Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

He smiled and replaced the cup in its saucer.

‘I’d better go. I’ve got the Director of Social Work coming in to see me this afternoon, and I haven’t got the heart to pass her over to Elder.’

The two rose from the table and left the dining room together, Martin heading off, still frowning, towards the CID suite, Skinner stepping back into his temporary office through the side door.

He had been working his way through his in-tray for ten minutes when the scrambled telephone rang. He picked it up, grunted an answer, and heard a reassuring voice on the line. ‘Afternoon, mate, is it winter up there yet?’

‘Not quite, Adam, not quite. How’s it going?’

‘I’ve been doing that digging you asked me about. Don’t worry, I’aven’t told anyone what it’s about.’ Arrow laughed. ‘What am I saying? I don’t fookin’ know either.

‘Your mystery six, the self-styled Paras: I’ve tracked them down, Bob, but I can’t find anything to link them all together. Two of them, Collins and Saunders, were real Paras for about ten years, all through the eighties. They saw active service in the Falklands, distinguished service too, apart from an affair after Goose Green that we don’t talk about.

‘McDonnell was in the South Atlantic as well. For some reason, they let a Scotsman into the Welsh Guards, so ’e was on the Galahad when it was bombed. He sustained burns and blast injuries, but he came through all right.

‘Clark was an infantryman, again all through the eighties. His unit was in Ireland in ’82, so he missed the Falklands.

‘Nathan Bennett was in the RAOC. He never fought anywhere. He lost two fingers in a testing accident in 1986, but stayed in for a while after that. After their injuries he and McDonnell both worked in the Advocate General’s office for a while, but at different times, so they never met there.

‘As for Newton, he was a cook. End of Story.’

Major Arrow took a deep breath. ‘You sure these guys are linked, Bob?’

‘Rock-solid certain, Adam. Someone, or something, brought them together.’

‘Okay,’ said the soldier. ‘I’aven’t given up yet. There’s another avenue I want to explore. I’ll call you again in another day or so. Give my love to Sarah, now. Cheers.’

The change in the weather had proved to be only an interlude, and not the end of summer. With the children off to bed, Bob and Sarah sat once more in their new conservatory, watching the sea and the sunset, rather than listening to the rain.

‘You were right about Alex, honey.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last night, when you said you were worried about her. She and Andy have had some sort of a falling-out. He told me today.’

‘Ahh,’ said Sarah. ‘She’s not pregnant, then. I did wonder.’

‘No, she isn’t. In fact, Andy bit my head right off when I sort of asked him that very thing.’

‘Jesus, Bob, you didn’t! You can be as subtle as an avalanche sometimes.’

‘Thanks very much. The lassie is my daughter, remember.’

‘Too right she is. So it’s just as well you didn’t ask her that question, or after she’d bitten your head off she’d have poured something nasty down the hole in your neck. Did Andy tell you what the problem was?’

‘It’s age-related; that’s all I know.’

‘That figures. Well, if it’s a big deal she’ll talk to me about it. She always does.’

She picked up her wine glass, and savoured her ‘FAT Bastard’ chardonnay. ‘This is nice,’ she yawned. ‘It lives up to its name.’

‘Yes,’ said her husband. ‘It’s the sort of label that flies off the shelf at you.’

Sarah nodded towards the folder on the conservatory table. ‘Is that the rest of the Gates case?’

‘Yes. I ran into a brick wall with Curly Collins. His wife did some checking on dates. She called me back this evening to say that she didn’t know where he was when Orlach was murdered, but at the time of Archergait’s death he was almost certainly at his work, in an electronics factory near Bathgate, and when Barnfather was done, the pair of them were definitely visiting her parents in Arbroath.’

‘Do you believe her?’

‘It was the old folks’ forty-fifth wedding anniversary. The whole family was there. I may check it out, but I’ve no real doubt that she was telling me the truth.’

She laid a hand on his thigh. ‘Never mind, love. I’ll help you go through the rest of the file.’ She leaned over and picked up the heavy folder. ‘Where do we begin tonight?’

‘With the interviews and statements relating to the defence case. I don’t imagine that they’ll tell us much though.’

He picked up the first interview transcript and looked at it. ‘This is a precognition of a sleep specialist, would you believe.’

‘Do you think he could have a word with Jazz?’

‘Aye, maybe.’ Leaning back on the couch, he glanced through the document. ‘I suppose, having missed the MS, they were struggling for theories to throw at the jury. This guy seems to be suggesting that she might have been sleep-walking.’

‘They didn’t introduce that as a defence, did they?’ asked Sarah, incredulously.

‘No, this is a pre-trial interview, that’s all. I’d guess that at this stage they were looking for something that might support a plea to a culpable homicide charge, rather than murder.’

Together they read through the succeeding documents, until they came to a series of newspaper cuttings, mostly from the Courier , Dundee’s own daily newspaper. They were reports of the trial itself, and day by day they presented an unremitting story of gloom for Mrs Gates. Eventually, they turned to the account of the verdict and of the judge’s severe minimum recommendation. Unexpectedly, it was the subject of a critical leader in the Tayside broadsheet, known for its firm views on crime and punishment.

‘I guess the real story begins here,’ said Bob, ‘after the conviction.’ He looked at the next document. ‘Yes, this is a copy of the prison doctor’s medical report.’ He laid it aside. ‘And these look as if they’re specialist opinions on Beattie Gates’ condition.’

‘What the hell are these?’ asked Sarah as he picked up the last of the reports.

‘Those? Oh, they’ll be the photos Richard Kilmarnock mentioned. The defence team had them taken to show how her musculature had wasted.’ He glanced down at the folder, at a colour photograph, shot from directly overhead, of a naked woman, lying full length on an examination table.

‘Time is all that was wasted with those,’ his wife retorted, picking up the photographs as he began to read the first specialist’s report.

He read carefully, noting the heavy qualifications which were made by the consultant in his assessment of Mrs Gates’ condition and capabilities at the time of her husband’s murder. ‘A doubt,’ he thought, ‘but is it reasonable?’

‘Bob.’ Her voice came quietly, from his right.

‘Mmm,’ he responded, still reading.

‘Beattie Gates wasn’t married before, was she?’

‘No.’

‘And she and her husband were childless?’

‘Yes. According to Grace Collins, George Gates was sterile.’

‘In that case, my darling, how come his wife has a Caesarean scar?’

‘You what?’

Sarah held up the photograph. ‘Look here.’

He followed her pointing finger, and saw the thin blue line on Beattie Gates’ white abdomen.

‘It’s an old wound,’ she said. ‘It was done many years before this photograph was taken, but there’s no doubt about it. See how narrow her pelvis is, too. This woman would have had difficulty delivering a child naturally at any time, and on this occasion she had help for sure.