Murder in Court Three Page 3

  Outside the mower started. It made an angry noise with lots of revs and abrupt, jerky turns. After half an hour it stopped. Flick got up and tidied herself, ready to go out. She went downstairs, made two mugs of tea and carried them outside. Fergus was scratching at the rose border with a hoe but came over and joined her on the bench which caught the afternoon and evening sun. They sat in silence for a while.

  ‘I am alright, Fergus, and I know what I’m doing,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry I said that thing about not wanting the baby, but you can’t blame me for worrying.’ He put a hand on her knee.

  ‘I know, but please stop fussing. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. It’s a difficult time, and I know how important your career is to you.’

  ‘But no more important than the baby. Or you. I’m looking forward to being a mum. Really. And look what we’ve got compared with, say, the Traynors.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I really value your comments on my cases, you know. But please keep the Traynor thing quiet.’

  ‘Of course, but who’s fussing now?’

  She grinned, got up and kissed his forehead. ‘I’m off to Cupar. See you later.’ She picked up the mugs and went inside.

  ‘Love you,’ Fergus whispered as she turned her back.

  4

  Flick’s office was cool and quiet. The team would arrive in less than three hours and she wanted to feel in control by then. She booted up her computer and found two zip files from Maclean. She opened the first one and started reading.

  There were more than four hundred people who, in theory, might have killed Knox. With a handful of no-shows, there were nearly three hundred people at the function, which was called Advocates and Archers. There were more than a hundred waiters, chefs, security people and attendants. The Edinburgh police had been busy and Flick found lists containing the names of all those entitled to be in the building, with addresses and phone numbers for many. Thirty tables, each seating ten, had been placed on the floor of Parliament Hall. The contact details of advocates and archers were in the dossier, but only the names of those invited as guests. The fifty waiting staff had been divided into teams of five, each team looking after three tables. The catering company had provided full details of all of them, plus the twenty-five chefs who had put the food on the plates. The security staff and attendants were also fully documented. Brief statements had been obtained from twenty-nine people. A number of them would need to be seen again. Once informed of what had happened, Mrs Knox was reported as being ‘inconsolable’ and her brother had refused to allow the police to ask any meaningful questions.

  The second file contained photographs of the scene. Flick was impressed by how grand the building looked, even in crime scene photographs. Parliament Hall had a particular majesty with its dark wooden rafters, highly-polished and lighter-coloured floor and huge stained-glass window at the South end. Great lawyers of the past, commemorated in stone or oils, observed whatever goings-on the twenty-first century brought in front of their haughty stares.

  Flick sat back, thinking. Then she busied herself making arrangements and printing excerpts from the files which she assembled into six folders. She knew that her willingness to undertake menial tasks generated respect from her team. She wondered if Chandavarkar had got her message and hoped she had not made it too peremptory. After all, she was not his line manager. It was the irritating tone of his recorded message that had made her speak more sharply than she had meant. She liked him and respected his abilities, but his cheeky, puerile attempts at humour were so annoying.

  Detective Sergeant Lance Wallace was the first to arrive in the incident room. The reassuring way he sat still, waiting to be told what was happening, boosted her confidence. ‘Dour’ was an adjective she had heard applied to him, but as far as she was concerned he was strong, silent and reliable. She gave him the short version of why they were being brought in. He showed no reaction other than a frown of concentration as he thought through the implications. Five minutes after six the odd couple, as they were known, entered together. Well-tanned and debonair, Detective Constable Billy di Falco looked cool and casual. His great friend, Detective Constable ‘Spider’ Gilsland, was a casualty of the warm weather. His crumpled shirt was stained at the front by chocolate ice cream and under the arms by sweat, while his baggy khaki shorts revealed the knobbliest knees Flick could remember seeing. At least he had sprayed himself generously with after-shave, although his bright red face suggested he should have used more sun cream.

  Ignoring their tale of car keys in the wrong trousers, she handed round the folders she had assembled, leaving one for her and two more on her desk. She had not copied the file on Lynda Traynor but began by explaining its contents and why they had been given the case.

