Murder in Court Three (7 page)

‘A lot of serious assaults are committed by people who wouldn't say boo to a goose,' Fergus said as he stirred the scrambled eggs. ‘They take it so long then explode.' He pulled several rashers of bacon from the grill, arranged them on plates and served the eggs. ‘Eat up,' he commanded.

Flick smiled wanly. Her appetite was poor and the quantity of food on her plate was putting her off. ‘You mean Traynor suddenly had enough?'

‘Could be.'

‘I need something more to go on. There isn't the evidence to arrest him at the moment and he's too smart to incriminate himself if I ever do get to interview him.'

‘What about Mrs Knox? She seemed a bit …' the phone interrupted him. He answered then passed over the receiver. ‘The DCC,' he mouthed.

Flick's greeting was cut short. ‘Have you seen
Good News
this morning?' the DCC's voice was an octave higher than the last time they had spoken.

‘No, sir.'

‘It's all blown open. Knox and Mrs Traynor, how he died, the lot. They're saying Traynor should be suspended and even offering a reward, twenty thousand pounds, for anyone who brings them evidence that directly results in a conviction. They say they'll pass everything they get to us immediately, meaning as soon as they've used it as a scoop. They practically accuse us of protecting our own and looking to pin the murder on someone connected to the fraud trial. They've even hired some retired cop from London to advise their readers about what should be happening. Some buffoon called Osborne. He seems to know you.'

Flick's heart sank. Inspector Noel Osborne, known as Inspector No, had been the bane of her life when she had been his sergeant in Wimbledon. Lucky not to have ended up in jail beside the criminals he had framed, and even luckier to have retired with an intact pension, he had gone to Spain but had not sunk quietly into Rioja-sodden Andalucian obscurity. He neglected no opportunity to make money or boast about cleaning up the East End and now he was about to make Flick's life even more difficult.

‘What does he say?' Flick asked shakily.

‘Let's see. Yes. “My protégé is a good girl, no doubt, but it's as obvious as the nose on your face: you can't hatch babies and catch villains at one and the same time. I had no pregnant women on my team when I cleaned up the East End.” Inspector Fortune, you don't need me to tell you how bad this is. I want to know where they got their information, how the inquiry is going and what you plan to do next. Work on that and come to see me at noon today. Right?'

‘Right, sir.'

‘And Inspector, not one word to the press without my say-so.'

‘Right, sir.' The DCC had already ended the call.

Good News
was a comparatively new morning paper dedicated, it boasted, to delivering positive news and campaigning journalism. After an encouraging start, circulation figures had declined and it was trying to regain public interest with publicity stunts. Good news was now only a title.

Unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls, Flick emptied her plate onto Fergus's and told him what had happened. As she spoke, her voice caught. Fergus put his arm round her and led her into the sitting room where they sat hugging each other on the sofa. At length Flick got up to wash her face in the cloakroom. As she stared at her red-eyed reflection her anger grew. She stormed back into the kitchen. ‘I'll give him protégé,' she fumed. She cast her mind back to her visit to The Verdict and the thin young man with acne who had barged past her. Then she phoned Baggo.

* * *

His bacon and eggs finished, Baggo was savouring home-made marmalade on brown toast when Flick called. The other residents had not yet appeared for breakfast so he was comfortable speaking on his mobile. He listened carefully, said little and arranged to meet di Falco in Dublin Street as soon after nine as his colleague could make it from Fife. Then he buttered another slice of toast and poured more coffee.

An hour and a half later the two officers were standing at a corner, waiting. In front of them sat an elderly Jaguar, its age concealed by a personalised number plate. A call to the police national computer had confirmed that the car was registered to Percy Oliphant. It was carelessly parked in a residents' bay so that it protruded some six inches onto a double yellow line. Remembering what Flick had said about Oliphant's drinking the previous day, Baggo asked himself if he should call the traffic cops.

Before he had made up his mind, at twenty past nine Oliphant stepped out of his doorway and started to walk up the hill towards Parliament House. Baggo and di Falco blocked his path. After giving their names and showing their warrants Baggo said he wanted a word.

