Murder in Court Three Read online

  Osborne had never before been in a Scottish court. The lawyers sat round a big table in the well of the court. The judge wore white robes with large red crosses. It reminded Osborne of the Ku Klux Klan costume without the hood. He could tell this judge was the real thing. On the few occasions when he did intervene, he did so intelligently and with quiet authority. At one point he scanned round the public benches, his searching eyes fastening on Osborne, who felt quite uncomfortable as the big man with hooded eyes and tiny glasses stared at him.

  An hour of that was quite enough. Osborne crossed the Lawnmarket again, this time to visit the scene of the crime. While the court he had left was modern with artificial lighting and pine panels, Parliament House oozed history. Despite himself, he was impressed by Parliament Hall where the archery had taken place. There was a dark, high, wooden roof, a huge stained glass window and a highly-polished wooden floor on which lawyers in earnest discussion walked up and down. The corridors near the hall were flanked by rows of wooden boxes, each bearing the name of an advocate. Some boxes were overflowing with papers. Others were empty. Directed to Court Three, Osborne entered a strangely intimate courtroom, all old wood and red drapes. Two judges, a diminutive woman and an old man, were hearing criminal appeals against sentence. They were the sort of judges Osborne could respect, showing no compunction about rejecting eloquent pleas for mercy.

  He was beginning to enjoy himself when the court rose for lunch. Not hungry after his breakfast, he strolled down the Royal Mile, mingling with tourists from many nations. Venturing into a tartan shop, he could hardly believe how much money a tall Scandinavian youth was prepared to pay for a kilt, his puny white legs sticking out under folds of garish tartan to the apparent delight of his girlfriend.

  For some reason the youth reminded Osborne of Pizza. He had no idea what he should say to him when he phoned. He decided to return to the G and V and read up about the case. The newspaper clippings failed to capture the real flavour and he felt little wiser. Looking out of his window, he saw Baggo entering The Verdict. Osborne decided to follow him and left the papers strewn round the bed. Casually and quietly, he walked into the pub and looked round. Baggo’s back was to him. He got a pint of lager and sat in the booth behind him, hoping to overhear what was being said.

  By the time Baggo and the girl left, Osborne was smiling. He could see she had a nice arse and said so, quite loudly. Baggo nearly jumped out of his skin.

  The horror on Baggo’s face turned to fury. He followed the girl out and Osborne could hear his raised voice in the street. The door swung open again and Baggo came back in. He sat opposite Osborne and glared. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked.

  Over the years Osborne had developed a variety of techniques for dealing with angry people, frequently colleagues. ‘Why, Baggo, what’s wrong? Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, beaming serenely.

  ‘Have you been listening to what we were saying?’

  ‘Well I wasn’t going to stuff cotton wool in my ears, was I?’

  ‘You mustn’t tell that shitty little reporter.’

  ‘Or?’ He put an edge into his voice.

  ‘Or you’ll make life even more difficult for us than it already is.’

  ‘So you’re asking?’ Osborne’s lips continued to smile but his eyes bored into Baggo’s.

  ‘Yes. I’m asking. But if they publish something that hinders our investigation we’ll prosecute Bothwell. And we’d prosecute you, too. Do not think that we wouldn’t.’

  ‘Bollocks. The crown lawyers would throw it out. At least they always did when I tried that trick.’ Baggo’s face fell. Osborne could see he had won. ‘Pint?’

  ‘IPA.’ A whisper.

  ‘Fucking stupid name for beer.’ As Osborne waited to gain the surly and slow-moving barman’s attention, he remembered how things used to be. When he had run Wimbledon CID, he could tell Baggo to jump and he’d ask how high. Although their circumstances had changed, vestiges of their former relationship remained. At length the beers were poured. Osborne carried them to the table, brown IPA for Baggo, lager for himself. ‘Down the hatch,’ he said, slurping his drink, then asked, ‘How’s it going?’

