08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

The Superintendent nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to the Nature Reserve Ranger, Boss. He said that there were quite a few people around on Sunday afternoon. Okay, he did say again that not many people go out to the submarines, but still there’s a fair chance that someone will have seen Lord Barnfather with his killer.’

  ‘That raises another question, surely,’ said McGuire. ‘For the old man to walk all that way out across the sand with someone, wouldn’t it mean that he knew him?’

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ Mackie agreed. ‘Although it’s one of several. He could have been persuaded to go to look at the subs, for some reason. Or he could just have been taken by the arm and forced, if his attacker was strong enough. We’ll look into it, don’t worry, but the first priority has to be to get a description of the person we’re after.’ He looked at Skinner and Martin. ‘I’m proposing to issue a statement, through Alan Royston, appealing for anyone who was in the Reserve on Sunday afternoon and evening to come forward for interview.

  ‘Someone saw something, even if they don’t know it.’

  ‘Go ahead with that,’ said the DCC, ‘but don’t just ask Alan to issue a release. Call a briefing and make the statement yourself. A personal request for help always gets a better response.’ He hesitated, then glanced at Mackie again.

  ‘There’s one group you might have a problem with, though.’

  ‘Who are they, sir?’

  ‘Gay men. The beach out beyond the Reserve is pretty remote, so not many of the twitchers go that far. In recent times it’s become quite well known in Gullane and Aberlady as a discreet gathering place for gays. Every so often, Charlie Radcliffe used to raid it, until the Civil Liberties people complained, and the Chief told him to leave them alone.

  ‘They’re far less likely to answer your appeal.’

  Martin leaned forward. ‘Mind if I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mackie.

  ‘How about sending Maggie and Karen Neville . . . in civvies of course . . . out there in the afternoon and evening, on Saturday and Sunday? They won’t frighten anyone off, or make them feel threatened.’ He looked at McGuire. ‘You don’t mind making your own tea for a couple of nights do you, Mario?’

  The inspector grinned. ‘Who do you think makes it most nights?’

  ‘I’ll do that, Andy,’ the Superintendent agreed. ‘I’ll speak to them both tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine.’ The Head of CID turned back to McGuire. ‘How are you two getting on?’

  ‘Like a house on fire today. Now that the real reason for our investigation is out in the open, we’ve had people seeking us out.’

  ‘Aye,’ McIlhenney interjected, ‘like the head of the security firm that looks after Parliament House. He was shitting himself that his outfit might wind up carrying the can.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the inspector confirmed. ‘Him for one. We let him off the hook though. His boys can’t be everywhere at once. Their main task is to watch the doors and keep an eye on the busy corridors, rather than the quiet ones.

  ‘We did pick up one piece of intelligence over a cup to tea with Colin Maxwell. Old Archergait and his son . . . the Advocate Depute . . . hated each other’s guts.’

  ‘Did they, by God,’ muttered Skinner. ‘I didn’t pick up any hint of that from Norman King on Monday. Full of rage, he was.’

  ‘Apparently so, Boss. The old judge used to go on about him to Maxwell when they played golf. He used to say that even as a wee boy, he was a sneaky bastard. He thought nothing of him as a lawyer either; said that he’d never have made a bean if he hadn’t been his father’s son.

  ‘We had a chat with a lady Silk I know, one who’s in the same stable as King. She confirmed the hatred, but she gave us the other side of the story. She said that according to the son, the old judge was an absolute monster at home. He used to thrash everyone who upset him, including his wife, with a big leather belt. As soon as the boys were old enough, apparently, they moved out. Old Archergait never gave them a penny towards their education, according to Norman. He said that his mother had money and that she paid their way through Watson’s, then university.

  ‘According to King, when she died, she left no will, and old Archergait pocketed what was left of her wealth. The sons got nothing. Norman claimed that he knew that she had made a will, because he helped her to write it. In it, she left all her dough to the sons. He tackled the old man about it, but Archergait said that she had changed her mind and burned it. He said that if the brothers wanted anything, from her or from him, they’d have to go to Court for it.’

