‘You were right about Alex, honey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Last night, when you said you were worried about her. She and Andy have had some sort of a falling-out. He told me today.’
‘Ahh,’ said Sarah. ‘She’s not pregnant, then. I did wonder.’
‘No, she isn’t. In fact, Andy bit my head right off when I sort of asked him that very thing.’
‘Jesus, Bob, you didn’t! You can be as subtle as an avalanche sometimes.’
‘Thanks very much. The lassie is my daughter, remember.’
‘Too right she is. So it’s just as well you didn’t ask her that question, or after she’d bitten your head off she’d have poured something nasty down the hole in your neck. Did Andy tell you what the problem was?’
‘It’s age-related; that’s all I know.’
‘That figures. Well, if it’s a big deal she’ll talk to me about it. She always does.’
She picked up her wine glass, and savoured her ‘FAT Bastard’ chardonnay. ‘This is nice,’ she yawned. ‘It lives up to its name.’
‘Yes,’ said her husband. ‘It’s the sort of label that flies off the shelf at you.’
Sarah nodded towards the folder on the conservatory table. ‘Is that the rest of the Gates case?’
‘Yes. I ran into a brick wall with Curly Collins. His wife did some checking on dates. She called me back this evening to say that she didn’t know where he was when Orlach was murdered, but at the time of Archergait’s death he was almost certainly at his work, in an electronics factory near Bathgate, and when Barnfather was done, the pair of them were definitely visiting her parents in Arbroath.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘It was the old folks’ forty-fifth wedding anniversary. The whole family was there. I may check it out, but I’ve no real doubt that she was telling me the truth.’
She laid a hand on his thigh. ‘Never mind, love. I’ll help you go through the rest of the file.’ She leaned over and picked up the heavy folder. ‘Where do we begin tonight?’
‘With the interviews and statements relating to the defence case. I don’t imagine that they’ll tell us much though.’
He picked up the first interview transcript and looked at it. ‘This is a precognition of a sleep specialist, would you believe.’
‘Do you think he could have a word with Jazz?’
‘Aye, maybe.’ Leaning back on the couch, he glanced through the document. ‘I suppose, having missed the MS, they were struggling for theories to throw at the jury. This guy seems to be suggesting that she might have been sleep-walking.’
‘They didn’t introduce that as a defence, did they?’ asked Sarah, incredulously.
‘No, this is a pre-trial interview, that’s all. I’d guess that at this stage they were looking for something that might support a plea to a culpable homicide charge, rather than murder.’
Together they read through the succeeding documents, until they came to a series of newspaper cuttings, mostly from the
‘I guess the real story begins here,’ said Bob, ‘after the conviction.’ He looked at the next document. ‘Yes, this is a copy of the prison doctor’s medical report.’ He laid it aside. ‘And these look as if they’re specialist opinions on Beattie Gates’ condition.’
‘What the hell are these?’ asked Sarah as he picked up the last of the reports.
‘Those? Oh, they’ll be the photos Richard Kilmarnock mentioned. The defence team had them taken to show how her musculature had wasted.’ He glanced down at the folder, at a colour photograph, shot from directly overhead, of a naked woman, lying full length on an examination table.
‘Time is all that was wasted with those,’ his wife retorted, picking up the photographs as he began to read the first specialist’s report.
He read carefully, noting the heavy qualifications which were made by the consultant in his assessment of Mrs Gates’ condition and capabilities at the time of her husband’s murder. ‘A doubt,’ he thought, ‘but is it reasonable?’
‘Bob.’ Her voice came quietly, from his right.
‘Mmm,’ he responded, still reading.
‘Beattie Gates wasn’t married before, was she?’
‘No.’
‘And she and her husband were childless?’
‘Yes. According to Grace Collins, George Gates was sterile.’
‘In that case, my darling, how come his wife has a Caesarean scar?’
‘You what?’
Sarah held up the photograph. ‘Look here.’
He followed her pointing finger, and saw the thin blue line on Beattie Gates’ white abdomen.
‘It’s an old wound,’ she said. ‘It was done many years before this photograph was taken, but there’s no doubt about it. See how narrow her pelvis is, too. This woman would have had difficulty delivering a child naturally at any time, and on this occasion she had help for sure.
‘George Gates may have been childless, my dear, but his wife most certainly wasn’t.’
78
Grace Collins looked at Skinner as if one of them was mad.
‘A baby?’ she repeated. ‘Auntie Beattie? Not that I ever heard of.’
‘Do you think that if Curly had known, he’d have told you?’
‘Yes, of course he would. Curly loved family gossip; he’d never have kept something like that to himself. But she couldn’t have had a kid. George Gates couldn’t . . .’
‘How do you know that, Mrs Collins?’ asked the policeman.
‘Granny Lewis told us once. Curly’s mum would never have breathed a word about anything below the waist, like, but the Auld Yin never liked Gates. I remember her laughing as she told us about it. George and Auntie Beattie had been married for over five years, when he finally said, “Enough’s enough; we’re going to find out what’s wrong with you, woman.”
‘So he sent Beattie to a gynaecologist. The specialist examined her, then sent for George. She took a sample off him and found absolutely zero tadpoles.’
Grace Collins laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Of course Beattie had told her mother about him sending her to the consultant, so when he got the result of his test, the old warrior made him own up to it.
‘She said to Curly and me that Gates started his wandering after that. He always had regarded Beattie as a possession, as an inferior. When he found out that he was sterile, he seemed to blame it on her. It was a marriage in name only after that. He just did as he liked, all over Dundee and he never made any attempt to hide it.
‘Beattie’s face was rubbed in it for going on fifteen years, until the morning when she woke up and he didna’.’
‘She killed him then?’ The question was in the tone of Skinner’s voice.
‘Of course she did, and quite right too. If it’d been me I’d have cut his balls off a long time before that. It was a wonder to me that Granny Lewis never did for him herself. She was a wicked old devil, but her girls meant everything to her.’
‘In that case,’ Skinner asked, ‘if Beattie had been pregnant once . . . before she met George, say . . . how d’you think her mother would have handled it?’
‘She’d have covered it up. But she was a staunch Catholic, so she’d never have let her have an abortion.’ The killer’s widow paused for thought for a moment or two. ‘I reckon she’d have sent her away to her auntie’s, so to speak, like they did in those days . . . only in this case it would have been her uncle’s. Granny Lewis was from