‘I'm in a hurry,' Oliphant said in a superior tone, the stale alcohol on his breath only partially masked by a pungent after-shave.

Baggo moved closer, sniffing ostentatiously. Di Falco stood beside him.

‘We believe you have been speaking to the press, Mr Oliphant?'

‘Journalists should not reveal their sources.'

‘Some do, eventually. I repeat, we believe you have been speaking to the press.'

‘What if I have been?'

‘Oh, it is a free country, no doubt, but you did tell my colleague Inspector Fortune that your lips would be sealed, and from what Mr Pete Bothwell wrote in
Good News
this morning it would appear that you may not have kept your promise.'

With a supercilious smile that made di Falco clench his fist, Oliphant replied smoothly, ‘I never said anything about texting. And it's not a crime to embarrass the police. Actually, it's rather good sport.'

Baggo kept a poker face. ‘But it is a crime to obstruct or hinder the police in the execution of their duty, and publishing details of a case, making assumptions on the basis of inadequate evidence, can often obstruct or hinder us.' Oliphant raised his eyebrows but did not respond. ‘So this is a warning: do not give details of the Knox murder case to the press. Should you do so again and if it does hamper the investigation, we will charge you. I hope you understand.'

Oliphant curled his lip. ‘Are you finished?'

Baggo and di Falco stood aside. ‘I mean it,' Baggo said as the advocate strode off to court.

‘I didn't know the journalist had named him as the source,' di Falco said.

‘He didn't. The inspector worked it out. But there's no harm in sowing a little distrust there. Lawyers are not the only ones who can play games with words.'

‘Do you think he got the message?'

‘I believe so. Now we should try to catch Mr Maltravers before he goes into court.'

They had not gone far when they saw a traffic warden. ‘There's a Jaguar with a personalised number partly on a double yellow line in Dublin Street,' Baggo told her.

‘That was mean, but I like it,' di Falco said.

‘My old boss, Inspector No, would have gone much further. If he knew the man had been drinking, he would have pointed out the parking problem to him, but only after he had called the traffic cops and had them waiting round a corner. As soon as the man started to re-park his car No would buzz the traffic cops who would breathalyse and arrest another drunk driver. We would have caught Oliphant with that trick this morning.'

‘You thought about it, didn't you, Sarge?'

‘Of course I did, but I am just a kitten.'

Di Falco gave him a funny look. He didn't know that Baggo had been afraid that Melanie might hear of it, and strongly disapprove.

* * *

Gideon Maltravers was standing outside the court building in the Lawnmarket, his mobile clamped to his ear. Baggo and di Falco waited until he had ended his call before approaching him. Tall, saturnine and stylishly dressed in a beige suit, the planning consultant was not pleased to see them. ‘I'm trying to run my practice,' he snapped.

‘You will have to speak to us eventually,' Baggo told him. ‘This will not take long and then we should be able to leave you in peace.'

‘According to the press, you'll try and pin a murder on me.'

‘That is nonsense, Mr Maltravers, and I am sure you know it. Of course, when someone is reluctant to speak to us we ask ourselves why? I am sorry to bother you, and I know things must be very difficult for you at the moment, but we simply want to know about your movements last Friday between dinner finishing and eleven pm.'

Baggo's conciliatory tone worked. ‘Well I suppose that's easy. I sat at the table till we were told to move. Then I went outside for a smoke. Then I went for a pee. Then I watched the archery. I hate dancing and fortunately most of the people at Hamish Harris's table did too so we found a quiet corner of the library where we settled with a couple of good bottles.'

‘Did you go straight to the library after the archery?'

‘We mingled for a bit, something I wasn't keen on. I had seen Knox earlier and didn't fancy having to meet him. Hamish was at the bar buying the wine and that took some time. Perhaps I did have another cigarette. Yes, I believe I did. Actually I think I had two.'

‘Please think carefully. We will check what you say against the CCTV and it should be easy to pick you out because of your height.'

