Murder in Court Three (10 page)

Out on the street, di Falco asked, ‘You kept repeating
Vita Dei
. Is that what you call this group?'

‘Yes. It's Latin for God's Life, as you probably realise. It seemed right to focus on the issue we're concerned with.' He set off at a brisk pace. ‘Which station?'

‘Queen Street.' Di Falco hoped the priest was not going to see him onto the train. He had left the car with the police business notice on the dashboard in a metered bay beside Glasgow Green.

‘I'm going that way, as it happens. Tell me, how is the church in St Andrews?'

Di Falco's parents lived in St Andrews and his mother was a devout parishioner of St James Church on The Scores. Although he had not darkened the door for a couple of years he was able to respond to Neil's questions with enough verifiable information to pass the obvious test.

‘An intense young man, Johnny,' he said, when Neil paused.

‘Yes, but his heart is in exactly the right place.'

‘Is it difficult to restrain followers who are thinking of acting unwisely?'

‘That's a police question,' Neil commented sharply. ‘What concern is it of yours?'

‘I just want to know what I'd be getting into if I joined you.'

‘You would be welcomed into a dedicated, God-fearing body. Is there any organisation which does not number individual law-breakers in its membership?'

‘You have me there,' di Falco said. They had crossed George Square and were outside Queen Street Station. ‘It's been good meeting you, Father. I hope I might see you again, but it is difficult to take days off during the summer. Is there a number at which I could contact you?'

Handing over a card, Neil squeezed his hand. ‘I hope you will continue to support us, Billy. Good men are like gold. God bless.' He waved his hand and disappeared into the rush hour crowd.

Di Falco bought a coffee at the station buffet. It took away some of the taste of the tea and he checked his mobile which had been off for the afternoon. He waited for quarter of an hour before leaving the station to pick up the car.

When the fraud trial resumed after lunch, Lachlan Smail was being cross-examined by Radcliffe. It made Baggo think of a dog-fight between an elegant Afghan Hound and a yappy Terrier, with the Afghan winning easily. His concentration soon went and he felt like dancing. What excited him wasn't the fact that Melanie had agreed to meet him again that night, it was the way her face had lit up when he had asked her.

Shortly after three, Radcliffe sat down. Smail's counsel made a valiant attempt to repair the damage before his client, looking quite pleased with himself, returned to the silent refuge of the dock. Nicola Smail gave him a smile of encouragement, but during his aggressive performance in the witness box she had looked glum.

The next witness was John Primrose. Well over six feet, trim, tanned and patrician, he had known Lachlan Smail since boyhood. Smail was loyal, courageous and, above all, honest. At school he had always owned up when he had done wrong, even if it meant certain punishment.

When it was Radcliffe's turn he asked, ‘Do you never wonder, Mr Primrose, whether, after all these punishments, Mr Smail might have decided to stop owning up, guilty or not?'

‘Not him,' Primrose countered, ignoring the grinning faces in the jury box.

When court rose, Baggo approached Primrose, whose wife, a mousy, thin woman in beige looked up at him adoringly. With the air of someone doing a favour rather than his civic duty, Primrose confirmed most of what Lachlan Smail had said about his movements after the archery, as his wife did for Nicola Smail. However, there were times between the end of the archery and the start of the dancing during which either could have killed Knox, if they had moved quickly.

There seemed nothing more to be learned from the Primroses. Baggo thanked them and went to meet another John, Mrs Knox's smoking friend, John Logan.

The meeting point was a consulting room a couple of hundred metres down the Royal Mile from Parliament House. Logan was a thin, embittered man with frayed shirtcuffs and dandruff liberally sprayed over the shoulders of a suit shiny with wear. There was no doubting his smoking credentials. Nicotine-stained fingers, not allowed to hold a cigarette in that room, drummed the table in frustration and Baggo recoiled from the stale tobacco on his breath. The papers in front of him were dog-eared and grubby, and Baggo suspected their purpose was to create the illusion of a busy practice. After a diatribe against the nanny state and health fascism, Logan confirmed that as soon as the archery had ended he had gone outside for a cigarette and had been joined by Eloise Knox. He could not remember how long she had stayed there, but she had seemed tense and cross. She had cheered up slightly when they compiled a list of those they would have liked to have used as human targets for the archery. ‘I could easily shoot Farquhar tonight,' had been the last thing she had said before going inside. ‘But she laughed as she said it,' Logan added, not entirely convincingly.

