08 - Murmuring the Judges Read online

  ‘No, poor lass,’ Bob agreed.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine. ‘How about your first job? What was that about?’

  Sarah smiled; it was a deep smile and full of meaning. ‘Honey,’ she drawled. ‘I thought you’d never ask. It was a real VIP: a judge, Lord Archergait, no less. He died on the Bench a few days ago, so I believe.’

  Skinner and Alex stared at her simultaneously, in surprise. ‘Who ordered a post-mortem on him?’ asked her step-daughter. ‘He was an old man who went on working too long and had a heart attack.’

  ‘The Lord President asked Joe Hutchison to do an autopsy, as a formality. Apparently there are a couple of precedents, where a judge has died in a public place and a post-mortem was ordered, so he thought he should adhere. Joe and I aren’t complaining; it’s a nice fee for us.

  ‘You guys may be though,’ she added, grimly.

  ‘About the waste of time,’ said Bob, ‘you’re dead right. Why did it take you so long?’

  ‘We had to wait for the lab work to be done,’ Sarah answered.

  ‘Bloody nonsense,’ her husband muttered. ‘From what I was told, Brian Mackie was right beside him when he keeled over. He died of heart failure.’

  ‘Most of us do, love . . . but in this case it was cyanide that caused it.’

  The two policemen looked at her in amazement, each with his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ said Martin.

  She looked at him, poker-faced. ‘I would not joke about something like that after a day like today. Lord Archergait was poisoned.’

  Bob looked at Andy, and shook his head. ‘It never rains but it fucking well pours, mate. Just what we need on top of the robberies and the Bennetts . . . a Senator of the College of Justice bumped off on the Bench.’

  ‘How are we going to play this one?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Quietly, for as long as we can. Look, as soon as Mackie gets back from his dirty weekend, call him in and take a statement. He seems to have been the closest witness, after all.

  ‘Meantime, tomorrow morning in fact, while you’re putting the screws on those screws, I’ll pay a call on My Lord President. It’s just as well he did order that autopsy. If we’ve got a poisoner on the loose, it’s as well to know about it.’

  21

  In common with many of Scotland’s judiciary and Bar, Lord Murray of Overstoun, Lord President of the Court of Session and Lord Justice General, Scotland’s second Officer of State, lived in Edinburgh’s New Town.

  His home was a large apartment in Circus Place, an elegant residence on two levels, with a grand book-lined drawing room, dining room and principal bedrooms on the upper floor, and a veritable warren of bedrooms, stores and studies below.

  Before his elevation to the Bench, the Lord President, then David Murray, QC, had been Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. He and Skinner had known each other well at that time, and had had frequent contact, but they had not met since Murray’s first judicial appointment.

  The diminutive, bespectacled judge greeted the policeman as he arrived, holding open the great grey-painted front door and ushering him into the tiled outer hall. ‘Good morning, Bob,’ he said, warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again. I was intrigued by your call last night. Let’s go through to the drawing room and you can tell me all about it.’

  He led the way through the inner hall and into a large room to the right, where two large, overfed spaniels lay in front of the unlit fire.

  Skinner had a deep respect for the judiciary. ‘Thank you for seeing me without proper explanation, My Lord.’ he began.

  ‘Forget the My Lord stuff, man. I’m not on the Bench now, and my name’s still David. I knew you’d be prompt, so the coffee’s ready.’ He filled two cups from a jug on a tray on his desk, added milk to one and handed it to his guest. It was the first time the policeman had ever seen him casually dressed. His grey slacks and open-necked shirt made him seem even smaller. They contrasted with Skinner’s relatively formal clothing, black trousers and navy blue blazer.

  ‘Thanks then, David.’

  ‘Sit over there, by the fireplace. Shift the dogs if they’re in the way.’

  The two men settled into comfortable leather armchairs, facing each other. Lord Murray’s feet barely touched the ground, but there was something about his piercing blue eyes which made everyone who met him forget his lack of stature.