  ‘This is the crime we are dealing with,’ she said as she stuck a photograph at the top of the whiteboard. It showed a man in a dinner jacket lolling in a red leather chair. On the wall at his right shoulder part of a coat of arms was visible. The man had dark, wavy hair, thinning at the front, a sharp nose and a double chin. His mouth gaped in an expression of astonishment and blank eyes seemed to stare straight ahead. His hands had gone to his stomach, from which the end of an arrow protruded, its feathers plainly visible. Flick stood back to let them all see then stuck up another three photographs giving views of the court and the corridor outside.

  ‘This is going to be a big job,’ she said, ‘and Graeme Traynor must never appear on the whiteboard, though we have to investigate him thoroughly.’

  ‘We are always thorough, Inspector, ma’am.’ Detective Sergeant Bagawath Chandavarkar, known to everyone except Flick as ‘Baggo’, burst in. He was wearing the sort of multi-coloured trousers favoured by golfers and some comedians. His broad grin showed off his white teeth against his lower face, which was dark brown and unprotected by his golf cap. His sallow forehead made him look slightly ridiculous. ‘I regret missing the start of your briefing, but I have just gone round Carnoustie in ninety-four. I got your message when I had finished and rushed here post-haste. It is conveniently near my route back to Edinburgh.’

  While the others chuckled, Flick smiled. ‘Well pick up a folder and see what we’ve got,’ she said then gave him the very short version of why they were involved. As the chairs were taken, he sat on the edge of a desk, grimacing as he studied the pictures of a man he had come to know and respect, if not like.

  Flick continued with the briefing, summarising what MacGregor had told her. ‘I think the most likely scenario is that Knox took advantage of the archery contest to go off to Court Three to have sex. That would be some time between ten and ten-twenty. He did have sex, if the rumours are right, with Lynda Traynor. Then someone who had picked up one of the arrows from the judges’ retiring room where they had been stowed after the shooting, stabbed him. The archery finished about twenty past ten, and all the bows and arrows were placed in the retiring room, which is in the judges’ corridor, immediately afterwards, so the murder took place between twenty past ten and eleven. We have to account for the movements of any suspect during that frame. As I said, it’s not going to be easy, particularly if we must be discreet about the Traynor angle.’

  ‘Would it not have been possible for someone to take an arrow while the archery was still going on?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘Not according to a Captain Carstairs, who refereed the shooting and was responsible for the safekeeping of the equipment. Edinburgh were quick to get a statement from him,’ Flick replied.

  ‘I take it that, whoever she may be, the lady who had sex with Mr Knox is a suspect,’ Baggo said. Glancing at Flick with a twinkle in his eye, he added, ‘The great writer, Kipling, had a point when he wrote, “the female of the species is more deadly than the male,” Inspector, ma’am.’

  She wasn’t going to rise to this. Looking blankly at him, she said, ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I see the Traynors were on the top table,’ Wallace said.


  Flick said, ‘Yes. There are no statements from any of the top table people, and we have no information about the Smails or Maltravers. Although privately we see the Traynors as real suspects, we have to show significant interest in the accused in the fraud, and their trial. Lance, I would like you to be in court tomorrow morning to see what happens and then interview Mr and Mrs Smail and Maltravers. They’ll probably bring in their lawyers, but as it’s a separate inquiry and they’re not suspects yet, there’s no reason for them not to help us.’

  ‘And if they refuse?’ Wallace asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Best not push it till we have to, I think. We don’t want to risk compromising the trial.’

  She continued, ‘After them, you should move on to some of the others, beginning with the people on the same tables as Smail and Maltravers. There are a lot to get round and we have to be seen to be concentrating on that angle so you’d better take someone with you. I think McKellar would be the man. He’s not going to be overawed by important people, and he can read a situation well. For this inquiry he should be out of uniform. Will you arrange that?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Wallace said, picking up the last folder and trying not to show his surprise at the inspector choosing McKellar to help. When she had first arrived in Fife, the experienced, old-school constable had not concealed his lack of regard for the young Englishwoman. He had become more respectful over the months but the sly digs had not stopped completely, and the inspector knew that.

