Murder in Court Three Read online

  Taken aback, Baggo murmured, ‘That must be difficult for you.’ In a business-like tone he said, ‘We will look into it, but could I ask you to think back to Friday night?’

  She nodded, calmer after letting out her pent-up resentment.

  ‘Was there anything that happened during the dinner that might have a bearing on Mr Knox’s murder?’

  She took more deep breaths then shook her head. ‘Kenny sat near him, so that might explain how they got mixed up.’

  ‘And after dinner what happened?’

  ‘Farquhar got up. He’d adopted the detached expression he often put on when he was bored. Eloise and I chatted for a bit before they cleared the tables. I don’t remember seeing either her or Farquhar till Kenny and I did a Dashing White Sergeant with Eloise, which was after the archery. Molly Bertram and I spent most of the rest of the evening in the library with Eloise. We all got up to dance a couple of times, I think. I certainly did. I don’t remember if Eloise did, actually. The men, Kenny and Rab Bertram I mean, milled about, mostly near the bar. It became pretty clear that Farquhar had done a bunk and I could tell Eloise was furious, though she didn’t let it show too much. We took her home and Kenny saw her into the house. Of course Farquhar wasn’t there, but we assumed it was just another of his dalliances.’

  ‘Did he have many of these?’ Baggo asked.

  Her face clouded. ‘He was a rat. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he was. We all knew about that poor policeman’s tarty wife.’ She clamped her mouth shut.

  ‘Did Mrs Knox know about her?’ di Falco asked.

  ‘She must have. But she kept their problems behind closed doors. I think I am as close to her as anyone connected with the bar and she doesn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Was their marriage reasonably happy overall, do you think?’ Baggo asked.

  ‘How many bar marriages are good ones?’ she responded. ‘They put up with each other. He had cash and she had class so some would say it was a marriage made in heaven.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone in particular who might want your husband dead?’ She shook her head. ‘Or Farquhar Knox?’

  ‘No.’

  Baggo thanked her. When di Falco took her fingerprints, her fears and distress returned. Leaving her rocking to and fro on an upright chair, the two officers saw themselves out. As they walked down the path they heard a key being turned.

  In the car, Baggo asked about the case Cuthbert was in.

  ‘It’s a big one. Harry Nugent’s wife had some dreadful disease. She was in pain and could hardly move. She wanted to be put out of her misery, and said so to many people. Nugent is a lawyer. In Scotland the law’s not the same as in England. Apparently it’s not a crime in Scots Law to commit suicide, so Nugent says it can’t be criminal to help someone do something that’s legal.

  ‘What he did was acquire the poison they use in Switzerland, mix it with water and present it to his wife in a glass with a straw. She could have done none of these things herself. He held the glass while she sucked it down quickly and she died. The whole thing was filmed and before she took the poison she repeated that she wanted to die. Nugent’s been charged with culpable homicide, equivalent to manslaughter in England. The defence is that he was just assisting a suicide and that should not be criminal.

  ‘That’s what the case is about and I heard they’ve made up a special court with extra judges in the middle of the trial to decide it. A lot of people hold strong views one way or the other, but the pro-life lobby has been really vocal. They’ve been demonstrating outside the court. It wouldn’t surprise me if one of their extremists tried to scare Nugent’s lawyer.’

  Baggo had not bothered with the news while he had been in Scotland. He was impressed by the way di Falco described the case. ‘Do you find the law interesting, Billy?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. When they realised I would not become a priest, my parents wanted me to train as a lawyer. But I couldn’t be bothered with the small print and arguments in which you go round and round in circles. I did social sciences at uni.’

  ‘What made you join the police?’

  ‘Because I believe the best helping hand you can give some people is a kick up the arse. The police welcome graduates and I always wanted to be doing good in some way.’ He shrugged with embarrassment then blurted out, ‘I know about Nugent’s case because it has caused a lot of arguments at home.’