  Baggo ignored his pint. ‘What that rag has been saying about Inspector Fortune should never have been written. She has been conducting this inquiry as well as possible in difficult circumstances. We are following the evidence and it will eventually lead us to the truth, so please do not make things any more difficult than you have already.’ Still not touching his beer, he sat back and scowled across the table.

  Osborne shook his head. There was no one nearby but he still spoke quietly. ‘Did you learn nothing from me? I had you down as a likely lad. You talk about evidence. What is that? A collection of facts, half-truths and downright, fucking lies that you haven’t seen through. Evidence can lead you so badly off course you need to call the fucking mountain rescue boys. What I did, and it fucking well worked, was identify a criminal and then look for the evidence that would persuade a court to find them guilty. I heard you talking about some religious nutter who might have thought Knox was someone else. Does he have a record? Well, does he?’

  Baggo searched for the answer in his beer and took a first swallow. ‘What if he does?’

  ‘What if he does? It makes it much more fucking likely that he’s your man. Your first time is the most difficult, whether we’re talking shagging or murder. You should be going after him.’

  ‘We are. Please do not put anything about this in the paper, but we have an officer undercover who has infiltrated the sect. If anything were to appear in the paper it would put him in great danger.’

  Osborne silently clapped his hands. ‘Right you are, Baggo. I’m glad you told me that. The more you tell me the more careful I’ll be when I’m talking to Pizza.’

  ‘Pizza?’

  ‘The reporter. Have you seen the state of his face?’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Acne.’ Baggo caught himself smiling and checked himself.

  ‘And this judge who fancies the rich widow. All my days in the Met and I never arrested a judge, worse luck. That would be a trophy for you, Baggo. What are you going to do about him?’

  ‘I don’t know, honestly.’

  ‘Hunt him down at home. Take him by surprise. Stay on the offensive.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, of course. He who hesitates is fucking lost.’

  ‘What are you going to say in tomorrow’s paper?’

  ‘As you’ve told me something, I think I’ll be nice. And I’ll make the point that masterminds ain’t wot they used to be. In the East End a mastermind who got caught had no right to call himself a fucking mastermind. Yet here we have your John Burns sitting in jail, ready to go down for how long? Six? Eight? Ten, even? I know the do-gooders on the Parole Board will have him out as soon after half time as they can, but even so it’s a stretch. And will that four and a half million really be sitting waiting for him to pick up when he gets out? That makes me think, Baggo, and it should make you think too.’

  Baggo said nothing but took another sip of beer.

  ‘Now I’m not going to say anything about this little chat if you don’t,’ Osborne said. ‘But it would be in both our interests to stay in touch. Allow me to put my number into your mobile. Put yours into mine.’ He slid his phone across the table. Reluctantly, Baggo did as he was told. Osborne’s grin revealed broken and stained teeth. ‘And you may call me Noel. Now, must go.’ He drained his glass and left the pub.

  Angry and confused, Baggo replayed the previous half-hour, asking himself what he should have said and done. His most basic mistake was to be so anxious to impress Melanie that he had allowed his tongue to run away. Depressed, his drink unfinished, he left five minutes after Osborne.

  16

  After leaving Osborne, Baggo visited a golf driving range beside the Braid Hills and spent three quarters of an hour venting his frustration on a large bucket of balls. By the end his drives were no straighter but he felt
better. He realised he was hungry and found a fish and chip shop. With a mouth-watering aroma filling the hired car, he drove to the road up Salisbury Crags where he parked in a lay-by and sat munching his fish supper covered with tangy, brown sauce. In front of him, the blue waters of the Forth stretched across to the purple shadows of Fife. But he was in no mood to admire the view. After the last greasy chip had slipped down his throat, he drove back to India Street and rang Lord Hutton’s doorbell.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ the judge demanded. He was still wearing his suit trousers. His shirt, its collar removed, was open at the neck and sweat stains darkened the fabric under the arms. Baggo caught a whiff of gin.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar, Lord Hutton.’ Sounding as respectful as he could, Baggo produced his warrant. ‘I regret having to disturb you at home but I need to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long.’

