Never Proven

by Bill Daly

  ‘Do you remember the John Murdoch trial?’ Charlie asked as Renton was clipping on his seat belt. ‘It was in the High Court – about a year ago.’

  Renton thought for a minute. ‘Wasn’t he the teacher who was up on a charge of kiddie fiddling?’

  ‘That’s the one. It seems that he changed his name from John Murdoch to John Preston after the trial to try to get out of the limelight.’

  ‘With limited success,’ Renton suggested, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘So it would appear.’ Charlie pulled away from the kerb and followed the sat nav’s directions towards the Kingston Bridge. ‘His father is a partner in the computer consultancy firm where Preston was working. When his son was forced to pack in teaching because of the witch hunt in the press, he gave him a job in the family firm.’

  After crossing the bridge, Charlie filtered onto the M77, the sat nav instructing him to leave the motorway at the junction signposted for Paisley. From there, he drove the length of Rouken Glen Park, arriving a few minutes later in Huntly Avenue, a narrow street lined with two-storey, red sandstone, semi-detached properties.

  “You have reached your destination” the high-pitched, female voice chimed out as he pulled up outside Henry Murdoch’s residence.

  ‘This is the part of the job I hate most,’ Charlie said as he turned off the ignition.

  ‘Even worse than a session with Niggle?’ Renton queried.

  ‘It’s a close call, Colin – but I reckon so.’

  When Charlie rang the door bell, Henry Murdoch, a slight, nervous-looking man, came to answer it. Charlie guessed he was in his mid-fifties. Having introduced himself, he showed Murdoch his warrant card. ‘This is my colleague, DC Renton,’ Charlie added.

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Could we come in, please?’ Charlie said.

  Murdoch stepped aside to allow them to cross the threshold before closing the door behind them. He led the way along the hall to the spacious lounge at the rear of the building where he indicated the settee for Charlie and Renton. They both remained standing.

  ‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news to impart, sir,’ Charlie intoned gravely. Murdoch grasped the back of the settee with both hands. ‘It concerns your son, John.’ The colour drained from Murdoch’s face as his grip on the settee tightened. ‘Last night, sir, in Lawrence Street –’

  ‘The murder –?’ Murdoch interjected, his voice little more than a whispered croak. ‘The murder I read about in the papers this morning?’ Charlie gave a curt nod. Murdoch stared vacantly out of the French windows in the direction of the water feature at the far end of the ornate garden. There was a long pause before he spoke. ‘I’ve been dreading this moment, Inspector, each and every day for the past year. One of the Carter brothers killed John. You do know that?’ he added in a matter of fact tone.

  Renton took Murdoch’s arm and guided him down onto a chair. ‘Could I get you something to drink, sir?’ he asked. ‘A glass of water? Perhaps you’d prefer a cup of tea or coffee?’

  Murdoch shook his head, his jaw hanging limp. ‘You mustn’t say anything about this to my wife,’ he implored, gripping Renton’s forearm tightly. ‘The shock would kill her. I’ll have to find some way to tell her, of course – but in my own time.’

  ‘We won’t say anything to your wife, sir,’ Renton reassured him.

  ‘We will need access to your son’s flat, Mr Murdoch,’ Charlie said. ‘To find out if there’s anything there that could help us establish who was responsible for his murder.’

  ‘You mean to say – if it was Tommy Carter’s father – or his uncle – who killed John? It was one of them, Inspector.’

  ‘We’re not ruling anyone in – or anyone out – at this stage, Mr Murdoch.’

  ‘The fact that John was acquitted meant nothing to the Carter family,’ Murdoch said. ‘They swore they would track him down and kill him.’ Murdoch’s hands were twitching uncontrollably. ‘Do you know how they managed to find John?’ he asked.

  ‘We have no information regarding that,’ Charlie said. ‘Mr Slater gave us your son’s mobile phone number. We’ll analyse the records of his calls to see if that gives us any indication as to what might have happened to him. Do you know if your son had a computer in his flat?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘I’d like to check that out. I could organise a search warrant, but it would get things moving a lot faster if you would give us authorisation to enter the premises.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with that. I can give you John’s address, but I’m afraid I don’t have a set of keys. You’d have to contact his landlord to get a spare set.’

