Murder in Court Three (2 page)

As she approached St Andrews, on her left were the flat fields where the Jack Nicklaus Diamond Links were to have been laid out. Cows and sheep grazed contentedly on new grass and pigs snuffled about on bare earth beside the sludgy mudbanks of the Eden Estuary. The bank of a railway line, disused since the 1960s, created a weal across the otherwise featureless ground supposed to become ‘one of the greatest finishing stretches in the world'. The fraudsters had produced inspired paintings of how the finished project would look, a metamorphosis of heroic proportions. A song title from the musical
Barnum
came to her,
‘There's a Sucker Born Every Minute'
and she wished she could remember the words.

There was no reply to her shouted greeting when Flick returned to her grey, sandstone house on the west of St Andrews but an aroma of roasting meat filled the hall. Her husband Fergus Maxwell, a detective inspector with the Dundee police, inspired by what she thought of as gastronomic pornography on the television, had become enthusiastic about cooking. He had discovered that a shoulder of lamb, slowly roasted at a low heat, required the same cooking time as he took for a round of golf and a pint, so was perfect for a Sunday morning. The rissoles he made from the leftovers were easily warmed up after a midweek evening game. Feeling bloated, Flick would have liked something lighter, particularly in warm weather, but she didn't want to curb his enthusiasm. She made herself coffee and sat at the kitchen table, noting that the only part of the voluminous Sunday newspaper that bore signs of having been read was the sports section.

Curious about the contents of the file, she had been tempted to stop the car and read it on her way home. Sipping her de-caf coffee with the usual pang of regret that it was not the real stuff, she opened the folder. It contained two reports, both relating to Lynda Traynor's extra-marital activities. She wondered initially if a male partner of a senior officer would be investigated as thoroughly, but it did not take long to see that Mrs Traynor was a very loose cannon who had given no thought to her husband's career as she indulged herself.

The first report went back four years. An undercover officer had spotted her alone in a South Edinburgh pub under surveillance by the drugs squad. Worse, she had been greeted by the owner and went through the back with him, reappearing after half an hour, her face flushed. There had been half a dozen similar liaisons observed before the superintendent who had compiled the report spoke with Graeme Traynor. He had taken the news calmly, more concerned by the identity of her lover than surprised by her infidelity. The pub meetings had stopped and when the raid came there was no sign of Mrs Traynor. Her lover had been convicted and was one third of the way through a ten year sentence. In theory at least, Flick thought, as few were made to serve anything like the time handed down by the courts. A marginal note in red biro read: ‘Strongly warned to prevent wife from gaining confidential or operational information. W.W.' Flick recognised the initials of the then Chief Constable of the now defunct Lothian and Borders force.

More recently Detective Sergeant Malloy had requested a transfer from Edinburgh. He had chatted and flirted with Mrs Traynor at a police function then accepted her invitation to meet her in a hotel in Peebles. He had described the sex as ‘awesome', something that Superintendent MacKay of Inverness, the writer of the second report, recorded with presbyterian disapproval. Malloy had begun to think with his brain and worked out that making a cuckold of his Divisional Commander was not a great career move. Lynda had not taken rejection lying down and had pestered him with phone calls and texts until he had felt compelled to speak to a senior officer. MacKay had been brought in and had spoken with Traynor, who had not appeared to be particularly hurt, more concerned that the affair should not become widely known. The sergeant was now working in Glasgow having been lectured by MacKay to abstain from adultery and other immoral behaviour. ‘Mrs T sexually insatiable. Keep an eye on her as potential embarrassment to police. GT to go no further.' The less biblical marginal note was not initialled, but it spelled the end of Traynor's upward mobility.

Who needs a tabloid Sunday newspaper if you can read a file like this, Flick thought. She could not understand Lynda Traynor. If she was fed up with her husband, why didn't she simply leave him? It was almost as if she had selected lovers who would embarrass him. And his reactions had been restrained. Too much so, perhaps. Flick could see an affair with Knox as being the last straw. Traynor having had a few drinks and seeing his wife go to meet a lover might well have felt murderous. He had to be a suspect. Flick realised that she had already formed a strong dislike of Mrs Traynor. Apart from anything else she was responsible for the later stages of her pregnancy being thrown into confusion.