  ‘Some story,’ muttered Martin. ‘It’s just as well for him that he’s got an alibi.’

  McGuire shook his head. ‘That’s another interesting thing, sir,’ he said. ‘After we heard all this talk, I thought we should maybe check that out. So, rather than alert the Crown Office to what we were after, I got Neil to call a pal of his on the Scotsman. Apparently on the day in question, one of the jurors in the case King was prosecuting in Glasgow called in sick, so the judge adjourned for the day.’

  ‘You mean he could have been in Edinburgh when Archergait was murdered?’

  ‘Not could, sir.’ McIlhenney beamed in triumph. ‘He was in Edinburgh. He caught the ten-thirty from Queen Street, along with my journalist chum.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Skinner, ‘that does open up a line of investigation, doesn’t it.’

  He threw his head back and gazed at the ceiling, thinking as the others looked on. Finally, he looked once more at Mackie, then at McGuire. ‘Let’s not get too excited about this, lads; cold-blooded patricide is one of the rarest crimes in the book. But still, let’s follow it through.

  ‘We need to answer two questions. One, if Norman King’s hated his old man for years, what could have happened to make him decide to do him in now? Two, what possible reason could he have had for killing Lord Barnfather as well?’ He stopped as a frown spread across his face.

  ‘There’s a third question too. If there is a link between Archergait and Barnfather, does it extend any further? Tomorrow, Mario, you and Neil have another word with your pal Maxwell. He seems to know everything that goes on in Parliament House.’

  He turned to Martin. ‘This meeting has cost me my dinner, Andy. I think I’d better go back to see the Lord President right now. Christ, he might be on the hit list as well.’

  38

  ‘You seem more cheerful this evening,’ said Alex, forking up some of her Fisherman’s Pie.

  ‘I suppose I am, love. It’s the first positive day I’ve had in a while. Bob and Dan Pringle nicking those two Russians, that was a great result. Top item on the Scottish telly news, and on ITN, and it’ll be on the front pages tomorrow too, I’ll bet.

  ‘On top of that we’ve got a real suspect in the Archergait murder.’

  She looked at him, her big eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean? Was my dad involved in arresting those two men?’

  Andy looked at her and gulped. ‘Oh. A slip of the tongue. Yes, he was there. He tackled the big guy with the gun; punched his lights out, in fact. He wouldn’t allow any mention of it at the press conference, though.

  ‘Don’t breathe a word to Sarah, for God’s sake, or I’ll be back on the beat.’

  Suddenly, Alex’s face was drawn and anxious. ‘What the hell was he doing getting involved in something like that?’ she burst out. ‘He’s getting too old for all that stuff.’

  ‘That’s not what the big Russian would tell you.’ He reached across the table and, smiling, took her hand. ‘Don’t you worry about Bob. He can still handle himself better than anyone else on the force.’

  ‘But he shouldn’t have to! He’s supposed to be acting Chief. What’s he doing getting into scrapes like that?’

  ‘Getting away from being acting Chief, that’s what he’s doing.’ He paused. ‘Your old man’s having a bit of a career crisis at the moment. He’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want to be a Chief Constable, and that he can stay on the str
eet forever.’

  ‘What’s brought that on?’

  Andy looked her in the eye. ‘So far this week, he’s represented the force at two funerals. On top of that, he had to sack someone this afternoon. He was right to do it . . . the guy had been thumping his wife . . . but he still hated the experience. He’s just a bit scunnered with it all at the moment.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Bob might not admit it, but he’s ambitious. He’s the sort of guy who has to climb the ladder, all the way to the top. But he isn’t the sort of guy who’ll shy away from the shitty end of any job. He’ll work it all out in time.’

  He picked up his fork. ‘But enough of my day. How about yours? How’s the case?’

  ‘It’s not getting any better. Lord Coalville gave Jim McAlpine a real savaging this afternoon. He was cross-examining one of Grimley’s experts, and . . . so Mr Laidlaw and I thought . . . doing a good job of undermining his estimate of loss, when the judge stepped in and accused him of badgering the man. He said that all that ground had been adequately covered, and told the witness to step down.’

