08 - Murmuring the Judges Read online

  Murmuring the Judges

  QUINTIN JARDINE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 1998 Quintin Jardine

  The right of Quintin Jardine to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5360 6

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

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  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Quintin Jardine was a journalist before joining the Government Information Service where he spent nine years as an adviser to Ministers and Civil Servants. Later he moved into political PR, until in 1986 he ‘privatized’ himself to become an independent public relations consultant and writer.

  This is for Jack and Brenda

  1

  Brian Mackie’s attention wandered as the advocate sorted through his papers, looking for a misplaced note. Court Eleven, in Edinburgh’s old Parliament House, was a small, unprepossessing room, with drab brown-panelled walls and varnished wooden benches which had not been designed with spectator comfort in mind. Austerity, rather than grandeur, was a Scottish characteristic, and it echoed through the buildings in which the nation’s justice was dispensed.

  The policeman felt no sense of history as he looked around from the witness box, nor any sympathy for all the evil which, across the decades, had come face to face with retribution in its dock. He wondered how many men had stood there, where Nathan Bennett sat now, listening to a black-capped, red-coated judge make the pronouncement which would lead to sudden, brutal death at the end of a rope.

  A cough from across the room snapped him back to the present as abruptly as the noose had snapped the necks of the condemned.

  ‘Are you seriously asking this Court to believe, Superintendent, ’ said Her Majesty’s Counsel, ‘that the accused is so stupid that he would carry identifying material to the scene of a violent crime, far less leave it there?’

  The man’s tone carried a sneer, for which Brian Mackie did not care at all: but fifteen years in the police service, and experience of far greater cross examination skills than those of the Honourable Richard Kilmarnock, QC, had taught him that there was nothing to be gained by rising to such bait.

  Instead, he looked across at Lord Archergait, perched on the elevated Bench in his wig and his white-trimmed red robe; he looked at the jury; and finally, he looked back at the Senior Counsel for the defence. All the while he wore his most serious and honest expression. This was easy for him, since the tall, thin, dome-headed detective was always serious and honest.

  ‘I am not an expert witness in the field of intelligence, sir,’ he responded. ‘All I have told the Court is that a credit card belonging to Nathan Bennett was found on the floor of the crime scene, that Mr Bennett was found to answer the description given by all of the witnesses to the robbery, and that subsequently he was identified by every one of those witnesses.’

  ‘Even though he was wearing a mask?’

  ‘A hockey face mask, sir, that is correct.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mr Bennett has vivid red hair, sir, and he has two fingers missing from his left hand. In addition he has a strong Aberdonian accent.’

  Richard Kilmarnock’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, and I suppose the witnesses were shown a line of men with red hair and two missing fingers.’ The sarcasm in his voice was even more pronounced, so much so that Lord Archergait threw him a quick warning look from the Bench.

  ‘They were shown a line of red-haired men, wearing white hockey face masks, each with his left hand in his pocket.’

  Mackie was surprised when the advocate persisted. ‘Yes, but there’s red hair, and there’s red hair, is there not, Superintendent? Mr Bennett’s is particularly vivid. Surely he must have stood out. Let me be blunt. Wasn’t this line-up more of a set-up?’

  ‘Every man in the line-up had his hair dyed to match Mr Bennett’s colouring, sir,’ replied the detective, his expression unchanged. ‘They were all dressed identically, in jeans and grey sweatshirts. Yet every witness picked out the accused first time.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  A half-cough, half-growl came from the Bench. ‘I’m not sure what that point is, Mr Kilmarnock,’ said the judge. ‘However, if you are implying that the police identification procedures were in any way dishonest, then you’d better not do it in
my Court, not without damn strong evidence. Now get on with it, please. The afternoon is not endless.’ With a final frown, Lord Archergait reached for his carafe and poured himself a glass of water.

  ‘Very good, My Lord,’ the defence counsel acknowledged, in a tone which implied that it was anything but. He turned back to Mackie.

  ‘Superintendent, how do you know that my client didn’t drop his credit card in the bank much earlier in the day? After all, he does have an account there.’

  ‘I have no idea when he dropped the card, sir. All I know is that it was found immediately after the robbery, in an area where Mr Bennett had been standing.’

