Murder in Court Three Page 8

‘I’m in a hurry,’ Oliphant said in a superior tone, the stale alcohol on his breath only partially masked by a pungent after-shave.

  Baggo moved closer, sniffing ostentatiously. Di Falco stood beside him.

  ‘We believe you have been speaking to the press, Mr Oliphant?’

  ‘Journalists should not reveal their sources.’

  ‘Some do, eventually. I repeat, we believe you have been speaking to the press.’

  ‘What if I have been?’

  ‘Oh, it is a free country, no doubt, but you did tell my colleague Inspector Fortune that your lips would be sealed, and from what Mr Pete Bothwell wrote in Good News this morning it would appear that you may not have kept your promise.’

  With a supercilious smile that made di Falco clench his fist, Oliphant replied smoothly, ‘I never said anything about texting. And it’s not a crime to embarrass the police. Actually, it’s rather good sport.’

  Baggo kept a poker face. ‘But it is a crime to obstruct or hinder the police in the execution of their duty, and publishing details of a case, making assumptions on the basis of inadequate evidence, can often obstruct or hinder us.’ Oliphant raised his eyebrows but did not respond. ‘So this is a warning: do not give details of the Knox murder case to the press. Should you do so again and if it does hamper the investigation, we will charge you. I hope you understand.’

  Oliphant curled his lip. ‘Are you finished?’

  Baggo and di Falco stood aside. ‘I mean it,’ Baggo said as the advocate strode off to court.

  ‘I didn’t know the journalist had named him as the source,’ di Falco said.

  ‘He didn’t. The inspector worked it out. But there’s no harm in sowing a little distrust there. Lawyers are not the only ones who can play games with words.’

  ‘Do you think he got the message?’

  ‘I believe so. Now we should try to catch Mr Maltravers before he goes into court.’

  They had not gone far when they saw a traffic warden. ‘There’s a Jaguar with a personalised number partly on a double yellow line in Dublin Street,’ Baggo told her.

  ‘That was mean, but I like it,’ di Falco said.

  ‘My old boss, Inspector No, would have gone much further. If he knew the man had been drinking, he would have pointed out the parking problem to him, but only after he had called the traffic cops and had them waiting round a corner. As soon as the man started to re-park his car No would buzz the traffic cops who would breathalyse and arrest another drunk driver. We would have caught Oliphant with that trick this morning.’

  ‘You thought about it, didn’t you, Sarge?’

  ‘Of course I did, but I am just a kitten.’

  Di Falco gave him a funny look. He didn’t know that Baggo had been afraid that Melanie might hear of it, and strongly disapprove.

  * * *

  Gideon Maltravers was standing outside the court building in the Lawnmarket, his mobile clamped to his ear. Baggo and di Falco waited until he had ended his call before approaching him. Tall, saturnine and stylishly dressed in a beige suit, the planning consultant was not pleased to see them. ‘I’m trying to run my practice,’ he snapped.

  ‘You will have to speak to us eventually,’ Baggo told him. ‘This will not take long and then we should be able to leave you in peace.’

  ‘According to the press, you’ll try and pin a murder on me.’

  ‘That is nonsense, Mr Maltravers, and I am sure you know it. Of course, when someone is reluctant to speak to us we ask ourselves why? I am sorry to bother you, and I know things must be very difficult for you at the moment, but we simply want to know about your movements last Friday between dinner finishing and eleven pm.’

  Baggo’s conciliatory tone worked. ‘Well I suppose that’s easy. I sat at the table till we were told to move. Then I went outside for a smoke. Then I went for a pee. Then I watched the archery. I hate dancing and fortunately most of the people at Hamish Harris’s table did too so we found a quiet corner of the library where we settled with a couple of good bottles.’

  ‘Did you go straight to the library after the archery?’

  ‘We mingled for a bit, something I wasn’t keen on. I had seen Knox earlier and didn’t fancy having to meet him. Hamish was at the bar buying the wine and that took some time. Perhaps I did have another cigarette. Yes, I believe I did. Actually I think I had two.’

  ‘Please think carefully. We will check what you say against the CCTV and it should be easy to pick you out because of your height.’