  ‘So it’s still looking rough for the insurance company?’

  Alex gave a gasp of exasperation. ‘Ahh, we’re stuffed. Grimley will be awarded well into the seven figures . . . and it won’t stop there. It’ll be very bad news for Adrian Jones.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, at the very least, the Law Society will act on Grimley’s complaint against him as soon as the case is over. They can be tough. I’d guess that his practising certificate will be restricted. It’ll probably mean that he’ll have to give up his partnership and be demoted to assistant. He’ll take that hard. He’s only been a partner for a couple of years. He was a late entrant to private practice.’

  Andy shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It seems fair to me. If a promoted police officer screws up that badly he’s liable to be demoted too. Why should you lawyers be different?’

  ‘Ah, but it’s worse than that for us, though. The bigger the award, the worse the consequences for Jones’ firm. The way solicitors’ indemnity insurance works, its premiums will be loaded to an almost crippling level. But if Jones is no longer there . . .’

  ‘So his firm will sack him?’

  ‘Almost certainly. No; delete almost.’

  ‘That’ll be sad for his family, but I still say it’s fair.You have to have a means of getting rid of the bad apples, just as we do. People rely on lawyers as much as they rely on the police, so they have to be protected from the Adrian Joneses of this world just as much as from the Mark Greens.’

  She leaned across the table and pointed a long finger at him.

  ‘Yes, but maybe the Adrian Joneses need to be protected from the likes of Lord Coalville.’

  ‘And the Mark Greens from the likes of Bob Skinner?’

  ‘Don’t twist things. Who judges the judges? That’s what I’m saying.’

  Andy snorted. ‘Hah. There’s someone doing just that at the moment, it seems. And whoever it is, they believe in capital punishment!’

  39

  ‘Sorry I’m late, honey. I had to go to see the Lord President again, short notice.’ Bob slipped off his jacket as he came into the kitchen and hung it over the back of a chair. It was nine-fifty and the children were long since in bed.

  Sarah wound her arms around his waist, pressing her long, denim-clad legs against his. ‘I understand. There must be a few nervous judges around today.’

  ‘You can say that again. We’re giving close round-the-clock protection to sixteen of them, and unofficially we’re keeping an eye on the others . . . including the President himself. David’s being very stoical about it all though. He can’t conceive of anyone wanting to bump him off.’

  ‘I’ll bet Archergait and Barnfather thought the same thing.’

  ‘Mmm. I don’t know. From what we’ve heard about Archergait, there may have been a queue formed behind him . . . composed largely of blood relatives. He seems to have been a right old brute at home.’

  ‘But what about Barnfather? What’s his guilty secret?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. According to David Murray, he didn’t have any. Archergait’s domestic tyranny, and his son’s hatred for him, were fairly well known among the inner circle, but the other old boy seems to have been universally popular.’

  Sarah chuckled. ‘You can say that again. I helped Joe again today with the autopsy. It was something of a surprise. I mean you wouldn’t normally expect a man of his age to have a sexually-linked condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. His crotch had been shaved, and there was evidence of recent infestation. Crabs to you, my dear. He also had an anal infection. Joe’s inescapable conclusion is that the old gentleman had been indulging in homosexual activities.

  ‘The report will be on Brian Mackie’s desk tomorrow morning as instructed.’

  She released her grip on his waist and led him to the table, where a plate of sandwiches sat, sealed with kitchen film.

  ‘Does that news affect your investigation?’

  ‘It may well do,’ Bob answered, sitting down and helping himself to two of the sandwiches. ‘This evening we agreed to send Maggie Rose and Karen Neville to interview the gays down on the beach at Jovey’s Neuk. Now you’re telling me that the old chap might have been one himself.’

  He sat in silence for a while, munching his smoked salmon sandwich and considering the new development. ‘Maybe the two murders could have been a coincidence after all,’ he murmured, as Sarah handed him a glass of chilled Vouvray.

