08 - Murmuring the Judges

by Quintin Jardine

  Laidlaw frowned. ‘You’re not saying he’s told you to choose between him and your career, are you?’

  ‘He might as well have. What he’s saying is, “Do it my way, or we may not be doing it at all”, and I don’t know if I can accept that.’ She stopped. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s our problem and I didn’t mean to bring it to the office. I promise I’ll leave it at home in future and get on with my work.’

  ‘No, no, no. This is a close-knit firm, for all its size. Tell me how I can help you? Would you like me to phone Andy?’

  She looked at him in horror. ‘No, please. That wouldn’t help at all.’

  Alex shook her head in a gesture of despair. ‘I really am a silly little cow, you know. My timing always has been lousy. I shouldn’t have raised this at all just now, not while he’s still got this armed robbery stuff on his plate.’

  Mitch Laidlaw’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh? I thought that was all sorted now. At least that’s the impression the press gave me.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Don’t repeat this, but that’s what the press are meant to think. Andy’s still looking for someone, the man he believes planned the whole thing and then killed Bennett, Saunders and Collins.’

  ‘Is that so? The papers are suggesting that these men Newton and Clark did that. They’re talking about a feud within the gang.’

  ‘That’s just speculation that Alan Royston hasn’t bothered to refute. The man Andy’s searching for has been seen with the gang, and with the woman who gave them the information that set up the diamond robbery at Raglan’s. He doesn’t know anything about him, other than that the rest of the gang all called him by the nickname Hamburger.’

  Laidlaw chuckled. ‘So poor Andy and his squad are checking out every fast food bar in Edinburgh looking for suspects, are they? You did choose a bad time for a serious discussion, didn’t you. A man called Hamburger, indeed.’

  He looked down at her. ‘To be serious once again, young lady, if you’re willing, I’d like to take you and Andy for supper one night soon. I’m keen to keep you in this firm, and I’d like to talk to you about how we can best do that, and keep your relationship on an even keel as well.

  ‘I’ll ask my secretary to give you some dates to choose from.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks very much, Mr Laidlaw. I’ll talk Andy into coming along. There’s just one thing, though. No hamburgers on the menu, please.’

  The lawyer’s laughter rang out as he opened the door . . . then suddenly it stopped, as he closed it again.

  ‘Alex,’ he said, ‘I’ve just had the daftest idea. Would you like to get your fiancé on the phone, please.’

  80

  Sammy Pye looked out of the window of the small room near the Head of CID’s suite. ‘It’s a nice day out there, Mr Ankrah,’ he said. ‘The sooner we’re out of this place the better.’

  ‘I agree. But this is a job which must be done.’

  ‘I know. I just need to give my eyes a rest, that’s all.’ He stood up and leaned to one side and the other, stretching his sinews; fingers interlinked, he stretched his arms above his head until they touched the ceiling.

  ‘What would you think of this weather in Africa, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘In Africa, Sammy, we would call this . . . winter!’ The Ghanaian grinned, flashing shining teeth. ‘When I go home, I plan to invite some officers from Edinburgh on a reciprocal visit. I thought you might like to be one of them.’

  ‘Lead me to it, sir,’ the young detective constable responded eagerly.

  ‘And Sergeant Neville, of course. It would be only right to invite you both.’

  ‘What do you mean sir?’ Pye’s expression was blank innocence.

  ‘You know damn well what I mean.You may be discreet in everything you say and do, but I am a student of body language. Yours and the pretty sergeant’s give you away to me.’

  The DC looked at him cautiously. ‘How?’

  ‘It is in the inflection of your voice when you speak to each other; the way in which your postures relax. Your bodies are comfortable together; they know each other, and to a practised eye it shows.’

  ‘But we’re just good friends, sir.’

  Ankrah nodded, and grinned again. ‘Yes. But very good friends. Now come on. Let’s finish viewing these tapes.’ They turned back to face the monitor, and Pye pressed the play button on the video recorder.