  Hutton inspected the warrant. ‘The Serious Fraud Office? You’re a long way from home aren’t you?’

  ‘I was seconded to help in the fraud case Mr Knox was prosecuting and now I am helping to solve his murder, my lord.’

  Hutton looked at him with what seemed lofty contempt. Baggo had already decided this would not be a doorway he would barge into if entry was refused. To his surprise the door opened fully. ‘Come in,’ Hutton said, turning away.

  The smell of gin became stronger as Baggo shut the front door and followed the judge into his lair. They went downstairs into the basement then along a corridor to the back of the house and into the kitchen. It was a large room, facing west, and had French doors leading to a sunken patio from which the last rays of the sun had gone. An Aga took up most of one wall. In the centre of the room a rustic-style table had a single setting. Cardboard files, an open bottle of red wine, a nearly-empty bottle of gin and glasses formed a semi-circular barrier round the judge’s place, outside which lay a phone and a laptop.

  Hutton picked up a tumbler containing clear liquid and a slice of lemon, and drained it. As he did so the unmistakable ping of a microwave sounded.

  ‘I put this on before you rang,’ he said, as using a stained oven glove, he removed a plastic dish, peeled off the cover and heaped the food, which looked and smelled like paella, onto an Old Chelsea plate. ‘Take a seat,’ he said as he sat down, ‘and have some wine. 2007 St Emilion. Drinking nicely now.’ He poured generous measures into two wine glasses. ‘And don’t give me any of that “I’m on duty” crap,’ he added sternly.

  Baggo hesitated then did as he was told. He would get more out of the judge if he kept him mellow. He sniffed the wine. It had a fine bouquet. Then he took a sip and swirled it round his mouth. ‘Lovely,’ he said.

  ‘So you have a palate?’ Hutton said, the surprise in his voice audible.

  ‘My father appreciated fine wine and taught me a bit.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Hutton said through a mouthful of paella. ‘I taught myself.’ He took another mouthful of wine and refilled his glass. ‘My wife is away at the moment. She likes the country at this time of year. So I’m left here with my work and a cellar full of excellent wine. I try to get through both.’ He smiled then pointed to the cardboard files. ‘Criminal appeals. We sift them to see if any are worth a full hearing in court. Any real chance and we give them a shot, but most of them simply want to get interim liberation so they’re out during the nice weather. It’s the same at Christmas. That means we have a hell of a lot of reading to do. But why are you here? What do you want to know?’

  ‘We have just learned that you were present at the function on Friday night when Mr Knox was killed, and I wonder if you can help us?’

  ‘If I can I will.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing Mr Knox after dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Talking.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘A lady, not his wife. She was most attractive and wore a long black dress.’

  ‘How would you describe the way they were talking?’

  ‘Intimate, confidential.’

  ‘Did you see either of them later?’

  Hutton put a forkful of food into his mouth and chewed it carefully. Appearing to make up his mind, he drank some wine and sat back in his chair. ‘I was involved in the archery match and went to collect my equipment from the judges’ retiring room. On my way back to Parliament Hall, Knox said something to me in passing. He appeared to be a bit drunk and what he said was indistinct but it was a barbed remark about hitting the right target. I thought no more of it at the time.’

  ‘But was that not rather cheeky of him, my lord?’

  ‘Of course it was, but he was no respecter of persons. Neither am I, frankly, and that was the bit about Farquhar that I liked. It was certainly not worth making a fuss about. To do so would have made me appear petty and foolish.’

  ‘What about after the archery?’

  Hutton’s small mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I am of course aware of what is being said about Knox’s death. Indeed there can be few who are not. After the archery contest was over I went for a drink and, as I was passing the end of the corridor leading to Court Three and other places, I saw the woman with whom Knox had been speaking after dinner coming towards me from the direction of Court Three. She had an air of excitement about her, that is all I say. She went past me, perhaps to the Ladies. I watched for a very short while, no more than half a minute, to see if anyone should follow her but no one did, and I got my drink. At the time it crossed my mind that illicit sexual activity might have been involved, but I thought little more about it until I heard that Knox had been murdered. By the way, you will probably find my fingerprints are identified among those gathered from Court Three as I sat there last week. Now, I want to know, how is your investigation proceeding?’ He poured more wine into his own glass and topped up Baggo’s.

