Murder in Court Three (3 page)

‘Okay, okay. It's a difficult time, and I know how important your career is to you.'

‘But no more important than the baby. Or you. I'm looking forward to being a mum. Really. And look what we've got compared with, say, the Traynors.'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I really value your comments on my cases, you know. But please keep the Traynor thing quiet.'

‘Of course, but who's fussing now?'

She grinned, got up and kissed his forehead. ‘I'm off to Cupar. See you later.' She picked up the mugs and went inside.

‘Love you,' Fergus whispered as she turned her back.

Flick's office was cool and quiet. The team would arrive in less than three hours and she wanted to feel in control by then. She booted up her computer and found two zip files from Maclean. She opened the first one and started reading.

There were more than four hundred people who, in theory, might have killed Knox. With a handful of no-shows, there were nearly three hundred people at the function, which was called Advocates and Archers. There were more than a hundred waiters, chefs, security people and attendants. The Edinburgh police had been busy and Flick found lists containing the names of all those entitled to be in the building, with addresses and phone numbers for many. Thirty tables, each seating ten, had been placed on the floor of Parliament Hall. The contact details of advocates and archers were in the dossier, but only the names of those invited as guests. The fifty waiting staff had been divided into teams of five, each team looking after three tables. The catering company had provided full details of all of them, plus the twenty-five chefs who had put the food on the plates. The security staff and attendants were also fully documented. Brief statements had been obtained from twenty-nine people. A number of them would need to be seen again. Once informed of what had happened, Mrs Knox was reported as being ‘inconsolable' and her brother had refused to allow the police to ask any meaningful questions.

The second file contained photographs of the scene. Flick was impressed by how grand the building looked, even in crime scene photographs. Parliament Hall had a particular majesty with its dark wooden rafters, highly-polished and lighter-coloured floor and huge stained-glass window at the South end. Great lawyers of the past, commemorated in stone or oils, observed whatever goings-on the twenty-first century brought in front of their haughty stares.

Flick sat back, thinking. Then she busied herself making arrangements and printing excerpts from the files which she assembled into six folders. She knew that her willingness to undertake menial tasks generated respect from her team. She wondered if Chandavarkar had got her message and hoped she had not made it too peremptory. After all, she was not his line manager. It was the irritating tone of his recorded message that had made her speak more sharply than she had meant. She liked him and respected his abilities, but his cheeky, puerile attempts at humour were so annoying.

Detective Sergeant Lance Wallace was the first to arrive in the incident room. The reassuring way he sat still, waiting to be told what was happening, boosted her confidence. ‘Dour' was an adjective she had heard applied to him, but as far as she was concerned he was strong, silent and reliable. She gave him the short version of why they were being brought in. He showed no reaction other than a frown of concentration as he thought through the implications. Five minutes after six the odd couple, as they were known, entered together. Well-tanned and debonair, Detective Constable Billy di Falco looked cool and casual. His great friend, Detective Constable ‘Spider' Gilsland, was a casualty of the warm weather. His crumpled shirt was stained at the front by chocolate ice cream and under the arms by sweat, while his baggy khaki shorts revealed the knobbliest knees Flick could remember seeing. At least he had sprayed himself generously with after-shave, although his bright red face suggested he should have used more sun cream.

Ignoring their tale of car keys in the wrong trousers, she handed round the folders she had assembled, leaving one for her and two more on her desk. She had not copied the file on Lynda Traynor but began by explaining its contents and why they had been given the case.

‘This is the crime we are dealing with,' she said as she stuck a photograph at the top of the whiteboard. It showed a man in a dinner jacket lolling in a red leather chair. On the wall at his right shoulder part of a coat of arms was visible. The man had dark, wavy hair, thinning at the front, a sharp nose and a double chin. His mouth gaped in an expression of astonishment and blank eyes seemed to stare straight ahead. His hands had gone to his stomach, from which the end of an arrow protruded, its feathers plainly visible. Flick stood back to let them all see then stuck up another three photographs giving views of the court and the corridor outside.

