Murder in Court Three Page 7

  ‘That is a very impertinent question.’

  ‘As I just said, this is a murder inquiry. We have witnesses who saw you talking to him in a confidential manner and one who saw you heading for Court Three, which you probably entered using the judge’s door. There is also evidence that soon afterwards you went to the Ladies, looking flushed. Scientific evidence has been obtained and it would be conclusive if your DNA were to be found among the stains that will be examined. If we need to, we will easily get a warrant to obtain a sample from you. It really would be in your best interests to cooperate. I should also say that we are Fife officers. Your husband will not have access to this inquiry.’

  As Flick spoke, her tone measured, Lynda Traynor’s expression changed from defiant to thoughtful. For some time she did not speak then sat up straight and spoke directly. ‘That is all very interesting, but the ifs and probablys tell me you don’t have evidence to back your theories. I’m not going to say more because my private life is none of your damn business. But I did not kill Farquhar Knox and I do not believe my husband did, either. I saw nothing suspicious and I have no idea who did kill him.’

  ‘What were you wearing that night?’

  ‘A long dress. It was black.’

  ‘And figure-hugging?’

  ‘Yes. With a slit up one side.’ She did not conceal her impatience.

  ‘And how did you wear your hair?’

  ‘As it is now.’

  Flick could see how she would have caught the eye of most men at the function. ‘What did you do between the end of the meal and the start of the dancing?’

  ‘This and that. I talked to some people. Probably went to the Ladies.’

  ‘Did you talk to Farquhar Knox?’

  ‘I believe I did. Just after dinner. Then we both went to speak to other people.’

  ‘Did you see him after that?’

  Mrs Traynor screwed up her face as if in thought. ‘I really can’t remember,’ she said.

  ‘When did you next see your husband after dinner?’ Flick asked.

  ‘The dancing had started. They were doing that silly one where they go round the floor in threes.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Fine. A bit drunk maybe.’

  ‘Did he seem angry?’

  She thought for a moment then said quietly, ‘He said that if he saw that cunt Knox he’d punch his lights out. I coaxed him into the library. He had bought a bottle of wine and I sat with him in a far corner. We left a bit early. I kept a look-out for Farquhar but didn’t see him.’

  ‘Did you and your husband argue that night?’

  ‘Yes. If you must know, he kept saying I’d crossed a boundary.’ There was no hint of guilt in the way she spoke.

  ‘So he believed you’d had sex with Mr Knox?’

  ‘He must have. I actually denied it.’

  ‘So he was with you from the time of the dance they do in threes, the something Sergeant I think they call it?’

  ‘Dashing White Sergeant, boss,’ di Falco interjected as Mrs Traynor nodded.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Mr Knox dead?’

  ‘No. And my husband cares too much about his career to commit a crime of passion. It wouldn’t be his thing.’ Her voice dripped with contempt.

  ‘And have you subsequently told him that you did have sex with Mr Knox?’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly, Inspector. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Are you prepared to give us a sample of your DNA? The fewer times we have to call the better, I would have thought. Fingerprints, too, for elimination purposes.’

  ‘Come back once you have a warrant. If you manage to get one. Now if that is all …’

  As di Falco made to move, Flick sat still. She longed to dent the confidence of this spoiled, self-centred creature. She leaned forward and stared silently until Mrs Traynor met her gaze. ‘I do intend to find out who killed Mr Knox, no matter how long it takes. Until I do, the shadow of suspicion will be on you and, more importantly, your husband. The longer that shadow exists, the worse the damage to your husband’s career, which has already suffered because of you. You probably don’t care much about that, but the less he has to lose, the less we bother about the impact of our inquiries on you. If you had sex with Mr Knox in Court Three and left him alive, it would be in everyone’s interests if you told us what you can. Please reconsider.’

  Mrs Traynor began to shake her head before Flick had finished. ‘You’re all so predictable. Now get out.’ She rose and led the way to the front door.

  As the door slammed shut, the officers made their way to the car, Flick trying to conceal her fury.

