‘It would help beyond measure, David,’ he ventured, ‘if you could come up with a judicial connection linking the three old boys, and if you could suggest another suspect.’
Lord Murray nodded. ‘I understand that. And as a matter of fact . . .’
Something in his tone made the others look up from their plates. ‘. . . a thought has occurred to me. I recalled it last night, in fact, at home.
‘Archie, do you remember in our early years at the Bar, twenty years ago, a criminal case which became something of a cause célèbre, in media and other circles, HM Advocate versus Beatrice Lewis or Gates?’
The Lord Advocate’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, I do. Murder, wasn’t it.’
‘That’s right. It happened in Dundee. Mr and Mrs Gates were a childless couple in their late thirties, affluent and living in some comfort. He was a bookmaker, and successful at it.
‘They’d been married for sixteen years, until one morning Mrs Gates, according to her story, woke up in bed beside her husband. They were both covered in blood, and he had a kitchen knife right in the middle of his chest.
‘She summoned the police. From the outset she denied killing Gates, and maintained that the murder must have been committed by an outsider, someone with a grudge against him; a disgruntled gambler, she suggested. It was her assertion that she had slept through the whole thing. She insisted that she was an exceptionally heavy sleeper, something which her sister, with whom she holidayed on occasion, confirmed to the police, and which was tested later by the defence and found to be true.
‘Unfortunately for her, there were no signs of forced entry to the house. Even less fortunately, her fingerprints were found on the handle of the knife. Her defence to that was that she had grasped the knife on awakening, to pull it out of her husband’s chest, only to find that it was stuck fast.
‘Her small chances of convincing the jury of her innocence vanished altogether when the bookmaker’s mistress came forward to the police. She told them that she had visited Mrs Gates, informed them of the affair, and pleaded with her to divorce her husband so that he and she could marry. Mrs Gates denied this at first, but eventually, under some fairly aggressive police questioning, she admitted that it was true.
‘She stuck to her defence all the way through the trial, but the jury looked at the evidence and convicted her. She was sentenced to life imprisonment by a particularly dyspeptic judge who took it upon himself to impose a minimum recommendation of fourteen years.’
The Lord President paused in his account, pleased by the effect which it was having on his two companions, whose eggs and bacon were now as cold as his muesli.
‘The fact is that Mrs Gates’ defence did no particular credit to Scottish justice. The mistress was given an easy time of it in the box, and the police witness who testified to the security of the premises was not cross-examined at all. Worse than that, the defence team failed to have the woman physically examined.
‘When she was given a medical on her admission to Cornton Vale, it was discovered that she was in the early stages of muscular sclerosis. This accounted for her exceptionally heavy sleep pattern. It also cast serious doubts on her ability to deliver a blow as powerful as that which killed her husband. However it didn’t rule it out altogether, particularly since some months had elapsed between the stabbing and the discovery of the condition.’
Skinner picked up his coffee, which was still drinkably warm. ‘You seem to remember a lot about this case, David,’ he said.
Lord Murray nodded. ‘I should hope so, for I prosecuted it. I led for the Crown, too, when it went to the Court of Criminal Appeal. The defence tried to introduce the new medical evidence at that stage, but the appeal judges threw it out, quite rightly, as being against the rules of procedure. However they did say that the trial judge’s minimum recommendation seemed excessive, and urged the Secretary of State and the Parole Board to disregard it when the sentence first fell naturally for review.
‘You will have guessed by now,’ said the little judge, ‘that the Appeal Court Bench comprised Lords Orlach, presiding, Archergait, and Barnfather. I don’t know about you, Archie, but I can’t recall another occasion on which those three sat together in the Appeal Court, or even when two of them heard an appeal against the other.’
The detective replaced his mug on its coaster. ‘Which begs a question,’ he interjected, ‘Who was the trial judge?’
‘Coalville,’ said Lord Murray.
‘In that case, why isn’t he dead? I’d have thought that the judge who sentenced her would have been first on the list.’ Skinner looked across the table. ‘Still, if this theory is a runner, then we must assume that Coalville is a target. Lord President, I’d like him to be taken off all duties, so that he can be placed under close protection.’
