Quintin Jardine - Murmuring the Judges

Brian Mackie’s attention wandered as the advocate sorted through his papers, looking for a misplaced note. Court Eleven, in Edinburgh’s old Parliament House, was a small, unprepossessing room, with drab brown-panelled walls and varnished wooden benches which had not been designed with spectator comfort in mind. Austerity, rather than grandeur, was a Scottish characteristic, and it echoed through the buildings in which the nation’s justice was dispensed.

The policeman felt no sense of history as he looked around from the witness box, nor any sympathy for all the evil which, across the decades, had come face to face with retribution in its dock. He wondered how many men had stood there, where Nathan Bennett sat now, listening to a black-capped, red-coated judge make the pronouncement which would lead to sudden, brutal death at the end of a rope.

A cough from across the room snapped him back to the present as abruptly as the noose had snapped the necks of the condemned.

‘Are you seriously asking this Court to believe, Superintendent, ’ said Her Majesty’s Counsel, ‘that the accused is so stupid that he would carry identifying material to the scene of a violent crime, far less leave it there?’

The man’s tone carried a sneer, for which Brian Mackie did not care at all: but fifteen years in the police service, and experience of far greater cross examination skills than those of the Honourable Richard Kilmarnock, QC, had taught him that there was nothing to be gained by rising to such bait.

Instead, he looked across at Lord Archergait, perched on the elevated Bench in his wig and his white-trimmed red robe; he looked at the jury; and finally, he looked back at the Senior Counsel for the defence. All the while he wore his most serious and honest expression. This was easy for him, since the tall, thin, dome-headed detective was always serious and honest.

‘I am not an expert witness in the field of intelligence, sir,’ he responded. ‘All I have told the Court is that a credit card belonging to Nathan Bennett was found on the floor of the crime scene, that Mr Bennett was found to answer the description given by all of the witnesses to the robbery, and that subsequently he was identified by every one of those witnesses.’

‘Even though he was wearing a mask?’

‘A hockey face mask, sir, that is correct.’

‘Well?’

‘Mr Bennett has vivid red hair, sir, and he has two fingers missing from his left hand. In addition he has a strong Aberdonian accent.’

Richard Kilmarnock’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, and I suppose the witnesses were shown a line of men with red hair and two missing fingers.’ The sarcasm in his voice was even more pronounced, so much so that Lord Archergait threw him a quick warning look from the Bench.

‘They were shown a line of red-haired men, wearing white hockey face masks, each with his left hand in his pocket.’

Mackie was surprised when the advocate persisted. ‘Yes, but there’s red hair, and there’s red hair, is there not, Superintendent? Mr Bennett’s is particularly vivid. Surely he must have stood out. Let me be blunt. Wasn’t this line-up more of a set-up?’

‘Every man in the line-up had his hair dyed to match Mr Bennett’s colouring, sir,’ replied the detective, his expression unchanged. ‘They were all dressed identically, in jeans and grey sweatshirts. Yet every witness picked out the accused first time.’

‘My point exactly.’

A half-cough, half-growl came from the Bench. ‘I’m not sure what that point is, Mr Kilmarnock,’ said the judge. ‘However, if you are implying that the police identification procedures were in any way dishonest, then you’d better not do it in my Court, not without damn strong evidence. Now get on with it, please. The afternoon is not endless.’ With a final frown, Lord Archergait reached for his carafe and poured himself a glass of water.

‘Very good, My Lord,’ the defence counsel acknowledged, in a tone which implied that it was anything but. He turned back to Mackie.

‘Superintendent, how do you know that my client didn’t drop his credit card in the bank much earlier in the day? After all, he does have an account there.’

‘I have no idea when he dropped the card, sir. All I know is that it was found immediately after the robbery, in an area where Mr Bennett had been standing.’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that someone should rob his own bank? Have you ever known this to happen before?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Mmm,’ said Kilmarnock, with a meaningful glance at the jury.

‘Now let’s turn to the money, Superintendent,’ he went on. ‘You said that you haven’t recovered it, didn’t you?’

Mackie shook his head. ‘Not at all, sir.’ He too risked a quick look at the jury. ‘I said that we recovered, from Mr Bennett’s attic, twenty-two thousand six hundred and seventy pounds, exactly one sixth of the total stolen. My evidence was that the rest of the money has not been traced. Neither have the other two participants in the robbery.’

‘These weren’t new notes, were they?’

‘No, sir.’

‘But my client will say that the money in his attic was his winnings from gambling. What do you say to. .’

An outraged, spluttering sound came from the Bench. Kilmarnock turned to face the judge, resignedly. ‘Yes, My Lord.’

Mackie looked round also. For a few seconds he thought simply that Lord Archergait was apoplectic with rage at the futility of the defence examination. The Senator’s face was vivid red, with white patches, matching the colour of his robe, as he began to rise to his feet. His mouth worked as if trying to find appropriate words of condemnation. Then the first white flecks appeared on his lips.

‘Oh Christ,’ whispered the policeman to himself as the truth hit him. He stepped out of the witness box and jumped up on to the Bench.

But even as he did, Lord Archergait clutched at his throat and pitched forward, falling across his notes on his sloping desktop, his grey wig slipping from his head and into the well of the Court, the glass beside him falling on its side and rolling along the Bench.

Mackie reached him just as he began to slide to the floor. He held him by the arms, in a surprisingly strong grip for one so lightly built, then lifted him back into his chair, feeling the violent shuddering which swept through the old man’s body, and hearing the choking sounds in the back of his throat.

The judge was barely back in his seat before his body stiffened, and his legs shot out straight in front of him. There was a drumming of heels on the floor beneath the desk, until without warning, Lord Archergait went completely limp once more, seeming to collapse into his enveloping robe, eyes half-closed and glazed, red face suddenly gone completely grey, jaw hanging open.

Having been its instrument during his career, Brian Mackie knew death when he saw it. Yet still he turned towards the onlookers below him. He fixed his gaze on the Honourable Richard Kilmarnock, QC. ‘Find a doctor, man, and call an ambulance as well,’ he ordered. The advocate stood rooted to the spot, staring back at him.

‘Now,’ barked the policeman. Kilmarnock, unfrozen by the unexpected shout, nodded and turned towards the door, only to see it swing behind his junior as she rushed off to look for medical help.

The Superintendent looked towards the dock, where Nathan Bennett still sat between two white-gloved policemen, a bewildered look on his broad face. ‘Take him back to the cells,’ he told the escorts, quietly and calmly. They nodded and rose to their feet, drawing the accused with them, then slid awkwardly out of the dock. The few spectators parted before them as they moved towards the side exit. As he left the Court, the prisoner looked over his shoulder, smiling at an attractive young woman in the second back row, with hair as red as his.