  ‘How are the family?’ he began. ‘Last time we met you weren’t long married.’

  The detective smiled. ‘They’re great. Sarah and I have had our troubles since then, as you’ll probably know, but, thank God, they’re behind us.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that too, and I’m glad. That’s a fine thing you’ve done, adopting the McGrath boy.’

  ‘To me it’s a privilege. Wee Mark’s what you might call a designer son.’ He sipped his coffee, testing the temperature. Finding it tolerable, he took a deeper swallow.

  ‘So,’ said the judge. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Can I ask you something first?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was there any reason for ordering the post-mortem on Archergait, other than the one you gave Joe Hutchison?’

  Murray’s brow furrowed. ‘No. There were precedents, and like a good judge I followed them. Why do you ask? Has Billy’s family objected?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. They’ll be grateful to you, in fact. It turns out that the old boy was poisoned.’

  ‘What!’ The Lord President’s mug slipped in his hand, spilling a little coffee on to his trousers. ‘Poisoned, you said. Oh, that’s awful. I take it you mean food poisoning. I’ve heard that some of these new bugs can be devastating to older people.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t food poisoning, certainly not in the sense you mean.’

  ‘Then what possibilities are you looking at? You’re not saying he committed suicide, are you?’

  Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Other than Nazi war criminals, I’ve never heard of anyone committing suicide by taking cyanide. I’ve also never heard of anyone taking an overdose in a public place.

  ‘No, David. There’s only one realistic proposition as far as I can see. Lord Archergait was murdered.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’ The little man slumped even deeper into his chair, shock written on his face. He sat silent for a while, coming to terms with Skinner’s news. ‘Murmuring the Judges,’ he whispered, at last.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, “Murmuring the Judges”. It’s an old Scots legal term for public criticism of the Bench. A very serious offence, it was. But “Murdering the Judges”; that’s more serious still.

  ‘I can hardly credit it, Bob. You’re telling me that someone actually killed old Billy, in his own Court, right up there on the Bench?’

  ‘I see no other explanation.’

  ‘How could poison have been administered, there in a public place?’

  ‘My first priority is to find the answer to that question. I’m hopeful that more detailed analysis of the stomach contents will tell us.’

  Lord Murray shuddered. ‘When will that be complete?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, at the latest.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘Joe Hutchison, who did the post-mortem, my wife, who assisted, and my Head of CID. Oh, and my daughter, who was there when Sarah told us.’

  ‘You haven’t informed the Fiscal yet?’ The Lord President laid his mug on the hearth. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked to his desk, which was set by the window.

  ‘Not yet,’ Skinner replied. ‘I wanted to speak to you first. I must tell the Crown Office soon though, or I’ll be in default of my duty.’

  ‘I’ll come to see Pettigrew with you,’ Lord Murray declared.

  ‘Actually, in this case I intend to go over Pettigrew’s head, and advise the Lord Advocate personally.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with that. And since Archie lives just round the corner, he can come to
see us. I’ll give him a call now.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and pressed one of the instrument’s bank of memorised numbers.

  ‘Lord Archibald, please. It’s the Lord President speaking. ’ In the brief silence which followed, Skinner glanced about the room. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall, many of them filled with heavy leather-bound volumes in which much of Scotland’s case law was enshrined. Facing them, above the ornate fireplace, which he guessed had been in the house since it was built almost two centuries before, hung the only picture in the room, a portrait of Lord Murray’s great-grandfather, a predecessor in the office which he now held.

  ‘Archie,’ the judge resumed. ‘Something rather serious has happened. Do you think you might look round to see me?

  ‘Well, now, actually.’

  Within five minutes, Skinner saw the stocky figure of the Lord Advocate as he bustled past the window and up the steps to the front door. Lord Murray greeted him at the door, and showed him in to the drawing room. Lord Archibald, casually dressed like his near-neighbour, started in surprise as Skinner rose to offer a handshake.

