Murder in Court Three Page 6

  ‘Did you ever leave the area where the party was? Did you explore any corridors?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘It’s unusual for an accused person to be at the same social function as someone who is prosecuting them during the trial. Why did you go to this one?’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘Not only is my husband presumed innocent. He is innocent. He is a member of the Royal Company of Archers and he is absolutely right to hold his head up and go about as if nothing has happened. I think I’ve answered your questions, and now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Abruptly, she went over to stand beside her husband who was talking to Wallace and McKellar. The solicitor hovered nearby, glowering.

  Baggo moved closer.

  Smail was saying, ‘… so I stayed at the table talking to John Primrose till they came to clear it. I finished my wine, went for a pee, chatted to one or two people, then watched the archery with my wife.’ He talked in a curious, staccato way. Baggo thought he belonged on a parade ground or in kennels.

  ‘What did you do after that?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘I believe I bought a drink. Yes. And one for John Primrose. It was a bit of a scrum. Not enough people serving.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I drank it, of course.’

  ‘With?’

  ‘John Primrose.’ He spoke as if the question was stupid. He moved towards Wallace so their faces were inches apart. ‘This nonsense,’ he paused to gesture towards the courtroom door, ‘has shown me who my friends are, Sergeant. John Primrose has been an absolute brick.’ He continued to invade Wallace’s space as if defying him to contradict him. ‘When the dancing started my wife got us up for the Dashing White Sergeant.’ She reached for his hand.

  Wallace asked, ‘Did you leave the dancing area at any time after that, Mr Smail?’

  ‘Of course I did, when we went home. I went for a pee later on and I bought some more drinks. The rest of the time we were dancing or sitting on one of these odd benches they have down the sides of the hall.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anything that might help us find out who killed Mr Knox?’

  ‘No, and I probably wouldn’t tell you if I had.’

  Baggo saw his wife squeeze his hand and frown at him. He shook her off and she suppressed a twitch that was almost a recoil.

  Smail barked, ‘Come on, Nicola. We’re off for lunch. I’ve had enough of these damn fool questions.’ He turned on his heel and strode towards the exit, his wife following. Head down, a bulky file under one arm, the solicitor slunk after them like a sheep-dog trying to control unruly sheep.

  ‘Smail’s pretty forceful,’ Wallace said.

  ‘And he has a temper,’ McKellar growled. ‘In St Andrews he has a reputation for lifting his hands. But no one speaks up against him so his record’s clean.’ The St Andrews bobby shifted from foot to foot, still uncomfortable in civilian clothes.

  ‘But lunch is a good idea,’ Wallace said. ‘Coming, Baggo?’

  ‘Thank you but no. I am staying in an excellent B and B run by a retired chef. He serves the best breakfast in Edinburgh and I do not want to burst out of my trousers.’

  ‘No one would want that to happen,’ Wallace laughed and he led McKellar out of the building.

  The B and B in the Newington area of town was run by a retired chef who believed in sending out his guests well fed in the morning, but Baggo’s priority was to speak to Melanie on her return to court. He found a seat in the foyer and checked his mobile. He found a text from his boss in London confirming his assignment to the murder inquiry and instructing him to make an arrest and get back as soon as possible.

  ‘Melanie!’ he exclaimed as, in wig and gown, she approached from an unexpected angle.

  ‘What is it?’ she sounded distracted.

  ‘Do you fancy meeting for a drink tonight?’

  ‘What?’ She paused, looking perplexed. ‘Well, yes, I could, I suppose. I’ll be at the Canny Man’s at nine. Must fly.’ Her gown swishing behind her, she hurried into court.

  ‘Great, see you there,’ he enthused as the door swung behind her.

