08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Play.’

  He had deceived his opponent. Actually, Martin had no chance of beating him. The more a squash player is in command, the more he walks about the court, rather than runs. By the time he was 2-5 down in the deciding game, the younger man was running flat out, from one corner of the Court diagonally to another. Finally, Skinner finished the match with a beautiful drop shot from the centre of the court, which kissed the front wall just above the tin and fell into the nick, running flat and unplayable back along the floor.

  They were in the showers before Martin had recovered enough breath to speak. ‘You conned me out there, you big bastard,’ he gasped.

  ‘I always con you, son. The one thing you’ve never learned about this game is how to conserve your energy. The first two games aren’t important. The third, fourth and fifth; they’re the ones that count, and that’s when you have to have something in the tank.’

  ‘When are we playing again?’

  ‘Friday, if we’re clear.’

  ‘Right. I’ll concede the first two games.’

  Skinner grinned. ‘You always do, one way or another.’ He picked up his shampoo and began to knead it into his hair.

  ‘You realise, Bob, don’t you,’ said Martin, his voice raised above the powerful jets from the shower heads, ‘that we’ve got a new investigation on our hands now?’

  ‘It’s the same one we’ve always had, really,’ the DCC countered. ‘We’re still looking for the man behind the robberies, only now, we’re pursuing him for the murders of three of his team.’

  ‘You don’t think that either Newton or Clark could be the killer?’

  ‘Not for a second . . . and neither do you. Those two guys have run for their lives, literally.’

  ‘Why do you think that they bolted after Collins’s murder, and not after Saunders was killed?’

  ‘I guess when they heard that McGrigor was questioning a local man in connection with his shooting, they assumed the same thing John did, that he’d been killed by a jealous husband.’

  ‘I suppose so. And as you say, by making a break for it, they’ve confirmed our suspicion that they were all part of the gang. I just wonder though. Is that all of them?’

  Skinner stepped out of the shower, just as the automatic switch cut off the jet, and picked up his towel. ‘Let’s go through them,’ he said, ‘the people that Steele’s bar steward pal listed. Nathan Bennett, aka Big Red; dead. PO Malky McDonnell, alias Big Mac; done a runner. Ryan “Rocky” Saunders, aka the West Linton fornicator; dead. Charles Collins . . . I think I played squash against him a couple of years back, when the force sent a team up to Colinton Castle. Beat him three-love; easy, it was . . . aka Curly; dead. Rory “Bakey” Newton; done a runner. Alan “Tory” Clark; done a runner.

  ‘That’s all six of Mr Herr’s Paras accounted for. But it leaves their pal Hamburger.’

  ‘Hold on, though,’ said Martin, pausing as he rubbed himself down. ‘We have absolutely no evidence that he’s involved at all.’

  ‘No, but I hope we’re agreed that someone else is. Look at what happened this morning, after bloody Gibson announced over Radio Forth that Collins had joined Saunders in the mortuary. Newton heard it, called Clark, and both of them disappeared, in mid-shift . . . except that the baker went home first and gave his wife fifty grand in cash.

  ‘Those two were the last survivors of the six, but the speed with which they left tells us that neither of them killed Bennett, Saunders or Collins. They’re afraid of someone, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Hamburger?’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. In any event, we know nothing about him, and all the people who could give us a lead are either dead or missing.’

  ‘We’ve still got to trace him, though,’ Martin conceded, gloomily.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Tell you what, Andy. I’ll take responsibility for that, with McIlhenney. Collins and Clark have wives; maybe the name Hamburger will mean something to them.

  ‘There’s something else; Nathan Bennett’s own bank was the scene of the first robbery. Maybe the team were confident enough to hit the places where they banked themselves. We need to collect photographs of the other five, and see if we can spot any of them on Pye’s video tapes. Bad news for Sammy, I’m afraid. He’s in front of that screen again. But maybe Mr Ankrah will help him out.’