  ‘And I was one of the very few in a white tuxedo. Of course the waiters wore white as well. One or two of them sneaked out for a fag. Nicotine addiction is a great leveller. Yes, I definitely did go for a couple more fags before the dancing started. I remember giving one of the waiters a light and I asked him if the band was ready. He said no and I had another one.’ His face twitched and Baggo saw the strain he was under. ‘This is a bugger, you know,’ he spat out suddenly. ‘I didn’t want to go on Friday, but it was good of Hamish to stand by me. You know, all evening I could feel people’s eyes following me as if I was a leper.’

  ‘And after your cigarettes, what did you do?’

  ‘As I said, I met up with the rest of Hamish’s table. They were waiting for me, actually. Hamish had got the wine and we made a bee-line for the library before anyone asked us to dance.’

  ‘Did you go with anyone?’ Baggo asked.

  He snorted. ‘No. I don’t have anyone at the moment. When this blew up I did, but …’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘One more question: what was Mr Knox doing when you saw him?’

  ‘Talking to someone. It was just before the archery. He spotted me, registered surprise then stared right through me. I didn’t catch anything that was said.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Baggo asked his colleague. Di Falco shook his head and Baggo thanked Maltravers for his time.

  ‘It is no joke facing trial in the High Court,’ Baggo mused. ‘To us putting people on trial is a process, part of the job, but for the individual concerned it is life-changing. Guilty or innocent.’ He glanced towards Maltravers who was back on his phone, fitting in another call before his trial resumed.

  * * *

  ‘There used to be a brothel a few doors along,’ Molly Bertram informed Baggo and di Falco. ‘It was quite famous and when an American aircraft carrier docked in Leith the queue ran along the street and round the corner. They had to bus in extra girls from Glasgow.’

  They were sitting in the front room of the Bertrams’ ground floor and basement flat in Danube Street. Down the hill from the more exclusive India Street, it was dark and cobbled and oozed middle class respectability.

  Warming to her theme, and responding to the officers’ grins rather than her husband’s half-hearted frown, she went on to describe how the madam frequently appeared before the courts and used these occasions for free publicity, titillating journalists with quotes about how busy she always was the week the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland met.

  Molly and Rab Bertram were in their early thirties, Baggo judged. They were friendly and she was definitely vivacious. Both casually dressed, she was at pains to explain her husband’s unshaven face, tee shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. ‘Rab had a big case which settled at the last minute so he’s staying at home to catch up on his written work.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Pleadings, opinions and so forth – great fun.’ He picked up a child’s plastic telephone and began to fiddle with the buttons.

  ‘I believe on Friday you were at the same table as the late Mr Knox?’ Baggo asked.

  Instantly serious, he replied, ‘Yes. He was my devil-master, meaning I was his pupil. The Cuthberts organised the table.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Mr Knox?’

  ‘Generally?’ He looked at the ceiling as if for guidance. ‘He was very clever, very intuitive, in court anyway. He had a lot of energy, didn’t suffer fools. Praise from him really meant something. He had an eye for the ladies, but I susp
ect you know that.’

  ‘Not just an eye,’ Molly interjected.

  ‘How would you describe their marriage?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘They clung to it, but not to each other, I think,’ Molly said.

  ‘How well did you know Mrs Knox?’

  ‘Not well,’ they said in unison.

  Di Falco carried on, ‘Did either of you see Mrs Knox during the archery?’

  Rab shook his head. Molly said, ‘Yes. We chatted about shooting. Or rather she did.’

  ‘Did you see someone else and go and talk to them?’

  She laughed. ‘Is that what she told you? She’s the world’s worst for looking over your shoulder when you’re speaking to her. She may tell you she likes to be called Mrs Knox, but she needs you to know she’s really a Lady. For some reason that evening she was quite dismissive about bows and arrows and went on about properly lethal firearms. Ironic, really. Anyway, after she’d told me what a brilliant shot her son was, she spotted someone more important and moved on.’

  ‘Do you know if she’s very friendly with a judge, Lord Hutton?’ di Falco asked.