Baggo thought this cynical man might have a new insight into the case but although he was happy to talk, he merely added some scathing observations about the deceased's social climbing. Baggo took his leave despairing about ever finding someone who had genuinely liked Knox.

* * *

Pete Bothwell stared miserably at the computer screen in front of him. It was empty. He had less than an hour to produce the piece demanded by his editor and he had no idea what to write. He had heard of ‘writer's block', an affliction that had plagued previous generations with their blank sheets of A4 and these curious typewriters with their rollers and ink and keys that thumped the letters against the paper. Nowadays, with computers and the material available on the internet, there was always something to fill the space. But not today.

When Osborne had called him Pizza it had added disrespect to disappointment and awakened unhappy memories of school, where he had been known as Face, short for Pizza-face. This train of thought had continued when he attended the Tulliallan press conference. He had been the only journalist made to stand, the last to have his question answered and the only person escorted to see the DCC immediately afterwards. In the privacy of his office, the DCC had torn a strip off him. He had prejudiced the investigation by reporting facts that had not been established; he had adversely and unfairly affected the career of an excellent officer who had been suspended only because of the scandalous article in
Good News
; he had ridiculed a female officer because she was pregnant. ‘You're not experienced in crime reporting, are you?' the DCC had asked. ‘Not very,' was the reply. ‘Well understand two things,' the DCC had said, his face red, his eyes staring, ‘one, we can make life very difficult for those who hinder us, and two, any information about this crime that comes to you or your paper MUST be shared with us before it is published.' It had been like a long-ago visit to the head teacher after he had head-butted another boy, breaking his nose. And that had been nothing like the trouble he was in at home after handing his parents the letter informing them of his suspension.

It had been similar that afternoon. His head still spinning when he returned to the office, his editor had lambasted him for the lack of anything worthwhile to report on the Knox murder. ‘What does Osborne say? We're paying enough to have him here.' ‘Why has no one come forward with information to claim the twenty K reward?' His stuttering replies had fuelled the unpredictable man's anger and he had been told to write a fucking sensational piece which would set the fucking cat among the fucking pigeons within an hour. Bothwell was uncomfortably aware that the paper was losing money and only his editor's goodwill stood between him and the dole queue.

There was only one thing for it. He checked the number, phoned the G and V and asked to be put through to Mr Osborne's room.

At first he thought there would be no answer, but after a while he heard a slurred ‘hello'.

‘Mr Osborne, it's Pete Bothwell. I really need some input from you for tomorrow's paper. My editor's breathing down my neck and I have to have something from you as we've paid for you to come over here and it was my idea. Please, please help me or I'll lose my job.' His voice caught and he was close to tears.

A long pause made Bothwell's heart sink. Surely his day couldn't continue to get worse? But he had succeeded in bringing home the urgency of the situation. Through the alcohol Osborne realised he had to sing for his supper or this carnival would soon be over.

‘'Ang on, Pizza, ‘ang on. No need to make a drama out of a bleeding crisis. I've ‘ad more bosses chewing my arse than I've ‘ad ‘ot dinners and I'm still ‘ere. Now tell me, what are the police up to?'

‘They say they're pursuing a number of lines of inquiry, and Traynor's been suspended, they say because of my article in today's paper. They seem to have been questioning a lot of the people who were at the big function.'

‘In other words, they know fuck all, and Felicity Fortune isn't about to use her delicate little hands to dig up the dirt. When I cleaned up the East End, I didn't do it with the Human Rights Act, if you know what I mean. I got my hands dirty. You've got to crack eggs to make an omelette, Pizza. And there's Felicity Fortune, looking like the side of a house, no doubt, sitting on the eggs and hoping one will hatch.'

‘What should she be doing?'

‘What she should be doing, Pizza, is she should be finding criminals. There's bound to be a few at that party with a record, and she should start with them. Even if one of them didn't kill whotsisname, one of them will know something. Criminals do, you know. They're aware. And you can persuade them to talk. If you know what you're doing, that is. Felicity should get her pretty arse off her fucking eggs, roll up her sleeves and make a fucking omelette.'

‘I thought she was your protégé?'