  He paused, dropping his towel on the floor and opening the locker in which he had hung his clothes. ‘Alongside that, we have to concentrate on recovering the proceeds of the robberies. McDonnell, Williams and Regan must have been paid to vanish; Newton and Clark obviously had access to money too. So it’s a fair bet that Saunders and Collins had cash hidden somewhere. Let’s do our best to recover it.

  ‘As your first priority, though, I suggest that you have Royston organise a press briefing and go public on what we know.You can identify Rocky and Curly as associates of Big Red, and suspected members of the gang, then say that we’re looking for Big Mac, Bakey and Tory, his other pals.

  ‘If I were you I wouldn’t even hint that there’s anyone else involved. Let’s regain the advantage here, if we can.’

  66

  Skinner had never before been in the office of the Lord President of the Court of Session, in Parliament House, the great grey building which was home to the Faculty of Advocates, the judiciary and the majority of the Supreme Courts.

  Looking around him, he could not think of another senior lawyer in Edinburgh who would have been content with such a small, stuffy room, yet there he was face to face with the little man who ruled the Scottish judicial system with what a famous newspaper columnist had described as a velvet fist in an iron glove.

  ‘Archie’s been keeping me in touch with the delicate situation regarding Norman King,’ said Lord Murray. ‘I presume that’s why you asked to see me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘Directly and indirectly. I’m very worried that the Lord Advocate will rush to resignation over this business.’

  ‘So am I,’ said the judge. ‘Far be it from the wearer of my robes to involve himself in politics, but I think it would be very regrettable if that were to happen. I found him determined on the matter when I spoke to him about it. However, I think I’ve found a way round that.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I never cease to be surprised by the access which I enjoy.

  ‘Archie came to see me again this morning, to say that he intends to have King charged tomorrow, and to resign thereafter. So I took it upon myself to have a word with the Prime Minister. Any resignation will simply not be accepted, and that’s an end of that.’

  Skinner smiled. ‘That’s good to hear. God knows what would happen to Crown Office if he did go. The Solicitor General lacks the experience for the top job, and most of the other candidates don’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I told the PM.’

  ‘Well done. There’s just a chance, though, that we may get King off the hook before any of this happens.’

  Lord Murray said nothing, but his expression spoke for him.

  ‘I’ve had a look at the report to the Fiscal on the circumstances of Lord Orlach’s death a few months back. It was treated then as a heart attack, while he was alone in his Aberlady house one night. Given what’s happened recently, I think we have to be absolutely sure of that.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘We’re digging him up tonight.’

  The Lord President gasped, audibly, then gulped, unconsciously comic reactions which made Skinner smile.

  ‘The Sheriff in Haddington gave us a warrant an hour ago. I’ve got Joe Hutchison lined up to do an immediate post-mortem. If he confirms that it was a heart attack, we’ll put him quietly back below the sod straight away and with luck no one will ever know. The grave’s round behind the church in Aberlady . . .’

  ‘I remember,’ Lord Murray whispered. ‘I held a cord when we lowered him into it.’

  ‘. . . so we won’t be seen from the road.’

  ‘Let’s hop
e so. What if it isn’t a heart attack?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll still rebury him as quickly as possible. But if the autopsy shows that it wasn’t a natural death, that’ll be good news for King. I’ve already established that when Lord Orlach died King was on holiday in Portugal with his lady-friend. The chain of evidence against him in the other two murders will be weakened, if not dissolved, if we can establish even a possible connection between Orlach, Archergait and Barnfather.

  ‘That’s where you can help, David.’

  ‘Tell me how and I will, at once,’ said the judge, eagerly.

  ‘Am I right in thinking that you have a computerised database of legal precedents which the Bench can call up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could it identify judicial occasions on which the three judges were linked?’

  ‘It could, but it wouldn’t necessarily be exhaustive. But do you mean the civil or criminal court?’