  He decided that he might as well wait inside the courtroom and resumed his unpadded seat near the dock. He took out his notebook and pretended to study it. At counsel’s table, Melanie was busy with genuine work. Her lips pursed, one hand turning a page then playing with a curl of her wig just above her ear. Her pen poised then suddenly active, she was a picture of concentration. His anticipation of the evening grew as he watched her. He brought out his mobile and Googled the Canny Man’s. It turned out to be an unusual pub in Morningside, like Newington on the south side of the city. Interesting. What would she drink? Wine, probably. Or would she be one of those girls who like to play men at their own game and drink pints? He had developed a taste for heavy Scottish beer. He found himself licking his lips.

  When court resumed, it was the turn of Lachlan Smail to give evidence on his own behalf. His counsel was a man with a large gut, a loud voice and strangled vowels. Smail kept his answers short, always a good idea, but not if it gave an impression of aggressive snappiness. From the expressions on their faces, many of the jury did not take to Smail.

  Smail himself appeared oblivious to the impression he created. His chin jutting out, he insisted that Burns had duped him. He believed Jack Nicklaus was truly involved in building a first-class golf course on his land. He had, he said, been furious when told that Nicklaus had never been on the farm and that the pictures of him had been superimposed on images of empty fields. Baggo did not believe a word of it and wondered how Smail would fare in prison.

  When court rose, Baggo went to meet Radcliffe and Melanie for a post mortem. In the foyer he heard Maltravers refuse to speak to Wallace and McKellar. ‘I still have a planning practice to run,’ he protested.

  There was nothing for Baggo to contribute to counsel’s discussion and Radcliffe agreed that over the following days he should concentrate on the murder. After swapping mobile numbers he left them. ‘See you later,’ he whispered to Melanie. She rewarded him with a conspiratorial smile.

  The sun was shining on the Royal Mile when he emerged into daylight. He pulled on a long-visored golf cap. A Brahmin, brought up to avoid the sun, he could not understand all the fair-skinned native Brits who exposed as much as they could, turning themselves into lobsters in what seemed to Baggo to be a reversal of evolution.

  He checked his mobile and found a message from Flick.

  * * *

  ‘We’re early, but that shouldn’t matter,’ Flick said to di Falco as he pulled back the door of The Verdict pub, a short distance from Parliament House, where they were due to meet Percy Oliphant. A thin, stooped young man with acne partially hidden by uneven facial hair barged past them, causing Flick to grab di Falco’s arm.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she shouted at his back as he ran up the street. ‘Don’t worry, Billy,’ she told di Falco, who was set to chase him.

  It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the subdued light inside the pub, which was presided over by a sour-looking man leaning idly on the bar. Round the walls were murals depicting famous criminals. They were boldly painted in garish colours and stopped just short of grotesque, the names inscribed underneath in elaborate calligraphy.

  It was early for after-work drinkers and only a few lunch time patrons remained. A noisy group of students occupied a corner, one of them insisting that the first question had been unfair. Flick had a sudden flash-back to similar post-exam sessions from her days at Bristol. At the far end of the bar two men in ill-fitting suits talked confidentially. Both aimed shifty glances at Flick. She recognised the type and knew what verdict she would give them.

  Identifying Oliphant was easy. Dressed in a black jacket with a tie that looked as if someone had vomited paella over it, he sat alone in a booth, a half-empty glass of what looked like gin and tonic in front of him.

  ‘Inspector Fortune, I presume.’ He spoke in plummy tones, slightly slurred, and stared at Flick’s
bump.

  With some difficulty Flick eased herself onto the bench opposite, noting that the plastic cover was warm and a half-pint glass remained on the table, some beer undrunk. Di Falco sat beside Oliphant, hemming him in and looking with distaste at the dandruff sprinkled generously over his shoulders.

  ‘I settled my case this morning, on excellent terms, I might say. My client was most grateful, and after a celebration lunch, the rest of today must be a dies non.’ He looked for a reaction from Flick but got none. ‘I suppose you want to see me about Night?’

  ‘Night?’ she asked.

  A superior smile creased his pale, pudgy face. ‘Nox, noctis – night. Latin, you know. A play on words. Knox’s bar nickname was Night, and by Jove he lived up to it.’ His fingers caressed his glass. They were soft, small fingers with long nails. A woman’s fingers.