‘This is going to be a big job,' she said, ‘and Graeme Traynor must never appear on the whiteboard, though we have to investigate him thoroughly.'

‘We are always thorough, Inspector, ma'am.' Detective Sergeant Bagawath Chandavarkar, known to everyone except Flick as ‘Baggo', burst in. He was wearing the sort of multi-coloured trousers favoured by golfers and some comedians. His broad grin showed off his white teeth against his lower face, which was dark brown and unprotected by his golf cap. His sallow forehead made him look slightly ridiculous. ‘I regret missing the start of your briefing, but I have just gone round Carnoustie in ninety-four. I got your message when I had finished and rushed here post-haste. It is conveniently near my route back to Edinburgh.'

While the others chuckled, Flick smiled. ‘Well pick up a folder and see what we've got,' she said then gave him the very short version of why they were involved. As the chairs were taken, he sat on the edge of a desk, grimacing as he studied the pictures of a man he had come to know and respect, if not like.

Flick continued with the briefing, summarising what MacGregor had told her. ‘I think the most likely scenario is that Knox took advantage of the archery contest to go off to Court Three to have sex. That would be some time between ten and ten-twenty. He did have sex, if the rumours are right, with Lynda Traynor. Then someone who had picked up one of the arrows from the judges' retiring room where they had been stowed after the shooting, stabbed him. The archery finished about twenty past ten, and all the bows and arrows were placed in the retiring room, which is in the judges' corridor, immediately afterwards, so the murder took place between twenty past ten and eleven. We have to account for the movements of any suspect during that frame. As I said, it's not going to be easy, particularly if we must be discreet about the Traynor angle.'

‘Would it not have been possible for someone to take an arrow while the archery was still going on?' di Falco asked.

‘Not according to a Captain Carstairs, who refereed the shooting and was responsible for the safekeeping of the equipment. Edinburgh were quick to get a statement from him,' Flick replied.

‘I take it that, whoever she may be, the lady who had sex with Mr Knox is a suspect,' Baggo said. Glancing at Flick with a twinkle in his eye, he added, ‘The great writer, Kipling, had a point when he wrote, “the female of the species is more deadly than the male,” Inspector, ma'am.'

She wasn't going to rise to this. Looking blankly at him, she said, ‘Absolutely.'

‘I see the Traynors were on the top table,' Wallace said.

Flick said, ‘Yes. There are no statements from any of the top table people, and we have no information about the Smails or Maltravers. Although privately we see the Traynors as real suspects, we have to show significant interest in the accused in the fraud, and their trial. Lance, I would like you to be in court tomorrow morning to see what happens and then interview Mr and Mrs Smail and Maltravers. They'll probably bring in their lawyers, but as it's a separate inquiry and they're not suspects yet, there's no reason for them not to help us.'

‘And if they refuse?' Wallace asked.

She shrugged. ‘Best not push it till we have to, I think. We don't want to risk compromising the trial.'

She continued, ‘After them, you should move on to some of the others, beginning with the people on the same tables as Smail and Maltravers. There are a lot to get round and we have to be seen to be concentrating on that angle so you'd better take someone with you. I think McKellar would be the man. He's not going to be overawed by important people, and he can read a situation well. For this inquiry he should be out of uniform. Will you arrange that?'

‘Yes, boss,' Wallace said, picking up the last folder and trying not to show his surprise at the inspector choosing McKellar to help. When she had first arrived in Fife, the experienced, old-school constable had not concealed his lack of regard for the young Englishwoman. He had become more respectful over the months but the sly digs had not stopped completely, and the inspector knew that.

‘I also will be in court tomorrow morning,' Baggo said. ‘The main accused, Burns, is still giving evidence and I have been told to be there for eight sharp to brief the QC who will take over from Knox. I stay in court and listen to what is said and I pass notes to the crown lawyers. Once these duties have ended I will be able to help Lancelot.' He grinned at Wallace, knowing he hated his full first name, reputedly selected by his parents because he had been conceived after they had seen the show
Camelot
.

