Murder in Court Three (5 page)

‘'Fraid not. I was luckier than my wife at dinner, as I had the Dean on one side and Mrs Traynor on the other. A vivacious gal. Cut quite a figure with a long, black dress slit up one thigh. Fitted her like a sheath.' His wife coughed. ‘I remember her getting up right after the meal, but I had my back to where people were mingling.'

‘After the archery contest, can you describe exactly what happened to the arrows?'

‘They were pulled out of the butt and collected by our secretary, Captain Carstairs. He placed them in quivers and the quivers were put, with the bows, in a room reserved for judges, apparently not far from where that poor chap was murdered. It was along some dark corridor and we were assured that the things would be safe.'

‘And what time were they placed there?'

‘About ten-thirty. Possibly a bit before that.'

‘Could anyone have seen them being put there?'

‘If they had been passing the end of the corridor.'

‘And all the arrows were put there?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you know Mrs Knox?'

‘Oh yes. We said hello briefly when we arrived. But I don't remember seeing her after the archery. Do you, dear?' he asked his wife.

‘No. Poor Eloise. Still …'

Flick did not ask her to elaborate. She rose and said they would be on their way. The Craigdillers would have none of it. ‘We're proud of our hospitality in the Borders,' he said firmly. ‘You must stay for lunch.'

They sat at one end of a huge mahogany table overseen by previous generations of Craigdillers, gilt-framed and severe, many wearing dark green jackets, the uniform of the Royal Company of Archers. Their host explained proudly that he was not the first in the family to be Captain-General. Over pea soup, home-baked bread and local cheese, di Falco sang for his lunch with a convoluted tale of a retired teacher in St Andrews who went round his neighbourhood at dead of night vandalising cars he considered badly parked. When caught at two in the morning with a bag of new potatoes to shove up exhaust pipes he had replied, ‘They're for chips.'

His tongue loosened by claret, Lord Craigdiller started talking about the dead man. ‘He didn't like me, you know. I passed near him a couple of times and he started to hum that silly Robin Hood tune. He had wanted to be an Archer, you know. I think he blamed me for not getting in, but I had very little to do with it. It was his own, frankly objectionable, personality that was the problem. He'd wormed his way into the New Club and Muirfield, but we were a bridge too far. Our members are elected, but not all candidates are accepted.'

‘It's strange that he should have gone at all on Friday night,' Flick said.

‘Probably thought it would look funny if he didn't. We are very discreet about those we turn away. If they talk about it, that's their business, but we don't broadcast it.'

He moved on to describe the Archers' history which had evolved into a purely ceremonial role as the Queen's bodyguard in Scotland. They still took a pride in their archery. Chuckling, he recounted how, in 1818, they out-shot a visiting party of American Indians, only to be loftily informed that the Indians had long since converted to firearms.

‘I'm glad we stayed for lunch,' di Falco said as they waved goodbye.

‘Very useful,' Flick agreed, getting out her mobile. ‘Now I'm going to track down this Percy Oliphant.'

When the court rose for lunch Baggo struggled to his feet, his bum as numb as his brain. For the first hour, Radcliffe had picked more holes in Burns's defence without disturbing his self-assurance. When Radcliffe had finished, Burns aimed a supercilious grin at the jury. Baggo readily imagined him as an unscrupulous timeshare salesman, exaggerating and lying with brazen persistence. He hoped the jury would see through him, but if you told a big lie well enough and often enough … The rest of the morning had been taken up with defence witnesses who confirmed that certain uncontroversial parts of Burns's story were true. Mere window-dressing, but would it fool some members of the jury?

Baggo had planned to test the water with Melanie, but she went off in earnest discussion with Radcliffe. Outside in the foyer, Wallace and McKellar approached Lachlan Smail, who immediately called out to his solicitor. The four men moved to a corner where they began an animated discussion. Watching keenly, her brow furrowed, a tall, elegant woman of about forty stood a short distance away.

‘Mrs Nicola Smail, I think?' Baggo gave her his broadest smile.