  Rab clapped his hands gleefully. ‘That would be a cracker! Of course, ‘Orrible ’Utton’s her neighbour. I haven’t heard anything about that. Have you, darling?’

  She shook her head. ‘But it would fit. She’s a dreadful snob and loves a handle. Tell them about the basement. Go on.’

  He appeared genuinely cross. ‘It’s not relevant.’

  ‘In which case they’ll forget it. But it’s good background.’

  ‘Background is always helpful,’ Baggo said encouragingly.

  ‘Well when I was devilling, Eloise liked me to go down the steps to the basement door when I visited the house. She and Farquhar could tell it was me as the basement bell sounded different from the main door bell, but really she didn’t want a scruff coming to her front door. Unless I’m dressed for work I don’t really bother.’

  ‘I am the same,’ Baggo said. He went on to ask the important question, ‘Did either of you see Mr or Mrs Knox between the end of the archery and the start of the dancing?’

  They looked at each other thoughtfully then in unison said ‘No’.

  ‘Did either of you see Mr Knox with a woman in a long, black dress?’

  Rab replied, ‘We both saw him with a lady we believe is Mrs Traynor. They were talking earnestly immediately after dinner. Then you saw Mrs T in the Ladies, didn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Yes. This woman in a long, sexy, black dress came in as I was about to leave. She had blonde hair, which was a bit dishevelled and she was flushed, but trying to act cool. She started talking about the band taking an age, which was nonsense. I thought at first she might have been drunk, but she didn’t smell of drink. That would have been between half past ten and quarter to eleven, but of course I wasn’t watching the clock.’

  ‘Tell them what you said to me, Molly,’ Rab said.

  She coloured slightly. ‘I said to Rab, “If that’s Mrs Traynor, I bet she’s just shagged Night.” Sometimes we called Farquhar Night.’

  ‘So we’ve heard,’ di Falco said. ‘How did Eloise Knox behave during the rest of the evening?’

  Molly said, ‘She did the Dashing White Sergeant with the Cuthberts then spent almost all the time in the library with me and Jen Cuthbert. You could tell she was furious with Farquhar, but she didn’t go searching for him. She kept asking Rab if he’d seen his devil-master.’

  ‘As if I was responsible for him in some way. I looked about for him but it became pretty clear he’d done a bunk. He sometimes did, you know. Eventually Kenny and Jen took her home.’

  ‘Did you see the Traynors later on?’ Baggo asked.

  Rab said, ‘I spotted them at the far end of the library when I was trying to find Farquhar. At least it was Traynor plus the woman in the black dress we’d seen earlier. It was just the two of them and a bottle of wine. They didn’t look happy. A bit before midnight they passed near us, on their way out, I suspect.’

  Molly cut in, ‘They looked as if they’d been arguing and Eloise glared at her.’

  Baggo asked, ‘Can you think of any woman other than Mrs Traynor with whom Mr Knox might have gone to Court Three to have sex?’

  They both shook their heads.

  Baggo asked, ‘Do you remember anything, however trivial, that Mr Knox said during the evening about the fraud trial?’

  Molly shook her head. ‘And I was beside him at dinner. He always seemed to arrange that. He was going on about the Archers. Actually he was very funny. He could be, you know, if he was in the mood.’

  ‘Was he in a good mood during the meal?’

  ‘Oh yes, no doubt anticipating his tryst with Mrs Traynor. It was a bit embarrassing when he sang the Robin Hood song when the head Archer passed the table. Funny too, though.’ She giggled.

  Rab said, ‘He did say something to me before the meal when we were having drinks. He said during the trial he was in he’d been re-visiting – that was the word he used – the sort of grass you could grow in different types of soil. Six years ago, before he took silk, I was devilling to him and he was involved in a massive planning inquiry about a golf course near Montrose, Culrathie it was called. There was lots of evidence about grasses and soil types and we had to become quite knowledgeable about them – birds’ nesting habits and so on. That’s one of the odd things about the bar, you occasionally have to learn an awful lot about stuff you’d never expect to know about.

