Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

She squeezed his thigh, as he sat beside her. ‘Don’t forget to let him be a little boy, though.’

‘As if I would. Alexis was a very clever child too, you know, and she’s turned out all right.’

To his surprise, Sarah frowned slightly.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, nothing. You’re right, she has turned out all right; very much so. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being concerned about her. Alex is a volatile personality, like you. . and like her mother. Those things you two found out about Myra, they terrify her, you know.

‘Right now, I sense things going on behind those big eyes of hers, but I don’t know what they are. Almost for the first time since I’ve known her, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.’

Bob looked at her. ‘I’ll have a word with her,’ he said.

‘Okay, but just you be careful.’ She reached down and picked up the folder of papers which he had brought home with him. ‘So what are these, then?’

‘They relate to the judges’ investigation. They’re the papers for a book on the Beatrice Gates case.’

Sarah grinned, wickedly. ‘Oh yes. I didn’t like to ask you in front of the kids. How was Lord Orlach?’

‘Heavily tanned. It must be very hot where he is. His deodorant doesn’t work any more either. Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell!’

‘I can imagine. I really should have been there, you know. It would have been good experience. Even Joe enjoyed it, so he said when I phoned him.’

‘You know the result then?’

‘Yes. Clever you, for thinking of it.’

‘Stupid me for not thinking of it earlier,’ he retorted.

‘Like you said once, it’s a real bastard not being perfect, ain’t it.’ She opened the folder and recoiled involuntarily as she saw the first item. It was a photograph of a dead man, naked on an examination table with the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest.

‘That’s Mr Gates,’ said Bob, almost conversationally. ‘He woke up one morning to find himself dead. However hard she tried, Mrs Gates, who woke up alongside him, couldn’t make the jury believe that she didn’t do it. They were childless, so there was no one to back up her story that he must have been killed by an intruder.’

Sarah peered at the photograph. ‘She must have been pretty strong. That knife is rammed right through the sternum.’

‘Yes, and although it wasn’t known during the trial, they reckon she had incipient MS at the time,’ Bob told her, quietly.

‘The jury wasn’t told that?’

He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘So what do you hope to find in here?’ she asked.

‘Somebody who’s capable of carrying a grudge for twenty years before getting even.’ He took the folder from her and laid it on his lap. Discarding the photographs, he picked up a typed document. ‘This is Mrs Gates’ original statement to the Tayside officers.’ With his wife looking over his shoulder he read his way through it.

‘That’s just an account of what I told you. The woman claims that she was a very heavy sleeper, and that she had been unaware of the intruder or the attack.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Sarah conceded. ‘What’s next?’

‘Copies of all the police, medical and forensic witness statements.’

‘Let’s go through them, then.’

They read on together for almost an hour, studying the overwhelming evidence against Beatrice Gates, as it painted a picture of her certain guilt.

‘Down the road, isn’t she,’ said Bob. ‘No way could the jury acquit.’

‘Hmmph,’ his wife snorted. ‘I cannot believe that the defence was so incompetent that they didn’t uncover and introduce the multiple sclerosis possibility.’

‘You’ve just read the reason. After her arrest, Mrs Gates was examined by the police surgeon. He found that she was fit, and the defence accepted that. Two psychiatrists examined her as well, and neither of them commented.’

‘They were examining her mind, Bob. I suppose it’s possible,’ she conceded, ‘that the disease only started to motor towards the end of the trial. What’s next?’

He picked up the next document and looked at the heading. ‘This is a transcript of an interview with Mrs Pauline Collins, Mrs Gates’ sister, not by the police, but by Arnold Kilmarnock, the author of the book.’

They scanned the document, in which Mrs Collins described her surprise and concern at the depth of her sister’s sleep pattern. She said also that all through her life, Beatrice had been a gentle, friendly woman and that she and her husband had enjoyed a calm tranquil marriage, which, although it had not been blessed with children, had been very happy. Pinned to the back of the report was a photograph of the interviewee, a serious, plain-featured featured middle-aged woman.

‘This depth of sleep could well have had a medical cause,’ said Sarah. ‘Was there any professional evidence led by the defence?’

‘Not that I can see.’

‘Jesus! Why ever not?’

‘You’ve never met Richard Kilmarnock, have you?’ Bob remarked casually, as he picked up the next document. ‘This is an interview with Mrs Collins’ son, Charles.’

The transcript was brief and not entirely relevant to Mrs Gates’ defence, other than as a glowing testimonial to a loving aunt and a faithful and benevolent uncle. As with the notes on Mrs Collins, there was a photograph of the subject clipped to the back. Skinner gave it the briefest glance and was about to discard the document, when suddenly his whole body stiffened.

He stared at the photograph. ‘Good God,’ he whispered. ‘Good God Almighty.

‘I’ve seen this man’s face before. Dan Pringle’s met him, too, only he was dead at the time. This is Curly Collins, one of Andy’s armed robbery gang!’

‘Look, Mrs Collins,’ said Skinner, evenly. ‘Please don’t get aggressive with me. I appreciate that you’ve lost your husband in terrible circumstances, but that’s not my fault.’

He paused. ‘I think you should face the facts here. Last night, our search team found one hundred and seventy thousand pounds and a shotgun buried under your garden shed. Curly was a member of a particularly vicious gang, and he was almost certainly a murderer too.

‘Our laboratory has determined that the gun in his possession killed a man called Harry Riach during the bank robbery in Galashiels. The one we found hidden in his pal Rocky Saunders’ van was used to murder Police Constable Annie Brown outside the bank.’

His voice hardened. ‘If your old man hadn’t got himself shot, he’d have been locked away for the rest of his life, be in no doubt about that.’

‘But who shot him, though?’ Grace Collins shot back, running her fingers through her straggly, dyed-blonde hair, and drawing heavily on her cigarette. ‘I’ll bet it was your lot, with that policewoman being killed. That’s why you’re going on about this guy Hamburger, who probably doesn’t even exist.’

‘Oh, he does, lady, he does. And sooner or later we will find him, just as we’ll find Newton, Clark and McDonnell. Wherever they are, it isn’t far enough to be safe from us.’

He stood over her, his back to the fireplace in the compact living room of her semi-detached bungalow. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.’

‘Why are you here, then? Are you going to offer me a job as a traffic warden or something?’

The DCC grinned at her defiance. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Collins. You’ve got too nice a nature. No, I want to ask you about Curly’s auntie. I’m taking a look at the case of Mrs Beatrice Gates, which has become relevant to another inquiry we’re involved in.’

For the first time since she had opened the front door, something other than hostility showed in the woman’s face. ‘Auntie Beattie? I thought that was all dead and buried, like her.’