Gillian Galbraith - Blood In The Water

‘We know he had a motive for the killing,’ Elaine Bell rasped painfully on, ‘and there’s no one to vouch for his whereabouts on the night in question. He made no mention to Alice or Alastair of any recent visit to Dr Clarke, so I want him questioned again.’ The DCI looked at her two sergeants to check that her orders had been understood, before continuing, ‘So far the doctor’s neighbours have been of little help, but the stuff provided by the Jehovah’s Witnesses may suggest that by nine pm or thereabouts she was already dead. That would accord, roughly, with the pathologist’s opinion about the time of death. We’re no further on in relation to the scraps of paper, and we’ve still no murder weapon. Eric’s got nothing so far from his extended interviews with the doctor’s colleagues…’.

‘I’m due to see Dr Ferguson about now, Ma’am,’ Manson interjected, rising as he spoke.

‘Off you go then, Eric,’ Bell whispered. She cleared her throat, tried to speak and then cleared it again, making her voice no more audible.

‘We’ve got a set of matching prints from Dr Clarke’s flat,’ she croaked, ‘and Granton Medway. A set over and above those left by Melville in Dr Clarke’s flat. The unidentified ones are no real surprise given the killer’s calling cards. McBryde’s neighbours haven’t provided anything useful and the search is still on around the Medway for the weapon.’ DCI Bell’s voice tailed off completely. She made one more attempt to speak before whispering ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go on. Can you allocate everyone else their duties, Sandy?’

‘Aye.’ DS Moray assented.

Back in the office Alastair phoned Ian Melville’s home number and got a woman’s voice, upper class and assured. It told him that Melville was away in London. No, she didn’t know where. No, she couldn’t contact him on his mobile as he’d bought a new one and she didn’t have the number. All she could tell them was that he was supposed to be coming back to the flat on Thursday evening. If they wanted to see him again they would have to wait until then.

Wednesday 7th December

Cycling up the Mound in winter was a bad idea. The chilly inhaled air hurt the lungs, and the heavy tweed overcoat meant added weight. David Pearson QC climbed off his large black lady’s bicycle and began to push it. Honour had been satisfied, he’d managed to stay in the saddle and propel the thing until he was opposite the Playfair Steps. On reaching Parliament House he rested it against one of the pillars flanking the entrance to Court No. 11 and entered the building via the men’s gown room. He changed into his court dress, noticing, as he did so, a grimy stain on his fall, and made a mental note to get another one from the laundry next week. How efficient he had been, buying one of his wife’s Christmas presents, a huge bottle of Jo Malone Grapefruit bath oil, and all before his court day had even begun. She’d be touched that he’d remembered her favourite essence.

He collected his papers for the Proof, hitched his creased gown up onto his shoulders and set off for the reading room. With the enhanced powers of observation that adrenaline seemed to give him, he noticed his opponent, Angus Goode QC, sitting at the window closest to the portrait of the late Lord Justice-Clerk. Goode was an aggressive maverick but, unfortunately, no fool, invariably difficult to deal with, playing his cards so close to his chest that they should have become entangled in his body hair, and displaying an unhealthy appetite for a courtroom scrap. Pearson poured himself a cup of black coffee but felt, as he’d expected, too nauseous to drink it. That Islay malt would be his undoing. A digestive biscuit remained dry in his mouth, and he finally put it back on the plate after only one bite. Some sugar would be essential for the forthcoming fray. Fortunately he’d stowed some chocolate in his pocket, and he’d force himself to get a few squares of that down before he was required to perform. He looked, for the tenth time, at the Closed Record, and then moved on to the plethora of contradictory expert reports. Plainly, the pursuer was a liar or ‘a stranger to the truth’, as he would submit. Sufficient evidence existed, if properly presented, to establish that to any sane judge’s satisfaction, and, please God, his Lord Ordinary would fall into that category.

His uneasy contemplation was disturbed by his Junior, Rowena Fox, taking the seat opposite. It was odd, he was the Senior, and yet in her presence he felt the inferior. She smiled at him in her cool, efficient way, but she had miscalculated; he wasn’t one of her conquests, having always been entirely immune to her glacial charms. A hair out of place would have been an improvement as far as he was concerned. He could sense that she was itching to discuss the case, to give him the benefit of her views, but the thought was repellent to him, he felt queasy enough already. Inspiration came to him, and he sent her off to photocopy the first case that came into his head, knowing it had no relevance whatsoever to the day’s business but was thirty pages long at least. As soon as Miss Fox, or ‘The Vixen’ as he preferred to call her, had left her seat it was taken by Goode, and it was obvious that he wanted to negotiate.

‘Any offers to be made this morning?’ he enquired casually.

Pearson looked his opponent straight in the eye as he replied, ‘Nuisance value at most, and I’m not even sure I could sell that to the insurers. They’re very bullish.’

Goode persisted. ‘On a full valuation, quantum will be in excess of three hundred thousand pounds, and I don’t think we can fail on liability. Must be worth a reasonable offer surely?’

‘I’ll see what they say, but my advice will be, at best, nuisance value. Are we allocated yet?’

‘Yes,’ Goode smiled serenely. ‘We’ve got Lord Grey.’ Well might he smile; a confirmed pursuers’ man, Simon Grey. Pearson had been banking on the minimum, an even playing field, but no luck today. His bleeper vibrated, the text informing him ‘Insurers at door’. A huddle of dark-suited men greeted him as he emerged into the hall and he knew, simply from their confident bearing, that they were expecting victory. He reported Goode’s approach, and was unsurprised when they firmly rejected the very idea of a compromise; the matter should go to Proof, the pursuer must be required to establish her case. He had to agree, even though he was apprehensive about the forthcoming appearance. The tannoy became audible, announcing: ‘Before Lord Grey… Court Four… Wylie v Murdoch…’ The announcer dropped his voice to a whisper before booming out, ‘Agents… Aird and Palfrey WS. and Salomon and Company. Court Four.’

The pursuer had given her evidence. Throughout it she had remained seated in the witness box, wearing some kind of neck brace and, eccentrically, a grubby spinal corset on the outside of her polo-neck jersey. Occasionally she grimaced, letting out, while speaking, apparently involuntarily, little groans. Ever since the accident she had been in horrendous pain, she said. Pain like no other experienced by anyone anywhere, her back was agony, her spine was rigid, she had a permanent sensation of spiders running up and down both thighs, and they regularly became burning hot or icy cold, even to the touch.

Pearson began his cross-examination by persuading her to go over her multiplicity of ailments once more. Her complaints became, with his surprisingly sympathetic approach, even worse, and by the time she had finished she was describing herself as a hopeless cripple, incapable of any pain-free movement. In the face of such understanding from her supposed adversary, she relaxed completely, exposing the soft underbelly of her gross exaggeration. Suddenly, his manner altered as he changed tack, drawing her attention to three medical reports compiled by her doctors, all of which suggested that she should have recovered from the effects of her accident within three months of its occurrence. How were they to be explained?