  Baggo did not ask further. He thought for a bit. He had spoken with Melanie before court started and she had told him that Smail’s character witnesses, the Primroses, were due to give evidence in the afternoon. He wanted to hear what they had to say. And he wanted to see Melanie. ‘I’ll take a bus to the court and see what’s happening there. We’re on the right side of town for the M8. Would you take the car to the High Court in Glasgow and see what Mr Cuthbert has to say? You should manage to see him during the lunch break. Try to get his fingerprints.’

  10

  ‘Well?’ The DCC’s face was grim as Flick faced him across his desk.

  ‘We’re doing all we can, sir. And we are building a picture of what happened. It’s a bit like a jigsaw …’

  ‘I know about jigsaws. I used that analogy when I wasn’t making much progress with a case.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, what do you know?’

  ‘Detective Constable Gilsland learned that Knox arranged for the judge’s door of Court Three to be unlocked from dinner time onwards. He gave a security guard fifty pounds to unlock it then lock it up once the function was over. When the guard did this about three, he checked the court and found the body. The guard has been dismissed, but the point is that Knox had this planned, apart obviously from his murder. We still believe it was Mrs Traynor Knox had sex with, but she won’t admit it, and the evidence is a bit dodgy, the main witness being an alcoholic advocate who viewed the woman at some distance, from the rear and in poor light. Mrs Traynor was wearing a long, black dress and had her blonde hair down to her shoulders. But Mrs Knox has shoulder-length, blonde hair and wore a navy blue dress that would have looked like black in the dark. There seem to have been a few women in black, including the wife of one of the fraud accused, Nicola Smail, and she too has blonde hair. There is other evidence pointing towards Lynda Traynor, but it’s far from conclusive. If the lab can find DNA in the stains on Knox’s clothes we should get a warrant to obtain samples from Mrs Traynor at least. She does admit that the Chief Superintendent was angry with Knox later on in the evening, and threatened to assault him. He must have overheard or been told gossip about his wife.

  ‘Now one of the obvious suspects, Mrs Knox, has given us an account of what she was doing during the relevant time, which is from during the archery to the first twenty minutes of the dancing, and today Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar is checking the witnesses she named. So far they back her up. It seems their marriage wasn’t happy but they stuck together. She’s quite posh, by the way, the daughter of a duke, and the judge who lives next door, Lord Hutton, is very protective of her. We have tried to track Chief Superintendent Traynor’s movements but we don’t know much except that after spending time in the library with his wife, they left early.

  ‘I had hoped that CCTV would help, but it doesn’t cover the court door or the corridor leading to it. There is a camera which shows the main concourse beside Parliament Hall but all you see is people coming and going, and you can’t make out where they are heading when they go out of the picture. The arrow has been tested for fingerprints with a negative result. It was pushed in, not shot in according to Dr MacGregor.’

  ‘And the fraud angle?’

  ‘Getting nowhere, so far. Both Smail and Maltravers can account for their movements. Smail’s witnesses should be checked today and I was able to identify Maltravers on the CCTV covering the area outside where smokers congregate. He was wearing a white tuxedo and you can see him giving a waiter a light. Incidentally, I think I can identify Mrs Knox having a cigarette there very soon after the archery finished, as she claims. Gils
land has been examining the dead man’s mobile and laptop but has found nothing except ambiguous evidence which could point to an affair with Mrs Traynor. What should I do about the Chief Superintendent, sir? If I interviewed him he would be bound to want a lawyer then say nothing. I don’t have enough to arrest him.’

  ‘Wait till you’re good and ready. I am going to have to suspend him, but I shall do so only because of the unfortunate publicity which for now makes his position untenable. I won’t even get away with calling it leave.’

  ‘His wife says that night he was drunk and went on about her crossing a boundary.’

  ‘Apparently her family has money. That may have something to do with his stoical forbearance. But do you know how Good News got their information?’

  She recounted her meeting with Oliphant and what Baggo had told her in a lengthy call before she had left for Tulliallan.

  The DCC nodded. ‘Well carry on as if nothing has happened. I like the way you’re approaching this and let’s hope you get a breakthrough soon. I’ll give a press conference this afternoon supporting you and telling the public to come to us if they have information. If the press try to speak to you, say nothing and refer them to me.’