‘So be it. He’ll hate it, but I’ll order it.’
‘Good. Next, can you recall who acted for the defence?’
‘Of course. Old Hammy Horne led; he died five years ago. His junior was Richard Kilmarnock.’
Lord Archibald grunted. ‘That couldn’t have helped the defence.’
‘It did in the longer term. Kilmarnock’s brother Arnold is a journalist. He was working in America at the time, but when he came home, he took up the case and ran a strong campaign over the issue.You’ll both recall that for a time, it was all over the Herald, the Scotsman . . . and the Courier of course, given the Dundee connection. Two successive Secretaries of State looked at it, but decided that they had no powers to intervene. Eventually a third decided that he didn’t care about powers, and ordered a re-trial.
‘Unfortunately, Mrs Gates’ MS was very bad by that time. She was declared unfit for trial and quietly released, to die in a nursing home a couple of weeks later.’
‘Is Arnold Kilmarnock still around?’ asked Skinner. ‘I haven’t heard the name lately.’
‘I believe he works for Sky News now, in the Far East,’ Lord Archibald answered. ‘So Richard told me.’ He looked at his guests. ‘This is very interesting. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll instruct King to develop chicken-pox or some such, and to stay at home for another week. After that, we’ll look at the situation again.
‘Thanks, Archie,’ said the policeman. ‘I’ll begin an investigation at once, starting with Richard Kilmarnock. Meanwhile, David, whether you like it or not, you’re going to have the same level of security as Lord Coalville. Since you prosecuted this woman, if there is someone out there who’s taking revenge on her behalf, you could be on his list too.’
70
The knock on the door was very light, but Skinner awoke at once. ‘Come in,’ he called, propping himself up on the single bed of the small, heavily curtained bedroom in the Headquarters building, and switching on the light.
The door creaked open and Ruth McConnell stepped inside. ‘It’s twelve mid-day, sir. Gerry asked me to come along and wake you as instructed.’ She placed a mug of coffee on the bedside table, and put a newspaper alongside it. ‘I thought you might like these.’
‘Thanks, Ruthie,’ he said, gratefully. ‘Gerry’s a good lad, but he hasn’t mastered good coffee yet.’
‘I’ll tell him about the extra scoop.’ She smiled over her shoulder as she left the room.
Propping himself up in bed, the DCC took a sip of his second coffee of the day and unfolded the Scotsman which his secretary had left. He beamed as he saw, second lead story beneath the predictable political exclusive, a full report of Martin’s press briefing, headed, ‘Robbery Gang Smashed As Two Are Sought’.
‘That’ll take some of the heat off,’ he muttered. He flicked through the rest of the paper, finding nothing of interest save the success of Heart of Midlothian in the first stage of a European competition. ‘That’ll please Mackie,’ he grinned as he rose from the bed and stepped into the adjoining bathroom.
Half an hour later he was back in the Chief’s office, showered, shaved and dressed in a fresh white shirt and in his uniform. The suit which he had worn at
the exhumation and at the post-mortem had to go for dry-cleaning at once, he had decided.
‘What’s happening, Gerry?’ he asked the young man across the desk.
‘Things are reasonably quiet, sir. Mr Martin called to say that he’s sent Sergeants Steele and Neville out to West Linton with a team of uniforms to search Ryan Saunders’ cottage: also he’s applying for warrants to search Collins’, Newton and Clark’s houses. Finally he said to tell you that DC Pye and Mr Ankrah have begun reviewing those tapes again.
‘Oh yes,’ he added, ‘and Sergeant McIlhenney asked if he could have a word with you.’
Skinner looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think he’d be in yet. Tell him to step across.’
A minute later, his executive assistant knocked on the side door and slipped into the office, taking the seat which Gerry had just vacated. ‘Hello, Neil,’ said the DCC. ‘I thought I told you not to come in until two o’clock.’
‘Ach, I know, Boss,’ the big sergeant answered, ‘but it’s bloody chaos in our house in the morning, with the wee one running about and everything. I managed a few hours’ kip though.
