by Mari Hannah
Excusing herself, she turned and fled the hallway.
Almost immediately, a tall, sturdy man with a stony face arrived in her place. He introduced himself as Trevathan’s gillie, explaining that he was also Mr Forbes. Apologizing for his wife’s hysterics, he pointed through an open door, inviting them to wait in his master’s study, then disappeared, presumably to comfort or chastise his wife, whose weeping echoed from the passage beyond.
O’Neil rolled her eyes at Ryan, eager to get on.
Two French doors overlooked the garden. O’Neil walked towards them, taking in herbaceous borders and the loch shimmering in the distance, hardly a ripple on the surface of the water. As she turned to face him, Ryan could see she was in awe of the place.
Her eyes settled on something over his shoulder. She pointed at the wall behind him. Ryan swung round to find a second painting of Trevathan hanging over a striking fireplace, this one much less formal. The judge was staring at them, a steely gaze under a green flat cap. Dressed in a tweed shooting jacket, breeks, woollen socks and sturdy black shoes, he was standing beside flowing water, a shotgun cocked over one arm, a gundog by his side.
‘I wonder if that’s the same dog he had with him when he died,’ O’Neil said.
‘It’s a fine dog.’
‘Looks like he’s smiling.’
‘They all do.’
Ryan knew dogs, Labrador Retrievers in particular. Caroline had owned a succession of guide dogs since she was a kid, each one remembered fondly and preserved in photographs she would never see. Ryan was eager to catch up with her. He hoped her case was going well.
A knock drew his attention.
The door swung open and Mrs Forbes entered, apologizing for her lack of self-control. Ryan invited her to sit. She perched awkwardly on the edge of an antique armchair as if she’d never sat down in the study in all the years she was in the judge’s employ. The superintendent took a seat opposite, her DS standing directly behind her.
‘Mrs Forbes, it’s our understanding that Lord Trevathan left Cornwall early to collect a briefcase for an important trial,’ O’Neil began.
‘So I understand. I was on holiday.’
‘We believe it may contain vital information that will aid the investigation into his death. Do you still have possession of it?’
A flash of panic crossed the housekeeper’s face. The detectives had their answer before the woman opened her mouth.
O’Neil pushed her: ‘Mrs Forbes?’
‘No.’ Her voice was croaky, hardly audible, as if her ability to speak was shutting down. ‘It was collected,’ was all she managed to say.
‘By whom?’
‘Someone from his chambers.’
‘Someone?’ O’Neil wanted specifics.
‘They didn’t give a name.’
‘There was more than one person?’
‘Two. One male, one female.’
‘When was this?’ Ryan asked.
‘Shortly after His Lordship was reported missing. The day after his trial was supposed to start in Edinburgh.’
‘I see.’ O’Neil took over. ‘Did they call ahead, or arrive unannounced?’
‘The latter.’ Mrs Forbes’ eyebrows pinched together. ‘I had an important appointment in Aberfeldy. I was leaving via the gate lodge when they drove in and asked me to hand the briefcase over as a matter of urgency. I asked them to come back later. They were very insistent.’
Ryan could see it happening. They wait outside until someone drives up and make their move as the gates open. No wonder Mrs Forbes was so nervous when he and O’Neil arrived.
‘And you did what?’ he asked.
Mrs Forbes looked up. ‘I followed them to the house.’
‘You let them in and handed it over, just like that?’
The housekeeper was nodding, her eyes misting over. ‘I was running late.’
Ryan tried not to look stunned. ‘I assume that with such important documents you asked to see some form of identification?’
Clearly not . . .
‘Mrs Forbes, would you like me to call your husband?’ O’Neil’s soft voice masked her irritation. She was trying to put the woman at ease, despite the urge to shake the living daylights out of her for not checking the ID of those collecting the briefcase. ‘I’m happy for him to join us if you’d like him here—’
‘No! Please don’t.’ The woman wiped away her tears, an expression of regret on her face. Fear even. Relations in the Forbes household were obviously strained.
