08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

‘Your girl-friend, sir?’

  ‘Clarissa Maclean. She was staying at my place for the weekend. She had some work to do in the afternoon so I took her dog out to the Reserve for some exercise.’

  ‘The person who saw you didn’t mention a dog, sir.’

  ‘I’d probably put the bitch back in the car by then. She was in heat, and half the bloody hounds in the Reserve were straining at the leash to get at her.’

  ‘Did you put her back in the car before you met Lord Barnfather, or afterwards?’

  King stared at Martin, then at Skinner, who looked back at him, impassively. ‘I never saw old Barnfather!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We have a witness,’ said the DCC, quietly, ‘who has identified you as being with him. He says that the two of you were walking out across the sands, in the direction of the place where the old man was tied up and left to drown.’

  The advocate sat speechless.

  ‘Then there’s the cyanide,’ Martin went on. ‘Your girl-friend keeps cyanide on her farm. The same poison that was used to kill your father.’

  Norman King let out a long, gasping sigh. ‘You cannot mean all of this,’ he whispered.

  ‘Let me ask you something, sir,’ said Skinner. ‘If you were someone else . . . let’s say you were Archie . . . and I reported all these circumstances to you, what would you say?’

  The man looked back at him, tight-lipped.

  ‘Let me tell you, then,’ the policeman went on. ‘You’d say “Charge him. I’ll prosecute the case myself.”

  He straightened up in his seat. ‘Now before we get round to a formal caution and interview, I’m going to ask you something, informally. If the answer is “Yes”, then with the Lord Advocate’s permission, we’ll give you an opportunity to submit yourself for psychiatric examination before we do anything else.’ He paused, and stared across the table.

  ‘Did you kill your father, and Lord Barnfather?’

  Norman King looked back at him, stunned. His mouth twitched and twisted, but eventually, he found his voice. ‘No, gentlemen,’ he muttered, ‘I did not.’

  Across the room, the Lord Advocate coughed. ‘In the circumstances, Norman,’ he said, heavily, and in a formal tone, ‘that is something which a jury may be asked to decide.’

  55

  The Media Relations Manager gulped, almost theatrically, as Skinner told him what had happened.

  ‘This is the hottest potato we’ve had to handle for a while, Alan,’ he said. ‘It has all sorts of political overtones, not the least of which is the Lord Advocate’s own future.

  ‘King’s been cautioned and formally interviewed, but not charged; not yet. He denies both murders, but we can’t ignore the evidence against him. For now he’s at liberty, on the basis that he stays with Clarissa Maclean and makes himself available to us at all times. I expect that he’s consulting his solicitors.

  ‘I’ve dumped the final decision in Lord Archibald’s lap. He wants to involve the Solicitor General in the decision, and advise the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State; but it’s a matter of when they decide to charge King, not if.

  ‘When that does happen, he’ll be whipped in front of a Sheriff in Chambers. There’ll be no plea taken at that stage but he’ll be remanded in custody. I’ve suggested to Archie that he be kept in Shotts Prison rather than in Saughton.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ asked Alan Royston.

  ‘Confidentiality.We don’t propose to tell the press who it is we’re holding until he appears at a pleading diet in a couple of weeks, or at the very least until Lord Archibald has resolved his own position.

  ‘He may choose to resign when King is charged.’

  The press officer frowned. ‘Wouldn’t there be a chance that could be seen as prejudicial to the defence?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Skinner agreed. ‘On the other hand, if he waits until he’s formally cited as a witness in the case, that would certainly be acceptable. There’s another option, though, which I’m pressing on him. If the Prime Minister agrees, he could simply stand down from office during the course of the trial.’

  The DCC frowned, and glanced across at Andy Martin. ‘In any event, we want to let him reach his decision without being influenced by any hysteria in the media, hence my wish to keep King’s identity secret until his appearance in open Court.

  ‘D’you think we have a chance of getting away with it?’

  Royston whistled. ‘Won’t King be missed from the High Court?’

  ‘Not necessarily. He wasn’t due to be prosecuting again until the week after next.’