  Skinner shook his head. ‘I suppose I mean both.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to research the Court of Criminal Appeal. That will have to be done by the old-fashioned method of looking through printed volumes, rather than by pressing a button. But don’t you worry about that, Bob; I have a legal assistant attached to my office. I’ll ask her to do it.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ said the DCC. ‘I’ll let you know Hutchison’s findings tomorrow, as soon as I have them. If it does show a different diagnosis, she can get started then.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Lord Murray exclaimed. ‘It’s in a good cause, so I’ll get her working right away, just on the off-chance. And don’t worry about security,’ he added, glancing around.

  ‘This place might not look much, but it’s probably the only leak-proof office in the whole of Parliament House.’

  67

  ‘Remember the “Thriller” video,’ asked Bob Skinner. As he threw a sidelong glance at Neil McIlhenney, a shaft of moonlight made his face shine, eerily silver in the night. ‘The Vincent Price section where the undead rise from their graves . . .’

  His executive assistant looked at him and laughed, dismissively. ‘Try again, if you think you’re scaring me, Boss. You’ve never seen my Olive first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Anything you say, sergeant,’ the DCC countered, ‘may be noted down and reported back to Mrs McIlhenney.’

  He looked round at the man on his other side. ‘Ignore him, Pat,’ he said. ‘I have met the lady. Not at that time of day admittedly, but she’s lovely . . . the very salt of the earth.’

  ‘Aye,’ McIlhenney mused. ‘I’ve often thought yon bloke Lot was a lucky bastard.’ He leaned forward, looking round Skinner at Sheriff Patrick Boone, from the Haddington Court.

  ‘Do you have to be present as a witness at all exhumations, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not at all. I volunteered for this one though. When I was at the Bar I appeared before Orlach often enough to want to be sure that the old swine really is dead.’

  The DCC grinned. His eyes having grown accustomed to the light, he glanced at his watch. It showed one minute to midnight. He led the Sheriff and McIlhenney across the grass of the graveyard towards a group of five men in overalls and rubber boots, who were standing almost in the shadow of the square tower of the old Aberlady church. Away to their left, the moonlight shone pure silver on the calm waters of the bay, a scene in stark contrast to the monsoon weather of the night before.

  ‘We’re ready to start now, lads,’ said Skinner. ‘Before that I’d like to thank you for volunteering for this unpleasant job, and to impress on you again that it must not be mentioned or discussed, not even at home.’ He nodded towards the oldest of the five. ‘You’ll work under the direction of Mr Glaister here, who is the Council’s burial ground superintendent. Do exactly as he tells you.’

  He glanced at the Sheriff once more. ‘Okay, let’s begin. Mr Glaister, if you please.’

  The older man stepped forward and pointed to four white pegs set in the ground, joined by string to form a rectangle eight feet long by four feet wide. ‘I’ve pegged out the area that we’re going to dig around, and I’ve cut the top layer of turf. I’ve only ever been at one other exhumation, like, when I worked up in Edinburgh, but the one thing I learned then was that it’s a bloody sight easier tae put a coffin in the ground than it is tae get it oot! We’ll need to allow width and length to get straps under the thing, for lifting. Unless it’s solid wood, and no’ chipboard, the handles on the side are just for show.’

  ‘How deep will we have to go?’ asked one of the police volunteers.

  ‘Not as deep as you think, possibly. Only aboot four feet six, maybe five feet allowing for settlement. In this lair, the wife’s buried below the husband, and we’ve got to be careful no’ tae disturb her, so ah’ll stop yis every so often, so’s tae check the depth.’

  He looked at the four diggers. ‘Everybody a’right, now?’ The police volunteers nodded. ‘In that case, gentlemen, take up your shovels!’

  68

  ‘Did they have much trouble getting it out of the hole?’ One of the things Skinner liked most about Professor Joe Hutchison was that he was always matter-of-fact.

  The policeman shook his head. ‘Not a bit. The ground was soft a good way down after last night’s rain, and we were lucky in that it turned out to be a solid oak box with proper brass fittings. The handles took the weight, no problem. They just tied on ropes and lifted it out. We were on our way here in only an hour and a half.’