  ‘I wonder what the atmosphere in that house is like. Do they have children, boss?’ di Falco asked as they exited the driveway.

  ‘One, a boy born four months after the wedding. He’ll be fourteen now.’

  ‘There wasn’t much evidence of him around the house. I didn’t even see a photograph.’

  ‘I saw in the file that he’s at some fancy boarding school. Her family has money.’

  ‘I wonder what their sex life is like.’

  Flick glanced at him, wrinkled her nose then smiled. ‘Non-existent or bizarre, I would have thought. Better not go there.’

  8

  The spell of good weather continued to make Edinburgh untypically warm. ‘Too hot’ was a phrase on many citizens’ lips. It made Baggo think nostalgically of Mumbai. Only Edinburgh was far less crowded than either Mumbai or London. He appreciated the space. As he headed for the Canny Man’s along grey streets strewn with short-lived blossom he felt alive and stimulated. This was a city he had imagined as being permanently cold, lashed by winds off the North Sea. In the balmy evening air it lived up to its claim to be the Athens of the North. The weather had taken him by surprise. That week he had bought long-sleeved summer shirts and trousers and wished he had a Fedora or Panama hat so he could strut about like a gentleman. He pulled the visor of his golf cap down. The lower part of his face was still regrettably brown after the golf.

  But this was a stimulating investigation. He had enjoyed meeting the Lord Provost. The physically unimposing, soft-spoken little man, well into his sixties, had beamed when Baggo had told him how much he was enjoying his stay. But he had not been able to help the investigation. On Friday he had not sat next to either of the Traynors and remembered nothing of their movements, while his wife, who had sat next to Graeme Traynor and discussed roses with him, had forgotten her distance glasses and observed nothing.

  ‘Sorry!’ a man shouted from behind a hedge as Baggo caught the spray of a misdirected garden hose.

  ‘Do not worry,’ Baggo replied, hoping the stain down one leg of his cream chinos would dry before he reached the pub.

  Cutting his pace, he replayed the phone conversation with Flick as she drove back to Fife. After describing her own day, she had told him about Wallace and McKellar’s interview with the Secretary of State, a man with a reputation for womanising. A political advisor and two civil servants present, he had denied any recollection of the Traynors on Friday night, despite being seated between Lynda Traynor and the Lord Provost’s wife. ‘If he’d been an ordinary punter they’d have jogged his memory at a police station,’ Flick had commented. The politician’s wife had been no more helpful.

  ‘Are you going to question the Chief Superintendent?’ Baggo had asked.

  ‘Not yet. Spider Gilsland hasn’t found anything helpful on the CCTV but I want to have a good look at it. Also, I got Knox’s laptop and mobile from Fettes and I’ll give them to Spider when I get to Cupar. Dr MacGregor took the arrow out at the PM and the lab has had it since this morning. I’m still waiting to hear if there are any fingerprints on it. The Edinburgh SOCOs took some prints from the court and I have them with me. We won’t get any comparisons till tomorrow. We don’t have enough to arrest Traynor, but if I interview him I’d have to treat him as a suspect. He’d have to be suspended and the news would spread like wildfire. I’
m going to talk to the DCC before I take that step.’

  They agreed that there was no point in Baggo attending the briefing in Cupar the next morning. He would stay in Edinburgh and continue his inquiries there.

  It was just after nine when Baggo found the door of the Canny Man’s. A brass plate beside it forbade credit cards, cameras, mobile phones and backpackers. It did not look like his sort of place. He was relieved he had taken out cash recently. As neither policemen nor Indians were banned, he shoved his cap in his pocket, checked his phone was on silent and pushed open the swing doors. The interior was beyond quirky. A profusion of clocks, jugs, stuffed birds and animals, old photographs and paintings decorated the place. A mannequin in a faded sequin dress was suspended from the ceiling above copper-topped tables. Beside a row of Champagne magnums the gantry held a stupendous collection of spirit bottles, mostly whisky, a mirror at the back making it appear even more extensive.