‘After that, I decided I’d get started on the job you gave me; going to see Curly Collins’ wife, and Newton’s. I caught them both in.’
‘Did you get a result? Did the name Hamburger mean anything to them?’
‘It meant nothing at all to Mrs Collins . . . or so she said. She started by giving me dogs’ abuse for what’s in the Scotsman. Her Curly would never get involved in robbery or anything like that, he’s never been in trouble wi’ the polis in his life. He goes to confession every day and twice on Sundays. The usual crap, in other words, that we get from wives who know quite well that their men are bent, and enjoy the proceeds.
‘So naturally enough, she denied any knowledge of anyone called Hamburger.’
The big detective smiled. ‘I got on better with Alice Newton, though, out in Danderhall. She’s in a state of total and complete shock. I really believe that she didn’t have a clue what her husband was up to. They’ve been married since they were eighteen, they’ve got two teenage kids and an eight-year-old, and he’s always been a model husband as far as she’s concerned.
‘She told me that when he turned up at home yesterday morning, gave her a big bundle of cash and said that she wouldn’t be seeing him for a while, it was a bolt from the blue. I believe her.’
‘Why?’ asked Skinner.
‘Because I do, Boss. Anyway, if she was bent, she’d never have mentioned the cash, would she?’
‘No; you’re right there, I’ll grant you.’
‘I put the name Hamburger to her, and she thought she recognised it. “Just a bloke that Rory mentioned once or twice”, was what she said. She’d never met him, though, and she didn’t know anything about him. He was just a casual acquaintance, she thought.’
‘And maybe that’s all he is,’ said the DCC. ‘He’s the only link we’ve got, but he’s bloody tenuous. But Mrs Newton will know the rest of the team, won’t she? After all, they all soldiered together.’
Neil McIlhenney shook his head. ‘That’s the funny thing. According to her, they didn’t. She told me that Bakey took her up to the TA Club one night, a few months back. The other five were there; Collins had his wife with him, Saunders a girl-friend, who I guess could have been Mrs Sturrock, and Bennett brought his sister. The women were left at a table together, while the men went off for a blether, then they all went for a meal.
‘But Alice Newton didn’t know any of them before that night. She said that the men treated each other differently too. Saunders and Clark seemed to be very close, but the others were, well, pally enough, but not bosom buddies.’
‘How very strange,’ said Skinner, slowly. ‘I wonder what, or who, brought them together?’
He sat up, abruptly. ‘Neil, I’m going to do some more digging . . . figuratively, this time. Meanwhile, I want you to go back up to the TA Club. Speak to Steele’s pal, Mr Herr, and find out when each of these guys joined the place, and, if he can tell you, who introduced them.’
McIlhenney nodded, rose and left by the door through which he had entered. As it closed, Skinner buzzed Gerry.
‘I’d like you to make me an appointment to see an advocate, Richard Kilmarnock, QC, as soon as possible this afternoon. Once you’ve done that can you let ACC Elder know, since the Police Federation reps are due for a meeting, and I want to spin it on to him. First though, ask Ruthie to step in here.’
‘Right away, sir.’
He sat back and waited. Seconds later, it seemed, the side door opened once more, and Ruth appeared, notebook in hand. He nodded towards it. ‘You won’t need that, I want you . . .’
He turned and glared angrily at the phone on his desk as it rang. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ said Gerry, as he picked it up, ‘but I have Lady Proud on the phone.’
Skinner grunted. ‘She probably wants to know where we keep the detergent. Put her through.’
‘Hello, Chrissie,’ he said, before his caller could speak. ‘How’s it going out there? Are you enjoying Festa Major?’
‘Not today, Bob.’ As the Chief’s wife answered, the anxiety in her voice transferred itself to him.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Jimmy,’ she replied. ‘He’s not very well. We bought some fish at the market last night and cooked it for ourselves. I suppose we should have been more careful. We didn’t really know what it was.
‘It tasted all right at the time, but Jimmy was awful sick during the night, then he developed terrible pains in his middle.Your friend got the doctor for me, and they’ve taken him to hospital in Figueras. Bob, are these places all right?’