She phoned her team individually, calling a meeting that evening at six in the Cupar office and apologising for spoiling a rare summer Sunday with good weather. She rang Chandavarkar's mobile, and left a terse reply to his pre-recorded ‘Hello, caller, say what you want to say and I may get back to you', the sing-song in his voice more exaggerated than normal. Then she found Dr MacGregor's mobile number.

‘Inspector Fortune! Are you keeping me under observation? How did you know I had just entered your jurisdiction?' The pathologist's plummy voice came down the line.

‘Are you driving, Doctor? I trust you're hands-free?'

‘Even if I weren't, my reply would not incriminate me as you failed to caution me.'

‘You weren't a suspect at that stage, so if you had admitted it you'd be convicted.'

‘Are you desperate to get your numbers up for the dreaded statistics, or is there a real point to this call?'

‘Have you done the PM on Farquhar Knox?'

‘Yes, so I'm driving home with my scalpels in time to carve the Sunday roast and I've just crossed the Forth Bridge.'

‘It'll surprise you to know that I'm in charge of the inquiry.'

‘Nothing surprises me about this. It was strange they didn't use an Edinburgh pathologist and I've been sent away with the bloody arrow I removed from Mr Knox's abdomen and a plethora of samples to analyse in Dundee. Why?'

Flick hesitated. The fewer who knew about the Traynors the better, but she wanted MacGregor's full cooperation and Lynda Traynor's DNA might be an important factor. ‘Had Knox had sex just before he died?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Well, we have reason to believe that the woman in question may have been Lynda Traynor, the wife of the Edinburgh Divisional Commander.'

There was a silence. ‘Ah, I see,' MacGregor said.

‘We are trying to keep this quiet, and the line is that I am taking on the inquiry because I was the lead officer in the fraud trial Knox was prosecuting when he died. Please be as discreet as possible. The longer the press remain in the dark the better.'

‘I shall try not to give the game away.'

‘What can you tell me?'

‘The cause of death was an arrow through the heart. It entered below the rib cage to the left of the front midline and went up and in till it reached the right ventricle. The deceased was probably seated when he died and unless the killer lay on the floor at his feet and shot upwards, which I believe would have been very difficult, the arrow was pushed in manually, and that would have taken some strength, although a strong woman could have done it. The arrow was sharp.'

‘Would the killer be likely to have blood on them?'

‘Not necessarily. Perhaps on their hands or wrists. Any suspect should certainly have their cuffs examined. The bleeding that killed him was internal.'

‘What about time of death?'

‘About half past ten, give or take half an hour. I deduce that from the stomach contents. He had eaten and drunk about an hour and a half before he died and was nearly three times the UK limit for drink-driving. Stains on his underwear and shirt and substances found on his private parts indicate recent sexual activity. I hope I might be able to extract some DNA from the samples I have taken.' He paused. ‘You know, it was strange seeing him on the slab. I never much cared for Farquhar Knox. He always seemed unnecessarily arrogant and aggressive. He was very bright. I've quite often felt the sharp end of his tongue in court, but I got no satisfaction using my scalpel on him.'

‘From what I gathered during the fraud trial he could be pretty awkward, though I personally never had a problem with him. In court I bet you gave as good as you got,' she added.

‘I tried, Inspector. His weakness was pomposity, which is best pricked with a little humour. Even in murder trials.'

‘Well, thank you, Doctor. I'll be in touch.' Although she was trying to develop it, she knew her sense of humour was too weak to use as a weapon.

‘As usual, the written report will take a day or two, but I'll let you know if I find anything of interest.'

Going back to the file, Flick tried to imagine life in the Traynor household. The brief biographical details in MacKay's report revealed that she was thirty-five, eleven years younger than her husband. They had been married for fourteen years and had one son, now fourteen. She did not work. What might drive her to such shamelessness? The folder contained no gossip, only details of two affairs that impacted on her husband's job. Flick was sure there would have been others. Was Traynor impotent, or gay, or a wife-beater? Perhaps he was just profoundly boring. Flick patted her stomach thoughtfully, impatient for Fergus to return. Conflicting emotions made her edgy.