  ‘Won’t there be a few people in the know when he appears before the Sheriff, for formal accusation and remand?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. The Sheriff Court is right next door to the Crown Office, remember. King will present himself as ordered, he’ll be charged and he’ll be taken to Shotts by Mr Martin -’ he nodded to his left ‘- and Sammy Pye. Once he’s locked up we’ll announce that a man has been charged, but give no further details.

  ‘The only person in the know who might talk to the press is King himself, through his solicitors.’

  ‘Do you think he might?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but I can’t think why he’d be the first to break cover.’

  The Media Manager picked up his coffee and took a sip. ‘I suppose we might be able to keep it under wraps, sir. But it’s a racing certainty that the press will have a source inside Shotts jail. If it leaks, that’s where it’ll come from. I have to tell you also that if it does, the shit will hit the fan in a very big way.’

  The DCC laughed. ‘Oh, I know that, Alan. I surely do!’

  ‘Then why bother, sir? Why not just stick him in the dock in open Court, like any other prisoner?’

  ‘Because he isn’t any other prisoner. He’s Her Majesty’s Senior Prosecuting Counsel. Because I want to give Archie as much room to manoeuvre as I can. Because . . .’

  He stopped and stared, for a few seconds, out of the long window of the Chief’s office. ‘Because there’s this wee kernel of doubt, gnawing at the back of my mind.

  ‘When I looked at all the evidence we’ve assembled against King, I was dead certain that we were right. The truth is, when Andy and I interviewed him in Archie’s room, I expected him to break down.

  ‘He didn’t though. He denied the whole thing, and he still does. Remember, this is a man whose job is to assess the weight of evidence against a suspect. He knows what we’ve got on him, and that he has no defence against any of it. Yet he still maintains his innocence.’

  ‘Come on, sir,’ Royston protested. ‘There’s nothing unusual about a criminal denying everything, even when they’re as guilty as sin.’

  ‘Aye, Alan, I know. Still . . .’

  He rose from the Chief’s chair. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘that’s the background. As soon as I know when King’s to be charged, I’ll tell you. In the meantime you could be drafting damage limitation statements, just in case we need them.’

  He walked the press officer to the door, and into the outer office, where his secretary was waiting. ‘Super-intendent McGrigor called five minutes ago, sir, looking for Mr Martin.’

  ‘Did he, Gerry? You’d better call him back, then. Andy can speak to him here.’

  The Head of CID switched on the hands-free telephone as it rang on the big desk. ‘Hello, John,’ he answered. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s this shooting, sir,’ said the bluff Borderer, his voice booming metalically from the speaker. ‘I’m at decision time, and I thought I’d talk to you about it.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I think I’m going to have to let Sturrock go.’

  ‘You haven’t been holding him all this time, have you?’

  ‘Och, of course not . . . although I think he’d like me to lock him up to protect him from his wife. I’ve been hauling him in every day for questioning. There’s a fair chance the bugger did it, like, but he’s digging his heels in
, and we still canna’ find the weapon.’

  ‘Remind me, was it a licensed gun?’

  ‘He denies ever having owned a rifle, Andy. It’s the wife who said he did.’

  ‘Who do you believe?’

  ‘I’m inclined to believe her. He’s funny under interrogation, is this one. He denies shooting Saunders, yet he’s not even trying to be convincing. There’s a bravado about him, as if he likes being in the spotlight.’

  ‘Forget him, John,’ said Skinner, suddenly. ‘I’ve seen this sort before. He didn’t kill Saunders, but now it’s happened, he wishes he had. You’re wasting your time with him. Far better to dig as deep as you can into the victim’s background. He must have had a life beyond shagging Mrs Sturrock. Find out more about it, and see what it tells you.’

  ‘Very good, Boss,’ McGrigor acknowledged. ‘I’ll keep Mr Martin informed, will I?’

  ‘Please do,’ said the Head of CID.

  ‘Any leads on the robberies up there, gentlemen?’ asked the Superintendent.