‘Of course they are, Chrissie,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘They’re as good as you’ll find here. Don’t worry about any language problems. I’m sure my pal will interpret for you as you need it.’
‘She’s already offered, thanks. Och Bob, it’s probably nothing but . . .’
‘I know. There’s nothing worse than a crisis when you’re a long way from home. How about you? Are you affected by this thing?’
‘I might have been a wee bit queasy this morning, but nothing like as bad as Jimmy.’
‘Well look after yourself anyway, and let me know how he’s getting on.’
‘I will do,’ said Lady Proud. ‘I feel better now I’ve spoken to you. Goodbye.’
He was frowning, as he turned back to Ruth. ‘Something wrong?’ she asked.
‘It sounds as if the Chief has food poisoning. Silly old bugger,’ he muttered, anxiously, ‘what’s the point buying fish on the market when you can go to a restaurant and have the same cooked by professionals for about the same cost.’
‘Oh dear,’ his secretary exclaimed. ‘What a thing to happen on holiday.’
‘Ahh, he’ll be okay. He’s as tough as old boots, is Jimmy.
‘Back to business, kid. I want you to go into my real office and get Adam Arrow’s direct-line number from my safe. I thought I had it in my head, but there’s so much other stuff in there right now it must have slipped out when I wasn’t looking!’
She smiled and hurried from the room. As he sat waiting, Gerry buzzed through once more. ‘Mr Kilmarnock will see you at the Advocates Library at four-thirty, sir. He’s a pompous character, isn’t he. He was quite insistent on knowing what it was about, until I told him that the acting Chief Constable simply wished to see him, and that was that. I said we could always send a car for him and bring him down here, if he wished.’
‘Good for you, son. Have you told Jim Elder about the other thing?’
‘Yes.’ Gerry paused. ‘Lady Proud told me about the Chief. What a pity; he really needed a holiday.’
‘Aye,’ the DCC grunted. ‘And plenty of bed rest. He’s getting that at least, by the sound of it.’
As he hung up, Ruth reappeared, laid a scrap of paper on the desk before him and slipped out once more. He looked at the number and dialled it.
&nb
sp; ‘Hello, Bob,’ said Major Adam Arrow, before Skinner had a chance to announce himself. He was probably the deadliest human being the DCC knew, yet he always found the little soldier’s voice warm and reassuring.
‘You do have a clever telephone, mate. I’m calling on a secure line.’
‘We’ve got all the fookin’ toys here, sunshine. ’Ow are you?’
‘Personally, I’ve never been better. Professionally, I’m snowed under.’
‘So I’ve been reading,’ Arrow chuckled. ‘I saw the story about the dead judges, and I thought to meself, “That fooking Bob’s a magnet for shit-storms, so ’e is.” So what can I do for you. D’you want me to sort you out a nice cushy billet down here in MoD?’
‘In theory, I’ve got a nice cushy billet here. I’m acting Chief just now, and everyone knows that Chief Constables do fuck all . . . if only. No, Adam, I want a favour, something involving your lot that needs doing quickly, and I figured there was no one better than the Head of Ministry of Defence security to make it happen.’
‘Okay,’ said the soldier. ‘Flattery works. What is it?’
‘I’d like to send you down half a dozen names by secure fax. They’re all ex-servicemen, ex-army. Three of them have been killed, and the other three have disappeared. I want you to see if there’s a common factor linking all six, and if there is, to put a name and a face to him.’
‘This wouldn’t be linked to your armed robberies, would it? I’ve been reading about them too.’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘And you think that your common factor might be killing them off?’
‘That’s exactly right. The trouble is, apart from the first, I can’t figure out why.’
71
He had thought about buying a new suit before his meeting with Richard Kilmarnock, QC, but decided instead that he would go in uniform, to emphasise that his visit was official.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ said the Faculty attendant, seated at Thornton’s Box, the name by which, for no clear reason, the reception desk at the entrance to the Advocates Library had become known.
08 - Murmuring the Judges Page 29