‘Thank you, Bagawath,' Wallace muttered, shaking his head.

Flick sighed. For some reason the two very different sergeants got on well, finding humour where it was never meant to be found. She turned to Gilsland. ‘Spider, I want you to go to Parliament House, getting there for half past eight, well before the courts sit. The security people will be expecting you. I want you to take photos of the place; the hall, the courtroom, the corridors, the kitchens. I gather it's a rabbit warren so please map all the passages, stairs and cupboards so we can see how someone might have gone from the hall to the courtroom and back, picking up the arrow en route. Identify possible hiding places too. Then, still at Parliament House, I want you to check the CCTV of the night. The Edinburgh police have set that up, but from what they say I'm not hopeful. Bring the tapes back here. There may be discrepancies between what people say and what the camera shows.'

‘What about me, boss?' di Falco asked.

‘You, Billy, will be coming with me. Your main job will be to charm the grieving widow into talking properly to us. Then we'll move on to the top table, including Chief Superintendent Traynor and his wife, though I think we should leave them till last. It'll be an early start as our first call of the day will be Fettes, the Edinburgh HQ, at half past eight to pick up productions. I've made sure there will be three pool cars available in the morning. Any questions?'

There were none. Making arrangements or just chatting, they drifted out. Baggo was the last to leave.

‘Er, Bagawath,' Flick said, ‘thank you for coming tonight. I hope you didn't mind the brief message, but I've asked for your help in this.'

He shrugged. ‘No problem, Inspector, ma'am. I am very much enjoying my stay here in Scotland. As you know, I have taken up golf and I have made good use of the long evenings. My ambition is to play the Old Course at St Andrews and this inquiry may give me time to do that.'

Flick looked doubtful. ‘It looks like a case of sexual jealousy, but if it's not and the murder really is linked in some way to the trial and the fraud, you're the man to get to the bottom of it.'

‘And, following separate lines of inquiry, we should between us reach the truth?'

‘Exactly. We have a fortnight before I go on maternity leave, and I would dearly love this to be wrapped up before then.'

‘Please look after yourself, Inspector, ma'am. You must take care for the baby's sake.'

She saw genuine concern on his face and choked back the defiant retort she would have made to Fergus. She said, ‘I will. Please don't worry. Oh, there is one more thing; you should call me Flick when it's just the two of us. We've known each other for a while.' She moved in her seat and felt herself blush.

‘On the condition that you call me Baggo, and not just when it's only us. I know you don't like the name, but I am happy with it and everyone uses it.' Once she had told him that she thought the nickname was undignified. He had put that down to her political correctness, and considered it ridiculous. But he had a lot of time for her. She was good and loyal and brave and competent. It was just a shame about the political correctness and lack of humour.

‘Fine, er, Baggo.' Seeing his broad grin, she answered it with a smile.

‘That is much better, Flick. But try to miss out the “er” before the Baggo or people will think I'm called Erbaggo, and that would never do.'

As he left he saw she was still smiling. Still a bit uptight, but the iron knickers tendency was waning. She would not have used first names so freely, even in January during the investigation. He had been up for the previous week, first giving evidence then advising crown counsel, and had not seen much of her. She had definitely changed, and for the better. Was it marriage, pregnancy, or getting away from Inspector No that had relaxed her? He thought back to the tension in the Wimbledon CID room as the slobbish, unprincipled Inspector Noel Osborne had bullied and made fun of the bright, determined Sergeant Fortune, who had great integrity but seldom cracked a smile.

‘I'm relying on you to charm her, duke's daughter or not,' Flick told Billy di Falco as he put on the dashboard the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign Maclean had thoughtfully given them when they collected the productions at Fettes.

They were in a street unusually bumpy even for Edinburgh, paved with rectangular dark cobbles. Substantial stone townhouses with tall windows and black cast iron railings formed a classical Georgian terrace which ran down a slope with views across the Forth to Fife. The doors of India Street were all immaculate and many bore brass plates, the word ADVOCATE printed under the owner's name.

