The clerk at reception sat straight behind his desk as he approached. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Skinner,’ he said. ‘Lord Archibald asks if you would just go straight in. His room’s . . .’
‘That’s all right, thanks,’ Skinner retorted; a shade tersely, the clerk thought. ‘I’ve been there before.’
Norman King looked up in surprise as the Deputy Chief Constable entered the room. Even the Lord Advocate raised an eyebrow at the sight of the tall detective in uniform. ‘Funeral,’ Skinner muttered, all the explanation he needed to offer.
‘Ah, I see. Was it the officer who was killed last week?’
‘No, it was Harry Riach, the civilian. See what you can do about posthumous gallantry awards, Archie, will you . . . for both of them.’
‘I’ll mention it to the Secretary of State. Pull up a chair, Bob.’ He looked across at the third man in the room.
‘I’ve asked Bob Skinner to join us at this point, Norman. There’s something that he and I have to discuss with you.’ The DCC looked at the man as he took his seat alongside him. He was, he guessed, around forty years old, and wore the traditional junior advocate’s clothing of dark jacket, pin-striped trousers and plain white shirt, stripes being the prerogative of Silks. Skinner knew many members of the tight-knit community that is the Scottish Bar, but his path and that of King had never crossed before.
‘I’ve just been congratulating Norman,’ Lord Archibald went on, looking now at Skinner, ‘for two reasons. First, he’s to be appointed Queen’s Counsel, and second, he has been offered and has agreed to accept, the position of Home Advocate Depute.’
The policeman’s eyebrows rose as he nodded an acknowledgement to King. The Home AD was the third person on the Crown Office totem pole, after the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General, and was the leader of the team of full-time prosecutors in Scotland’s High Court of Judiciary. Appointment to the office was recognised as an important step towards high office and a seat on the Bench.
‘Well done,’ offered the DCC.
‘Thank you, Mr Skinner. It’s come as a great surprise, I must say. I didn’t think I was sufficiently senior for the job, but Archie seems to have faith in me. What a pity though that my father didn’t live to see it.’
The smile vanished from the Lord Advocate’s face. ‘Yes indeed, Norman: and that brings me to the reason for Bob’s presence.’ King looked round at him in sudden surprise.
‘What d’you mean?’
Lord Archibald took a deep breath. ‘You’re aware that the Lord President asked, as a formality, for a post- mortem to be carried out on Billy?’
The son nodded. ‘Yes, he informed me. As you say, it was a formality.’
Skinner took the ensuing silence as a cue. ‘I’m afraid, Mr King, that Archie was over-optimistic. The autopsy has established, beyond doubt, that your father was poisoned.’
As he looked at him, the other man’s face became a caricature of shock. He shook visibly in his chair, and his mouth worked as if to form words.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he gasped, at last.
‘I’m afraid I am. Another pathologist might just have been content to make the most cursory examination of the body, but Archie engaged Joe Hutchison. You’ll be aware of his reputation for thoroughness.
‘As far as we can establish . . . although it’s still subject to confirmation . . . someone slipped cyanide into your father’s water carafe.’
Norman King buried his face in his hands and rubbed it vigorously, as if trying to wipe away his disbelief, then looked across at Skinner.
‘How in God’s name did they do that?’ he shot at the policeman.
‘That’s exactly what we’ve set out to establish. I have two experienced men up at Parliament House today, making very discreet inquiries. My Inspector phoned me while I was on my way here. They’ve interviewed Colin Maxwell, Lord Archergait’s attendant, and they think they know: not just how, but when.
‘They are now trying to establish whether anyone was seen in the corridor which leads to the judge’s ante- room . . . without success so far.’
Norman King looked at Lord Archibald. ‘Who would want to kill my old man?’ he asked, despairingly.
‘That’s really what we wanted to ask you, Norman,’ the Lord Advocate replied. ‘Judges make a potential enemy every time they send someone down. Did Billy ever mention anything to you about any of his decisions that might have been preying on his mind?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, for example, can you recall a sentence which he thought in retrospect might have been too severe?’
Unexpectedly, the advocate let out an ironic chuckle. ‘Archie, my Pa only ever worried about a sentence if he thought he might have been too lenient. He used to say to me that part of a judge’s duty is to support the jury. He was always concerned that if he went too easy on a convicted person that might be interpreted as undermining, or disapproval of the verdict.
‘He didn’t like plea-bargaining, either, although he usually went along with it, since it didn’t involve a jury.’ He glanced towards Skinner, then back to Lord Archibald. ‘The chap Charles, that fellow you put away a few months back; Pa didn’t approve of that deal at all. He’d have given the bloke eight years, if it had been down to him. As it was, he refrained, since in the final analysis he always believed in supporting the police as well.’
King paused, smiling in fond recollection. ‘On top of all that, my father had a keen eye for public opinion, as expressed through the media. His firm belief was that leniency is the only thing for which a judge is ever really lambasted. He was right, too. Just look at how they turned on that chap in the States.’
The Lord Advocate leaned back in his chair and looked at Skinner across his desk. ‘All that, of course, just adds to the list of potential grudge-bearers.’
The detective nodded, as if in agreement. ‘In theory, but I think we can disregard those who are still in jail.’
‘What about their families, though?’ asked Lord Archibald.
‘Those avenues will be explored, don’t worry. Still . . .’ He hesitated, formulating his thoughts. ‘If we’re looking at a get-even murder by an old client or a relative, we have to consider their backgrounds. In my experience, and I’m sure in yours too, most criminals fall into two categories. There are the domestic offenders, violent husbands, abusive parents, or fairly frequently, people who have lost control only once in their lives, but with fatal results. Then there are the hooligans, the street boys. Usually, they run with gangs, and are into extreme violence . . . but with knives, clubs, or guns occasionally.
‘I don’t see this killer coming from the first group. Families want to put their troubles behind them. As for the second, if Lord Archergait had been attacked on his way home from Court and stabbed, or beaten to death, that would fit the pattern. But poison, no.’ He fell silent, staring at the window for a few seconds.
‘Look, Mr King,’ he resumed. ‘It’s possible that your father was killed at random, by someone with an irrational grudge against the law in general. But I don’t think so. This murder was premeditated and thoroughly planned. From what I’ve been told so far, the killer watched and waited for his opportunity, and when it arose, he took it.
‘Be in no doubt that if they have to, my people are going to look over your father’s career on the Bench, case by case. To help them, I’d like you to go through his notes, his papers, his diaries, any records he may have kept of his career. Speak to your brother as well; he may recall something that’s slipped your mind.’
The bereaved son nodded. ‘Of course I’ll do that. Don’t expect anything from it though. Pa wasn’t a great hoarder.’
He blinked, hard, as the enormity of what he had been told began to sink in, and, as it did, the anger began to surface. ‘Good luck to you and your people, Mr Skinner. When you catch this bastard, I don’t imagine that I’ll be allowed to lead for the Crown.’ He smiled, wickedly. ‘However, thanks to Archie, and my new appointment, I’ll be in a position to ensure that whoever does leaves the judge and jury in no doubt as to what’s expected of them!’
28
Detective Chief Superintendent Martin opened the door of the small room opposite the CID suite. ‘How’s the
