‘Not yet,’ Skinner replied. ‘I wanted to speak to you first. I must tell the Crown Office soon though, or I’ll be in default of my duty.’
‘I’ll come to see Pettigrew with you,’ Lord Murray declared.
‘Actually, in this case I intend to go over Pettigrew’s head, and advise the Lord Advocate personally.’
‘Yes, I agree with that. And since Archie lives just round the corner, he can come to see us. I’ll give him a call now.’ He picked up the telephone on his desk and pressed one of the instrument’s bank of memorised numbers.
‘Lord Archibald, please. It’s the Lord President speaking. ’ In the brief silence which followed, Skinner glanced about the room. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall, many of them filled with heavy leather- bound volumes in which much of Scotland’s case law was enshrined. Facing them, above the ornate fireplace, which he guessed had been in the house since it was built almost two centuries before, hung the only picture in the room, a portrait of Lord Murray’s great-grandfather, a predecessor in the office which he now held.
‘Archie,’ the judge resumed. ‘Something rather serious has happened. Do you think you might look round to see me?
‘Well, now, actually.’
Within five minutes, Skinner saw the stocky figure of the Lord Advocate as he bustled past the window and up the steps to the front door. Lord Murray greeted him at the door, and showed him in to the drawing room. Lord Archibald, casually dressed like his near-neighbour, started in surprise as Skinner rose to offer a handshake.
‘Bob. What are you doing here? But then David did say that it was a serious matter. Don’t tell me one of the judges has been misbehaving.’
‘Actually,’ said the Lord President, ‘it’s rather the opposite.’ He pointed Archibald to the chair which he had vacated, taking a seat himself on the matching settee. ‘Bob will explain.’
‘I have a formal report to make, Archie,’ the detective began, ‘of a serious crime which I believe has been committed.’
Scotland’s senior Law Officer sat in amazement as Skinner repeated the findings of the post-mortem on Lord Archergait, and the inevitable conclusion which he had drawn.
‘That’s what I believe,’ he said.
‘In that case,’ said Lord Archibald. ‘I have no choice but to instruct you to begin an investigation.’ The big policeman nodded.
‘Now that formality is complete, Bob,’ said Lord Murray, ‘how do you intend to proceed?’
‘As quietly as I can, David. Who else knows about the post-mortem?’
‘Billy’s two sons. His wife died three years ago. I didn’t discuss it with anyone else.’
‘That’s good. Where can I find them?’
‘Norman King, the older one, is a practising Member of Faculty. The younger brother is a big-firm accountant. He’s at the Harvard Business School just now.’
‘You don’t happen to know where Norman was when his father died?’
‘I do,’ said the Lord Advocate. ‘He was prosecuting in a High Court trial in Glasgow. He’s an Advocate Depute.’
‘I’ll see Norman and tell him what’s happened.’
‘What about the funeral?’ the Lord President asked. ‘That is to say, can the body be released, in the circumstances?’
‘For a burial, yes,’ Lord Archibald agreed. ‘I’d be reluctant if they planned a cremation, for fear of a claim by the defence in any future trial that the Crown had destroyed the evidence.’
‘That’s fine.’ Skinner nodded. ‘Let them have their funeral, as if nothing untoward has happened. I have an edge here, I think. I don’t believe that Archergait’s killer anticipated a post-mortem. A judge dies suddenly, up on the Bench; it looks like heart failure, so he thinks that’s what everyone will assume. He couldn’t have known that you’re a stickler for precedent, David.’
He grinned. ‘It’s every detective’s dream: to be investigating a crime which the perpetrator believes to be undetected.’
‘Do you mean you’re not going to issue a statement about the murder?’ the Lord Advocate asked, surprised.
‘I’ll do whatever’s in the public interest. In this case, I believe that I may have an advantage over a killer. In my judgement it’s in the public interest for me to keep it secret for as long as I can.’
‘How long will that be, though? I don’t want any embarrassing questions in the House of Lords.’
‘A few days, Archie, but that may be enough. We could wrap this up very quickly. But you’re right, when we start interviewing people, the whispers are bound to start. I promise you; as soon as our confidentiality becomes compromised, I’ll release the story.’
‘Fair enough. Where are you going to start?’
‘With the closest eye-witness I have, one of my own men.’
‘Can I help in any way?’ asked Lord Murray.
‘I don’t know yet, David: but if I don’t get a quick result, my answer might well be yes.’
22
‘You’re here that bloody often, sir, ye’d be better just robbin’ a bank and gettin’ locked up.’ The Saughton gate officer was in a surprisingly cheery mood for someone at work on a Sunday.
‘In the circumstances,’ said Andy Martin, ‘you’ll forgive me if I don’t find that very funny.’
He drove on through the gate and parked once more outside the admin. block, then made his way inside, and upstairs to the Governor’s suite. Sammy Pye, whom he had picked up en route, followed on his heels.
The outer office was empty, but the door to the Governor’s room was ajar. Joyce Latham, Deputy to Ian Whiterose, was waiting for him inside. Privately, Martin was pleased that the unshakeable woman, whom he knew well, was on duty that day rather than her excitable boss.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Mrs Latham offered coffee. The Head of CID was about to decline, remembering the tar which McIlhenney had produced the day before, when she added, ‘Gold Blend.’
She took her seat behind the Governor’s desk as if it had been made for her. ‘That was a terrible business yesterday. Between you and me, Andy, I’ve gone on and on at the Service about the height of that fence, and about the overview from those flats.
‘They’ve always agreed with me, but there have always been other spending priorities. I bet I’ll get attention now though.’
‘I’ll bet you will,’ the policeman agreed. ‘Was the problem common knowledge among the staff?’
‘It was a joke. We used to have relatives going up on the roof of the flats and holding up banners saying “Happy Birthday, Jimmy” or Willie or whatever. Eventually we insisted that the access door should be locked.’
‘You should have insisted on fitting the lock as well. The one the Council installed could have been picked by a kid with a piece of wet spaghetti.’
He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘So, Joyce,’ he said. ‘Have you identified the two officers I asked about?’
‘Yes, I have. Malcolm McDonnell and Tibor Albo.’
‘Albo?’
‘Yes. He says he should be in the Guinness Book of Records for the world’s shortest Polish surname! He’s on duty today; McDonnell was on the rota too, but he called in sick.’
‘Call him back, then, if you wouldn’t mind, and tell him to recover. Otherwise we’ll go and get him.’
Mrs Latham looked at him in surprise, then nodded and looked up a telephone number from a list in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. She dialled and waited for thirty seconds and more, before cutting off the call and trying again. ‘He must have recovered already,’ she said. ‘No reply.’
‘Do you have an address there?’
She nodded, picked up a pen and, reading from the contact list, scribbled on a notepad. She tore off the page and handed it to Martin, who passed it in turn to Detective Constable Pye. ‘Take my car, Sammy, find out where Mr McDonnell is, and bring him back here. While you’re doing that, I’ll see Albo.’