  ‘Just suppose Barnfather didn’t go to the Reserve for the bird life, but for something else. Suppose his death was gay persecution, taken to extremes. Suppose Norman King did kill his father. There needn’t be a connection between him and the other judge.

  ‘God dammit. Just when I thought we could see something in this morass, the fucking water’s gone cloudy again.’

  Sarah pushed the table back and swung around, facing him, straddling him. ‘Let me try to make it a little clearer,’ she whispered. ‘All work and no play makes Bob an inefficient policeman.’ She took the glass from his hand and laid it on the table, then kissed him, flicking her tongue against his teeth, running her long, strong fingers through his hair.

  He held her a little away from him and smiled. ‘I hope you’ve washed your hands.’

  ‘No, I’ve just rubbed them with chillies. Fancy living dangerously?’ She kissed him again. ‘Time for bed, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a hell of a day. I’m shagged out.’

  ‘Not yet, lover,’ she said smokily. ‘Not yet.’

  He stood, picking her up in the same movement with his great strength, and carried her through to their bedroom. The curtains were open, but the house stood high on the side of the hill, and they were completely private, with the panorama of the twilit sea spread out before them.

  They undressed each other slowly, deliberately, as they had done so often before, enjoying the moments, prolonging them, until finally they slid, naked, under the duvet in its fawn satin cover. He bent his head down to kiss her nipples, sucking them gently, until he felt her shiver and heard her gasp. His hand moved over her belly, but she stopped him, pushing him back and rolling on top of him. Almost before he realised it he was inside her, and she was moving on top of him like a writhing snake, flexing, thrusting, squeezing him with strong hidden muscles. He raised himself up, offering all that he possessed, which she accepted, with hunger in her wild eyes.

  Her hair fell over his face. She whispered in his ear, urging, entreating with ever greater intensity and excitement in her voice. He felt the sudden, hot rush as she threw her head back and cried out, he felt the pulsing as it rushed through him, bathing every nerve-end in warm oil. His hands clamped on her clenched buttocks, holding her tight against him as she gripped, released, gripped again, until he heard himself, a voice outside his body, moaning as his orgasm mingled with hers.
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  When it was over, they lay there for at least ten minutes, Sarah still mounted on him, recovering their breath and their senses, smiles of contentment on their faces.

  ‘When you come to the end of a perfect day,’ he whispered in her ear, at last.

  She raised herself up, her forearms resting on his chest and her fingers interlocked. ‘That’s not what I heard,’ she said. ‘Alex called me earlier, just before she and Andy went to the movies. She was worried about you. She thought you were getting depressed.’

  Bob smiled. ‘I suppose I must have sounded that way to Andy this evening. This learning to delegate isn’t as easy as you seem to think it is, my darling. Nor is acquiring patience in your mid forties, when it’s a virtue you haven’t possessed before.

  ‘Different people are cut out for different things. I’m not sure that I’m cut out to be a Chief Constable, that’s all.’

  She leaned down and kissed his forehead. ‘Who’d suspect it?’ she murmured. ‘Skinner the insecure, Skinner the self-doubting.’ She grinned, then gasped with pleasure as he traced the tip of his index finger down her backbone. ‘Just do two things for me. Trust in the people . . . like me and the kids, like Andy and Alex, like Jimmy . . . who know what you are and believe in you. And remember, when the doubts do surface, that I’ll always be here to drive them away.’

  Slowly he smiled, then wrapped his arms around her and rolled her over, powerfully, on to her back.

  ‘Relaxation therapy, doctor, is that it?’ He pressed his lips to hers, and she felt him begin to stir once more. ‘I’ll come to your clinic, I promise; as often as you like.’

  40

  Deacon Brodie left his mark on the world in ways which not even he could have imagined: in the continuing legends of his escape from the gallows . . . of his own design . . . upon which he was publicly hanged, through Stevenson’s compelling tale of Jekyll and Hyde, for which he was said to have been the model, and in the tavern on the Royal Mile which still bears his name, and upon the wall of which his story is written, to intrigue passers-by and to lure them within.