‘I taught her all I could, Pizza. But it's guts what makes a copper, not the ability to recite the fucking Human Rights Act backwards while standing on your head. Get my drift?'

It wasn't just the slurred speech that told Bothwell that Osborne was drunk. He wondered how much of this he could use. Fortunately he was recording the call so no one could claim he had made it up. ‘I think so,' he said doubtfully. ‘Thank you very …' Before he could finish, Osborne had rung off.

It took a moment for Bothwell to work out that he was more frightened of his editor than the DCC. His fingers danced across the keyboard and his computer screen filled up.

‘That newspaper is out of line,' Baggo said, his mouth full of bacon and egg. Anxious to leave early for the briefing Flick had called for nine am in Cupar, he had been ambushed on his way out by the owner of the guesthouse, who had risen early to cook breakfast especially for him. Now the man sat opposite. Thrilled at having a real detective staying, he had read out Bothwell's piece in
Good News
and was curious to learn more.

‘We are not sitting on our backsides waiting for eggs to hatch,' Baggo told him, wiping a dribble of yolk from his chin. ‘These days police work is very technical. We have to wait for results to come back from the lab. We have to look at hours of CCTV footage. The man who gave the paper these quotes is a dinosaur. I know, because I worked with him.'

‘But he says Detective Inspector Fortune was his protégé.'

Baggo drained his coffee cup. ‘In his dreams. They were chalk and cheese. And still are. Now, please excuse me. I must be off.' Seeing the look of disappointment on the man's face, he added, ‘Thank you for a wonderful breakfast. It will give me the energy to be busy all day, getting my hands dirty as necessary.'

As he steered his way through traffic towards the bypass, he thought about some of the things he'd like to do to Mr Pete Bothwell. Then his thoughts turned once more to Melanie. Last night had been a successful date, revealing shared interests and political views and a common sense of humour. He had walked her home, his arm round her waist, but at her door she had pecked him on the cheek and quickly scuttled into her block of flats, the outer door locking behind her. Mentally undressing her, he wondered why she was not more physical. He didn't think she was the frigid type, he was sure she wasn't gay, so had she had a bad experience? Was she just taking things slowly, or might she have taken fright at the thought of dating an Indian? A horn-blast behind him brought his attention back to the road. He continued his journey, a bit of him hoping the inquiry would not be over too soon.

The bypass behind him, Baggo made good time against the flow of commuter traffic crawling into Edinburgh from Fife. Crossing the road bridge built in the nineteen sixties, he looked to his right at the dark red railway bridge. Its steel cantilevers, three quarters of a century older but structurally sounder than their younger companion, were one of the iconic sights of Scotland. He wound down his window and breathed deeply. It was another glorious morning, perfect for a drive through the rich agricultural land in which the old market town of Cupar sat.

When Baggo sailed into the Incident Room, a cheery good-morning on his lips, he quickly sensed the atmosphere of gloomy embarrassment. There was no banter. The detectives were sitting at computers, staring at screens, appearing busy. Wallace caught Baggo's eye, frowned and shook his head. ‘She hadn't seen it till now,' he hissed, nodding at the copy of
Good News
lying on an otherwise empty desk. ‘Waterworks,' he added. On the wall beside the desk the whiteboard bore witness to a busy, if unproductive, inquiry. Along the top were photos of Knox as he was found, his wife, Lynda Traynor with a blank space beside her, Smail and his wife and Maltravers. Green writing noted evidence while questions were in red. There was more red than green.

It was five past nine before Flick appeared, eyes blood-shot and make-up smudged. She gave the slightest nod towards Baggo then clapped her hands for attention. Everyone turned respectfully towards her, even McKellar. Before she opened her mouth Wallace stood.

He spoke steadily and without emotion. ‘I believe I speak for everyone, ma'am, when I say that article is a disgrace and we will find a way of making Mr Bothwell suffer for it. Mr Osborne, too. You're a damned good boss and there's nothing wrong with the way you're leading this inquiry. We'll get whoever killed Mr Knox, even if it takes a while.' As he sat down, some stamped their feet, some clapped and Baggo said ‘Hear, hear'.

Taken aback, Flick looked confused and Baggo wondered if she was going to cry again. Instead she took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,' she whispered, looking round the room. ‘Thank you. That means a lot. Now, Detective Sergeant Wallace, you have been collating information. I want every one of us to be up to speed on all branches of the inquiry. Please tell us what you have learned.'