  ‘Mr Slater has already given us his address, sir. And there were house keys among your son’s possessions,’ Charlie added. ‘Could we have your permission to use them to enter the flat?’

  ‘Of course – and if you require it, you have my authorisation to remove his computer – and anything else you might need. I would go with you – but my wife. I can’t leave her alone….’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘I understand,’ Charlie said.

  ‘But it’s not in John’s flat that you’re going to find out what happened to him,’ Murdoch stated grimly. ‘For that, you’ll have to talk to the Carter brothers.’

  ‘I’m afraid I will have to ask you to come to the mortuary to make a formal identification of your son’s body,’ Charlie said.

  Murdoch nodded his concurrence. ‘Would tomorrow be all right for that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is it the mortuary in the Saltmarket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll go there first thing in the morning – as soon as the nurse arrives to take care of Sarah.’

  Getting slowly to his feet, Murdoch showed them out.

  Tony O’Sullivan was sitting in his car, unwrapping the egg mayonnaise sandwich he’d bought for his lunch from Marks and Spencer, when his mobile ringtone sounded.

  ‘Is that you, Mr O’Sullivan?’ the caller asked.

  He recognised Bert Tollin’s voice. ‘Yes, Bert. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Word on the street is that you’re looking for Jim Colvin.’

  ‘Good news travels fast. De you know where he hangs out?’

  ‘He runs his operations out of the south side. He has an office upstairs in the Black Seven snooker hall. But if you’d like to see him straight away, you might want to drop into The Ettrick bar in Dumbarton Road.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s there?’

  ‘As sure as if I was standing at the other end of the bar right now, watching him drink a pint of Guinness and guzzle a packet of cheese and onion crisps.’

  ‘Is he on his own?’

  ‘He’s with someone I don’t know. About five feet six, shoulder-length, greasy hair and a big paunch.’

  ‘That sounds like a fair description of his missus.’

  ‘It could be, Mr O’Sullivan.’ Bert chortled. ‘It could well be.’

  ‘Is the pub busy?’

  ‘Most of the lunchtime crowd have drifted off. There are only about a dozen diehards left, propping up the bar.’

  ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I won’t hang around and wait for you. I don’t like to be seen in the vicinity when the cops turn up out of the blue. It’s not good for my image.’

  ‘Okay, Bert. I’ll settle up with you later.’

  ‘No problem, Mr O’Sullivan. Your credit’s good.’

  CHAPTER 8

  As soon as he got back to his office Charlie checked his address book, then picked up the phone and dialled James Ramsay’s number. He recognised the deep, gravelly, heavy-smoker’s voice that answered.

  ‘It’s Charlie Anderson here, James. My apologies for disturbing you on a Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, Charlie. Now I’m retired, one day is much the same as any other. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Could I drop in and see you for
a chat? I’d like to pick your brains.’

  ‘You’re welcome to try – if you can find any. When were you thinking of?’

  ‘How are you fixed today?’

  ‘Fine. Come across any time you like. I’ll be at home all afternoon.’

  ‘How about,’ Charlie said, checking his watch, ‘four o’clock?’

  ‘Four o’clock it is.’

  Tony O’Sullivan walked up to the two men standing at the far end of the bar in The Ettrick. Jim Colvin was dressed in an expensive, Italian suit, in stark contrast to his squat companion’s grubby T-shirt and frayed jeans. When Colvin saw O’Sullivan approaching, he frowned and broke off from his conversation.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, O’Sullivan?’ he demanded.

  ‘Are you not going to introduce me to your friend?’ Tony nodded in the direction of the tubby individual whose stomach was protruding over his leather belt.

  Colvin’s brow shrivelled. ‘Am I supposed to think it’s a coincidence that you just happened to drop in here this afternoon?’ he asked, eyeing the group of men at the far end of the bar with suspicion.

  Ignoring the question, O’Sullivan held out his hand to Colvin’s companion. ‘I’m Tony O’Sullivan,’ he offered. ‘And you are?’