  ‘I also will be in court tomorrow morning,’ Baggo said. ‘The main accused, Burns, is still giving evidence and I have been told to be there for eight sharp to brief the QC who will take over from Knox. I stay in court and listen to what is said and I pass notes to the crown lawyers. Once these duties have ended I will be able to help Lancelot.’ He grinned at Wallace, knowing he hated his full first name, reputedly selected by his parents because he had been conceived after they had seen the show Camelot.

  ‘Thank you, Bagawath,’ Wallace muttered, shaking his head.

  Flick sighed. For some reason the two very different sergeants got on well, finding humour where it was never meant to be found. She turned to Gilsland. ‘Spider, I want you to go to Parliament House, getting there for half past eight, well before the courts sit. The security people will be expecting you. I want you to take photos of the place; the hall, the courtroom, the corridors, the kitchens. I gather it’s a rabbit warren so please map all the passages, stairs and cupboards so we can see how someone might have gone from the hall to the courtroom and back, picking up the arrow en route. Identify possible hiding places too. Then, still at Parliament House, I want you to check the CCTV of the night. The Edinburgh police have set that up, but from what they say I’m not hopeful. Bring the tapes back here. There may be discrepancies between what people say and what the camera shows.’

  ‘What about me, boss?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘You, Billy, will be coming with me. Your main job will be to charm the grieving widow into talking properly to us. Then we’ll move on to the top table, including Chief Superintendent Traynor and his wife, though I think we should leave them till last. It’ll be an early start as our first call of the day will be Fettes, the Edinburgh HQ, at half past eight to pick up productions. I’ve made sure there will be three pool cars available in the morning. Any questions?’

  There were none. Making arrangements or just chatting, they drifted out. Baggo was the last to leave.

  ‘Er, Bagawath,’ Flick said, ‘thank you for coming tonight. I hope you didn’t mind the brief message, but I’ve asked for your help in this.’

  He shrugged. ‘No problem, Inspector, ma’am. I am very much enjoying my stay here in Scotland. As you know, I have taken up golf and I have made good use of the long evenings. My ambition is to play the Old Course at St Andrews and this inquiry may give me time to do that.’

  Flick looked doubtful. ‘It looks like a case of sexual jealousy, but if it’s not and the murder really is linked in some way to the trial and the fraud, you’re the man to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘And, following separate lines of inquiry, we should between us reach the truth?’

  ‘Exactly. We have a fortnight before I go on maternity leave, and I would dearly love this to be wrapped up before then.’

  ‘Please look after yourself, Inspector, ma’am. You must take care for the baby’s sake.’

  She saw genuine concern on his face and choked back the defiant retort she would have made to Fergus. She said, ‘I will. Please don’t worry. Oh, there is one more thing; you should call me Flick when it’s just the two of us. We’ve known each other for a while.’ She moved in her seat and felt herself blush.

  ‘On the condition that you call me Baggo, and not just when it’s only us. I know you don’t like the name, but I am happy with it and everyone uses it.’ Once she had told him that she thought the nickname was undignified. He had put that down to her political correctness, and considered it ridiculous. But he had a lot of time for her. She was good and loyal and brave and competent. It was just a shame about the political correctness and lack of humour.

  ‘Fine, er, Baggo.’ Seeing his broad grin, she answered it with a smile.

  ‘That is much better, Flick. But try to miss out the “er” before the Baggo or people will think I’m called Erbaggo, and that would never do.’