  ‘I want to know what you can tell me about Friday evening. I believe you were there at the function?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘I believe you saw Mr Knox after dinner?’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so?’

  Flick leaned across the table and spoke quietly. ‘You have been gossiping about seeing him with someone. If that is not true, you must tell us now. If it is true, it is your duty to give us all the information you can. I shouldn’t need to remind you that you are an officer of court. We can do this at a police office, you know.’

  His dark eyes narrowed and he exhaled audibly, the alcoholic fumes making Flick wrinkle her nose. She could tell he was quite drunk. His reluctance to cooperate and his insufferable air of intellectual superiority showed him to be one of those lawyers who instinctively dislike the police, just as some dogs loathe cats. She had come across the type before and had no time for them. It was the police who found the bodies, tackled the mad and the bad and kept society safe, while the lawyers …

  ‘I do not need to be lectured, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I required you to focus your queries on what you want to know about.’ Having tried to save face he took a deep breath. ‘Mr Knox had a reputation with the ladies. Recently there have been stories that he was having an affair with the wife of the Edinburgh Divisional Commander. When the Traynors were invited to join the top table last Friday, some of us were curious to see her. It was easy to tell her from the other women at that table.’ His lips stretched into a lecherous grin. ‘After dinner, I saw her talking confidentially with Mr Knox. She wore a particularly seductive black dress with a slit up one thigh. When the bows and arrows came out I stayed at the back of the crowd and kept an eye open. I suspected they might try something scandalous. I spotted Mr Knox, on his own, going down the main corridor leading to Court Three. I was distracted and when I looked again he had disappeared. There were no lights on once you got further down the corridor. Next thing I saw was Mrs Traynor following Mr Knox. I couldn’t see well because of the lack of light, but she disappeared about where the judge’s door of Court Three is. That was it. Mr Knox must have bribed the security staff because all courtroom doors are supposed to be locked.’

  ‘Can you be certain it was Mrs Traynor?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Did you see her face?’

  ‘Not actually in the corridor, but I’m sure it was her with her black dress and blonde hair. Who else would it be?’

  Flick ignored the question. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I went back to the archery for a bit and found Rory McIntyre. He’d been fascinated by Knox and Mrs Traynor, and I told him what I’d seen.’

  ‘Where were you when you told him?’

  ‘In the hall, where the archery was.’

  ‘Might you have been overheard?’

  ‘There were a lot of people nearby.’

  ‘Was Chief Superintendent Traynor among them?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. He might have been.’

  ‘Lachlan Smail?’

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  ‘He was in Archers’ uniform.’

  ‘There were a lot dressed like that. One or two could have heard me, I suppose.’

  ‘Gideon Maltravers?’

  ‘The planning consultant? I don’t remember seeing him close by, but he might have been.’

  ‘Mrs Nicola Smail?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know the lady.’

  ‘Did you see either Mr Knox or Mrs Traynor later?’

  ‘Not Mr Knox. I saw Mrs Traynor making her way towards the Ladies before the dancing started. I remember noticing that her face was flushed.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘How long after you believe you saw her enter the judge’s door was that?’

  ‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. I really couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘How much had you had to drink at that stage, sir?’

  Anger flashed in his dark eyes. ‘It had been a good evening, Inspector. I have no idea exactly how much I’d had, but I was well able to recognise what I saw and remember it.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone else apart from Mr McIntyre at that time?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did. It was pretty hot stuff.’

  ‘And you could have been overheard?’

  He shrugged. ‘Of course. So is the Chief Superintendent your prime suspect?’

  ‘We don’t have a prime suspect. We think the murder may have been linked to the trial Mr Knox was prosecuting.’ Flick hated to tell Oliphant anything, but the DCC’s instructions to divert attention from Traynor had been clear. ‘Please do not discuss this inquiry further, sir. It is unhelpful if too much information is made public.’