  Flick sighed with relief. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about. If it takes time to identify Knox’s killer, so be it. If there’s anyone who can hatch babies and catch villains at the same time it’s you, Inspector. Now, will you join me in a bowl of soup before you go?’

  * * *

  Pete Bothwell stood in the arrivals hall of Edinburgh Airport watching for passengers from the Malaga flight. He did not have a board on which to write a name, but he thought he would be able to identify the retired London cop who was going to advise Good News about the Knox murder inquiry. That morning, with a string of expletives, his editor had told him how important for the paper the project was. Ex-Detective Inspector Osborne would continue to comment on what the police appeared to be doing, advise how they might do better, then hand them the evidence to identify and convict the killer, after the paper had used it as a scoop. The twenty thousand pounds reward would be bound to loosen someone’s tongue, and to get it they would have to come to the paper first. Not quite in the Watergate class, but a massive journalistic coup that would draw readers and advertisers like a magnet.

  The plane had landed but it was taking an age for the passengers to come through immigration and customs. Bothwell had shaved that morning and his face itched. He scratched it and felt something burst. Trying to be unobtrusive, he dabbed the spot with a tissue. So far, it had not been a good day. He was still furious at that puffed-up prig, Oliphant, who had phoned to accuse him of revealing his source. He had replied that, as Fortune had seen him leaving The Verdict after speaking to Oliphant, she did not have to be Miss Bloody Marple to work out where he had got his information.

  At last the Malaga passengers began to come through the doors and Bothwell paid close attention. He had spoken to Osborne on the phone and thought he sounded a bit like the cockney comedian, Jim Davidson. He pictured him as looking like the man who had played Inspector Wexford on TV - tall, ruggedly handsome and with a face that inspired respect and obedience.

  The passengers were a mixed bag. All were sun-tanned but many seemed tired. Bothwell paid close attention to men over fifty travelling on their own. A corpulent, red-faced, cross-looking man, his yellow shirt half in, half out of his trousers passed in front of him pulling a suitcase just small enough to be cabin baggage. His shirt had a large, dark stain down the front and he was covered in glitter. He left a strong smell of alcohol in his wake. Close behind was a dapper little man dressed in coordinating shades of green with a mincing walk. The only other over-fifty male on his own would probably not see eighty again. He tottered along using a walking stick, a determined expression on his face.

  After checking at the luggage carousel, Bothwell concluded that the detective must have missed his flight and went to the Jet 2 desk in the departures hall to inquire. The corpulent man with the glitter was there, pointing his finger at the girl behind the desk. As Bothwell approached he could hear what the man was saying: ‘I told that man to control his kids and the stewardess with the fat arse …’

  ‘Flight attendant,’ the girl interrupted.

  ‘The flight attendant with the fat arse told me to calm down …’ It was the same cockney voice as he had heard on the phone. ‘I do want to make an issue of it. I was in the aisle seat minding my own business and that family ruined my flight. First there was the girl always running about till she knocked me so I spilled my wine. Instead of giving her a smack her father told me it was my own fault. Then when he was getting stuff from the overhead locker he spilled a tub of kiddies’ glitter over me. On purpose. Your stewardesses did nothing. How often do I have to tell you?’

  Bothwell’s heart sank. He had not imagined the retired detective would be anything like this. The idea for the project had been his but the editor was set to claim credit. If it worked. Otherwise it would be back to being his idea and his job was hanging on a shoogly nail. He decided not to intervene and stood back till the confrontation was over.

  His face purple, Osborne left the Jet 2 desk ten minutes later. Putting on a welcoming smile, Bothwell stuck out a hand to introduce himself. Osborne acknowledged him with a grunt and let him take his case. Bothwell led the way to the car park and opened the passenger door of his Fiat.

  ‘Not much of a car,’ Osborne said, then lit a cigarette.

  ‘Did you get my e-mail with all the details of the case?’ Bothwell asked as he opened the window.