‘Yes?' she responded coldly.

‘I am Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and I would like to ask you some questions.'

She frowned. ‘I know who you are. You gave evidence against my husband last week.'

‘The questions I have relate to the murder of Mr Knox.'

‘Why should I help you?' She spoke sharply with a mere suggestion of a Scottish accent.

‘I cannot think of a good reason why you should not help our inquiry, ma'am.'

She looked at him appraisingly then glanced in her husband's direction. He raised his voice and snapped at his solicitor. The words ‘get it over with' carried across the foyer. She said to Baggo, ‘Very well. What do you want to know?'

‘Could we go somewhere more private?'

‘I want to stay here and keep an eye on what is happening with my husband.'

Baggo decided not to argue. ‘As you please. I know you were at the function on Friday night. Did you see Mr Knox at any stage?'

‘I saw him after the meal. He was talking to a striking-looking woman in a long black dress. I don't remember seeing either of them after that.'

‘What were you wearing that night?'

Her eyebrows shot up but she replied casually, pushing her blonde hair back from her face. ‘I also wore a long, black dress. And, should you want to examine it, I haven't had it cleaned since Friday.'

‘What were you doing during the archery?'

‘Watching, with my husband.'

‘And afterwards?'

She screwed up her face. ‘I believe I went to the Ladies. Yes, I did. With Ellie Primrose. And then I chatted to some friends. When the dancing started I did a Dashing White Sergeant with my husband and Ellie Primrose.'

‘When did the dancing start?'

‘I really don't know. Perhaps twenty minutes after the archery finished.'

‘What did your husband do immediately before the dancing?'

She glanced in his direction again. Their eyes locked for a moment. She smiled, he nodded to her and she nodded back. Addressing Baggo, her eyes wide open, she said, ‘I have no idea. I don't tag him, you know.'

‘I am glad to hear it.' He smiled. She responded with a slight curl of her upper lip. ‘And after the Dashing Sergeant?' he asked pleasantly.

‘There was a Duke of Perth and Hamilton House. I did the Duke of Perth with my husband and Hamilton House with John Primrose.' Although she volunteered this extra information, her tone of voice and posture remained hostile.

‘Did you ever leave the area where the party was? Did you explore any corridors?'

‘Definitely not.'

‘It's unusual for an accused person to be at the same social function as someone who is prosecuting them during the trial. Why did you go to this one?'

She looked him in the eye. ‘Not only is my husband presumed innocent. He is innocent. He is a member of the Royal Company of Archers and he is absolutely right to hold his head up and go about as if nothing has happened. I think I've answered your questions, and now, if you'll excuse me.' Abruptly, she went over to stand beside her husband who was talking to Wallace and McKellar. The solicitor hovered nearby, glowering.

Baggo moved closer.

Smail was saying, ‘… so I stayed at the table talking to John Primrose till they came to clear it. I finished my wine, went for a pee, chatted to one or two people, then watched the archery with my wife.' He talked in a curious, staccato way. Baggo thought he belonged on a parade ground or in kennels.

‘What did you do after that?' Wallace asked.

‘I believe I bought a drink. Yes. And one for John Primrose. It was a bit of a scrum. Not enough people serving.'

‘And then?'

‘I drank it, of course.'

‘With?'

‘John Primrose.' He spoke as if the question was stupid. He moved towards Wallace so their faces were inches apart. ‘This nonsense,' he paused to gesture towards the courtroom door, ‘has shown me who my friends are, Sergeant. John Primrose has been an absolute brick.' He continued to invade Wallace's space as if defying him to contradict him. ‘When the dancing started my wife got us up for the Dashing White Sergeant.' She reached for his hand.

Wallace asked, ‘Did you leave the dancing area at any time after that, Mr Smail?'

‘Of course I did, when we went home. I went for a pee later on and I bought some more drinks. The rest of the time we were dancing or sitting on one of these odd benches they have down the sides of the hall.'

‘Did you see or hear anything that might help us find out who killed Mr Knox?'