Flick now felt more positive about the inquiry. The previous day's row had cleared the air with Fergus. Later, as usual on Sundays, she had phoned her dad and he had been typically proud and supportive, not voicing the fears she knew would keep him awake. She resolved to phone him more often until the baby was born and wished he lived closer so that she might keep an eye on him. A widower in his late sixties, he continued to live in the family home in Maidenhead. They worried about each other.

But that was life and you just had to get on with it. With di Falco driving, she had used the journey time to phone the people she wanted to see. She had also looked up some of them, as well as Farquhar Knox, in
Who's Who
online. She learned that Knox had been a QC for five years. Educated at Stirling High School and Edinburgh University, he had married Lady Eloise Charlotte Buchan, third daughter of the Duke of Lochgilphead. They had one son, aged fourteen. Knox had been a member of the New Club and The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers.

‘I think that's Muirfield,' di Falco said.

That did not surprise her. She disapproved of single-sex clubs, and Knox had been a chauvinist. She had expected his origins to have been grander. He spoke with barely a trace of a Scottish accent and she assumed that he had attended an expensive public school. He had clearly married several social notches above himself. As she heaved herself out of the car and negotiated the deep, sloping gutter, unchanged over the centuries, Flick told herself that the duke's daughter they were about to see was an ordinary woman, just like her.

A man with tousled fair hair wearing slacks and a checked shirt opened the door as Flick debated whether to ring twice. He identified himself as Reginald Buchan, Mrs Knox's brother. With an air of reluctance, he led them through an imposing hallway presided over by a glass-eyed stag's head mounted on the wall facing the stairs and into a spacious drawing room at the back of the building. Looking down his nose, he told the detectives he would find out if Mrs Knox could see them.

‘We'll have to speak to her sooner or later,' Flick said, sitting uninvited in an upright chair with her back to the window.

The room had a high ceiling with an intricate cornice. The wall facing the window was curved, forming a perfect bow. The furniture was either well-preserved antique or repro. A flame-effect gas fire sat in the substantial fireplace while on the mantelpiece various invitations with italic printing were propped behind pieces of cranberry glass. While they waited, di Falco prowled round, inspecting the silver-framed photos. Many were black and white, featuring a grim-looking stone mansion surrounded by pine trees with different people posing in front of it. There was a coloured photo of Knox looking pleased with himself beside a dead stag and another of him, equally self-satisfied, wearing a QC's full-bottomed wig. In pride of place on a long bookcase filled with hardback books stood a photo larger than the rest. The background was unmistakably Highland and a tweed-clad Knox posed with a woman wearing the same blue-dyed tweed. She had a thin, sharp face and shoulder-length blonde hair. In front of them stood a serious-looking boy of about thirteen with crinkly, dark hair and a triumphant expression. One hand held a rifle and the other held the antlers of another stag. The boy was half-turned towards Knox as if seeking approval, so the stag's head pointed lopsidedly towards the camera. Di Falco was appalled that the act of killing an animal could give so much pleasure and wondered if the stag's head in the hall appeared in either of the photos.

The door opened and Reginald Buchan returned, followed by the woman and boy in the photo. She stood for a moment, as if inspecting the officers then sat on a sofa well to Flick's right, forcing her to turn in her chair. The boy sat beside her and Reginald found an armchair on the other side of the room.

In the silence that followed the woman first stared at Flick's bump then ran her eye up and down di Falco. His flashing smile of encouragement was answered by a faint raising of her eyebrows. These eyes have not been crying much recently, Flick thought as she contrasted them with those of the boy, which were bloodshot and red-rimmed.

‘Lady Eloise …' Flick began.

‘Mrs Knox will do, thank you,' the woman cut in. ‘It's much easier.' Her lips formed a cold, superior smile.

‘I'm Detective Inspector Fortune and this is Detective Constable di Falco. We are very sorry about your husband.'

‘Our condolences,' di Falco said quietly.