  Baggo, who had been taking careful notes, would not normally tell a witness how an inquiry was going, but this man was a judge. ‘We have a number of leads, my lord, but it has proved difficult to narrow the field. We are following the evidence and expect to make progress.’

  ‘Do you think it was that policeman, the woman’s husband?’

  ‘We can’t entirely eliminate him, my lord.’

  Hutton looked unimpressed. ‘In other words, you haven’t got a clue yet. But tell me, and forgive me for being personal, are you made to feel an outsider in the police, institutional racism and all that?’

  ‘No, no, not really,’ Baggo stuttered.

  ‘So you are, but you have found ways of coping.’ It was a statement. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I know how you must feel.’ He swallowed more wine and emptied the bottle into his glass, filling it to the brim. Baggo knew this was no way to appreciate what was a very fine wine. He anticipated some indiscretion.

  ‘In Glasgow when you’re asked what school you went to, they want to know your religion. When they ask you that in Edinburgh, it’s your social class they’re trying to find out. I say I was educated at Merchiston. I see that means nothing to you, but Merchiston Castle is an expensive boys’ school, close to Firhill, which is the comprehensive I actually attended. When I wis a laddie I didnae speak wi’ plooms in ma mooth like I dae the noo. I changed it as I would never have progressed in my profession.’ His accent switched to broad Scots from anglified and back again. ‘I’ve always been an outsider in the law. Don’t play bloody golf, for one thing. Thank goodness for the Judicial Appointments Board or I’d never have made the bench. I know I’m not popular, but frankly I don’t give a damn. I do my job and I do it well. I work in a law court not a polite drawing room.’

  ‘You must have made your parents very proud.’

  Hutton nearly choked on his wine. ‘Proud? My father was ashamed of me, particularly after I changed my accent. I was a traitor to my class, an English stooge. When I was called to the bar he refused to come to the ceremony.’

  ‘He must have been a hard man.’

  Hutton
stared at Baggo. ‘Hard isn’t the word for it. He was like granite. When I was thirteen a group of boys from the school chased me. They hated swots and I was one. They caught me in the street in front of my house and began to beat me up. I shouted for my father and he came to the door. The boys stopped hitting me but then he said, “Fight yer ain battles or ye’r nae son o’ mine.” He went back in and closed the door. They carried on beating me up and left me bleeding in the street.’ Trembling at the recollection, Hutton took a deep draught of wine.

  ‘I was lucky. My father always looked out for me,’ Baggo said, amazed and somehow privileged to have the judge open up in this way.

  ‘I vowed that if ever I had a child I would do anything to protect them. And I meant it.’

  ‘And do you, have a child, I mean?’

  Suddenly abrupt, Hutton said, ‘No. My wife and I are childless.’

  They sat in silence, Baggo sipping his wine, Hutton swallowing his. Hutton changed the subject. ‘Don’t you get infuriated by the stupidity that criminals show? Do you ever long for a worthy opponent?’

  ‘I am quite lazy, my lord. The stupider the criminals the better, as far as I am concerned. Of course, before I retire I would like to defeat at least one criminal mastermind so that I can boast to any grandchildren I might have, but the rest of the time I am happy with those who make mistakes.’

  Baggo couldn’t decide if the judge was playing a clever game, using unusual confidences to deflect him from asking awkward questions, or he was a lonely drunk, pathetically grateful for a stranger’s ear, revealing things he would never have told someone he knew better.

  ‘Is there anyone who is likely to remember you when you bought your drink after the archery, my lord?’ he asked.

  The judge saw that he was being asked for an alibi and the atmosphere suddenly became frosty. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘And can you tell me what you did during the early part of yesterday evening?’