Murder in Court Three Page 13

  ‘Was there anything furtive or strange about how Dolan behaved there?’

  ‘Naw. Not that I saw, but I wasn’t watching.’

  ‘And what did you do during the hour after dinner?’

  ‘What the other waiters did. We had to clear the hall for the archery which was hard as naebody wanted to move. We took the stuff downstairs and packed it up then carried it up for collection. The valuable things were put in that room with the bows and arrows.’

  ‘How many times did you visit that room?’

  Thomson shrugged. ‘Twice, maybe. I dunno.’

  ‘Which tables did you serve during the meal?’

  ‘Numbers ten, eleven and twelve.’

  ‘Did you recognise anyone on any of them?’

  ‘Naw. They were mostly pissed lawyers.’

  ‘When did you leave Parliament House?’

  ‘About eleven-fifteen. Some had to stay but they let us part-timers go once things were packed and ready to go. And before you ask, my mate drove me. I didnae breach my ban.’

  ‘You don’t live with your parents, who are in the same town. Why not save yourself some money and live at home?’

  ‘Like I say, we don’t get on.’

  ‘Is it just you who lives here?’

  ‘I share with a mate from school. He’s at work.’

  Feeling he had learned disappointingly little, Baggo thanked him and left. Looking back at the tenement from the pavement, he identified the sitting-room window and saw the greasy curtain twitch.

  * * *

  Flick found half a dozen missed calls on her phone, all from Fergus. She called him back and listened to a rant about Good News, which was nothing compared with the diatribe he then aimed at Inspector No. ‘That drunken heap of horse-shit had better not stray into Dundee or I’ll show him how old-fashioned methods work in Scotland,’ he spluttered.

  Flick found his impotent rage strangely comforting. ‘I’m okay, darling, really. I’m furious about it too, but it’s jolted the Traynors into coming clean about their marriage and Lynda’s affair with Knox. We’re finding out more all the time and we’re following up everything. Even the baby feels calmer. She’s dancing Swan Lake this morning.’

  ‘I’m glad you can look at it that way. You’re doing really well, my love. I’m so proud of you.’ She could hear the emotion in his voice.

  Forcing herself not to weaken as she rang off, she hoped the investigation would get the bit of luck it needed sooner rather than later.

  That breakthrough came earlier than expected. Continuing to work on her spread-sheet, she was irritated when asked to take a call from Detective Inspector Hepburn of Coatbridge CID.

  ‘We have a murder,’ he told her. ‘A man in his forties. Struck on the head then asphyxiated in his home. He’s got a record. Forgery.’ He paused theatrically. Flick said nothing, willing him to get on with it.

  ‘In his flat we found pictures of farm land beside a river. Jack Nicklaus, the golfer, appears in many of them and he’s been stuck in by some techy expert. Whoever it was, and we think it was the deceased, had a sense of humour. In one picture Nicklaus is showing some plans to pigs. There are also artist’s impressions of a golf course and letters that look as if they’re from Nicklaus, with his signature. They concern a proposed new course near St Andrews. I think we’ve found someone who was involved in your big fraud case. But we’ve no leads in tracing his killer.’

  At her desk, Flick punched the air. One of the features of the fraud had been the expertly-produced artist’s impressions of the finished project. The identity of the artist had remained a mystery. ‘When was he killed?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Yesterday evening, we believe. His lady friend found him last night.’

  Flick’s mind raced. ‘This could be linked to the murder I’m investigating at the moment, Farquhar Knox. You know he was prosecuting the fraud. Can I come now to discuss it?’

  They arranged to meet in an hour and a half. Flick phoned Baggo, who was driving out of Dunfermline on his way to see if anything useful came out at the fraud trial, and to see Melanie. He changed his plans and would meet them in Coatbridge.

  Di Falco driving, Flick found Coatbridge Police Office without difficulty. A squat, ugly building, it sat beside a roundabout in the middle of a town that had seen more prosperous times. At reception they were greeted with the warm informality that the West prided itself on. Chatting happily about the weather, a young PC led them upstairs and along a drab corridor. Baggo’s laugh could be heard as they approached DI Hepburn’s office.