‘There are a number of questions we have to ask you, and it might be better if your brother and son were not present. I hope you don't mind.'

While Mrs Knox scowled, her brother was indignant. ‘Is this necessary, Inspector? I mean, her husband's just been murdered. This whole thing is quite traumatic for her.'

Glancing meaningfully at the boy, Flick said firmly, ‘It would be better for all concerned, sir.'

Mrs Knox said quietly, ‘It's alright, Spare. I'll be fine.'

From her Googling Flick had learned that, after giving birth to three daughters, the Duchess of Lochgilphead had borne two sons, the elder of whom was the heir. Reginald was the spare.

Flick thought he was going to prove awkward, but he too looked at the boy and nodded. ‘Come on, Ranald,' he said kindly. He put his arm round his nephew's shoulder as they left the room. Before rising from the sofa, Ranald shot Flick a glare full of unhappy resentment.

‘He worshipped his father,' Mrs Knox said quite brusquely.

Flick nodded at di Falco, who sat in the chair vacated by Buchan.

‘We have to find out what happened on Friday night between ten and eleven,' di Falco said. ‘Can you tell us what you did then and who you saw?'

Mrs Knox responded with a shrug. ‘It's hard to remember exactly,' she said slowly, the accent clipped. ‘I last saw Farquhar after dinner. He left the table then and didn't return. I never saw him again.' She paused for a moment. Her voice catching, she continued, ‘I went to the Ladies then watched the archery. I stood for a time with Molly Bertram, but she saw someone she wanted to speak to and I moved about a bit. It was quite difficult to see at times. I did chat to Kenny Cuthbert. The Cuthberts and the Bertrams were in our party. After the contest was over I went outside to Parliament Square for a cigarette, or maybe two. There were a few of us. I didn't know most of them. I do remember John Logan. He's one of the bar's smokers and we've become allies.' She reached into a pocket of her linen skirt and withdrew a packet and a silver lighter. Her hand shook as she lit up.

‘What was happening when you returned?' di Falco asked as Flick recoiled from the smoke, waving her hand in front of her.

‘The band started. Dancing.'

‘What did you do then?'

‘There was a seating area in the library. I made for it but Kenny and Jen Cuthbert press-ganged me into a Dashing White Sergeant. You do it in threes and it's always the first dance of the night,' she added, seeing Flick's puzzled expression. ‘Once it was over I went to the library and stayed there. Jen Cuthbert and Molly Bertram will vouch for me.'

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill your husband?' he asked.

‘Several.' She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Farquhar didn't go out of his way to be popular. But no. I cannot think of anyone who would have actually wanted to kill him.'

‘You left with the Cuthberts, I believe, assuming your husband had gone without telling anyone?'

‘Farquhar could be infuriating but he was never boring and he had a very low boredom threshold. He hated dancing and had been making fun of the Archers through dinner, humming
Robin Hood, Robin Hood
when the Captain-General, their head man, passed our table. I took it he'd drifted off to some pub.'

Di Falco's charm had worked. Flick decided it was time to get to the point. ‘Examination of your husband's body has shown that he had sex minutes before he died. I have to ask if you know anything about that?'

Mrs Knox stiffened and exhaled in Flick's direction. ‘I do not,' she said with emphasis.

Flick wrinkled her nose and blew at the smoke. Trying not to sound irritated, she asked, ‘Have you any idea who he was with?'

‘No.'

‘Does the name Lynda Traynor mean anything to you?'

Mrs Knox's mouth twitched and she looked away. She inhaled deeply before stubbing out her cigarette forcefully, then fidgeting with the lace-trimmed handkerchief she had in one hand. Neither Flick nor di Falco noticed the door opening. A tall, silver-haired man wearing beige chinos and an open-necked light blue shirt strode in and stood in front of Mrs Knox. ‘Eloise,' he said, ‘are you alright?'

‘Yes, thank you, Henry, but I think these officers were about to go.'

Flick produced her warrant. ‘My colleague and I are investigating a brutal murder and we need to speak to Mrs Knox alone. We are not yet finished.'