Wallace went over to the whiteboard and began a painstaking summary of what they knew. It came down to very little. The CCTV was of poor quality and the cameras were not helpfully placed. It did not give any of the suspects a foolproof alibi, and neither did the statements that had been taken. A few fingerprints belonging to neither Knox nor the security staff had been found on a wooden bookcase on the bench, but Wallace was reluctant to fingerprint the judges who had sat there before the murder unless it was clearly necessary. ‘It is,' Flick said. ‘Please organise that today.' The judges' retiring room, where the bows and arrows had been stowed, had also been used to store candelabras and other items belonging to the caterers. A succession of waiters had come and gone from there, but there was no evidence that any of the suspects had been there. The lab had confirmed that the stains on Knox's clothes contained vaginal fluid and they could compare DNA. Once they had something to compare it with.

‘Well, get a warrant for Lynda Traynor's DNA and fingerprints,' Flick said. ‘We should search the house as well.'

Wallace said, ‘I believe we can assume she was the woman who had sex with Knox, at least until something else is proved, but she's only a possible killer.'

‘It's hard to see any motive for her to kill Knox,' Baggo said. ‘In fact, it's difficult to see how any of them have a motive, other than sexual jealousy, and both Traynor and Mrs Knox appear to be stoical people, able to put up with their spouses' dalliances. But while we're looking at these suspects, there's something I do not understand about Lachlan Smail. Alex McKellar says that he has a temper and was lucky not to have been prosecuted yet according to Mr Primrose he is practically a saint.'

McKellar's dour face twisted. ‘He's taken a stick to more than one farm worker, but he'll kiss your arse if you're a duke. Sorry, ma'am.'

Flick didn't react. McKellar continued, ‘His wife has an interesting history, too. I was sure I recognised her from somewhere, and last night the penny dropped. I've checked up and I was right. She used to be Nicola Moncrieff, and in her day she was the talk of St Andrews. She was only fourteen or fifteen and at St Leonard's, the posh school in the town, but she got pregnant. Her father, who was an important businessman, took it personally and was all set to go round all the boys she saw in the school holidays. To prevent an incident I was sent to interview them. I hadn't been in the office long. Didn't recognise the hospital pass till I'd caught it.' His mouth twisted into a smile. ‘All these posh boys! They talked the talk as if they were men of the world, but when they realised they could go to jail for under-age sex they made out they were virgins, which most probably were. We never did track down the father. The girl was packed off to relatives and nearly ten years later she came back. There was a rumour that she'd been in London, PA to some banker, and she'd had an affair with him. It hadn't worked. Anyway, Lachlan Smail married her. He wasn't short of admirers, so it must have been love.' He gave a cynical snort.

‘What about the baby?' Baggo asked.

‘The story was she'd had an abortion, but I've no idea.'

Baggo said, ‘That is interesting. Now, with your permission, Inspector ma'am, you should hear about what Billy did yesterday.'

This was di Falco's cue to recount his afternoon in Glasgow with the
Vita Dei
pro-life campaigners. When he described Johnny, Spider Gilsland cut in.

‘Yesterday, as instructed by Inspector Fortune, not
Good News
, I investigated the criminal records of as many of the people at the function as I could. John Aloysius Dolan, who lives in Glasgow, was one of the waiters, and he has quite a record for violence. Six months ago he got out after five years of an eight year sentence for attempted murder. He stabbed someone in the stomach. It was a sectarian thing. The victim was a Rangers fan who found himself in the wrong pub.'

‘Well done!' Flick enthused. She wrote Dolan's name alongside the other suspects.

‘Do you want me to follow it up, ma'am?' di Falco asked.

‘Yes, and the sooner the better. I'd like you to go to Glasgow this afternoon. Make sure your Johnny is this Dolan and learn as much as you can about your
Vita Dei
friends.'

‘I'll tell them I rearranged my shifts. They think I'm a waiter in the Old Course Hotel. I'll prime someone there to lie for me if that priest checks up.'