  ‘He forgot to mention the “Detective Sergeant” part of his moniker, Andy,’ Colvin interjected.

  Andy refused O’Sullivan’s proffered hand, staring at him in surly silence.

  O’Sullivan turned back to Colvin. ‘Does Andy have a surname?’ he asked.

  ‘How about Pandy?’ Colvin suggested.

  ‘You’re giving away your age.’

  ‘And as far as you’re concerned, that’s all I’ll be giving away.’

  ‘Does Andy Pandy have a tongue?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘He’s very particular about who he speaks to,’ Colvin said. ‘And anyone who’s name begins with “Detective” doesn’t qualify.’

  ‘Okay, smart arse. It’s you I want to talk to – on your own.’

  ‘You can say anything you like in front of Andy. He’s my business partner. We don’t have any secrets.’

  ‘What kind of “business” would that be?’

  ‘He supplies me with odds and ends.’

  ‘Does that include rusty nails?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re wittering on about, O’Sullivan. I’m a busy man, so get whatever you have to say off your chest, then sod off and leave me in peace.’

  ‘Is Andy the business partner who was in The Jacobite Arms round about seven o’clock last night, asking if anyone knew where he could find Jack Mulgrew?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A wee birdie.’

  Colvin furrowed his brow. ‘Of course!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘I remember now. I’d borrowed a few quid from Mulgrew last month and I wanted to pay him back. He was decent enough to sub me when I was skint, so I asked Andy to make sure –’ Colvin broke off to pick up his pint of Guinness from the counter. He weighed the glass in his fist, then took a long, slow sip, before enunciating carefully. ‘I asked Andy to make sure that Mulgrew got what was coming to him.’

  ‘And did he?’ O’Sullivan asked. ‘Did Mulgrew get what was coming to him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Andy didn’t manage to catch up with him,’ Colvin said with a smirk as he placed his glass back down on the bar. ‘Is that it, O’Sullivan?’

  ‘For now, yes.’

  ‘In which case, why don’t you do us all a favour – and fuck off!’

  Charlie Anderson parked outside the imposing, wrought-iron gates of the detached, red sandstone property in Langside. Getting out of his car, he turned his jacket collar up against the light drizzle as he made his way up the tree-lined drive, his shoes scrunching noisily in the thick gravel. When he rang the bell, James Ramsay came to the door. A big man, both in height and in girth.

  Smiling, Ramsay made a show of checking his watch. ‘Four o’clock on the dot. Bang on time, Charlie, as always.’

  ‘How’s retirement treating you, James?’ Charlie asked, folding his collar back down as Ramsay led the way to the lounge, the large, bay windows looking out onto the manicured lawn.

  ‘I have to say, life is pretty good.’

  ‘Are you managing to fill your time all right?’

  ‘That’s never a problem. I spend most mornings taking care of the garden and pottering about in my greenhouse. If the weather’s good I usually play bowls at my club in the afternoon – and if it’s not, I quite often have a game on one of the indoor rinks.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t messed up your game today?’

  ‘Not at all. I give the club a wide berth on Sundays. It’s too busy with the world’s workers. Grab a seat while I fix us a drink,’ he said, crossing to the well-stocked cocktail cabinet by the window. ‘What’ll it be?’

  Charlie settled down on the leather settee. ‘A glass of water would be fine, thanks.’

  ‘Could I not tempt you?’ Ramsay said, holding up a decanter. ‘It’s a rather fine, twenty year-old malt.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’m retired now. I won’t report you for drinking on duty.’

  ‘It’s a bit early for me, James.’

  Ramsay shrugged. ‘As you wish. You don’t mind if I have a snifter?’

  ‘Not at all. Carry on.’

  Ramsay tipped a generous measure of Scotch from the decanter into a crystal tumbler, then filled a tall glass from a bottle of Evian water, adding a slice of lemon. Joining Charlie on the settee, he handed him his drink.

  ‘Cheers!’ he said, raising his tumbler to eye level. ‘It can’t be long now until they put you out to pasture, Charlie.’

