Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

‘George Gates may have been childless, my dear, but his wife most certainly wasn’t.’

Grace Collins looked at Skinner as if one of them was mad.

‘A baby?’ she repeated. ‘Auntie Beattie? Not that I ever heard of.’

‘Do you think that if Curly had known, he’d have told you?’

‘Yes, of course he would. Curly loved family gossip; he’d never have kept something like that to himself. But she couldn’t have had a kid. George Gates couldn’t. .’

‘How do you know that, Mrs Collins?’ asked the policeman.

‘Granny Lewis told us once. Curly’s mum would never have breathed a word about anything below the waist, like, but the Auld Yin never liked Gates. I remember her laughing as she told us about it. George and Auntie Beattie had been married for over five years, when he finally said, “Enough’s enough; we’re going to find out what’s wrong with you, woman.”

‘So he sent Beattie to a gynaecologist. The specialist examined her, then sent for George. She took a sample off him and found absolutely zero tadpoles.’

Grace Collins laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Of course Beattie had told her mother about him sending her to the consultant, so when he got the result of his test, the old warrior made him own up to it.

‘She said to Curly and me that Gates started his wandering after that. He always had regarded Beattie as a possession, as an inferior. When he found out that he was sterile, he seemed to blame it on her. It was a marriage in name only after that. He just did as he liked, all over Dundee and he never made any attempt to hide it.

‘Beattie’s face was rubbed in it for going on fifteen years, until the morning when she woke up and he didna’.’

‘She killed him then?’ The question was in the tone of Skinner’s voice.

‘Of course she did, and quite right too. If it’d been me I’d have cut his balls off a long time before that. It was a wonder to me that Granny Lewis never did for him herself. She was a wicked old devil, but her girls meant everything to her.’

‘In that case,’ Skinner asked, ‘if Beattie had been pregnant once. . before she met George, say. . how d’you think her mother would have handled it?’

‘She’d have covered it up. But she was a staunch Catholic, so she’d never have let her have an abortion.’ The killer’s widow paused for thought for a moment or two. ‘I reckon she’d have sent her away to her auntie’s, so to speak, like they did in those days. . only in this case it would have been her uncle’s. Granny Lewis was from Fraserburgh originally, and she had a brother up there: Uncle Michael, Michael Conran. I only ever met him the once, when he came to our wedding.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you’re looking for Beattie’s bairn, you’d be best to start with him.’

‘Not quite,’ said Skinner. ‘I know where I’ll look first.’

He thanked Mrs Collins and left. He had called in on her at 8:30 a.m. on his way into the office, but rather than heading into the city centre, and Fettes, he drove down from Craiglockhart and swung through Longstone, heading for the west of Edinburgh.

While New Register House, at the eastern end of Princes Street, is the head office of the Registrar General for Scotland, much of his department is based in an out-station in the genteel suburb of Corstorphine. Skinner found a place in the visitors’ car park and strode briskly into the building. A black-suited man sat at the reception desk. ‘Is Jim Glossop in?’ the policeman asked.

‘I’ll just find out for you, sir,’ the clerk replied in a sing-song voice. ‘And your name is?’

‘Deputy Chief Constable Skinner.’

He dialled a number. ‘Hello, Mr Glossop. There’s a Mr Skinner to see you, from the police. Yes, sir. Very good.’

At the receptionist’s request, Skinner signed the log-in book and was given a visitor’s pass. He was just clipping it on to his jacket when the man he had called to see appeared through a door behind the desk. He was in his fifties, stocky, short-necked and thick-chested, conjuring up the image of a barrel on legs.

‘Hello,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I’ve heard of you. How can I help you?’ His accent reminded Skinner of Adam Arrow’s Derbyshire tones, although clearly it had been subject to other influences.

‘I recall that you gave some valuable assistance to a colleague of mine, Ms Rose, about a year ago.’

‘That’s right. Henry Wills, from the University, introduced us.’

Skinner nodded. ‘I wondered if you could do us another favour, discreetly and informally.’

‘Try me. Come on through ’ere.’ Mr Glossop led the way through to a small but bright meeting room, just behind the reception area. ‘Have a seat.’

As soon as he sat in the uncomfortable tubular chair, the policeman realised that he would rather have stood, but he began nonetheless. ‘My force is investigating a serious crime. We’re on the trail of a potential suspect, but the trouble is we don’t know anything about him, other than his gender. We don’t even know for sure that he exists.

‘I need to find out about a birth. The mother was unmarried, her name was Beatrice Lewis; I believe that it may have been registered in the Fraserburgh area, around, maybe just over, forty years ago.

‘I stress that it may have been. I don’t know for certain.’

‘I see. D’you want to know who the father was?’

‘If possible, yes, although it may turn out to be A. N. Other. But I’m really interested in finding out about the child. My guess is that. . assuming it was a live birth. . the baby would have been put up for adoption. Could you trace him onwards?’

Jim Glossop clasped his hands together. ‘Probably. All of us, when we’re born, are given a number; a National Health Service number. It’s a bit like herpes; once you’ve got it, you’re stuck with it for life.

‘What else can you tell me about Beatrice Lewis?’ he asked.

‘She was born in Dundee. She’s dead, but had she survived she’d be sixty. The birth may have been registered by her uncle, Michael Conran, of Fraserburgh.’

As Skinner spoke, the man scribbled notes in a pad. ‘That’s enough to be going on with. Beatrice Lewis, Michael Conran, Fraserburgh, mid to late fifties. Leave me your number, Mr Skinner. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to tell you.

‘If this woman gave birth anywhere in Scotland under the name you’ve given me, I’ll find out about it.’

Alexis Skinner stared through the glass wall of her office. The thing which concerned her most was not that she and her fiancé had had a blazing row, but that they had not.

Andy was one of the calmest people she had ever known. She had never seen his temper raised to boiling point. But she knew that the way in which he had switched off, had become even calmer, and suddenly sad, during their argument over careers and babies, was a much more serious indicator of his feelings than any explosion would have been.

They had decided to drop the subject for a few days, to give each other time to reflect. The night before Andy had passed on her father’s advice, to put their problem on a future agenda, and concentrate on being happy today. She knew that her dad meant well, yet also that when he and Sarah had hit their crisis, it was guidance which he had been unable to follow himself. This was something on today’s agenda, and it would determine her future, and Andy’s.

As her mind and her eyes came back into focus, she was aware suddenly of a figure standing in the open office area beyond the glass wall, looking at her intently. It was Mitchell Laidlaw. She gulped inwardly, and went back to the papers on her desk, yet out of a corner of her eye she still saw him move towards her, then heard the soft click of her door opening.