‘You could ask them, next time they’re in. They usually meet up on a Friday night, and sometimes on other nights during the week. I haven’t seen them for a week or so, but I expect they’ll be in again soon.’
‘Do you have home addresses for any of them?’
‘No, but they’re all in . . . or they were in . . . the Lowland Territorial Infantry Division. You could try them.’
Sergeant Steele drained his glass, and reached into his pocket. ‘I’ll do that, Mr Herr,’ he said, taking out a calling card and a pen. Scribbling on a pad he continued, ‘Meantime, there are my office, mobile and home numbers. If any of them, or this Hamburger guy, come in over the next couple of days, give me a call.’
59
The rays of the sinking sun shone red on the western horizon, but a heavy blue-black cloud hung over Gullane. Bob and Sarah Skinner sat in their conservatory watching the breaking storm, listening to the heavy raindrops as they splashed on to the glass roof.
There were a few cars left in the Bents park; as they watched, their owners, most with dogs on leads, came rushing up from the beach to the shelter they offered. One by one, lights went on; one by one they drove away, until all of the green space behind the beach was empty, save for two deer which broke cover from a clump of buckthorn bushes and raced blindly towards the east, away from the direction of the storm.
‘The end of summer, do you think?’ Sarah asked.
‘Could be,’ her husband answered. ‘The rain’s certainly overdue. Since we’ve been back from Spain the golf course green-keepers have been the only people I’ve heard complaining about the weather.’ He looked up at the roof, and at the heavy cream sun-blinds which hung from it. ‘That should shut the buggers up for while,’ he chuckled, as the rain began to run from the sloping glass in sheets.
He squeezed her hand. ‘What sort of a day have you had then, my love?’
‘Quiet, for a change. I was able to study most of the day. Joe e-mailed me the final report on the Saunders autopsy, to give me a chance to comment before he sent it to McGrigor. But apart from that . . .’
‘Lucky you,’ said Bob, with feeling. ‘The biggest problem I have with doing Jimmy’s job is not having any time to sit back and think. Maintaining a strategic overview of CID is part of my function, but it’s going by the board, with the in-tray, the politics, and the bloody phone ringing. Andy’s out there on his own, and it’s not fair.’
‘What, are you saying that Andy can’t think for himself?’
‘Of course not, but he deserves support. Yet in the midst of the biggest series of crises I can ever remember, I find myself just tinkering around the edges.’
‘To some effect, though. You’ve had significant input to the judges’ investigation, for a start.’
‘No I haven’t. All I’ve done is smooth things with Archie and interrogate Norman King.’
‘You got a result though.’
‘Andy and the team did.’
‘Okay,’ Sarah responded. ‘You say you don’t have space to think. In that case, there’s no time like the present. The boys are in bed, there’s nothing worth watching on television. Think, man, think.’
He laughed. ‘If only it was as easy as that.’
‘Why shouldn’t it be? Tell me: what’s worrying you right now?’
‘What isn’t?’ He leaned back deep into the cane sofa, slipping his left arm round Sarah’s shoulders. ‘Well, to begin with, I had a call from the Lord Advocate just before I left the office tonight. He’s decided to charge Norman King formally on Wednesday afternoon. He’ll appear before the Sheriff immediately afterwards, for remand.’
‘Fair enough, but why should that worry you? You’ve put all the evidence before Lord Archibald, but the decision’s his.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But nothing. The evidence is there. If you were on a jury would you convict on it?’
‘Probably, but I’m not a jury member, I’m a copper . . . and I like things beyond even an unreasonable doubt, which this isn’t.’
Sarah leaned her head forward and bit her husband lightly on the chest. ‘You always want to catch your villains with a smoking gun in their hand, don’t you.’
‘Aye, I suppose so; but that’s no bad thing, is it? I’m dead certain that I’ve never put away an innocent man. I’m proud of that record, and I want to keep it. I’ve got a niggle about King, that’s all.’
‘Look, the evidence against him is very strong, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there aren’t any other recently dead judges lying about, are there?’
In spite of himself, Bob grinned. ‘No, I guess not . . .’ In an instant, the smile left his lips, his eyes narrowed, and he frowned. ‘Wait a minute, there is one.’
Sarah pushed herself upright. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I am. Remember old Lord Orlach? Had a place down in Aberlady? He died a few months ago, when you were in the States. He was buried along by, in the Kirk yard.’
‘Were there any suspicious circumstances?’
‘None that I knew of at the time. But maybe there are now.’
‘Hold on, Bob,’ she protested. ‘He was an old man. And what connection could he have with the other two?’
‘Just that, my love,’ Bob answered at once. ‘His age. Orlach, Archergait and Barnfather were the senior Supreme Court judges. Just suppose that there’s something connecting the three of them that led to all their deaths.’
‘But even so, how can you go about investigating Orlach’s death after all this time?’
‘I know where to start, at any rate.’ He jumped up and paced out of the conservatory, returning a minute later with his address book and the remote telephone handset. He flicked through the book, then dialled a number.
‘Miss Dawson?’ his wife heard him say. ‘It’s Bob Skinner here. Very well, thank you. That’s kind of you.
‘Listen, I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but there’s something I have to ask you. It’s about Lord Orlach’s death.’ He paused. ‘That’s good. First, can you recall the certified cause?’ He sat in silence for a while, nodding automatically. At one point, the watching Sarah saw his eyebrows rise.
‘Indeed,’ he said at last. ‘There’s just one other question, in that case. Who signed the death certificate?’ As he listened to the reply, he made a note at the back of the address book. ‘Ah, I guessed it might have been her.
‘Thank you very much, Miss Dawson. There may be nothing in this, but if anything does develop, I’ll let you know. You look after yourself, now.’
Sarah was looking at him intently as he finished the call. She knew of Christabel Innes Dawson, QC, and of the important part she had played in her husband’s life. ‘What did she have to say?’ she asked.
‘Heart attack. He was alone in his house in Aberlady when he died . . . that was going to have been my second question but she beat me to it. The cleaner found him dead in bed when she came in in the morning. She called in Dr Street, from the surgery three doors along, and she did the certification. There was no post- mortem.’
He smiled, up towards the roof. ‘The funny thing is that Christabel was shocked that he should die so suddenly, even at his age. He had regular health checks . . . BP, heart function, lungs . . . and he was always fine. They did a lot of walking together. In fact the old boy was the patron and honorary legal adviser of the Scottish Rights of Way Association, so they were always off proving some path or other.
‘The thought crossed the old lady’s mind that there might have been an intruder involved . . . he was always leaving windows open apparently . . . but eventually she decided that she was being daft, and let it go. But when I called her there, she guessed what I was on about right away.’
He looked at her. ‘Do you know much about this Dr Street?’
‘I met her once. She’s in the Aberlady practice, as you say, in her early fifties and not, I’d say, given to using too much initiative.’
Bob scratched the end of his nose. ‘If you were called in to examine an old bloke, dead in his bed, what would
