Ken McClure - Eye of the raven

The cold and damp was getting to his bones; he needed coffee and warmth. He had been walking on the south side of Princes Street, looking down at the well-kept gardens which sat in the shadow of the castle and where once there had been water but which had become so polluted with the detritus and sewage of the residents of the old town that it had had to be drained. A respectable front on a murky past, he thought with a wry smile as he turned away to cross over to where the shops were.

‘ Any spare change, mister?’ asked a boy huddled in the doorway of one of them. He couldn’t have been much more than eighteen years old and looked cold and miserable, wrapped up in a blanket as he was and with cold sores all along his bottom lip. Steven gave him a pound and a smile born more of embarrassment than warmth.

‘ He’ll only spend it on drink,’ rasped a passer by.

Steven almost retorted, ‘Shut up, you sanctimonious bastard,’ but he didn’t. He ignored the comment, got his coffee and sat down to look out at the rain, which had just started again. It was rare for him to feel so bad about humanity at this time of the morning — it usually took him till well after eight in the evening.

He recognised that if he were to continue trying to find out the reason for Verdi’s professional demise, it would mean tackling the man himself and he didn’t feel optimistic about the outcome of that. Why should Verdi tell him anything? He’d counted on Seymour’s weakness being his fear of losing his reputation but he’d managed to hold out. Verdi by all accounts had none to lose. Still, he reasoned, if you didn’t put the ferret down the hole you didn’t find out if the rabbit was there. He finished his coffee and called McClintock.

‘ Where do I find Paul Verdi?’

‘ Shit, you can’t be serious,’ said McClintock.

‘ Needs must,’ replied Steven. ‘You were right about his legal partners getting rid of him but I couldn’t find out what they had on him exactly.’

‘ And you think Verdi will tell you?’ exclaimed McClintock, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he could imagine. ‘Why should he, for Christ’s sake?’

‘ Maybe I can play one off against the other,’ said Steven. ‘Rattle their cages and see what happens.’

‘ You’ll get your arm bitten off,’ said McClintock.

‘ It’s worth a try,’ said Steven. ‘Just while I’m waiting for the lab result.’

‘ Try playing chicken on the East Coast mainline. It’s probably safer,’ said McClintock. ‘Why are you so interested in Verdi? I thought that bloke Merton had told you what you wanted to know. Why fly off at a tangent?’

‘ I think I’ve just worked that out for myself,’ said Steven. ‘The cases you showed me collapsed because of sloppy forensics,’ said Steven. ‘But I don’t think they were down to screw-ups in the lab.’

‘ Of course they were,’ insisted McClintock. ‘It’s all down there in black and white.’

‘ Oh yes, but I don’t think the screw-ups were actually screw-ups if you get my meaning,’ said Steven.

‘ Not really,’ said McClintock.

‘ I think they were deliberate,’ said Steven.

‘ Jesus Christ,’ breathed McClintock as realisation dawned. ‘You think that someone in the lab deliberately fucked-up so that Verdi could get his clients off?’

‘ In a word, yes.’

‘ Sweet Jesus,’ murmured McClintock, now sounding almost reverential. ‘No one came up with that one before. Are we talking about Ronnie Lee?’

‘ He’s certainly a strong candidate,’ said Steven. ‘Maybe he wasn’t as pissed as people made out. It probably took a great deal of deviousness and cunning to get the faulty evidence past the others in the lab and through to the court stage.’

‘ Where Verdi would be waiting for him with a cut of a big fat cheque that he’d got from his client,’ said McClintock.

‘ Exactly. It’s possible that Verdi and Ronnie Lee had a thing going. Lee would plant flaws in the evidence and Verdi would expose them. The same said clients would then pay out handsomely to both parties.’

‘ Jesus, it’s a thought,’ agreed McClintock. ‘It might also put Verdi behind Lee’s death. He might have got nervous when he heard you’d started asking questions up north.’

‘ That’s also possible,’ agreed Steven.

‘ But what has this to do with David Little?’

‘ Nothing,’ admitted Steven. ‘Apart from the fact that Verdi defended him and Little’s wife Charlotte was his secretary at the time.’

‘ I didn’t know that,’ admitted McClintock. ‘But at least you’ve found out why Verdi defended him.’

‘ Yep,’ said Steven, reminding himself that this is how he should have viewed the news himself instead of allowing it to fuel his feelings of uncertainty.

‘ Maybe this isn’t a job for a one man band anymore?’ suggested McClintock. ‘Why not talk to Santini?’

‘ Let’s keep things the way they are for the moment,’ said Steven. ‘At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to Verdi.’

‘ Okay,’ said McClintock. ‘Verdi lives in a gin palace in a place called, Silverton Gate. It’s a small, exclusive development of four or five houses by the shores of the Forth near Aberlady. His is called Aberlee. You don’t get much change from three-quarters of a million for one of these babies. It’s on the North Berwick road. Know it?’

‘ I’ll find it,’ said Steven.

Verdi’s business doesn’t really start running till the sun goes down so there’s a good chance he might be home in the afternoon,’ said McClintock. ‘Who says crime doesn’t pay?’

‘ Not me.’

‘ Be careful.’

Steven took a cab back to his hotel. He connected his laptop to the Sci-Med server via his mobile phone and checked for new mail. There wasn’t any. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearing twelve thirty. He didn’t want to arrive at Verdi’s place until after lunch time so he thought he’d grab a sandwich in the hotel bar before driving the twenty miles or so down to East Lothian. He caught up with the newspapers while he ate.

Ronald Lee’s murder had dropped from being front-page news a few days ago to a couple of column inches on page eight. Police were reportedly still searching the ground around Lee’s house and conducting door to door inquiries in neighbouring Grantown on Spey. The chief constable of the local force had rejected the idea of asking Strathclyde police for help with the investigation but the paper — which had made the suggestion in the first place — had somewhat undermined him by listing just how little there had been in the way of murder cases in his region in the past twenty years.

Steven slowed as he saw the sign ahead announcing Silverton Gate and signalled a left turn. There followed a succession of signs stressing the fact that this was private property and no through road to anywhere. The houses, when he finally reached them, were, as McClintock had suggested, very large and very modern. Stone had been used extensively in their construction to create an air of timeless respectability but Steven thought the Greek-columned portico on Aberlee a step too far.

Aberlee enjoyed a prime position, facing the sea and with views across to Fife and the hills beyond. It had a six-foot wall around it with security cameras mounted at each corner. High-railinged gates afforded a view of the front entrance at the head of a semi-circular drive surfaced with white granite chippings. A dark green 7 series BMW sat there, its fat front wheels turned out at a roguish angle.

Steven walked over to the communicator set in the wall to the left of the gates and pressed the brass button. He pulled up his collar against the wind while he waited.