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘What did you make of it?’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you have your computer with you?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘I’ve stuck an envelope full of up-to-date cuttings into the front pocket of your case.’

  Silence.

  ‘The editor wants a piece for tomorrow. We should talk about it when we reach the hotel.’

  Silence.

  Despite the open window, a combination of smoke, alcohol fumes and BO caught the back of Bothwell’s throat. His day was getting worse by the minute.

  The G and V Hotel, formerly the Hotel Missoni, is ideally situated for the courts. It is also a byword for style. Bothwell had thought it would suit the great detective perfectly, but now he felt awkward leading Osborne to reception past the porters in their distinctive uniforms of black shirt, blue tartan kilt and rough, ankle-length socks.

  ‘We have a wee room for you,’ the receptionist stated in an East European accent, flashing a broad synthetic smile.

  ‘A wee room? I’m not sleeping in a broom cupboard.’ Osborne glared at her.

  ‘There are no brooms in it but we have bonnie and braw rooms available,’ she replied, consulting a computer. ‘The muckle rooms are all taken. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘How big is a wee room?’ Bothwell asked nervously. The tariff he had been quoted was not wee.

  ‘In most hotels they would call it standard room, but as we are in Scotland …’

  ‘Where they don’t speak fucking English,’ Osborne finished her sentence for her. ‘All right. Stop farting about. I’ll take it.’ He grabbed the pen she offered him and filled in a short form.

  ‘Pavel will take your case. I hope you enjoy your holiday,’ the receptionist trilled.

  ‘I’m here to bloody work,’ he replied.

  Making a quick deduction from the glitter, the receptionist tried to recover. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you. Which theatre will you be in? Or is it film this time?’

  Osborne stared at her as if she were mad. ‘I’m not a fucking actor,’ he growled. ‘Now give me my fucking room key so I can get rid of this rubbish.’ He brushed some glitter to the floor.

  The receptionist handed over the key card without a word.

  Bothwell smiled apologetically at her and shrugged. ‘When can we meet to discuss the case?’ he
called after Osborne, who was following Pavel’s swinging kilt to the lifts.

  ‘Tomorrow at ten. Meet me here,’ he replied then turned round. ‘By the way, what’s your name again?’

  ‘Pete Bothwell.’

  Osborne looked at the journalist’s acne-cursed face.

  ‘I’ll call you Pizza,’ he said. Cracking his first smile since landing in Scotland, he entered a lift.

  ‘What about tomorrow’s piece?’ Bothwell asked, scrabbling at the closing doors.

  ‘Make it up,’ was all he heard before the doors slid shut.

  * * *

  Noel Osborne, Inspector No to most who had come across him, was an alcoholic. He knew that and for some years had alternated between disapproving sobriety and uninhibited excess. Recently, encouraged by Maria, his housekeeper and occasional bedmate, he had been drinking in what he fancied was moderation. At first this restraint kept his intake down to one bottle of Rioja per day, but life being what it is, one had become two. He told himself that as he usually consumed bottles which were only twelve point five per cent proof he was more disciplined than those who drank more robust wines.

  The knowledge that he was on expenses had dented his self-denial, and there was no one to withhold the sexual favours with which Maria tantalised him. There had been Rioja in Malaga before take-off, three small bottles of strong Argentinian red (and another that had ended up down his shirt) during the flight and now he surveyed the mini-bar in his room. A half bottle of Chianti had his name on it.

  Lying back on the comfortable bed, his mood improved with every slurp of wine. He just wished the curtains did not have that zig-zag pattern that made him feel drunker than he was. He closed his eyes …

  He came to with a start. That stupid glass had overturned and this time it was his trousers that caught the spilled wine. Fortunately, not too much. He poured more from the bottle and thought about what he should tell Pizza to put in his newspaper. He looked forward to having a good dig at Flick bloody Fortune, whose Goody Two-Shoes attitude to police work had got on his wick when she had been his sergeant back in Wimbledon. The trouble was, while he might advocate ‘old-fashioned methods’ he could never publicly reveal what these had been.