‘No, and I probably wouldn't tell you if I had.'

Baggo saw his wife squeeze his hand and frown at him. He shook her off and she suppressed a twitch that was almost a recoil.

Smail barked, ‘Come on, Nicola. We're off for lunch. I've had enough of these damn fool questions.' He turned on his heel and strode towards the exit, his wife following. Head down, a bulky file under one arm, the solicitor slunk after them like a sheep-dog trying to control unruly sheep.

‘Smail's pretty forceful,' Wallace said.

‘And he has a temper,' McKellar growled. ‘In St Andrews he has a reputation for lifting his hands. But no one speaks up against him so his record's clean.' The St Andrews bobby shifted from foot to foot, still uncomfortable in civilian clothes.

‘But lunch is a good idea,' Wallace said. ‘Coming, Baggo?'

‘Thank you but no. I am staying in an excellent B and B run by a retired chef. He serves the best breakfast in Edinburgh and I do not want to burst out of my trousers.'

‘No one would want that to happen,' Wallace laughed and he led McKellar out of the building.

The B and B in the Newington area of town was run by a retired chef who believed in sending out his guests well fed in the morning, but Baggo's priority was to speak to Melanie on her return to court. He found a seat in the foyer and checked his mobile. He found a text from his boss in London confirming his assignment to the murder inquiry and instructing him to make an arrest and get back as soon as possible.

‘Melanie!' he exclaimed as, in wig and gown, she approached from an unexpected angle.

‘What is it?' she sounded distracted.

‘Do you fancy meeting for a drink tonight?'

‘What?' She paused, looking perplexed. ‘Well, yes, I could, I suppose. I'll be at the Canny Man's at nine. Must fly.' Her gown swishing behind her, she hurried into court.

‘Great, see you there,' he enthused as the door swung behind her.

He decided that he might as well wait inside the courtroom and resumed his unpadded seat near the dock. He took out his notebook and pretended to study it. At counsel's table, Melanie was busy with genuine work. Her lips pursed, one hand turning a page then playing with a curl of her wig just above her ear. Her pen poised then suddenly active, she was a picture of concentration. His anticipation of the evening grew as he watched her. He brought out his mobile and Googled the Canny Man's. It turned out to be an unusual pub in Morningside, like Newington on the south side of the city. Interesting. What would she drink? Wine, probably. Or would she be one of those girls who like to play men at their own game and drink pints? He had developed a taste for heavy Scottish beer. He found himself licking his lips.

When court resumed, it was the turn of Lachlan Smail to give evidence on his own behalf. His counsel was a man with a large gut, a loud voice and strangled vowels. Smail kept his answers short, always a good idea, but not if it gave an impression of aggressive snappiness. From the expressions on their faces, many of the jury did not take to Smail.

Smail himself appeared oblivious to the impression he created. His chin jutting out, he insisted that Burns had duped him. He believed Jack Nicklaus was truly involved in building a first-class golf course on his land. He had, he said, been furious when told that Nicklaus had never been on the farm and that the pictures of him had been superimposed on images of empty fields. Baggo did not believe a word of it and wondered how Smail would fare in prison.

When court rose, Baggo went to meet Radcliffe and Melanie for a post mortem. In the foyer he heard Maltravers refuse to speak to Wallace and McKellar. ‘I still have a planning practice to run,' he protested.

There was nothing for Baggo to contribute to counsel's discussion and Radcliffe agreed that over the following days he should concentrate on the murder. After swapping mobile numbers he left them. ‘See you later,' he whispered to Melanie. She rewarded him with a conspiratorial smile.

The sun was shining on the Royal Mile when he emerged into daylight. He pulled on a long-visored golf cap. A Brahmin, brought up to avoid the sun, he could not understand all the fair-skinned native Brits who exposed as much as they could, turning themselves into lobsters in what seemed to Baggo to be a reversal of evolution.

He checked his mobile and found a message from Flick.