  Bryan Hepburn was a muscular looking man of medium height. His welcoming smile did not detract from worldly-wise eyes. A good friend and a bad enemy was Flick’s first impression. As Baggo pushed a file he had already seen over to Flick, Hepburn related what he knew.

  Tam Walker had been a talented forger, but he had over-reached himself some years earlier when he passed off one of his efforts as a Peploe. When people are asked to part with three hundred thousand pounds for a square of canvas covered in paint they are apt to be very careful indeed. It was a tribute to Tam’s skill that he fooled one famous gallery owner and several art journalists before an expert hired by the would-be buyer detected something in the brush-strokes that jarred. From there it was all downhill. After an entertaining trial Tam got five years, the scale of his potential reward being uppermost in the judge’s mind. After his release he had enjoyed four years of freedom during which it seemed that he had refined his skills by embracing technology. He had owned a sophisticated and expensive desk-top computer capable of doing much more than e-mails, internet and word processing.

  His main companion, and occasional bed-mate, was Mona McBride, who lived across the landing. The previous day she had expected him for a drink about eight and when there was no sign of him by nine she decided to check up on him. She found his body on the floor beside the computer. Lying on his back, the cushion which had been used to smother him still covered his mouth. The African stone statue used to strike the back of his head lay blood-stained nearby. The hard drive of the computer had been removed and there was no trace of his mobile phone.

  ‘Our SOCOs have done their job, of course, as has the photographer,’ Hepburn explained. ‘The items recovered have been sent to the lab in Glasgow and they have started to examine them. The post mortem will be going on now. In Glasgow, again. It was only a couple of hours ago I realised the connection with Fife.’

  ‘Well I certainly want to be fully involved,’ Flick said, examining the file. As well as photos of the body there were the letters and images Hepburn had mentioned on the phone. ‘I recognise a lot of these,’ she said. ‘We never found out who did the art-work for the fraud. Now we know.’

  Hepburn beamed. ‘It suits me if you want to take over. This is one of three murders we’ve got right now and we’re stretched. I’ve no time for daft turf wars. You’re welcome to this one.’

  ‘You mean I take over as senior investigating officer?’ Flick was astonished. Most police officers she knew guarded their cases like a mother hen.

  ‘Unless that’s a problem. Mind, we’ll probably get our balls chewed by the number-crunchers. If you know what I mean.’

  Flick liked Hepburn. In a way he reminded her of Fergus. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I sometimes want to stick their budgets where you won’t hear the numbers crunch,’ she said. Fergus had used that expression the previous week and Hepburn’s informality was infectious. She saw Baggo and di Falco look amazed and resolved to startle them with more of the risqué lines she had absorbed but not used.

  Hepburn said, ‘We’ve already done door-to-door inquiries in the block of flats, with the usual result. Naebody saw nothing. It will all be on the file I’ll e-mail to you. Just keep me in the loop if there’s something I should know.’

  It took little time to exchange e-mail addresses and arrange for the transfer of the inquiry to Fife, with the proviso that if the Nicklaus angle went cold
the case would revert to Coatbridge. Pausing to pick up the dead man’s computer, for whatever use it might be without the hard drive, Flick, Baggo and di Falco followed Hepburn to the crime scene.

  Tam Walker had lived in a block of flats on high ground in the Whifflet area of town. The parking area was pot-holed and strewn with broken glass. Baggo’s hired car and the two unmarked police cars seemed unusually obvious. The officers entered the block through a graffiti-defaced doorway. Crude images of genitalia, some accompanied by names, had been daubed on the foyer walls. High on one wall the remains of a bracket hung, parts of a smashed CCTV camera scattered below. A lift stinking of urine squeaked and shoogled its way to the third floor, where a woman in a low-cut cocktail dress waited for them. Mona McBride might have been any age between twenty-five and fifty. Laddered tights spoiled her elegant legs but it was her generous and well-supported breasts that caught the eye. Dabbing her heavily made-up face, she assured them that she and Tam had been soul-mates and that he had been a lovely man.