  ‘Bob. What are you doing here? But then David did say that it was a serious matter. Don’t tell me one of the judges has been misbehaving.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the Lord President, ‘it’s rather the opposite.’ He pointed Archibald to the chair which he had vacated, taking a seat himself on the matching settee. ‘Bob will explain.’

  ‘I have a formal report to make, Archie,’ the detective began, ‘of a serious crime which I believe has been committed.’

  Scotland’s senior Law Officer sat in amazement as Skinner repeated the findings of the post-mortem on Lord Archergait, and the inevitable conclusion which he had drawn.

  ‘That’s what I believe,’ he said.

  ‘In that case,’ said Lord Archibald. ‘I have no choice but to instruct you to begin an investigation.’ The big policeman nodded.

  ‘Now that formality is complete, Bob,’ said Lord Murray, ‘how do you intend to proceed?’

  ‘As quietly as I can, David. Who else knows about the post-mortem?’

  ‘Billy’s two sons. His wife died three years ago. I didn’t discuss it with anyone else.’

  ‘That’s good. Where can I find them?’

  ‘Norman King, the older one, is a practising Member of Faculty. The younger brother is a big-firm accountant. He’s at the Harvard Business School just now.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know where Norman was when his father died?’

  ‘I do,’ said the Lord Advocate. ‘He was prosecuting in a High Court trial in Glasgow. He’s an Advocate Depute.’

  ‘I’ll see Norman and tell him what’s happened.’

  ‘What about the funeral?’ the Lord President asked. ‘That is to say, can the body be released, in the circumstances?’

  ‘For a burial, yes,’ Lord Archibald agreed. ‘I’d be reluctant if they planned a cremation, for fear of a claim by the defence in any future trial that the Crown had destroyed the evidence.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Skinner nodded. ‘Let them have their funeral, as if nothing untoward has happened. I have an edge here, I think. I don’t believe that Archergait’s killer anticipated a post-mortem. A judge dies suddenly, up on the Bench; it looks like heart failure, so he thinks that’s what everyone will assume. He couldn’t have known that you’re a stickler for precedent, David.’

  He grinned. ‘It’s every detective’s dream: to be investigating a crime which the perpetrator believes to be undetected.’

  ‘Do you mean you’re not going to issue a statement about the murder?’ the Lord Advocate asked, surprised.

  ‘I’ll do whatever’s in the public interest. In this case, I believe that I may have an advantage over a killer. In my judgement it’s in the public interest for me to keep it secret for as long as I can.’

  ‘How long will that be, though? I don’t want any embarrassing questions in the House of Lords.’

  ‘A few days, Archie, but that may be enough. We could wrap this up very quickly. But you’re right, when we start interviewing people, the whispers are bound to start. I promise you; as soon as our confidentiality becomes compromised, I’ll release the story.’

  ‘Fair enough. Where are you going to start?’

  ‘With the closest eye-witness I have, one of my own men.’

  ‘Can I help in any way?’ asked Lord Murray.

  ‘I don’t know yet, David: but if I don’t get a quick result, my answer might well be yes.’

  22

  ‘You’re here that bloody often, sir, ye’d be better just robbin’ a bank and gettin’ locked up.’ The Saughton gate officer was in a surprisingly cheery mood for someone at work on a Sunday.

  ‘In the circumstances,’ said Andy Martin, ‘you’ll forgive me if I don’t find that very funny.’

  He drove on through the gate and parked once more outside the admin. block, then made his way inside, and upstairs to the Governor’s suite. Sammy Pye, whom he had picked up en route, followed on his heels.

  The outer office was empty, but the door to the Governor’s room was ajar. Joyce Latham, Deputy to Ian Whiterose, was waiting for him inside. Privately, Martin was pleased that the unshakeable woman, whom he knew well, was on duty that day rather than her excitable boss.