Ryan drew up a chair and sat down. ‘Would it be correct to say that you and Mr Forbes have had words over this?’
Nodding vigorously, Mrs Forbes tucked her tissue up her sleeve and then pulled it out again, twisting it around the forefinger of her left hand. ‘After the police told my husband why the judge had returned to Scotland, Stuart went to look for the briefcase.’
‘But you’d already handed it over?’
‘Yes.’ The housekeeper was stalling, her distress over Trevathan’s demise morphing into guilt. She drew in a deep breath and let it out again before elaborating on her one-word reply. ‘I told the polis that the Lord President had ordered the case notes to be returned to court, that he was going to pass them on to another judge.’
‘That wasn’t true?’
‘Not strictly.’ Mrs Forbes was growing more and more agitated. Her master was no longer able to rebuke her, but his assertive gaze bore down on her from the portrait above the fireplace. She looked at the floor, a subservient pose, as if he were present in the room, demanding an answer. Ryan and O’Neil exchanged a troubled glance. The woman was clearly embarrassed by her stupidity.
‘Stuart was livid,’ she told them. ‘He said I’d be in a lot of trouble. Am I?’
‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ Ryan said.
‘How can I not? You’re suggesting they’re not who they said they were.’
He disregarded the statement. ‘Do you know if police called his chambers to verify the identity of these people?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’ It was the first straight answer she’d given.
O’Neil’s nod was Ryan’s cue to get on the blower to Trevathan’s clerk. He got up and left the room to investigate while O’Neil carried on questioning the anxious housekeeper, who was bending over backwards to apologize.
‘I don’t know what possessed me, Superintendent. You must think me irresponsible for handing over such important documents to a couple of strangers. I know Stuart does. By then we knew there was something dreadfully wrong, though neither of us ever dreamt it would end the way it did. I can’t take it in.’
‘It must be distressing for both of you.’ O’Neil wasn’t there to play nursemaid. She got back on track before the woman lost it again – she needed her calm and providing information. ‘Of the couple who took it, which one handled the briefcase?’
‘The man did.’
‘Do you know what it contained?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘I find it hard to believe that you offered it up without checking what was inside, Mrs Forbes. It could have contained personal items, could it not?’
‘Yes, I suppose it could.’
O’Neil’s eyes were like lasers. ‘Did you look inside?’
‘I didn’t need to. The judge only has the one briefcase. I didn’t think that there might be anything personal in it at the time.’
‘Was it locked?’
‘I told you, I didn’t look inside.’ Mrs Forbes was wringing her hands. ‘Am I under suspicion?’
Ignoring the question, O’Neil took out her phone, tapped the recorder app and laid it on the table between them, an action that made the housekeeper even more petrified. ‘This is a formality,’ O’Neil explained. ‘There’s no need to be concerned. It’ll save me from having to write down what you say. You’ll have to make a formal statement in due course, but this is just for me. Is that OK with you?’
‘I have nothing to hide.’
&nb
sp; ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ O’Neil hoped Mrs Forbes was telling the truth. If she found out she wasn’t, she’d have no hesitation in charging her with attempting to pervert the course of justice or wasting police time. ‘I know it was a while ago, but I want you to think long and hard and describe these people for me – in as much detail as possible, please.’
Mrs Forbes shut her eyes, the better to picture her visitors.
Ryan slipped into the room behind her, an imperceptible shake of his head as he approached. He’d drawn a blank at the chambers.
The housekeeper opened her eyes at the sound of him entering, then switched her focus to O’Neil. ‘The gentleman was a tall chap, thinner and taller than my husband, six two or thereabouts, the woman not much shorter, maybe five ten, eleven . . . Actually, a bit shorter, she was wearing high heels.’ Mrs Forbes used her forefinger and thumb to indicate three inches. ‘The man was dressed in a smart but ill-fitting suit. A dark suit, plain, I think. He was wearing glasses, steel-rimmed. His hair was neatly trimmed, almost black. Hers was too, come to think of it – and tied up. They were like peas in a pod. Irish-looking, if you know what I mean: dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes I think, or maybe green.’