  Hepburn had a key to the flat. He shut the heavily reinforced door in the woman’s face and they heard loud sobs from the landing.

  ‘Billy, please take a full statement from her,’ Flick said, ‘and concentrate on yesterday, obviously, but also what she thought he may have been doing on his computer. Had he talked much about money recently? Use your discretion. Oh, and make sure to get her key, or keys,’ she added, looking at the sophisticated locks.

  As soon as di Falco paid attention to her, Mona McBride stopped sobbing. Flick and Baggo exchanged glances then concentrated on the flat. Passing from a pale blue hall they came to the living room which was light and south-facing, its height giving views across nearby houses and the M8 to the green fields of South Lanarkshire. The carpet, a stronger shade of blue, was disfigured by a bloodstain beside the large but simple pine desk on which sat two computer screens, a keypad and a printer. A leather-covered sofa and two armchairs were angled towards a flat-screen television. A glass coffee table held a pile of glossy art brochures and a black stone carving in the African style, probably the pair of the weapon used to knock Tam out. Flick noted that the SOCOs had been thorough. Traces of grey fingerprint powder were everywhere.

  But it was the paintings hanging on the walls that made her gasp. At first sight they were worth several millions. Above the sofa, a view of a boldly-coloured wheatfield, painted with the thick strokes of Van Gogh, was signed Vincent. On the wall opposite, a nude with large breasts and a round face carried Picasso’s signature. Beside it an obscene painting of a woman, her legs splayed open, also had Picasso’s name on it. ‘Is that Mona McBride?’ Baggo asked innocently, earning a guffaw from Hepburn and, to his surprise, a broad grin from Flick. On the wall facing the window, two paintings of Flapper girls in the Vettriano railway poster style carried the discordant theme further. Flick examined them closely and wondered how many experts they might fool.

  Next to the living room was a small bedroom which Walker had used as a studio. The smell of paint, detectable in the rest of the flat, was strongest here. The room was as shambolic as the living room had been tidy. Paints, brushes, rags and canvasses appeared to have been dropped haphazardly. A large easel stood in the middle of the chaos, the painting on it turned to the light. It was the image of a woman with a fish draped across her head.

  ‘He couldn’t stop himself,’ Hepburn chuckled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flick asked.

  ‘John Bellany, a very successful Scottish painter, died not so long ago. He painted a lot of women with fishes on their heads. This could have been Bellany’s, you know. It would take an expert to say it’s not. Perhaps Tam was needing to boost his pension.’

  Another small bedroom, this time facing west, was full of photographic apparatus. The chemical smell and heavy curtains were evidence of an effective printing facility. It was in a drawer in this room that the tell-tale papers and pictures had been found.

  ‘I’m surprised no one tried to pinch this,’ Flick said.

  Hepburn said, ‘Tam had the sort of friends you want living here. It’s amazing the number of local drug barons who have Van Goghs on their walls – Van Goghs that have never come up for sale and never will. But they look mighty impressive.’

  ‘Could this have been an underworld hit?’ Baggo asked.

  Hepburn shook his head. ‘Unlikely. It was well known Tam had protection and he was too smart to seriously piss off one of the big guys.’

  ‘He had a big flat for a single man,’ Flick commented.

  Hepburn explained, ‘When he got it he was living with a woman and five kids. She left and he kept the flat. It’s not exactly the most popular place to stay in Coatbridge. Not much competition for the tenancies.’

  Flick was not surprised but didn’t say so. Working quickly, she and Baggo searched the flat with Hepburn’s help, amassing drawings, letters and photographic equipment, anything that might prove useful. They were joined by di Falco, who had learned little new from Mona, except that the morning Tam died he’d been talking about getting some extra money. Di Falco had asked her if he had seen a newspaper that morning and she confirmed that he had. The paper had been Good News, she thought. She had popped in for a coffee about eleven and left half an hour later. She hadn’t seen him alive again.

  They locked up and left the flat together, taking the lift once more. On the ground floor they were hailed by a tiny, bent old lady wearing a shabby apron with a flower pattern.