  They were watching one of the sharper, cleaner tapes. The colour was unblurred although the figures moved jerkily on the screen, a result of the slow-speed recording. The tape showed the Galashiels bank, and it had been recorded on a Monday, less than two weeks before the robbery and shooting.

  The customers that morning had been few and far between; a burst of men in the first hour of business . . . Publicans, Pye guessed, depositing their weekend takings . . . but after that they had slowed to a trickle of mostly older people, interspersed by the occasional shop staff member sent out for change.

  They speeded the tape, and let it run until the time recorder showed that the lunch-hour was approaching, and until the picture showed an increased flow of clients. ‘Hey, just a minute,’ said Ankrah, suddenly. ‘Slow it down and go back a bit, Sammy. I want to check something.’

  The constable did as he was instructed, rewinding the tape until his companion signalled him to stop. The two looked at the monitor as playback resumed in forward mode and at normal speed. As they did so, they saw the figure of a man come into the banking hall; tall, middle aged, fit-looking, wearing a navy blazer with gold buttons, and grey slacks.

  He joined the small orderly queue at the back of the public area, waiting patiently as the staff dealt with the people before him. As he waited, he looked sideways and up, towards the wide-angle surveillance camera, once from the extreme right of its shot as it panned around the building, then from the extreme left. On the third occasion he looked directly into the lens. Then, without going up to the counter, he turned and walked, with a slight limp, out of the bank.

  ‘I know that man,’ said the Ghanaian. ‘I met him quite recently.

  ‘Have you ever seen him before, Sam?’

  ‘No, sir. But I’m pretty sure he isn’t on any of the other tapes.’

  ‘He isn’t on any others that I’ve seen either. I’m sure it’s a pure coincidence that he’s there. Still, Mr Martin asked us to report anything out of the ordinary. So, I shall do just that.’

  81

  ‘Have you heard from Lady Proud again?’ The Head of CID asked the Deputy Chief Constable as together they gazed at the little man in the loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts.

  ‘No, I haven’t, so I guess Jimmy must be on the mend.’ Skinner grinned. ‘I wonder if he dresses like that on his holidays?’ The little man, his equally garish wife by his side, stood motionless. The statues were among the star attractions in the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, one of the jewels in the capital city’s cultural crown.

  The two policemen had decided to take a break from their offices, and from their telephones which had been ringing all morning, reminding each of them that the two investigations which had been dominating their lives were only a small part of their respective workloads.

  ‘What have you got on this afternoon?’ Martin asked.

  ‘I’ve got to prepare for the Police Board tomorrow. Councillor Maley and her clique are bound to try to ambush me with a few awkward questions in Jimmy’s absence. I’m damned if I’ll give them the satisfaction of catching me out.’

  ‘Send ACC Elder.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘He’s a nice guy. How could I do that to him?’

  They left the American tourists frozen in their little world, and moved through to the next room. ‘You any further forward on Mr Hamburger?’ asked the DCC.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Kwame Ankrah and Sammy have finished the tapes. Apart from Ankrah spotting some bloke he met with me in another context, and who’s got fuck all to do with this, they came up with zero. How about your source?’

 
‘He’s come up with nothing so far other than confirmation that, apart from Saunders and Collins, who fought in the Falklands, the six didn’t soldier together.’

  ‘I thought Bennett was there too.’

  ‘No, he must have been bullshitting about that. He lost his fingers in a training accident.’

  ‘That doesn’t take us any further forward, then does it,’ mused Martin. ‘I did have one odd phone call this morning,’ he said, ‘from Mitch Laidlaw, of all people.’

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Apparently Alex had mentioned to him that the investigation had stalled. He had her call me up, just so he could ask me if I was old enough to remember the original Perry Mason television series. That was all. I asked him what he was on about, but he just laughed, and said it was only an idea.’

  Skinner stopped and looked at him. ‘And are you old enough?’