* * *

‘We're early, but that shouldn't matter,' Flick said to di Falco as he pulled back the door of The Verdict pub, a short distance from Parliament House, where they were due to meet Percy Oliphant. A thin, stooped young man with acne partially hidden by uneven facial hair barged past them, causing Flick to grab di Falco's arm.

‘Excuse me!' she shouted at his back as he ran up the street. ‘Don't worry, Billy,' she told di Falco, who was set to chase him.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the subdued light inside the pub, which was presided over by a sour-looking man leaning idly on the bar. Round the walls were murals depicting famous criminals. They were boldly painted in garish colours and stopped just short of grotesque, the names inscribed underneath in elaborate calligraphy.

It was early for after-work drinkers and only a few lunch time patrons remained. A noisy group of students occupied a corner, one of them insisting that the first question had been unfair. Flick had a sudden flash-back to similar post-exam sessions from her days at Bristol. At the far end of the bar two men in ill-fitting suits talked confidentially. Both aimed shifty glances at Flick. She recognised the type and knew what verdict she would give them.

Identifying Oliphant was easy. Dressed in a black jacket with a tie that looked as if someone had vomited paella over it, he sat alone in a booth, a half-empty glass of what looked like gin and tonic in front of him.

‘Inspector Fortune, I presume.' He spoke in plummy tones, slightly slurred, and stared at Flick's bump.

With some difficulty Flick eased herself onto the bench opposite, noting that the plastic cover was warm and a half-pint glass remained on the table, some beer undrunk. Di Falco sat beside Oliphant, hemming him in and looking with distaste at the dandruff sprinkled generously over his shoulders.

‘I settled my case this morning, on excellent terms, I might say. My client was most grateful, and after a celebration lunch, the rest of today must be a
dies non
.' He looked for a reaction from Flick but got none. ‘I suppose you want to see me about Night?'

‘Night?' she asked.

A superior smile creased his pale, pudgy face. ‘
Nox, noctis
– night. Latin, you know. A play on words. Knox's bar nickname was Night, and by Jove he lived up to it.' His fingers caressed his glass. They were soft, small fingers with long nails. A woman's fingers.

‘I want to know what you can tell me about Friday evening. I believe you were there at the function?'

‘I was.'

‘I believe you saw Mr Knox after dinner?'

He shifted in his seat. ‘I did.'

‘And?'

‘And so?'

Flick leaned across the table and spoke quietly. ‘You have been gossiping about seeing him with someone. If that is not true, you must tell us now. If it is true, it is your duty to give us all the information you can. I shouldn't need to remind you that you are an officer of court. We can do this at a police office, you know.'

His dark eyes narrowed and he exhaled audibly, the alcoholic fumes making Flick wrinkle her nose. She could tell he was quite drunk. His reluctance to cooperate and his insufferable air of intellectual superiority showed him to be one of those lawyers who instinctively dislike the police, just as some dogs loathe cats. She had come across the type before and had no time for them. It was the police who found the bodies, tackled the mad and the bad and kept society safe, while the lawyers …

‘I do not need to be lectured, Inspector,' he said. ‘I required you to focus your queries on what you want to know about.' Having tried to save face he took a deep breath. ‘Mr Knox had a reputation with the ladies. Recently there have been stories that he was having an affair with the wife of the Edinburgh Divisional Commander. When the Traynors were invited to join the top table last Friday, some of us were curious to see her. It was easy to tell her from the other women at that table.' His lips stretched into a lecherous grin. ‘After dinner, I saw her talking confidentially with Mr Knox. She wore a particularly seductive black dress with a slit up one thigh. When the bows and arrows came out I stayed at the back of the crowd and kept an eye open. I suspected they might try something scandalous. I spotted Mr Knox, on his own, going down the main corridor leading to Court Three. I was distracted and when I looked again he had disappeared. There were no lights on once you got further down the corridor. Next thing I saw was Mrs Traynor following Mr Knox. I couldn't see well because of the lack of light, but she disappeared about where the judge's door of Court Three is. That was it. Mr Knox must have bribed the security staff because all courtroom doors are supposed to be locked.'