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that someone should rob his own bank? Have you ever known this to happen before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Kilmarnock, with a meaningful glance at the jury.

  ‘Now let’s turn to the money, Superintendent,’ he went on. ‘You said that you haven’t recovered it, didn’t you?’

  Mackie shook his head. ‘Not at all, sir.’ He too risked a quick look at the jury. ‘I said that we recovered, from Mr Bennett’s attic, twenty-two thousand six hundred and seventy pounds, exactly one sixth of the total stolen. My evidence was that the rest of the money has not been traced. Neither have the other two participants in the robbery.’

  ‘These weren’t new notes, were they?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But my client will say that the money in his attic was his winnings from gambling. What do you say to . . .’

  An outraged, spluttering sound came from the Bench. Kilmarnock turned to face the judge, resignedly. ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  Mackie looked round also. For a few seconds he thought simply that Lord Archergait was apoplectic with rage at the futility of the defence examination. The Senator’s face was vivid red, with white patches, matching the colour of his robe, as he began to rise to his feet. His mouth worked as if trying to find appropriate words of condemnation. Then the first white flecks appeared on his lips.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ whispered the policeman to himself as the truth hit him. He stepped out of the witness box and jumped up on to the Bench.

  But even as he did, Lord Archergait clutched at his throat and pitched forward, falling across his notes on his sloping desktop, his grey wig slipping from his head and into the well of the Court, the glass beside him falling on its side and rolling along the Bench.

  Mackie reached him just as he began to slide to the floor. He held him by the arms, in a surprisingly strong grip for one so lightly built, then lifted him back into his chair, feeling the violent shuddering which swept through the old man’s body, and hearing the choking sounds in the back of his throat.

  The judge was barely back in his seat before his body stiffened, and his legs shot out straight in front of him. There was a drumming of heels on the floor beneath the desk, until without warning, Lord Archergait went completely limp once more, seeming to collapse into his enveloping robe, eyes half-closed and glazed, red face suddenly gone completely grey, jaw hanging open.

  Having been its instrument during his career, Brian Mackie knew death when he saw it. Yet still he turned towards the onlookers below him. He fixed his gaze on the Honourable Richard Kilmarnock, QC. ‘Find a doctor, man, and call an ambulance as well,’ he ordered. The advocate stood rooted to the spot, staring back at him.

  ‘Now,’ barked the policeman. Kilmarnock, unfrozen by the unexpected shout, nodded and turned towards the door, only to see it swing behind his junior as she rushed off to look for medical help.

  The Superintendent looked towards the dock, where Nathan Bennett still sat between two white-gloved policemen, a bewildered look on his broad face. ‘Take him back to the cells,’ he told the escorts, quietly and calmly. They nodded and rose to their feet, drawing the accused with them, then slid awkwardly out of the dock. The few spectators parted before them as they moved towards the side exit. As he left the Court, the prisoner looked over his shoulder, smiling at an attractive young woman in the second back row, with hair as red as his.

  ‘Is he . . .’ The whisper came from over Mackie’s shoulder. He looked round to see the black-uniformed macer, the judge’s attendant, who had emerged from the door to his chambers, behind the courtroom. His face was white and shocked.

  ‘Aye, Colin, I’m afraid he is. It looks like some sort of a seizure.’

  The little man shook his sleekly groomed head sadly, and stood, for almost a minute, looking down at the body. ‘What a damn shame,’ he whispered at last, recovering his composure. ‘I liked old Billy. A bloody good judge he was, and a bloody good advocate before that.’

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly, but grimly, towards the well of the Court, where Richard Kilmarnock, QC, sat, sorting through his papers. ‘That one’ll think it’s good news though,’ he growled. ‘He’s next on the seniority list for a red jacket.’

  Mackie’s eyebrows rose. ‘They won’t make him a judge, will they?’ he muttered quietly.

  The Court officer grunted. ‘Not a hope in hell. Fortunately, it goes on more than seniority.’ He paused. ‘It’s a bugger for you though. They’ll have to start the trial all over again, with a new judge and a new jury. Damn quick too, if the boy Bennett’s getting near the hundred-and-ten-day limit, so they don’t have to release him. I hope you don’t have any holidays planned.’