‘That's up to Mrs Knox, officer, as you well know. Would you like me to stay, Eloise?'

‘Yes, please, Henry. You're very kind.'

The man sat on the sofa beside her and looked inquiringly at Flick.

‘You can't just barge in like that, sir. Please don't make our job more difficult than it is.' di Falco sounded stern.

‘What is your name, sir?' sensing trouble, Flick's tone remained polite.

The silver-haired man sat upright and looked coldly at her. His face was long and thin, with a disproportionately short lower jaw. He spoke grandly, with no trace of a Scottish accent. ‘I am Lord Hutton. In case you didn't know, I am a High Court judge and I live next door to Mrs Knox. You are both aware that you have no right to badger this lady with detailed questions, and I'm surprised you should have troubled someone so recently widowed. I suggest you ask any questions you may have once and once only, then leave forthwith.'

Di Falco opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Flick knew the interview was going nowhere but she was not going to be browbeaten, even by a High Court judge. ‘Does the name Lynda Traynor mean anything to you, Mrs Knox?' she repeated.

‘It does not.' The answer came quickly.

‘Did you see your husband talking to anyone in particular after dinner on Friday?'

‘No.'

‘Were you suspicious that he might be having an affair before he died?'

‘No.'

‘What were you wearing on Friday night?'

‘A long, navy blue dress.'

‘Was your marriage happy at the end?'

Mrs Knox's face crumbled. Hutton stood up and advanced towards Flick. ‘That's quite enough, officer. Please leave now.'

There was nothing for it but to depart with such dignity as they could muster.

In the car di Falco said, ‘I think you hit a raw nerve with these last questions, ma'am.'

‘Definitely, but how much is she not telling us, and why?'

* * *

‘I think you'd better continue the cross this morning.' Mark Radcliffe QC had a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. Melanie Arbuthnot was appalled.

‘No, I … I couldn't,' she spluttered.

‘There's a tradition of the crown junior taking over when the senior becomes unavailable. It happened in the Manuel trial in the 1950s. The Advocate-Depute prosecuting the case was suddenly taken ill and the judge turned to his junior, who'd been at the bar for five minutes, and told him to get on with it. It was important, too, as Manuel was a mass murderer. He was hanged,' Radcliffe added as an afterthought, winking at Baggo.

‘I will help you all I can,' Baggo said earnestly. He fancied Melanie like mad and loved the way she was blushing at the wind-up. At first Radcliffe had reminded him of a mannequin in an up-market fashion display for middle-aged men, but he clearly had a sense of humour.

‘I'll sit beside you, so there's no need to worry,' Radcliffe continued soothingly. By now he was grinning.

The penny dropped. ‘You, you, you … beast,' she said, her relief obvious.

‘To the criminal fraternity a beast is usually a sex offender,' Radcliffe pointed out. His mouth was turned down but his eyes twinkled again.

Melanie raised her eyes to heaven but said nothing.

Baggo had been impressed by Radcliffe's mastery of the prosecution brief after only a weekend's study. The three of them had spent more than an hour dissecting Knox's cross-examination of John Burns on Friday afternoon, Baggo looking for anything that might have made someone want to kill him. Knox had laboriously taken Burns through e-mails that had passed between him and his co-accused, whom he was blaming for thinking up the scam. Burns had given evidence with great confidence, but the holes in his story were obvious. While the other two were fascinated by every small point, Baggo was glad he had not become a lawyer. His boredom threshold was too low.

‘Cut-throat defences seldom work,' Radcliffe mused. ‘It's always good news for the crown when the different accused are at each other's throats. Burns is clutching at straws. Of course he's the one we really want to nail.'

‘You'll have seen he was acquitted of a timeshare fraud in the High Court a few years ago,' Melanie volunteered. ‘Not enough evidence, apparently.'

At quarter to ten Radcliffe thanked the other two for their help and went off to have a smoke then change for court. Before Melanie left, Baggo asked her if there was anything that Knox said or did on Friday that might have led to his death.