Courts.
Looking around him, he could not think of another senior lawyer in Edinburgh who would have been content with such a small, stuffy room, yet there he was face to face with the little man who ruled the Scottish judicial system with what a famous newspaper columnist had described as a velvet fist in an iron glove.
‘Archie’s been keeping me in touch with the delicate situation regarding Norman King,’ said Lord Murray. ‘I presume that’s why you asked to see me.’
‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘Directly and indirectly. I’m very worried that the Lord Advocate will rush to resignation over this business.’
‘So am I,’ said the judge. ‘Far be it from the wearer of my robes to involve himself in politics, but I think it would be very regrettable if that were to happen. I found him determined on the matter when I spoke to him about it. However, I think I’ve found a way round that.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I never cease to be surprised by the access which I enjoy.
‘Archie came to see me again this morning, to say that he intends to have King charged tomorrow, and to resign thereafter. So I took it upon myself to have a word with the Prime Minister. Any resignation will simply not be accepted, and that’s an end of that.’
Skinner smiled. ‘That’s good to hear. God knows what would happen to Crown Office if he did go. The Solicitor General lacks the experience for the top job, and most of the other candidates don’t bear thinking about.’
‘That’s exactly what I told the PM.’
‘Well done. There’s just a chance, though, that we may get King off the hook before any of this happens.’
Lord Murray said nothing, but his expression spoke for him.
‘I’ve had a look at the report to the Fiscal on the circumstances of Lord Orlach’s death a few months back. It was treated then as a heart attack, while he was alone in his Aberlady house one night. Given what’s happened recently, I think we have to be absolutely sure of that.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘We’re digging him up tonight.’
The Lord President gasped, audibly, then gulped, unconsciously comic reactions which made Skinner smile.
‘The Sheriff in Haddington gave us a warrant an hour ago. I’ve got Joe Hutchison lined up to do an immediate post-mortem. If he confirms that it was a heart attack, we’ll put him quietly back below the sod straight away and with luck no one will ever know. The grave’s round behind the church in Aberlady . . .’
‘I remember,’ Lord Murray whispered. ‘I held a cord when we lowered him into it.’
‘. . . so we won’t be seen from the road.’
‘Let’s hope so. What if it isn’t a heart attack?’
‘Oh, we’ll still rebury him as quickly as possible. But if the autopsy shows that it wasn’t a natural death, that’ll be good news for King. I’ve already established that when Lord Orlach died King was on holiday in Portugal with his lady-friend. The chain of evidence against him in the other two murders will be weakened, if not dissolved, if we can establish even a possible connection between Orlach, Archergait and Barnfather.
‘That’s where you can help, David.’
‘Tell me how and I will, at once,’ said the judge, eagerly.
‘Am I right in thinking that you have a computerised database of legal precedents which the Bench can call up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could it identify judicial occasions on which the three judges were linked?’
‘It could, but it wouldn’t necessarily be exhaustive. But do you mean the civil or criminal court?’
Skinner shook his head. ‘I suppose I mean both.’
‘Then we’ll have to research the Court of Criminal Appeal. That will have to be done by the old-fashioned method of looking through printed volumes, rather than by pressing a button. But don’t you worry about that, Bob; I have a legal assistant attached to my office. I’ll ask her to do it.’
‘That’s excellent,’ said the DCC. ‘I’ll let you know Hutchison’s findings tomorrow, as soon as I have them. If it does show a different diagnosis, she can get started then.’
‘Oh no,’ Lord Murray exclaimed. ‘It’s in a good cause, so I’ll get her working right away, just on the off- chance. And don’t worry about security,’ he added, glancing around.
‘This place might not look much, but it’s probably the only leak-proof office in the whole of Parliament House.’
67
‘Remember the “Thriller” video,’ asked Bob Skinner. As he threw a sidelong glance at Neil McIlhenney, a shaft of moonlight made his face shine, eerily silver in the night. ‘The Vincent Price section where the undead rise from their graves . . .’
His executive assistant looked at him and laughed, dismissively. ‘Try again, if you think you’re scaring me, Boss. You’ve never seen my Olive first thing in the morning.’
‘Anything you say, sergeant,’ the DCC countered, ‘may be noted down and reported back to Mrs McIlhenney.’
He looked round at the man on his other side. ‘Ignore him, Pat,’ he said. ‘I have met the lady. Not at that time of day admittedly, but she’s lovely . . . the very salt of the earth.’
‘Aye,’ McIlhenney mused. ‘I’ve often thought yon bloke Lot was a lucky bastard.’ He leaned forward, looking round Skinner at Sheriff Patrick Boone, from the Haddington Court.
‘Do you have to be present as a witness at all exhumations, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, not at all. I volunteered for this one though. When I was at the Bar I appeared before Orlach often enough to want to be sure that the old swine really is dead.’
The DCC grinned. His eyes having grown accustomed to the light, he glanced at his watch. It showed one minute to midnight. He led the Sheriff and McIlhenney across the grass of the graveyard towards a group of five men in overalls and rubber boots, who were standing almost in the shadow of the square tower of the old Aberlady church. Away to their left, the moonlight shone pure silver on the calm waters of the bay, a scene in stark contrast to the monsoon weather of the night before.
‘We’re ready to start now, lads,’ said Skinner. ‘Before that I’d like to thank you for volunteering for this unpleasant job, and to impress on you again that it must not be mentioned or discussed, not even at home.’ He nodded towards the oldest of the five. ‘You’ll work under the direction of Mr Glaister here, who is the Council’s burial ground superintendent. Do exactly as he tells you.’
He glanced at the Sheriff once more. ‘Okay, let’s begin. Mr Glaister, if you please.’
The older man stepped forward and pointed to four white pegs set in the ground, joined by string to form a rectangle eight feet long by four feet wide. ‘I’ve pegged out the area that we’re going to dig around, and I’ve cut the top layer of turf. I’ve only ever been at one other exhumation, like, when I worked up in Edinburgh, but the one thing I learned then was that it’s a bloody sight easier tae put a coffin in the ground than it is tae get it oot! We’ll need to allow width and length to get straps under the thing, for lifting. Unless it’s solid wood, and no’ chipboard, the handles on the side are just for show.’
‘How deep will we have to go?’ asked one of the police volunteers.
‘Not as deep as you think, possibly. Only aboot four feet six, maybe five feet allowing for settlement. In this lair, the wife’s buried below the husband, and we’ve got to be careful no’ tae disturb her, so ah’ll stop yis every so often, so’s tae check the depth.’
He looked at the four diggers. ‘Everybody a’right, now?’ The police volunteers nodded. ‘In that case, gentlemen, take up your shovels!’