  ‘Hardly. Haven’t a fucking clue what he was on about. That series was early sixties stuff, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Even I barely remember it. I don’t get the joke either. It’s not like Mitch to waste chargeable time kidding on the telephone. He’s probably told Alex; she’ll put you out of your misery.’

  He paused. ‘Speaking of Alex . . .’

  ‘There’s still tension in the air, Bob.’

  ‘Knowing my lass, I didn’t think it would go away overnight. One thing though, Andy. I know she’s well mature beyond her years, but part of her is still a kid. You’ve got to let that bit continue to grow.’

  ‘Sure,’ Andy retorted. ‘But what if she grows into . . .’ He stopped short.

  ‘. . . into her mother, you were going to say. I don’t think there’s a cat’s chance of that. Looking back, I can see now that there was always something secretive, and manipulative too, about Myra. The first party we were at as teenagers, I beat the crap out of some lad because of her. I never realised at the time, but she set it up.

  ‘Alex isn’t like that. I never knew her to keep a secret for more than half an hour. She looks like her mother, but that’s it.’

  His friend’s laugh was heavy with irony. ‘That’s supposed to have cheered me up, is it? She doesn’t have her mum’s nature: in that case she must take after you.’ He nodded. ‘That figures. She’s good at drawing a line in the sand then daring you to step over it.’

  ‘D’you know what you do then?’ asked Bob, quietly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  He reached out with his right foot and moved it from side to side, in an odd gesture. ‘Rub out the line.’

  82

  Skinner had been back at his desk for an hour, studying the papers for the next day’s meeting, when the memory came to him, bursting in his head like a firework.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Martin’s office number. ‘Hey, Andy,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know what Mitch Laidlaw was talking about. I remember now: in the original Perry Mason stories, the District Attorney, the guy who lost every time, was called Hamilton Burger.’

  ‘That’s a big help,’ the Head of CID chuckled. ‘The DA done it, eh. Where does that take us?’

  ‘Back to Norman King?’

  ‘You mean if we can’t get him for one, we’ll nail him for the other? I don’t think so somehow.’ He laughed again. ‘Wait till I see that so-and-so. Wasting police time, that’s what he was doing!’

  Skinner hung up and returned to his Board papers. Another hour had gone by without interruption, when Gerry’s light knock sounded at the door, and he stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he began, ‘but there’s a man at the reception desk asking to see you. He says his name’s Jim Glossop, and you’ll know what it’s about.’

  The acting Chief laid down his pen. ‘I do indeed, Gerry. Go and fetch him please, I’ll see him right away.’

  He had tucked his papers away in a deep desk drawer by the time his secretary returned with the stocky statistician.

  ‘I’ope you don’t mind me coming up to see you, Mr Skinner,’ said Jim Glossop. ‘To be honest with you, I’d have felt a bit uncomfortable talking about this over the telephone.’

  ‘I understand. Have a seat . . . over here, in the comfortable area. Has Gerry offered you something to drink.’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t, thanks.’

  He lowered himself into a chair, and opened his briefcase. It was black leather, with a gold crown stamped on its front. ‘I’ve traced your birth.’ Glossop laughed, self-consciously. ‘Well, not yours . . . the one you were after, know what I mean.’

  He drew out a sheaf of papers, in a clear plastic folder. ‘There’s copies here of everything you’ll need.

  ‘To sum it all up, Miss Beatrice Lewis gave birth to a son forty-three years ago, at the age of seventeen . . . I checked her birth records as well . . . in the maternity hospital in Fraserburgh. The father’s name is not shown on the birth certificate. As you guessed, registration was done on the mother’s behalf by Michael Xavier Conran.

  ‘The child’s name is shown on the birth certificate as Bernard Xavier Lewis.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Mr Glossop. Have you been able to go on from there?’

  ‘Yes. And we’ve had a stroke of luck. These days, adopted children are able, if they wish, to trace their natural parents. I thought I’d try a shortcut, so I checked to see whether that had been done in this case.’ He paused, leaned forward, and said, with emphasis, ‘It’ as.