  ‘Nine months – and counting. But I don’t reckon I’ll be heading for any pasture, James,’ Charlie said with a grimace. ‘More likely I’ll be given a one-way ticket to the knacker’s yard.’

  Ramsay picked up a packet of cigarettes from the coffee table. ‘You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to pick my brains,’ he said as he tapped out a cigarette. ‘I’m intrigued. What can I help you with?’ he asked, lighting up.

  ‘Do you remember the John Murdoch trial?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was my last day on the bench before I retired, which means it must’ve been almost exactly a year ago. Hard to believe it’s a year already – doesn’t time fly?’

  ‘Did you know that Murdoch’s dead?’

  Ramsay’s hand froze with his cigarette half-way to his lips. ‘You don’t say? What happened to him?’

  ‘He was murdered last night – in the West End – on his way home from the pub.’

  Ramsay inhaled deeply. ‘I read in the papers this morning that a body had been found in Hyndland,’ he said as he exhaled, ‘but they didn’t give a name.’

  ‘The victim will be identified in the press tomorrow as John Preston. Murdoch had changed his name.’

  Ramsay nodded. ‘I knew he was planning to do that, but I didn’t know he would be calling himself Preston.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘The lawyer who acted as Murdoch’s defence counsel is a member of my bowling club. We often have a drink together. After the trial, he told me that Murdoch had asked him what he needed to do to change his name by deed poll.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘Might that not be perceived as creating a conflict of interest?’

  ‘I’m very even-handed, Charlie. I drink with the prosecution lawyers as well.’ Ramsay took a sip of whisky before continuing. ‘The lawyer explained to Murdoch that the concept of a deed poll doesn’t exist in Scottish law, however, he could achieve the same effect by arranging a meeting with a Justice of the Peace and making a statutory declaration of a change of name. Murdoch was worried that the Carter brothers might still be able to find him, but his lawyer reassured him on that score. The statutory declaration process is confidential. There’s no way a change of name can be traced through the public records.’

&nb
sp; Ramsay put his whisky tumbler down on the glass-topped coffee table and looked enquiringly at Charlie. ‘My original question still stands, Charlie. What can I help you with?’

  ‘Yesterday was the third of September – and Murdoch was killed at ten-thirty in the evening. Which happens to be a year to the day, and more or less the same time, as Tommy Carter threw himself in front of a train.’

  ‘So it is,’ Ramsay nodded, tapping the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. ‘And you don’t think that’s a coincidence?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Ramsay shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘We’ve both been around long enough to know that the odds against that are a million to one. So you reckon someone caught up with him?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you have any idea who that might’ve been?’

  Ramsay picked up his glass and swilled the liquid round. ‘The Carter brothers have to be prime candidates, I suppose,’ he reflected.

  ‘What did you think of the verdict in Murdoch’s trial?’ Charlie asked.

  Ramsay looked quizzical. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean – did you think justice had been done?’

  ‘I directed the jury to return a verdict of not proven. My role was to implement the law of the land and, on the evidence presented, there was no other action I could reasonably have taken.’

  ‘What do you think of not proven as a verdict?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘What do I think of it?’

  ‘Would we not be better off having just ‘guilty’ and ‘not guilty’? Other countries seem to manage fine with that. Not proven always gives the impression that the court thought the accused was guilty, but there wasn’t enough evidence to secure a conviction.’

  ‘That’s a common enough interpretation,’ Ramsay said. ‘When he was the sheriff in Selkirk, Sir Walter Scott referred to not proven as the bastard verdict. There are pros and cons, I’ll give you that. But overall I think it’s a good thing. Take a rape charge, for example. Quite often there is insufficient corroborating evidence – and the victim’s testimony alone doesn’t constitute a legal ground for a conviction. If the not proven verdict didn’t exist, fewer women would be willing to proceed to trial because, if the accused is found not guilty, the victim would feel stigmatised in the eyes of the public. On the other hand, a not proven verdict doesn’t damage the victim’s credibility as it indicates that the jury didn’t disbelieve her, only that the evidence presented wasn’t sufficient to secure a conviction.