  They exchanged pleasantries, and Mrs Latham offered coffee. The Head of CID was about to decline, remembering the tar which McIlhenney had produced the day before, when she added, ‘Gold Blend.’

  She took her seat behind the Governor’s desk as if it had been made for her. ‘That was a terrible business yesterday. Between you and me, Andy, I’ve gone on and on at the Service about the height of that fence, and about the overview from those flats.

  ‘They’ve always agreed with me, but there have always been other spending priorities. I bet I’ll get attention now though.’

  ‘I’ll bet you will,’ the policeman agreed. ‘Was the problem common knowledge among the staff?’

  ‘It was a joke. We used to have relatives going up on the roof of the flats and holding up banners saying “Happy Birthday, Jimmy” or Willie or whatever. Eventually we insisted that the access door should be locked.’

  ‘You should have insisted on fitting the lock as well. The one the Council installed could have been picked by a kid with a piece of wet spaghetti.’

  He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘So, Joyce,’ he said. ‘Have you identified the two officers I asked about?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Malcolm McDonnell and Tibor Albo.’

  ‘Albo?’

  ‘Yes. He says he should be in the Guinness Book of Records for the world’s shortest Polish surname! He’s on duty today; McDonnell was on the rota too, but he called in sick.’

  ‘Call him back, then, if you wouldn’t mind, and tell him to recover. Otherwise we’ll go and get him.’

  Mrs Latham looked at him in surprise, then nodded and looked up a telephone number from a list in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. She dialled and waited for thirty seconds and more, before cutting off the call and trying again. ‘He must have recovered already,’ she said. ‘No reply.’

  ‘Do you have an address there?’

  She nodded, picked up a pen and, reading from the contact list, scribbled on a notepad. She tore off the page and handed it to Martin, who passed it in turn to Detective Constable Pye. ‘Take my car, Sammy, find out where Mr McDonnell is, and bring him back here. While you’re doing that, I’ll see Albo.’

  He handed his car keys to the young detective, who left without a word.

  ‘What’s this about, Andy?’ asked Mrs Latham as the door closed behind him.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ said the detective. ‘But after three months of keeping his mouth shut, and asserting his wide-eyed innocence, Nathan Bennett was taken out to make sure he stayed silent for good about the man behind the Dalkeith bank raid. His sister was killed for the same reason.

  ‘When I
saw Bennett on Friday, he let something slip which made me suspect that Hannah had been threatened. When she was murdered, that was confirmed.’

  ‘And you’re concerned that the killer had a source inside here, passing him information about Bennett?’

  ‘Spot on, Joyce. Albo and McDonnell were in the room when I interviewed Nathan. No one else could possibly have known what he said to me.’

  ‘Why were they in the room? Didn’t you make them wait outside?’

  ‘I would have, but one of them was difficult about it, so rather than waste time finding you or Ian to order them outside, I let them stay in.’

  ‘Which one raised the objections?’

  Martin frowned as he pictured the two men in his mind. ‘The older one.’

  ‘That’ll have been Malcolm McDonnell. He’s at least ten years older than Tibor. Big man, moustache, dark hair?’

  ‘That’s him. How well do you know him?’

  ‘Not that well. I’ve never had any complaints about him from senior staff. He does his job and he keeps order. The prisoners don’t like him much, but he’s not here to win popularity contests.’

  ‘Can you remember how long he’s been in the job?’

  Mrs Latham picked up one of two buff-coloured folders which lay on the desk. ‘Four years. He did his first year at Gateside in Greenock, and then transferred here.’

  ‘What did he do before that?’

  ‘According to this he was a delivery driver. Prior to that he was in the forces, for five years. Before that he had a number of jobs, and he was a professional boxer.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘What about Tibor Albo? What’s his background?’

  She opened the other folder and glanced through it. ‘Albo’s been in the Service for six years. He left school at eighteen, did two years of a computing course at Jewel and Esk Valley College, then joined us. He’s engaged, from what I can remember.