Wow! Ryan thought. That was more description than he or O’Neil had anticipated or hoped for. ‘Can you take a stab at age?’
‘She was mid thirties, the man slightly younger.’
‘Who did the talking?’ he asked.
‘She did.’
O’Neil backtracked. ‘Was she Irish?’
‘English.’ The woman was on a roll. It didn’t last.
‘Northern, southern?’ O’Neil prompted her. ‘It might help us.’
‘I’m not good on accents. They weren’t Scots, that’s all I can tell you.’
‘You said the man wore a suit,’ Ryan said. ‘Was the woman also smart?’
‘Very. Her lipstick matched her coat. Cherry red. Film-star looks.’ Ryan’s eyes sent a message to O’Neil, the movie reference exciting them both. ‘What exactly do you mean by “film-star looks?”’
‘Glamorous, you know, like Lauren Bacall.’ She apologised, acknowledging that the detectives were probably too young to remember her. ‘Attractive and knows how to use it,’ she added. ‘Self-assured. Acted like she’d just walked off set.’
O’Neil didn’t dwell on it. ‘Handbag?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘You said you followed their vehicle from the gatehouse. Can you describe it?’
‘It was a Mercedes. Grey, I think.’
‘Local registration?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Who drove?’
‘She did.’
‘Would you recognize these people again?’
‘Her, for certain. It would be hard not to. I’m not so sure about him.’
‘That’s all for now.’ O’Neil stood. ‘Thank you for talking to us and for giving such a detailed description. We may ask you to help us with an artist’s impression after we’ve made some more enquiries.’
‘Of course. I’m so sorry about the briefcase.’
O’Neil said nothing on the way out. She let Ryan take the wheel again. Next stop, Aberfeldy to pick up a key. She was impatient to move on to Maxwell’s Temple. They would debrief on the way.
14
The air was so cold it caused Ryan and O’Neil’s breath to condense as they exhaled, sending puffs of white clouds into the air as they walked along the riverside path heading for the folly. In crime scene photographs taken on Tuesday 8 October, the branches covering it were losing their leaves, the magnificent hexagonal structure covered by an autumnal umbrella, in shades of brown and gold. The door to the structure stood ajar. Now it was bolted shut with a heavy-duty padlock.
Ryan opened it up.
Taking a torch from his pocket, he shone it inside before entering. At ground level, the scene was preserved exactly as it had been found. So concerned were local police that something serious had taken place there, no attempt had been made to clean up the blood, now brown where it once was red.
The smell of urine hit Ryan’s senses as he stepped through the door, the result of years of misuse, not from the attack that had taken place a couple of months ago. People had used the folly as a toilet stop even though there were the proper facilities not far away in Kenmore. If you needed a piss around here it seemed that even a temple would do.
Steps wound themselves round a central column, disappearing into a black hole. It was a tight climb. Ryan was pleased to emerge at the top where he could again breathe uncontaminated air. The viewing platform offered a great vantage point from which to view the fast-flowing water, the village and a stunning riverside walk in both directions.
They would have seen Trevathan coming a mile away.
Ryan called down to O’Neil. She was standing twenty metres away, her back to him, talking on her mobile in low whispers. By the time he reached ground level she was hanging up.
‘Everything all right, guv?’
She swung round. ‘Jesus, Ryan! You scared me.’
‘Who were you expecting, Spielberg?’
‘Don’t joke.’
‘Sorry if I spooked you.’
