over a minute, then turned it over and concentrated on the second. The third likeness was that of Norman King. Watching him, Mackie imagined that he saw a slight tensing of the neck muscles as he turned over the second picture and looked at the shot. If there had been it was gone in an instant, for Beaton treated it in exactly the same way as the others, and as the four which followed, staring down at each one.
When he was finished, he looked up at Mackie once more. ‘Might I look at them all together,’ he asked, ‘spread out on the table?’
‘Of course.’ The policeman picked up the folders and spread the seven photographs on the surface, at random rather than in the order in which Beaton had looked at them first.
The man stood up and walked along the line of faces, left to right, back again, left to right once more. At last he stopped, and stood looking down once more, holding his chin loosely with the fingers of his right hand. He stared at the table for another full minute, until he looked round at Mackie and nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m as certain as I can be, in the circumstances, and considering the distance there was between us. That’s the man who was with Lord Barnfather.’
He reached down and touched the fifth photograph in the line, tapping his fingertips on the face of Norman King.
52
‘So what’s the set-up with King’s girl-friend?’ Skinner asked.
‘Maclean Farms Limited turned out to be her family business, Boss,’ said Mario McGuire, looking at the DCC across the conference table in Martin’s office. ‘She and her mother own it jointly. The father’s dead, and the place is run by a manager.
‘When we saw her there, we decided not to go in, in case she told King and he worked out what we were up to.
‘So instead, we pulled off the road and went round the side to have a look. There was another car there, a wee MGF sports car. We checked the number and it turned out to be his.’
‘That’s good,’ said Skinner. ‘I’d have been narked if you’d tipped our hand.’
Martin, in the chair at the head of the table, leaned forward. ‘How are we going to confirm that she is holding cyanide?’ he asked.
‘I’ve arranged for an Environmental Health Officer from the Council to pay a routine visit to the farm first thing this morning, sir.’ McGuire glanced at his watch. ‘He’s probably done it by now.’
The DCC nodded his approval, then turned to Rose and Neville. Both women sported healthy sun-tans. ‘So, ladies. How was the weekend on the beach?’
‘Productive, sir,’ the DCI answered, ‘as you’ve probably heard.’
‘Yes . . . you’re both looking well on it, too,’ he added, with a grin. ‘Brian said that your man Beaton was meticulous in his identification, although he qualified it to an extent. How do you think he’ll be in the witness box?’
‘I don’t think that David will be flustered at all, Boss. As Brian said, he’s a careful sort of person. Now if it had been his partner, Donovan the skinny-dipper . . .’
‘Eh?’ Neil McIlhenney burst out.
‘Ah,’ said Rose, ‘Mario didn’t mention him?’
‘He was the highlight of my weekend,’ Karen Neville volunteered, then added, ‘. . . almost.’
‘Stick to the subject please, folks,’ Martin called from the head of the table.
‘Yes; sorry, sir,’ the DCI acknowledged. ‘Fortunately Donovan isn’t involved in our case, or I think we could have trouble with him in the box. David, on the other hand, will be fine. I think he’d even stand up to old Christabel, if it came to that.’
Skinner broke in. ‘All he has to say on oath is what he said to Brian. When we add that to my party friend Philip’s positive identification of King in the Reserve on the afternoon in question, we’ve got enough for the jury.’
He looked round the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what do we have on Mr Norman King, QC?’ He raised his left hand and began to check-list items on his fingers as he spoke. ‘One; a threat to his inheritance: a strong motive to kill both of these old men. Two; a known and undisguised hatred of his father. Three; proximity to the scene of the first murder. Four; a positive identification at the scene of the second. Five; subject to confirmation, access to the poison used in the Archergait murder.’
The DCC gazed at Martin. ‘So, Chief Superintendent, what do you think?’
‘I think, sir, that as soon as we receive confirmation from Mario’s Environmental Health Officer that cyanide is kept on premises to which Norman King is a known visitor, we have sufficient reason to ask Lord Archibald’s permission to interview the Home Advocate Depute as the principal suspect in these murder investigations.’
‘My thoughts exactly, Andy.’ He glanced at his watch, which was showing 10:50 a.m.
‘I think you and I had better make ourselves available at around four o’clock. King’s prosecuting in a trial in Edinburgh today. I think Archie might prefer us to wait until the Court rises, rather than arrest him in the middle of proceedings.’
53
Having found a parking space in Market Street, Andy Martin walked up the Mound, and round the great statue of David Hume . . . the Jolly Green Giant, as it had become known as soon as it had been erected . . . before crossing Parliament Square.
Aware that he was running late, he stopped outside the entrance to the Supreme Courts, on the spot where he had arranged to meet Alex, and checked his watch. It showed 12:40 p.m., ten minutes after their date. Kwame Ankrah was with him. On a whim, he had invited the African to join them, to give him a taste of the Supreme Court atmosphere.
Curious, Andy entered the building with his companion and made his way along to the courtroom where his fiancee’s case was being heard. There was no one in the corridor outside. He peered through the glass panel in the door and saw that the Court was still sitting, with the grim-faced Lord Coalville on the Bench. Out of curiosity he slipped inside and into the public gallery.
Alex was seated in the front row, next to Adrian Jones and his wife. From her body language the detective could tell at once that things had gone to very much worse. He glanced along the row and, even from behind, recognised the man who had appeared in the doorway of Gordon’s Trattoria. Bernard Grimley was grinning at Jones, triumph etched on his face.
Lord Coalville paused in his address, gathering his papers together. Martin focused his attention on him.
‘To sum up,’ said the red-robed judge, with a baleful glance at Jim McAlpine, ‘I find the counter-arguments of the defenders entirely unconvincing and find for the pursuer in the full amount of his claim.’ He nodded to his left, towards McAlpine, Elizabeth Day and Mitch Laidlaw. ‘Costs are awarded against your clients.’
He stood, and the Court rose with him, some more slowly than others. As the door behind the Bench closed on Lord Coalville, the policeman glanced at the senior counsel for the defence and saw a glare of pure hatred.
The silence held for a second or two, then a babble of conversation broke out in the courtroom. Advocates, solicitors and clients stood and mingled, the triumphant hugs and handshakes on the right contrasting with the gloom on the left.
As Andy stepped out of the public benches and moved towards her, Alex turned. Before she noticed him, he saw the anger and frustration written on her face, and realised, to his surprise, that she was not far from tears. ‘I know the feeling, love,’ he whispered as he took her hand.
‘Yes,’ said McAlpine, overhearing. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Alex.Your preparation work was immaculate. What you have to keep in mind is that when a case like this gets this far, someone is going to be disappointed.’ His face hardened again. ‘Mind you, I could still choke the life out of that bastard Coalville.’
‘Will you appeal it?’ Andy asked.
‘I’ll have to consult our clients on that,’ said Mitch Laidlaw, from behind him, ‘but I very much doubt it. The