  As he looked at the coffin, lying newly washed on the floor of the examination room in the Edinburgh City Mortuary, he remembered the first occasion on which he had seen it, when he had been at the head of a queue of traffic halted in Aberlady’s main street by the old man’s funeral. The gleam of that day had gone from its varnish, but otherwise, its months in the ground had done it no apparent damage. The name, Orlach, etched on the brass plate on the lid, stood out clearly.

  Hutchison turned to his two assistants. ‘Right lads, get it open. Let’s just hope they didn’t bury him in his good suit, or in his robes.’ He glanced heavenwards. ‘An ordinary shroud, please, or we’ll be here all bloody night getting it off.’

  As the men began to unfasten the big brass screws on the coffin lid, he pulled his face mask into position. Skinner, McIlhenney and Sheriff Boone did the same.

  The policeman felt the Sheriff flinch between them as the oak chest was opened, and steeled themselves to ignore the smell which seemed to flood into the room. As they watched, the assistants bent, lifted the body, and placed it on the steel post-mortem table. They saw at once that Hutchison’s informal prayer had been answered. The old judge had been wrapped in a linen shroud, which had once been cream in colour.

  As the pathologist leaned over the table, and began to unwrap the winding sheet, Skinner pressed the mental button which switched on his professional detachment, but the sight of the old man’s blackened corpse was too much for Sheriff Boone. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured. ‘He’s dead all right . . .’ He slipped from the room, his face ashen, in contrast to that of the late Lord Orlach.

  Hutchison looked after him. ‘No stomach, these lawyers,’ he exclaimed. ‘They should all be made to attend one of these, so that they really know what they’re dealing with.’

  He glanced at Skinner, over his mask. ‘So, Bob, Sarah reckoned suffocation was favourite, did she, if Milord here didn’t die of natural causes.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that case, that’s where we’ll look first.’ He picked up a scalpel, then looked meaningfully once more at the policemen. ‘Better prepare yourselves, lads,’ he warned. ‘If you thought he smelled bad before . . .’

  69

  The acting Chief Constable shuddered, in spite of himself. Lord Archibald threw him a shrewd and perceptive glance. ‘Bad, was it?’

  ‘I’ve had more entertaining nights,’ Skinner replied, ‘but this one’s been pretty unforgettable in its own way. Christ, and that’s my wife’s chosen profession.’
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br />   ‘Never mind, Bob,’ said the Lord Advocate, ‘have some breakfast. That’ll help dull the memory.’

  ‘What’ll it do for the smell in my nostrils?’ Nevertheless, he accepted gratefully the plate of bacon, eggs and mushrooms which his friend passed across to him, and nodded thanks to Lady Archibald as she handed him a mug of coffee.

  Across the table, Lord Murray poured milk into his muesli. ‘Hutchison was quite certain, then?’

  Skinner nodded vigorously as he spread a slice of toast. ‘Beyond any shadow of a doubt. He said that he would declare under any oath you cared to specify that Lord Orlach was suffocated. Apparently his heart was in remarkably good condition for a man of his age, but his lungs were “classically distended”, as Joe described them.

  ‘He was even able to identify the facial haemmorrhaging associated with asphyxia. My Lord, your late colleague either held a pillow to his own face and put it back under his head after he was dead . . . or he was murdered.’

  The Lord President looked at the Lord Advocate, their breakfast host. ‘How does that affect Norman King’s position, Archie?’

  ‘At the moment, it doesn’t. The fact that he is definitely placed by two witnesses as being at the scene of Barnfather’s death still weighs heavily against him. Old John could have been murdered by a common or garden house-breaker.’

  Skinner snorted. ‘Nothing was stolen.’

  ‘Maybe he panicked,’ said Lord Archibald, lamely.

  ‘Archie!’

  ‘All right, all right. The discovery of a third murder raises the possibility of a connection with the other two, and we’re certain that King couldn’t have killed Orlach. But it still is only a possibility; it would still be very dangerous, politically, if I backed off from charging him, given the evidence I have on my desk.’ He picked up his knife and fork once more.