  ‘No such luck, John,’ Skinner replied. ‘The trail’s as cold as a witch’s tit, but at least we haven’t had any more in the last week. Don’t you worry though; we haven’t forgotten about it. We’ll catch the bastards who killed your mate.’

  56

  ‘T. Regan.’ Detective Sergeant Steven Steele muttered aloud the name on the door of the neat little terraced cottage, confirming to himself that he was at the correct address.

  Years had gone by since the links between Newtongrange and mining had been severed, apart from the industrial museum which was its main attraction, and since then some of the old colliers’ dwellings had been renovated and turned into modern homes. They were very attractive in their new clothes, but on occasion, as the young sergeant had discovered, there was little logic about the pattern of the addresses.

  He pressed the button of the buzzer, and heard it sound loudly inside. After a few seconds he saw a figure in the obscured glass panel set in the front door, making its way slowly and laboriously towards him.

  The door swung open to reveal a small, wiry figure, a grey-stubbled man who looked to be in his late fifties. He was wearing baggy trousers, a faded Viyella shirt, carpet slippers, and incongruously, a flat cap.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Mr Regan?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me, Tommy Regan.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Steele, from Edinburgh. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.’

  A look of concern swept across the little man’s face. ‘Oor Arlene? Whit’s the matter wi’ her?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of, sir,’ said Steele. ‘We’d just like to trace her, that’s all. I’m hoping that you can help.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Come oan in, son.’

  Tommy Regan had not been easy to find. The agency through which Nick Williams and his girl-friend had rented their flat had no note of parental addresses. Steele had been forced to pull strings with the Department of Social Security, to trace Arlene’s employer, a specialised engineering company on the outskirts of the city.

  There he had learned that like her boy-friend, she had left her job without giving notice. Indeed, on her last day in the office she had helped herself to money from the firm’s petty cash box, leaving a note to say that it was in lieu of the wages which she was due. Her manager had been reluctant to give the detective any information, but had eventually told him that she believed Arlene had connections with Newtongrange.

  Her father hirpled awkwardly along the corridor, as he led the way into his living room. He pointed to his hip. ‘Industrial injury,’ he said. ‘I was up a gantry when it collapsed, and smashed my leg, right at the top there. Got a right few quid in compen., mind you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Steele. ‘Are you on your own here?’

  ‘Naw, only during the day. Betty works in the co-op. Sit doon, son, sit doon,’ he muttered, lowering himself awkwardly into an armchair, its seat raised by an extra cushion.

  The young policeman sat facing him, across the empty fireplace. ‘When did you last see your daughter, Mr Regan?’ he asked.

  ‘The Saturday before last, she was out here, wi’ thon young Nick fella.’

  ‘Did either of them say anything to you about giving up their flat?’

  Tommy Regan looked at him, his expression one of blank surprise. ‘Naw. Have they?’

  Steele nodded. ‘Do you read the papers?’ he asked.

  ‘Sports pages, mostly,’ the little man replied.

  ‘Well, do you remember reading about a robbery in the jeweller’s where Nick Williams worked?’

  ‘Ah remember seeing something on the telly, but ah never kent that was where the laddie worked, like.’

  ‘Yes, Nick worked in Raglan’s. The funny thing is that on the day of the robbery, he called in sick. Arlene didn’t go to work that day either. Instead, the pair of them left town, without trace as far as we can tell.

  ‘So, Mr Regan, I need to ask you, have you had any communication from your daughter at all since then? A postcard, a letter, phone call . . . anything?’

  The father looked bewildered. He shook his head, slowly. ‘Is oor Arlene in bother, like?’

  ‘Would it surprise you if she was?’

  ‘Of course it wid! She’s a good lassie. Aye got a good word for folk, and she’s good tae her father and mother. It’s that Nick, ah’ll tell ye. He’s a sleekit wee bastard, yon yin.’ Regan’s voice rose in a mixture of alarm and annoyance.

  ‘I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, about either of them,’ said Steele. ‘Let’s all try to find them first. Will you help me do that?’