‘You didn’t. I’m perfectly OK,’ she snapped. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason.’ Again, Ryan got the distinct impression she was hiding something. He didn’t share that thought. Instead, he pointed up at the viewing platform. ‘No wonder they used a cherry picker to take their pictures. Like the report said, access is tight. It’s impossible to move around in there without disturbing evidence.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that now,’ she reassured him. ‘Only one CSI entered. She came down from the top to check that no one was mortally wounded inside. I spoke to her supervision. She’s the best there is.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Ryan scratched his head with both hands, a grim expression on his face. ‘Any evidence in there has been totally compromised. The folly is open to the elements from above. The place is full of debris: leaves, bird shit and things with eight legs. Feel free to check it out for yourself.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ O’Neil gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing, Ryan. And, for what it’s worth, I agree with you, the place should have been covered over and sealed completely. There was no body though. The Crime Scene Manager made a judgement call.’
‘Shame it was the wrong one.’
‘Yeah, well, what’s done is done. Lock it up. We best get going.’
Ryan secured the door to the temple. They retraced their steps along the riverbank, passing some pretty static and mobile homes, then walked across the seventeenth-century humpback Kenmore Bridge, the point at which the river met the loch. The light was fading as they reached the car.
‘What now?’ Ryan said.
‘The PM for me,’ O’Neil said. ‘I want you on a train to Edinburgh.’
‘From here?’ He was horrified.
‘No, I’ll drop you in Perth.’
‘I assume to visit Trevathan’s chambers?’
‘Correct.’
Ryan glanced at his watch. ‘They’ll be gone by the time I get there.’
‘No they won’t, I checked. Caroline isn’t the only brief with a major drugs case on the go. Edinburgh has one too, and by all accounts it’s not going well. So tonight it’s all hands on deck, everyone staying late. The drive to Perth will take an hour or so. There’s a direct train from there at 17.06 that gets in to Edinburgh Waverley at 18.21.’
‘Waste of time, if you ask me. If they’re that busy, they’re unlikely to tell me anything—’
‘Turn on your detective charm then.’
‘On?’
‘Use your initiative, Ryan. Trevathan’s colleagues are up to their necks in a major prosecution. Distracted and under pressure, they might throw you a crumb to get rid of you. If you draw a blank there, book a nice hotel and hang around at the law courts tomorrow morning. Yo
u never know, you might get lucky. Staff love to gossip. Some will talk to anyone prepared to listen. Be receptive, you’re good at that. I want to know if Trevathan’s trial went ahead or was adjourned – and don’t come back empty-handed.’
Ryan’s attention strayed to the Kenmore Hotel across the river. ‘Do I get to eat first?’
‘Sorry, there’s no time. You’ll have to grab a sandwich and eat on the train. We need to get on top of this. Having gathered all the barristers together, listed the trial, warned and prepared God knows how many witnesses, I’m sure the Lord Advocate’s office would’ve pursued the case, with or without him—’
‘Except there’s not a whisper of that anywhere.’
‘I’m thinking it was or is being heard in secret, Ryan. These cases can go on for months.’
‘A new judge would have to be briefed though, surely. That would take time—’
‘They’ve had time. I reckon they would want to begin proceedings at the earliest opportunity. The new judge wouldn’t necessarily be aware of pre-trial issues, so they’d have to read up on the case and hear the evidence when it was presented in court, same as the jury. Why else bother to retrieve that briefcase if they didn’t need to use what was inside?’ She stuck a hand out. ‘Chuck us the keys?’
‘I don’t mind driving.’
‘My ankle is fine now.’
Reluctantly, Ryan handed them over.
O’Neil pressed a button on her key fob. The lights flashed, unlocking the doors. They strapped themselves in and she drove off at speed, keen to reach Perth before rush hour. In his head, Ryan questioned her motivation to be rid of him. He couldn’t help wondering what she had up her sleeve.
‘I thought you said you hated post-mortems,’ he said after a while.
‘I do.’
‘Then slow the hell down. You’ll be attending your own if you put us off the road.’
‘I want you on that train.’
‘Why don’t we swap?’ he suggested. ‘You go to Edinburgh and—’
‘No.’ O’Neil turned left. ‘I have it covered.’
‘I insist—’
‘I said no, thanks, Ryan.’ She shot him a dirty look. ‘Besides, I have something else to do.’
