her strong hand and beaned him . . . maybe as he was reaching for the knife. That’s what gave her time to get away . . . not far enough, though.’
‘No, poor lass,’ Bob agreed.
He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine. ‘How about your first job? What was that about?’
Sarah smiled; it was a deep smile and full of meaning. ‘Honey,’ she drawled. ‘I thought you’d never ask. It was a real VIP: a judge, Lord Archergait, no less. He died on the Bench a few days ago, so I believe.’
Skinner and Alex stared at her simultaneously, in surprise. ‘Who ordered a post-mortem on him?’ asked her step-daughter. ‘He was an old man who went on working too long and had a heart attack.’
‘The Lord President asked Joe Hutchison to do an autopsy, as a formality. Apparently there are a couple of precedents, where a judge has died in a public place and a post-mortem was ordered, so he thought he should adhere. Joe and I aren’t complaining; it’s a nice fee for us.
‘You guys may be though,’ she added, grimly.
‘About the waste of time,’ said Bob, ‘you’re dead right. Why did it take you so long?’
‘We had to wait for the lab work to be done,’ Sarah answered.
‘Bloody nonsense,’ her husband muttered. ‘From what I was told, Brian Mackie was right beside him when he keeled over. He died of heart failure.’
‘Most of us do, love . . . but in this case it was cyanide that caused it.’
The two policemen looked at her in amazement, each with his mouth hanging open. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ said Martin.
She looked at him, poker-faced. ‘I would not joke about something like that after a day like today. Lord Archergait was poisoned.’
Bob looked at Andy, and shook his head. ‘It never rains but it fucking well pours, mate. Just what we need on top of the robberies and the Bennetts . . . a Senator of the College of Justice bumped off on the Bench.’
‘How are we going to play this one?’ Martin asked.
‘Quietly, for as long as we can. Look, as soon as Mackie gets back from his dirty weekend, call him in and take a statement. He seems to have been the closest witness, after all.
‘Meantime, tomorrow morning in fact, while you’re putting the screws on those screws, I’ll pay a call on My Lord President. It’s just as well he did order that autopsy. If we’ve got a poisoner on the loose, it’s as well to know about it.’
21
In common with many of Scotland’s judiciary and Bar, Lord Murray of Overstoun, Lord President of the Court of Session and Lord Justice General, Scotland’s second Officer of State, lived in Edinburgh’s New Town.
His home was a large apartment in Circus Place, an elegant residence on two levels, with a grand book-lined drawing room, dining room and principal bedrooms on the upper floor, and a veritable warren of bedrooms, stores and studies below.
Before his elevation to the Bench, the Lord President, then David Murray, QC, had been Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. He and Skinner had known each other well at that time, and had had frequent contact, but they had not met since Murray’s first judicial appointment.
The diminutive, bespectacled judge greeted the policeman as he arrived, holding open the great grey-painted front door and ushering him into the tiled outer hall. ‘Good morning, Bob,’ he said, warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again. I was intrigued by your call last night. Let’s go through to the drawing room and you can tell me all about it.’
He led the way through the inner hall and into a large room to the right, where two large, overfed spaniels lay in front of the unlit fire.
Skinner had a deep respect for the judiciary. ‘Thank you for seeing me without proper explanation, My Lord.’ he began.
‘Forget the My Lord stuff, man. I’m not on the Bench now, and my name’s still David. I knew you’d be prompt, so the coffee’s ready.’ He filled two cups from a jug on a tray on his desk, added milk to one and handed it to his guest. It was the first time the policeman had ever seen him casually dressed. His grey slacks and open- necked shirt made him seem even smaller. They contrasted with Skinner’s relatively formal clothing, black trousers and navy blue blazer.
‘Thanks then, David.’
‘Sit over there, by the fireplace. Shift the dogs if they’re in the way.’
The two men settled into comfortable leather armchairs, facing each other. Lord Murray’s feet barely touched the ground, but there was something about his piercing blue eyes which made everyone who met him forget his lack of stature.
‘How are the family?’ he began. ‘Last time we met you weren’t long married.’
The detective smiled. ‘They’re great. Sarah and I have had our troubles since then, as you’ll probably know, but, thank God, they’re behind us.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that too, and I’m glad. That’s a fine thing you’ve done, adopting the McGrath boy.’
‘To me it’s a privilege. Wee Mark’s what you might call a designer son.’ He sipped his coffee, testing the temperature. Finding it tolerable, he took a deeper swallow.
‘So,’ said the judge. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Can I ask you something first?’
‘Of course.’
‘Was there any reason for ordering the post-mortem on Archergait, other than the one you gave Joe Hutchison?’
Murray’s brow furrowed. ‘No. There were precedents, and like a good judge I followed them. Why do you ask? Has Billy’s family objected?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. They’ll be grateful to you, in fact. It turns out that the old boy was poisoned.’
‘What!’ The Lord President’s mug slipped in his hand, spilling a little coffee on to his trousers. ‘Poisoned, you said. Oh, that’s awful. I take it you mean food poisoning. I’ve heard that some of these new bugs can be devastating to older people.’
‘No, it wasn’t food poisoning, certainly not in the sense you mean.’
‘Then what possibilities are you looking at? You’re not saying he committed suicide, are you?’
Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Other than Nazi war criminals, I’ve never heard of anyone committing suicide by taking cyanide. I’ve also never heard of anyone taking an overdose in a public place.
‘No, David. There’s only one realistic proposition as far as I can see. Lord Archergait was murdered.’
‘You’re not serious.’ The little man slumped even deeper into his chair, shock written on his face. He sat silent for a while, coming to terms with Skinner’s news. ‘Murmuring the Judges,’ he whispered, at last.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said, “Murmuring the Judges”. It’s an old Scots legal term for public criticism of the Bench. A very serious offence, it was. But “Murdering the Judges”; that’s more serious still.
‘I can hardly credit it, Bob. You’re telling me that someone actually killed old Billy, in his own Court, right up there on the Bench?’
‘I see no other explanation.’
‘How could poison have been administered, there in a public place?’
‘My first priority is to find the answer to that question. I’m hopeful that more detailed analysis of the stomach contents will tell us.’
Lord Murray shuddered. ‘When will that be complete?’
‘Tomorrow morning, at the latest.’
‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Joe Hutchison, who did the post-mortem, my wife, who assisted, and my Head of CID. Oh, and my daughter, who was there when Sarah told us.’
‘You haven’t informed the Fiscal yet?’ The Lord President laid his mug on the hearth. He pushed himself out of his chair, and walked to his desk, which was set by the window.
