Actually, he wasn't too bad. At least he listened to me.'

Seeing the glazed expression on her husband's face, Flick detected a dig. ‘Did you see anything of Mr or Mrs Traynor after dinner?' she asked.

‘Yes, Inspector, I did,' Lady Craigdiller sounded triumphant. ‘As soon as the meal was over, she got up. I saw her talking very earnestly to a dark-haired man, glancing round as she did so. Their heads were jolly close together, I can tell you. Her husband lost the thread of whatever he was trying to say to me and stared at them. He wasn't at all happy. The man she was talking to, could it have been that fellow, Knox, who was killed?'

‘Quite possibly,' Flick said. ‘Did you see them after that?'

‘No. The tables were cleared, then there was the archery contest. After that I'd done my duty and spent the rest of the time with friends. Don't tell me you think Traynor bumped off his wife's lover? He's gone up in my estimation if he did.'

‘Can you tell us any more than that, Lord Craigdiller?' Flick asked, ignoring his wife's last remark.