  ‘It’s odd you should mention Henry Hutton. He was our senior in that inquiry. There’s nothing like a big planning inquiry for boosting your income at the bar. One night Hutton got pissed and told us he intended to paper his study with twenty-pound notes after that one.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ Baggo said as di Falco took a note.

  There was nothing else. The officers thanked the Bertrams and left. As they drove away, passing drab net curtains and colourful window boxes, di Falco said, ‘I wonder which house was the brothel?’

  * * *

  Kenny and Jen Cuthbert lived in the Murrayfield area of the city, an easy walk to the rugby stadium. Their house was like many: part of a grey stone terrace three storeys high with a small front garden, which was trim and colourful. Baggo and di Falco had to wait before the bell was answered. Locks clicked then an anxious-looking woman opened the heavy front door a fraction.

  Baggo put on his warmest smile. ‘Mrs Cuthbert?’ She nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and Detective Constable di Falco. May we come in, please?’

  Mrs Cuthbert almost sniffed their warrants as she examined them. She peered up and down the street then stood aside for them. ‘You’ll guess why I’m nervous,’ she said.

  ‘May we sit down and discuss this?’ Baggo said, wondering what had scared this middle-aged, middle-class woman who was married to a QC.

  She took care to lock the door then, scurrying like a mouse, led them into a sitting room which was north-facing and dark. It had a high ceiling, an attractive cornice and a dado rail. The sofa on which both officers sat although comfortable, was not new and covered in chintz whose colours clashed with the rich red of the large Oriental rug covering half of the polished wooden floor. An eclectic collection of paintings, most done in oil or acrylic, made Baggo think of a badly curated art gallery.

  ‘We are here to investigate the murder of Farquhar Knox,’ he said. ‘But please tell us why you are nervous.’

  ‘The threats, of course.’ She pursed her lips. She was a small, wiry woman, barely five feet tall, with short, jet-black hair and dark, wandering eyes. Her irregular eyebrows looked as if they had been painted on during a mild earthquake. Her blue trousers were tailored but the matching blouse looked a size too big.

  ‘Please tell us,’ he said gently.

  ‘You know my husband is defending Harry Nugent?’

  Puzzled, Baggo smiled vaguely. Di Falco cut in, ‘Yes, of course, in Glasgow. The assisted suicide case.’

  Mrs C
uthbert clearly expected Baggo to be aware of this. He nodded gravely and hoped di Falco would keep going.

  The younger man paused then took the hint. ‘What about the threats?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s these damned right-to-lifers,’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘My husband’s been getting letters. There were two last week and I wanted him to report it then but he didn’t. And there was one yesterday. It was the worst and it had been posted after the murder, so I insisted. You probably know my husband’s tall and dark-haired, like Farquhar Knox. Do you think they meant to murder him and killed Farquhar by mistake?’ Her face crumpled as she held back tears.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ di Falco said, ‘but do you have the letters?’

  ‘My husband took them to Glasgow to show the police there.’

  ‘When was Knox’s identity revealed publicly?’ Baggo asked di Falco.

  ‘Mid-day or early afternoon on Saturday, I think, but the internet will have got it earlier.’

  ‘We were phoned with the news on Saturday during breakfast,’ Mrs Cuthbert said. ‘News travels round the bar like wildfire.’

  ‘We’ll certainly look into this,’ Baggo said. ‘We’ll take fingerprints from you and your husband for elimination purposes. You can find prints on paper and that would be excellent evidence.’

  ‘He didn’t open the third letter till he returned home last night. He was all set to laugh the whole thing off. But I’m left here alone and it’s not funny.’ Her voice caught again. After a couple of deep breaths she stared at the floor and spoke slowly at first, increasing in speed and decibels as she warmed to her theme. ‘Bar wives have a reputation of being status-conscious and unfriendly. But we have to keep the show on the road; appear well-off when there’s no money; cover up drunkenness; nurse a sick child when your husband’s every waking hour is spent on his practice; boost confidence after a mauling in court; keep his feet on the ground after a triumph. What is it Kipling said about triumph and disaster? It should be carved on every bar wife’s heart. Oh, and you must be stoical if your family is threatened.’ After that bitter, hysterical outburst, she glared at the officers.