  ‘From henceforth my lips shall be sealed, Inspector. But the circumstances give rise to the question, quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’

  Flick stood up less elegantly than she would have liked and looked down on him. ‘Any complaints should be addressed to the Scottish Police Authority. We’ve come a long way since Juvenal’s day, you know.’ She paused long enough to enjoy the look of astonishment that she should know the author of the quote before marching out into the fresh air.

  ‘Has he not got the most punchable face, boss?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t stop at his face,’ she muttered.

  Appalled by what she had just said, and the look of delight on di Falco’s face, she left a message on Baggo’s voicemail asking him to interview the Lord Provost after court and a similar message on Wallace’s asking him to see the Secretary of State for Scotland.

  ‘We’re off to talk to the scarlet woman,’ she told di Falco.

  * * *

  The Traynors lived on a private road in the affluent suburb of Colinton. The police pool car, its springs knackered, bumped along the uneven surface before pulling into a well-raked gravel driveway in front of a pristine-looking two-storey snowcemmed house with red pantiles. Neatly-clipped boxwoods sat in terracotta pots on either side of a front door studded with black metal bolts designed to hint at a historical pedigree but were shiny enough to have been recently taken off a shelf at B and Q. Bordering the gravel, the sharply-edged lawn completed the impression of order and pride. This could be ‘Craigperfect’, the lovely home of the MacPerfect family, all of whom, naturally, lived ideal lives.

  ‘This place must have cost a packet,’ Flick said as Di Falco parked beside the sole discordant note, a grimy white Polo slewed at an angle to the house and carrying battle scars on its front wing.

  Flick pressed the bell button and winced at the twee chimes that announced their arrival. After a minute she rang again. ‘I wonder if she’s round the back,’ she said. Di Falco went to see and Flick stepped back to check the windows.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It was a woman’s voice with the lilt of the west coast. Her tone was not welcoming. Wearing a crumpled and faded cotton dress with fancy-looking sunglasses pushed up to sit on her shoulder-length blonde hair, her appearance and posture were too casual for her to be the lady of this house. Her smooth, lightly-tanned skin glistened with sun cream. W
hen asked however, she agreed that she was Mrs Lynda Traynor.

  When Flick told her the nature of her inquiry the woman’s face darkened. With evident reluctance, she led the way through a wood-panelled hall into a sitting room facing the back of the house, the slap of her flip-flops on the polished floor expressing her irritation. She gasped with surprise when she saw di Falco peering through a window, but pointed him towards the French door with an expression of semi-amused disdain, as if Inspector Clouseau had come calling. Without offering refreshment or inviting them to sit, she reclined on the sofa, nonchalantly pushing a cushion to the floor. It was a strange, arrogant gesture, one that dissociated her from her immaculate surroundings. Flick’s dislike for her intensified.

  ‘Well?’ said Lynda Traynor.

  Flick sat on an upright chair facing her. With almond-shaped eyes, a prominent nose and full lips, Lynda Traynor was not classically beautiful, but she had an hour-glass figure and a confidence about the way she carried herself that explained why men were attracted. Di Falco was having difficulty taking his eyes off her legs, which she had angled to give a hint of an intimate view. Flick frowned at him but he paid no heed.

  ‘As I said, we’re here to see you about the murder of Farquhar Knox,’ Flick said. ‘And we thought we should do it while your husband was not here.’

  ‘Stop right there,’ Lynda Traynor snapped. ‘Have you read my file?’ Seeing Flick’s look of astonishment, she carried on quickly. ‘Yes. I can see you have.’ She turned to stare at di Falco. ‘But you haven’t, though you’ll have heard what it says. I’m a “loose cannon”, am I not? Correct? Well, I live my life in my way and have every right to do so. I’m not going to help you. And don’t try that “we’ll do it down at the station” routine, because it won’t wash. Now excuse me but I have an appointment with a sun lounger.’

  Flick did not move. ‘Mrs Traynor, we have reason to believe you had sex with Mr Knox just before he was killed. Is that the case?’