Gilsland interrupted again. ‘On Friday there was another waiter with a record. Causing death by dangerous driving. He got six years and has been out nearly eighteen months. He comes from Dunfermline.' Gilsland paused for effect. ‘His name is Gary Thomson, and he's the son of Joe Thomson, the builder Knox was prosecuting when he was killed.'

* * *

In the solitude of her office, Flick re-read the piece in
Good News
. It was totally poisonous and very personal. Sure, her bump was big, but Osborne's belly, full of a revolting mixture of curries, doughnuts and alcohol, would not be gone in a few weeks. She thought back to the excruciating briefing. Anger, distress and embarrassment had frozen her brain and she had said little. It had been the two sergeants, Wallace and Chandavarkar, who had made most of the running. Had she been like a fat, lame duck trying to cover too many eggs, most of which were cold? She read the article once more then folded the paper and placed it in a drawer. She would make Osborne wish he'd never questioned whether she had the guts to do the job.

She took out a spread-sheet on which she was noting names, times and activities from the end of dinner to eleven pm. Forcing herself to concentrate, she worked on identifying specific time windows during which each suspect might have taken the arrow and stabbed Knox.

She had not been doing this for long before her door burst open and a man looking like an enraged tailor's mannequin marched in and stood in the middle of the room. Behind him was a woman, taller and younger. She wore no make-up and her blonde hair was thrown forward to cover her left cheek. If recent events had deflated Flick, that was nothing to their effect on Lynda Traynor. The confident arrogance had been replaced by sullen watchfulness. Shoulders hunched, her eyes scanned the room before settling on the spread-sheet. Flick saw she was trying to read it upside-down.

Her husband put his hands on the desk and glared down at Flick. ‘Detective Inspector Fortune?' he spat out.

She had seen photos of Chief Superintendent Traynor but this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh. Like his house, everything about him was immaculate. A well-pressed navy blue suit, a black and white tie so neat it might have been a clip-on, a crisp white shirt. His full head of hair, grey at the temples, had been trimmed by a skilful hairdresser. His lips, drawn back into a snarl, revealed teeth that might grace a toothpaste advert. Only a tiny scab under his jaw-line betrayed an early-morning tremor in his razor hand.

Silently, Lance Wallace entered behind the Traynors. He pushed the door back so it was barely ajar and stood uncertainly beside it.

Reassured by Wallace's presence, Flick felt surprisingly calm and confident. Despite Traynor's threatening pose, they both knew she had the upper hand. ‘Chief Superintendent Traynor,' she said. ‘Mrs Traynor. Please sit down.'

Breathing in short bursts, Traynor held his position as Flick concentrated on acting unconcerned. Slowly he straightened himself then sat on the chair opposite Flick. His wife went to a chair also facing Flick but behind him and against a wall.

‘I want to know what on earth you are doing, Inspector,' Traynor said, his voice full of pent-up anger.

‘I am conducting a complex inquiry, Chief Superintendent.'

‘My name is being bandied about in the press to the extent that I have been suspended until you can exonerate me. It is vital, not just for my sake but for the sake of the entire police force, that you get a move on and do that. Yet you haven't even had the courtesy to speak to me, let alone interview me. I want you to interview me now, check what I say, and tell the world, in particular that
Good News
rag, that I did not kill Knox.'

‘I am very sorry about
Good News
, believe me. What they print has nothing to do with me or any member of my team. It was an advocate who was at the function last Friday who told them about your wife and Mr Knox, and until yesterday morning when it came out, we were committed to keeping your name out of the press while conducting a thorough and professional investigation.' A flicker of his eyes told her that the rational part of Traynor's brain accepted that. ‘It would help our inquiry, sir, if your wife were to be entirely candid about what she did that evening. When I spoke to her on Monday afternoon, I'm afraid to say I found her uncooperative.'

‘Inspector, my wife and I have had a discussion.' He paused. Flick glanced at Mrs Traynor, who tossed her head back. There was swelling over her left cheekbone and the surrounding skin was red. As she was not in his line of vision he did not see this and carried on in the same earnest, reasonable tone of voice. ‘My wife will admit to you that she had a short affair with Knox and that she and he met in Court Three before he was killed. However when she left him he was alive. The killer struck after she was well away.'

‘Is this true, Mrs Traynor?' Flick asked.

She nodded.

‘I would like to take a statement from your wife now, sir, but outwith your presence.'

‘But I should be with her when you speak to her.'