  ‘Hi, there!’ As Baggo peered round Melanie broke away from one of the younger groups of drinkers and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She wore jeans and a tee shirt with a low neckline.

  ‘This is Baggo,’ she said to her group. ‘What do you want to drink, Baggo?’ she asked.

  ‘A pint, please, real ale if they have it,’

  ‘And a pint of real ale,’ she shouted to a man at the bar. ‘Good timing, mate!’

  None of the group asked what he did. Articulate, quick-witted and sparky, they continued their conversation. They all seemed to be lawyers. When they began to talk about the murder Baggo learned nothing he did not know, but it was clear that the police were barely ahead of common gossip.

  After half an hour, muttering something about the Appeal Court, a woman got up to go. The rest drifted out after her, refusing Baggo’s offer of a drink. When only he and Melanie were left, she moved to an alcove with room for two only and asked for a pint of IPA.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, sipping the rich, brown beer appreciatively, ‘tell me about yourself.’

  So he did. She listened intently as he described his childhood in Mumbai, his move to England as a teenager and some of the difficulties he had encountered, despite his father being an eminent urologist.

  ‘Why a policeman?’ she asked.

  ‘I loved cop shows and detective stories.’ He looked round the walls of the alcove which, papered with sheet music and varnished, had turned a yellow-brown colour. ‘I read all the Rebus books and expected Edinburgh to be gritty and cold. But it is warm and civilised.’

  ‘Not all the time,’ she countered. ‘Let me get you one, then I must go.’

  ‘What about you?’ he asked when she returned.

  ‘Very boring, I’m afraid. I was brought up in Morningside, went to school here, George Watson’s, then Edinburgh University and followed my dad into the law. I still live in Morningside and my folks are five minutes away.’ She pulled a face.

  ‘You are very lucky. It is good to be comfortable in a place, and I do not find you at all boring.’

  Her face lit up. ‘Comfortable is good if it’s not boring. And Edinburgh has lots of culture and history.’

  ‘You are right there. So your father was a lawyer?’

  ‘Dad was at the bar. He always wants to know what firms are instructing me, and gets quite pissed off if the firms that used to instruct him thirty years ago don’t send work to me. Now he’s a sheriff in Airdrie. Sheriffs are judges, you know. I hope he’ll retire soon and go off and play lots of golf, but he says he still wants the buzz of work. Mum says she won’t know what to do with him if he’s around all day. Sorry, I’m gabbling.’

  Baggo reached across the table and put a hand on hers. ‘You gabble beautifully,’ he said then added, ‘Sorry, that’s pure Bollywood.’ They both laughed and she blushed a little.

  ‘So how’s the inquiry going?’ she asked.

  ‘Frankly, we’re not much ahead of the gossip, but please keep that under your hat. I expect we will get a breakthrough soon. Patient work generally pays off.’ He wished he meant what he said. ‘We are going round all those at the function on Friday night. It is a huge task.’

  ‘Well I saw nothing that would help.’

  ‘But you were not there.’ He had checked the lists, looking for her name.

  ‘Oh yes I was. Angie Jack, the first woman to leave this evening, had a migraine. I was at a loose end and took her ticket.’

  She grinned sheepishly. ‘I got truly smashed. The next morning I was calling God on the big, white phone. Not good. So you can write “too pissed to notice” opposite my name on your spread-sheet.’

  Baggo looked into her twinkling eyes. There was an electricity between them which he was sure she also felt.

  She drained her glass. ‘Time to go,’ she said.

  Outside, the long Scottish summer twilight had faded and the streetlamps were lit. They were heading in the same direction. After about a quarter of a mile Melanie turned down a wide street and Baggo walked her to the outer door of her tenement, hovering as she found her keys.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said quickly then turned the lock and slipped inside. The heavy door swung back and gave a loud click as it shut.

  As he walked back to Newington, initial disappointment gave way to quiet optimism. ‘Patient work generally pays off,’ he repeated to himself.