* * *

‘An arsehole.' Fergus delivered his terse obituary of Farquhar Knox as he finished his plate of lamb. ‘It's because of men like him that they have all these lawyer jokes.' He took a swig of Chianti. ‘What do you call a smiling, courteous person at a law conference? The caterer. What do lawyers use for birth control? Their personalities.'

Flick grinned. ‘Doctor MacGregor said he was arrogant and aggressive and could be pompous.'

‘Could be? Pompous might have been his middle name. He was utterly ruthless. When he was defending he went out of his way to attack the police. To listen to him we were all lying scumbags, though I've heard he switched like a weather vane and really stuck up for us in court when he was representing the crown. But even when he was prosecuting quite a few found him difficult to work with. And he wasn't nice to little people. I heard him give one of the High Court attendants an awful bollocking because he hadn't told him his taxi was waiting.'

‘Do you know Traynor?'

‘Not well, but I suspect few do. I've met him a handful of times at conferences and meetings. He doesn't say much. He's got a reputation for being very organised and a good strategic thinker. Runs a tight ship. That's why he's Divisional Commander. Hard to see him suddenly stabbing Knox with an arrow, but I suppose everyone has their breaking point.'

‘Othello killed Desdemona, leaving Iago to try to kill Cassio,' Flick mused.

‘If Traynor was going to kill anyone, I'd expect it to be his wife. But all the same, he's got to be a suspect.' He finished his wine and looked closely at Flick. ‘You will be able to do this, won't you, darling?'

‘Of course,' she replied sharply. ‘And if I have to delay maternity leave by a day or two, I will.' She drained her water glass and began to load the dishwasher.

He got up to help her. ‘I'll be glad when you've stopped work. You're obviously uncomfortable. Has our wee rugby player been busy again?'

‘Yes, but I'm fine, I keep telling you. And anyway, she's a ballet dancer.'

‘It'll be nice when we're both on leave. Just the two of us and him or her. And the Open on the telly,' he added.

‘And my career going into reverse,' she countered.

‘It'll pick up. Don't worry.'

‘How do you know? You can't tell. All I know is I've fought every inch of the way to be accepted, first as a woman, then up here as an Englishwoman, and I've finally got there. I know my team believe in me, I'm in charge of a difficult and important case and I have to go off and have a baby. It's so unfair. If it was you having the baby you wouldn't mind because you haven't had to struggle to get where you are and you don't really care if you don't rise any higher. Just so long as you have good meals, a few glasses of wine and of course, your bloody golf.' Aware she had raised her voice, she glared at him.

‘You sound as if you don't want the baby.'

‘How dare you say that,' she practically screamed. Shaking, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

In the privacy of their bedroom she lay on the bed and wept. They had both wanted a baby, he more than she, but as she experienced a new human growing inside her she had felt her femininity being affirmed in a way she had not anticipated. Now the safe delivery of the child that was kicking and squirming inside her was the most important thing in her life bar nothing. But her career still mattered. A lot. As her dad always said, life was never meant to be fair. She closed her eyes, took deep breaths and calmed herself. The memory of Fergus's stricken face as she left the kitchen made her feel bad. And a little bit better, too.

Soon her brain was buzzing. The Farquhar Knox she remembered was shrewd and quick and treated her with respect. He had judged her by her competence, not her gender. He had been brutal in tearing a strip off DC Billy di Falco over the non-availability of a witness, so much so that she had quietly pointed out to him later that he was doing her job for her. ‘Just keep your whip ready for the next time,' he had replied with a smirk. That had been the only suggestive remark he had made to her, but there had been something masterful and sexy about him and she could imagine him relishing the challenge of having sex with another man's wife on the bench of the High Court.

Outside the mower started. It made an angry noise with lots of revs and abrupt, jerky turns. After half an hour it stopped. Flick got up and tidied herself, ready to go out. She went downstairs, made two mugs of tea and carried them outside. Fergus was scratching at the rose border with a hoe but came over and joined her on the bench which caught the afternoon and evening sun. They sat in silence for a while.

‘I am alright, Fergus, and I know what I'm doing,' she said quietly.

‘I'm sorry I said that thing about not wanting the baby, but you can't blame me for worrying.' He put a hand on her knee.

‘I know, but please stop fussing. I can't bear it.'