‘And I was one of the very few in a white tuxedo. Of course the waiters wore white as well. One or two of them sneaked out for a fag. Nicotine addiction is a great leveller. Yes, I definitely did go for a couple more fags before the dancing started. I remember giving one of the waiters a light and I asked him if the band was ready. He said no and I had another one.' His face twitched and Baggo saw the strain he was under. ‘This is a bugger, you know,' he spat out suddenly. ‘I didn't want to go on Friday, but it was good of Hamish to stand by me. You know, all evening I could feel people's eyes following me as if I was a leper.'

‘And after your cigarettes, what did you do?'

‘As I said, I met up with the rest of Hamish's table. They were waiting for me, actually. Hamish had got the wine and we made a bee-line for the library before anyone asked us to dance.'

‘Did you go with anyone?' Baggo asked.

He snorted. ‘No. I don't have anyone at the moment. When this blew up I did, but …' His voice tailed off.

‘One more question: what was Mr Knox doing when you saw him?'

‘Talking to someone. It was just before the archery. He spotted me, registered surprise then stared right through me. I didn't catch anything that was said.'

‘Anything else?' Baggo asked his colleague. Di Falco shook his head and Baggo thanked Maltravers for his time.

‘It is no joke facing trial in the High Court,' Baggo mused. ‘To us putting people on trial is a process, part of the job, but for the individual concerned it is life-changing. Guilty or innocent.' He glanced towards Maltravers who was back on his phone, fitting in another call before his trial resumed.

* * *

‘There used to be a brothel a few doors along,' Molly Bertram informed Baggo and di Falco. ‘It was quite famous and when an American aircraft carrier docked in Leith the queue ran along the street and round the corner. They had to bus in extra girls from Glasgow.'

They were sitting in the front room of the Bertrams' ground floor and basement flat in Danube Street. Down the hill from the more exclusive India Street, it was dark and cobbled and oozed middle class respectability.

Warming to her theme, and responding to the officers' grins rather than her husband's half-hearted frown, she went on to describe how the madam frequently appeared before the courts and used these occasions for free publicity, titillating journalists with quotes about how busy she always was the week the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland met.

Molly and Rab Bertram were in their early thirties, Baggo judged. They were friendly and she was definitely vivacious. Both casually dressed, she was at pains to explain her husband's unshaven face, tee shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. ‘Rab had a big case which settled at the last minute so he's staying at home to catch up on his written work.'

He pulled a face. ‘Pleadings, opinions and so forth – great fun.' He picked up a child's plastic telephone and began to fiddle with the buttons.

‘I believe on Friday you were at the same table as the late Mr Knox?' Baggo asked.

Instantly serious, he replied, ‘Yes. He was my devil-master, meaning I was his pupil. The Cuthberts organised the table.'

‘What can you tell us about Mr Knox?'

‘Generally?' He looked at the ceiling as if for guidance. ‘He was very clever, very intuitive, in court anyway. He had a lot of energy, didn't suffer fools. Praise from him really meant something. He had an eye for the ladies, but I suspect you know that.'

‘Not just an eye,' Molly interjected.

‘How would you describe their marriage?' di Falco asked.

‘They clung to it, but not to each other, I think,' Molly said.

‘How well did you know Mrs Knox?'

‘Not well,' they said in unison.

Di Falco carried on, ‘Did either of you see Mrs Knox during the archery?'

Rab shook his head. Molly said, ‘Yes. We chatted about shooting. Or rather she did.'

‘Did you see someone else and go and talk to them?'

She laughed. ‘Is that what she told you? She's the world's worst for looking over your shoulder when you're speaking to her. She may tell you she likes to be called Mrs Knox, but she needs you to know she's really a Lady. For some reason that evening she was quite dismissive about bows and arrows and went on about properly lethal firearms. Ironic, really. Anyway, after she'd told me what a brilliant shot her son was, she spotted someone more important and moved on.'

‘Do you know if she's very friendly with a judge, Lord Hutton?' di Falco asked.

Rab clapped his hands gleefully. ‘That would be a cracker! Of course, ‘Orrible 'Utton's her neighbour. I haven't heard anything about that. Have you, darling?'