  ‘Tam was a good man,’ she told them in a trembling voice. ‘I hope ye make his killer pay.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’ Flick asked.

  ‘Well enough,’ the old lady said. ‘He was good to me. Two months ago he gave me a picture of a wumman wi’ a fush on her heid. He telt me I’d get three thousand pund fur it. But I like it and it’s still on my wall. Imagine going aboot wi’ a fush on yer heid. Daft, like. But he was a good man.’

  ‘And I’m not going to stop her trying to get her money for that painting,’ Hepburn said as they came to their cars. ‘If the buyer thinks it’s worth three thousand pounds it shouldn’t matter who painted it.’

  There in Coatbridge, Flick could see his point. Having said a cheery goodbye to Bryan Hepburn she beamed at the other two. ‘Let’s find somewhere for lunch.’

  As she spoke, her phone rang. It was Wallace. She listened then turned to the others. ‘Lance has just heard from Eloise Knox’s solicitor. After a lot of humming and hawing he’s admitted that she stands to receive a life insurance payout of three million pounds.’ She paused. ‘Unless of course it was she who killed her husband.’

  14

  The place they found for lunch was a drive-through McDonald’s in Airdrie, a continuation of Coatbridge to the east. As they sat in Flick’s pool car pretending not to enjoy their guilty pleasures, they watched police vans bearing the day’s custodies coming and going from the nearby sheriff court.

  They agreed that the insurance pay-out gave Eloise Knox a real motive to kill her husband instead of divorcing him. Following up on her was a priority.

  After lunch they dropped di Falco at the train station so that he might go to Glasgow to see Johnny Dolan as planned. In their separate cars Flick and Baggo made for Eloise Knox’s house, hoping that Lord Hutton would be kept busy on the bench until they were finished. On her hands-free, Flick asked Wallace, still pinching himself after fingerprinting half a dozen High Court judges, to stay in Edinburgh and interview the accused in the fraud trial, checking alibis for the previous evening. ‘Nicola Smail as well,’ she added as an after-thought.

  Flick and Baggo liased in India Street, up from Eloise Knox’s house. On their previous visit she had responded better to di Falco, so Flick asked Baggo to start the questioning. She would be ready to come in as good cop or even worse cop, depending on circumstances.

  They had not phoned ahead and, after two loud rings of the doorbell, wondered if anyone was in. Flick was reaching for her phone when they heard the click of th
e inner door and a sullen Ranald opened the outer door wide enough to stick his head out.

  ‘My mother is still very upset,’ he said, his voice anglicised and defiant. From his tone he might have added ‘you plebs’. He withdrew his head and made to shut the door.

  Baggo was too quick for him and stuck his foot in the way. ‘I sincerely regret having to trouble you but we are at an important stage in trying to find your father’s murderer and we must speak with your mother.’

  The boy said nothing but walked away from the door. The detectives followed him in, shutting the door behind them. Ranald went to the foot of the staircase and shouted up, ‘It’s the police, Mummy.’ The reply, sounding more angry than upset, was ‘Well show them into the drawing room then.’

  A full five minutes elapsed between Ranald leaving them in the drawing room and Eloise making a theatrical entrance, complete with a lace handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes. Unhurried, she took her seat on the sofa. Flick wondered whom she might have been phoning and how long they would have before reinforcements arrived. She nodded to Baggo, who, while inspecting the room, had been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Mrs Knox, I regret that it is necessary to ask you this,’ he began after introducing himself, ‘but were you aware that your husband was having an affair with Mrs Lynda Traynor?’

  Her back stiffened and she clenched her fist. ‘No,’ she said with a sniff.

  ‘Yet after seeing your husband talking with Mrs Traynor after dinner on Friday, you asked a friend if he “was off with that whore”. Can you explain that?’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking.’

  ‘And when your friend prevaricated, you made a comment about “bloody men” sticking together?’

  ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

  ‘And when you went outside to smoke immediately after the archery, you were heard to say that you could kill your husband. Can you explain that?’