  ‘Aye, if ah can. Ah trust ma lassie.’

  ‘Okay, in that case, I want you to call us as soon as she gets in touch with you or your wife. If she sends a card, let us see it. If she phones, ask her where she is, and ask her to come home.’

  The little man nodded, making his cap shake on his head.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ the policeman continued, ‘can you think of anyone else who might have an idea of where she could have gone?’

  ‘No’ really. She disnae hae ony friends out here noo. Ye could try her part-time job, though.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘She worked behind the bar at the Territorials’ place; up Fountainbridge way. Someone there might ken something.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ said Steele, rising to his feet. ‘Don’t get up, Mr Regan, I’ll see myself out.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed over a personal card. ‘Remember, as soon as Arlene gets in touch, please call me. That’s my number.’

  57

  There was a loud rap on Andy Martin’s door. The Head of CID glanced at his wristwatch, which was showing 5:55 p.m.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, ‘whoever you are.’

  The door swung open and Detective Constable Sammy Pye stepped into the room. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m beat. I’ve looked at those security tapes until I’m cross-eyed, but I can’t spot anyone who appears on more than one.

  ‘Mr Ankrah says he’ll have one last go this evening, but I’m done for. Can I chuck it?’

  ‘Yes, sure, son. It was a long shot anyway.’

  Pye shook his head. ‘No, Boss, the theory was right, but the resolution on most of those videos is pretty crap. My girl-friend could have been on one and I wouldn’t have been able to identify her. All we’ve been trying to do was spot the same person on different tapes. But even if we’d been able to do that, identification would have been a problem.’

  The Head of CID grinned at his young assistant. ‘I didn’t know you had a girl-friend on the go, Sam,’ he said.

  The young detective flushed. ‘Figure of speech, sir,’ he mumbled.

  Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘Karen! You still there?’ he called out. A few seconds later Detective Sergeant Neville appeared in the doorway, dressed in a close-fitting grey skirt and a navy blouse which did nothing to disguise her curves.

  ‘Well, sergeant, h
ave you enjoyed your first day in the nerve centre?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much, sir. It makes a change from Haddington. It’s nice to be out of uniform.’

  The DCS chuckled. ‘I felt exactly the same as you when I left that place.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘Karen, as I said this morning there are no rigid start and finish times in my office. Do the job and you can keep your own hours . . . within reason.

  ‘Take young Sammy, here, for example. Some nights he’ll be behind his desk till ten o’clock. Tonight, though, he seems dead keen to get away.’

  He paused. ‘Anything else to tell me before you go?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Superintendent McGrigor just called. He said that he’s finding it hard to get anything on the man Saunders. There was one interesting thing though. When he questioned Mrs Sturrock again, she let slip that he gave her a very expensive diamond pendant a few days before he was killed. Two and a half thousand pounds’ worth.

  ‘Mr McGrigor said he thought it was a bit generous for an unemployed plumber.’

  ‘He was right. Did he check it against the stolen property lists?’

  Karen Neville shook her head. ‘He didn’t need to, sir. Mrs Sturrock showed him an insurance certificate, issued by the shop where Saunders bought the piece. It was Raglan’s, off Princes Street.’

  Andy Martin whistled. ‘Now there’s a small coincidence, ’ he said.

  ‘Look, before you and DC Pye disappear for the night, sergeant, I’d like you to call Mr McGrigor back and check the date of purchase with him. Then first thing tomorrow, I want you two to go and see Mrs Hall at Raglan’s. Find out as much as they can tell you about Saunders and that piece of jewellery.

  ‘Most important of all, find out if he paid cash for it. I smell something here.’

  58

  ‘You know,’ said Stevie Steele, ‘I often wondered why the bar in an army base is called the Mess.’

  The steward looked round the panelled room and laughed. ‘If you could see the state of some of the lads when they leave here, you wouldn’t need to ask.’

  The man, who had introduced himself as Barry Herr, nodded towards his bar. ‘Can I get you a drink, sergeant?’ he asked.