  9

  ‘A lot of serious assaults are committed by people who wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ Fergus said as he stirred the scrambled eggs. ‘They take it so long then explode.’ He pulled several rashers of bacon from the grill, arranged them on plates and served the eggs. ‘Eat up,’ he commanded.

  Flick smiled wanly. Her appetite was poor and the quantity of food on her plate was putting her off. ‘You mean Traynor suddenly had enough?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I need something more to go on. There isn’t the evidence to arrest him at the moment and he’s too smart to incriminate himself if I ever do get to interview him.’

  ‘What about Mrs Knox? She seemed a bit …’ the phone interrupted him. He answered then passed over the receiver. ‘The DCC,’ he mouthed.

  Flick’s greeting was cut short. ‘Have you seen Good News this morning?’ the DCC’s voice was an octave higher than the last time they had spoken.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s all blown open. Knox and Mrs Traynor, how he died, the lot. They’re saying Traynor should be suspended and even offering a reward, twenty thousand pounds, for anyone who brings them evidence that directly results in a conviction. They say they’ll pass everything they get to us immediately, meaning as soon as they’ve used it as a scoop. They practically accuse us of protecting our own and looking to pin the murder on someone connected to the fraud trial. They’ve even hired some retired cop from London to advise their readers about what should be happening. Some buffoon called Osborne. He seems to know you.’

  Flick’s heart sank. Inspector Noel Osborne, known as Inspector No, had been the bane of her life when she had been his sergeant in Wimbledon. Lucky not to have ended up in jail beside the criminals he had framed, and even luckier to have retired with an intact pension, he had gone to Spain but had not sunk quietly into Rioja-sodden Andalucian obscurity. He neglected no opportunity to make money or boast about cleaning up the East End and now he was about to make Flick’s life even more difficult.

  ‘What does he say?’ Flick asked shakily.

  ‘Let’s see. Yes. “My protégé is a good girl, no doubt, but it’s as obvious as the nose on your face: you can’t hatch babies and catch villains at one and the same time. I had no pregnant women on my team when I cleaned up the East End.” Inspector Fortune, you don’t need me to tell you how bad this is. I want to know where they got their information, how the inquiry is going and what you plan to do next. Work on that and come to see me at noon today. Right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And Inspector, not one word to the press without my say-so.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ The DCC had a
lready ended the call.

  Good News was a comparatively new morning paper dedicated, it boasted, to delivering positive news and campaigning journalism. After an encouraging start, circulation figures had declined and it was trying to regain public interest with publicity stunts. Good news was now only a title.

  Unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls, Flick emptied her plate onto Fergus’s and told him what had happened. As she spoke, her voice caught. Fergus put his arm round her and led her into the sitting room where they sat hugging each other on the sofa. At length Flick got up to wash her face in the cloakroom. As she stared at her red-eyed reflection her anger grew. She stormed back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll give him protégé,’ she fumed. She cast her mind back to her visit to The Verdict and the thin young man with acne who had barged past her. Then she phoned Baggo.

  * * *

  His bacon and eggs finished, Baggo was savouring home-made marmalade on brown toast when Flick called. The other residents had not yet appeared for breakfast so he was comfortable speaking on his mobile. He listened carefully, said little and arranged to meet di Falco in Dublin Street as soon after nine as his colleague could make it from Fife. Then he buttered another slice of toast and poured more coffee.

  An hour and a half later the two officers were standing at a corner, waiting. In front of them sat an elderly Jaguar, its age concealed by a personalised number plate. A call to the police national computer had confirmed that the car was registered to Percy Oliphant. It was carelessly parked in a residents’ bay so that it protruded some six inches onto a double yellow line. Remembering what Flick had said about Oliphant’s drinking the previous day, Baggo asked himself if he should call the traffic cops.

  Before he had made up his mind, at twenty past nine Oliphant stepped out of his doorway and started to walk up the hill towards Parliament House. Baggo and di Falco blocked his path. After giving their names and showing their warrants Baggo said he wanted a word.