  Mackie shook his head. Like many policemen, he believed secretly that the strict Scottish limitation on the time for which a person could be held in custody before trial leant too far towards the accused. ‘Not till November.’ As he spoke, he realized that his mouth had gone absolutely dry, something he had experienced before in moments of tension. Without thinking, he picked up the water carafe from the bench, and raised it to his lips. He was about to take a sip, when his companion put a hand on his sleeve.

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

  The policeman looked at him, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘You’ll get more than you bargain for there,’ said Colin. ‘The Senators of the College of Justice have their own wee ways, you might say. Old Billy there, I doubt if he ever drank straight water in his life. He always liked a measure of gin and a wee bit of lime mixed into his jug.

  ‘Just to give him a taste, like.’

  Mackie looked down at the crumpled figure in the chair. ‘He wasn’t rat-arsed on the Bench, was he?’

  ‘Christ no! It’d take more than one wee gin to put Lord Archergait away. Still,’ the little man added sadly, ‘it seems that something has. Where is the bloody doctor anyway? There’s always a doctor about here somewhere, when the Court’s in session.’

  He shuffled his feet, and looked up at Detective Superintendent Mackie. ‘By the way, I meant to ask you,’ he began, ‘how’s Big Bob getting on?’

  ‘DCC Skinner?’ said the policeman, surprised. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Everyone about here knows Bob,’ his companion replied. ‘Some man him. I’ve seen him give evidence here a right few times. That one down there -’ he nodded towards Kilmarnock once more - ‘I saw him try to come the smart-arse wi’ Bob one day. The big man left him in ribbons, so he did.’

  ‘I heard that he and his wife had patched it up. That right?’

  Mackie nodded. ‘Yes, Sarah’s back.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose you know her too?’

  ‘Aye, of course. I’ve seen her in the witness box too. Lovely lass she is, and right clever with it. I don’t know what the big fella was thinking of, getting involved with yon other woman. Pictures in the papers and everything.’

  The officer looked towards the door. ‘Speaking of doctors, where is the bugger?’

  His question was answered almost at once, as the courtroom door swung open.

  2

  The tall man stretched his lean, tanned body along the length of the white plastic lounger beside the family-sized swimming pool which took up much of the garden of his Spanish villa. His grey hair was wet and slicked back against his head, as the sun g
listened on it, and on the droplets of water which still clung to him.

  ‘Have I told you lately, honey,’ he said, in his rugged Lanarkshire accent, ‘that the day I met you was the best day of my life?’

  The woman, on another sun-bed a couple of feet away from his, propped herself up on her elbows and looked him in the eye. She was as tanned as he was. Her auburn hair hung down over her shoulders, and her long naked back shone with a mixture of lotion and perspiration.

  She smiled. ‘Yeah,’ she drawled. ‘You’ve told me. Like every day of the twelve we’ve been here in L’Escala.’

  His face grew serious. ‘Och, Sarah love, it’s just that I can’t tell you often enough. Just like I can’t say sorry often enough for being a complete arse, and for driving you away, like I did last year.’

  The sturdy child who sat between them looked up at him and smiled from beneath his wide-brimmed sun hat. His features, as they developed, promised to take on the characteristics of both parents; his father’s dominant nose and chin, his mother’s wide hazel eyes, and her open grin. ‘Arse,’ he said, beaming.

  ‘Jazz! No!’ his mother called out, turning the boy’s face towards her and shaking her head in disapproval. ‘Don’t copy everything Daddy says.

  ‘And you,’ she said, grinning at her husband, ‘how often do I have to tell you? His ears are like blotting paper, soaking up everything we say, so that he can perfect the sounds he likes best.’

  Bob Skinner looked suitably reproved. ‘Okay,’ he acknowledged. ‘I’ll swear in Spanish in future.’

  ‘Not even in Spanish.’

  Beside Sarah, James Andrew Skinner pushed himself to his feet. ‘Mark,’ he called out loudly, half walking, half running, carefully and deliberately, on his solid toddler’s legs between the sun-beds, towards the pool where another child swam.

  As his mother sat up and caught his arm, reaching for two flotation bands, he eyed her full breasts, hunger stirring a memory of infancy. Meanwhile Bob rose once more and dived into the pool, making only a small splash. He surfaced beside the blond-haired boy, who wore armbands also, and who was swimming laborious breadths.