  ‘About three years ago, a man called at New Register House. He had an adoption certificate with him, and he said that he wanted to trace his natural parents. I spoke to the officer who dealt with the case. She remembered it in particular because the chap said it was his fortieth birthday on that day, and this was how he had decided to celebrate it.

  ‘He said that he knew that he had been born in Fraserburgh, and christened Bernard. Well it was easy, wasn’t it. He asked for, and he was given, copies of his own birth certificate, of his mother’s, and of his grandparents’.’

  Mr Glossop looked across at Skinner. ‘We were able to trace his mother on for him. That were when his birthday present turned sour on him. It turned out that she had died years before, of multiple sclerosis, and that her address at the time of her death was shown as care of Her Majesty’s Prison, Cornton Vale.

  ‘My colleague still remembers how upset the poor chap was.’

  He went on. ‘I’ve given you copies of all the certificates that he bought. Last but not least, we took a copy of his adoption certificate, for our records too; I’ve made another for you. Beatrice Lewis’ son was adopted at the age of five months, by a couple in the second half of their thirties. They were from Shawlands, in Glasgow; by the name of Grimley. According to the adoption papers, he was a publican.’

  Jim Glossop stood up from his chair. ‘I hope that’s helpful to you. I’ll be off now, but if there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.’

  Skinner escorted his visitor all the way to the front door. ‘Thank you very much, Jim,’ he said. ‘Look, it’s just possible that your colleague might be required as a witness at some point. If that looks likely, I’ll tip you off. Thanks again, and goodbye for now.’

  At the top of the stairs he turned right instead of left, and strode through to Martin’s suite. Nodding briefly to Karen Neville, he opened the door of the inner office. ‘Andy, come with me for a minute.’

  Back in the Chief’s room, he picked up the papers which Glossop had left. ‘Remember the Court action that Alexis was involved in until a few days ago?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You told me the name of the pursuer. Remind me: what was it?’

  ‘Bernard Grimley.’

  Skinner nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He took the adoption certificate from the folder and handed it to the DCS. ‘He’s Beattie Gates’ son.’

  ‘Remind me again. Who was the judge at the hearing?’

  ‘Lord Coalville.’

  ‘Right! He was her trial judge. I’ve been trying to figure out, if the dea
ths of the three Appeal judges were linked to the Gates case, why the trial judge who gave her a fourteen-year minimum wasn’t the prime target.

  ‘It could be that with the way that compensation action was going, Coalville was too valuable to kill.’

  He looked up at the astonished Martin. ‘You had Mackie make some inquiries about Grimley, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Head of CID searched his orderly memory. ‘When he ran his pub through in Glasgow he was a police informant.’

  ‘When did that stop?’

  ‘About three years ago.’

  ‘That coincides with the time that Grimley decided to trace his natural mother, and found that she was Beatrice Lewis, later Beatrice Gates, convicted murderess.

  ‘Alex’s case was running when Archergait was killed, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he’d have been in Court. I wonder how he could have gained access to cyanide?’

  ‘Through his work,’ said Martin, quietly. ‘He’s a metal finisher by trade. Alex told me he’d gone back to the tools after his business went bust.’

  Skinner felt a cold fist grab his stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. ‘We’re on to something here, Andy. Have you ever seen this man?’

  ‘Yes, twice; up at the Court.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s a nasty piece of goods for a start. He was crowing over Adrian Jones after the judge announced his findings, and there was something really vicious and unpleasant about it. He struck me at the time as a real evil bastard.’

  ‘Right, now describe him physically.’

  ‘Well, he’s early forties, as you know. Tallish, but not a giant. Medium build, clean shaven, dark hair. Not the sort of man who’d stand out in a crowd.’

  ‘In that case, answer me this. If you didn’t know either of them very well, or even at all, could you mistake Norman King for Grimley from around thirty yards away?’

  Martin started at him, understanding. ‘Yes, you bloody well could!’