  As he left he saw she was still smiling. Still a bit uptight, but the iron knickers tendency was waning. She would not have used first names so freely, even in January during the investigation. He had been up for the previous week, first giving evidence then advising crown counsel, and had not seen much of her. She had definitely changed, and for the better. Was it marriage, pregnancy, or getting away from Inspector No that had relaxed her? He thought back to the tension in the Wimbledon CID room as the slobbish, unprincipled Inspector Noel Osborne had bullied and made fun of the bright, determined Sergeant Fortune, who had great integrity but seldom cracked a smile.

  5

  ‘I’m relying on you to charm her, duke’s daughter or not,’ Flick told Billy di Falco as he put on the dashboard the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign Maclean had thoughtfully given them when they collected the productions at Fettes.

  They were in a street unusually bumpy even for Edinburgh, paved with rectangular dark cobbles. Substantial stone townhouses with tall windows and black cast iron railings formed a classical Georgian terrace which ran down a slope with views across the Forth to Fife. The doors of India Street were all immaculate and many bore brass plates, the word ADVOCATE printed under the owner’s name.

  Flick now felt more positive about the inquiry. The previous day’s row had cleared the air with Fergus. Later, as usual on Sundays, she had phoned her dad and he had been typically proud and supportive, not voicing the fears she knew would keep him awake. She resolved to phone him more often until the baby was born and wished he lived closer so that she might keep an eye on him. A widower in his late sixties, he continued to live in the family home in Maidenhead. They worried about each other.

  But that was life and you just had to get on with it. With di Falco driving, she had used the journey time to phone the people she wanted to see. She had also looked up some of them, as well as Farquhar Knox, in Who’s Who online. She learned that Knox had been a QC for five years. Educated at Stirling High School and Edinburgh University, he had married Lady Eloise Charlotte Buchan, third daughter of the Duke of Lochgilphead. They had one son, aged fourteen. Knox had been a member of the New Club and The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers.

  ‘I think that’s Muirfield,’ di Falco said.

  That did not surprise her. She disapproved of single-sex clubs, and Knox had been a chauvinist. She had expected his origins to have been grander. He spoke with barely a trace of a Scottish accent and she assumed that he had attended an expensive public school. He had clearly married several social notches above himself. As she heaved herself out of the car and negotiated the deep, sloping gutter, unchanged o
ver the centuries, Flick told herself that the duke’s daughter they were about to see was an ordinary woman, just like her.

  A man with tousled fair hair wearing slacks and a checked shirt opened the door as Flick debated whether to ring twice. He identified himself as Reginald Buchan, Mrs Knox’s brother. With an air of reluctance, he led them through an imposing hallway presided over by a glass-eyed stag’s head mounted on the wall facing the stairs and into a spacious drawing room at the back of the building. Looking down his nose, he told the detectives he would find out if Mrs Knox could see them.

  ‘We’ll have to speak to her sooner or later,’ Flick said, sitting uninvited in an upright chair with her back to the window.

  The room had a high ceiling with an intricate cornice. The wall facing the window was curved, forming a perfect bow. The furniture was either well-preserved antique or repro. A flame-effect gas fire sat in the substantial fireplace while on the mantelpiece various invitations with italic printing were propped behind pieces of cranberry glass. While they waited, di Falco prowled round, inspecting the silver-framed photos. Many were black and white, featuring a grim-looking stone mansion surrounded by pine trees with different people posing in front of it. There was a coloured photo of Knox looking pleased with himself beside a dead stag and another of him, equally self-satisfied, wearing a QC’s full-bottomed wig. In pride of place on a long bookcase filled with hardback books stood a photo larger than the rest. The background was unmistakably Highland and a tweed-clad Knox posed with a woman wearing the same blue-dyed tweed. She had a thin, sharp face and shoulder-length blonde hair. In front of them stood a serious-looking boy of about thirteen with crinkly, dark hair and a triumphant expression. One hand held a rifle and the other held the antlers of another stag. The boy was half-turned towards Knox as if seeking approval, so the stag’s head pointed lopsidedly towards the camera. Di Falco was appalled that the act of killing an animal could give so much pleasure and wondered if the stag’s head in the hall appeared in either of the photos.