A Double Death on the Black Isle (35 page)

Better the fiscal leaves it at that,
Calum thought,
than to allow the time gap to be examined too closely.

And better to leave when the appearance of Allie Munro was
fresh, and the disaster named Geordie McPhee was imprinted on the minds of every juror.

No,
Calum thought,
me neither, no more questions, get Geordie off the witness stand as fast as possible.

“I have no questions at this point,” Calum said.

“In that case, we will have a fifteen-minute break,” the sheriff announced. “Then Mr. Sinclair, you will present your case.”

T
he girls were delighted with the idea of spending deadline night with their Aunty Chiara.

“It's good practice for me,” Chiara said when she offered to look after the children. “Tell you what, let them come over for the Tuesday night of the trial as well. You can have the night off to go gallivanting.”

“Gallivanting on a Tuesday in the Highlands,” Joanne laughed. “What possibilities that conjures up!” But she loved the novelty of solitude and accepted the offer.

Annie even agreed to Aunt Chiara meeting them in the afternoon, at the school gates. Chiara was beautiful, foreign, exotic; to Annie she was a heroine from a book, a star from a film, she was someone whom Annie could boast about in the school playground. Best of all, she let Annie try on her dresses and jewelry.

Wee Jean was happy because Chiara always gave them ice cream.

“How was school today?” Chiara asked as they walked home.

“Fine,” Annie replied, thinking
why do grown-ups always ask that? School is school.

They reached the river. Directly opposite, the castle filled the southern skyline.

“That's where they have the court for bad people,” Annie pointed to the reddish sandstone not particularly attractive Victorian construction. “Mum will be there for her job on the newspaper.”

“Yes, she will,” Chiara agreed

“Will they lock the bad men away?” Jean asked.

“That depends,” Chiara answered.

“First of all they have to be sure that they are the men who did it.”

“Granny said they killt Aunty Agnes's boy,” Wee Jean spoke, in an exact, unconscious imitation of her granny's voice.

“We don't know that for sure,” Chiara told them. “That's why there is a trial, to find out what happened.”

“Of course they did it,” Annie said. “Why else would they be in gaol?”

Chiara thought,
this conversation is tough. I wonder if this is what it is like being a parent?
“Not everyone who is locked up is guilty.”

“What's ‘guilty'?” Wee Jean asked.

“It means they did it,” her sister said with an air of “I know everything,” “and they will go to gaol.”

And around the town and in the county and in the Highlands, the same conversation with the same attitudes had the accused guilty before being tried. After all, they wouldn't be there if they hadn't done something, went the reasoning. “And I heard . . .” went many a comment. “My cousin, uncle, friend, the farmer up the road, was telling me . . .” went many a conversation.

Chiara was distressed at the thought of anyone being locked up in that nineteenth-century horror of a gaol. She had visited there once when her husband had been detained, only for two days and one night, and she had been shaken to the bone.

“Annie, you are old enough to know that everything is not always as it seems.”

Annie looked confused, but the sentence stayed with her. It was a sentence, uttered lightly, but a sentence she knew was important. She was a child who would think about it, consider the idea of it, just as she would ponder a difficult sentence in a
book her granny thought was too old for her. Then she would store it away for a future she was certain would not be in this town of her birth.

“Now, let me see.” Chiara stopped. She put on a little show for the girls. Pretending to look puzzled, she put her forefinger to her check, cocked her head, and said, “I don't think we have anything for pudding. Should we go to the café for ice cream?” She laughed at the shrieks of agreement. “But you have to eat all your dinner . . . including the vegetables.”

High above town, the court had resumed sitting.

Joanne finished her article on plans for a golf course, then ran down the stairs to the administrative office and dumped a sheaf of typing on Betsy Buchanan's desk.

“Mr. McAllister said to give you the typing. I have to be in court.”

She was out the door before Betsy could complete the protest that began, “But I . . .” Joanne was smiling as she hurried up the wynd.

When Joanne arrived the afternoon session was about to resume and McAllister had joined Rob on the courtroom benches. She pushed her way in and sat next to Rob, faintly disappointed it was not McAllister she was squashed up against.

When the witness was called for the defense, it took a moment or two for Rob to realize what was happening. “This is unusual,” he whispered.

Joanne raised her eyebrows in question. Rob sat closer and they bent their heads together, touching. It could have seemed intimate to an outsider, but to Joanne, Rob was her pesky wee brother.

“Calum is calling his own expert to question the postmortem findings,” he explained.

Joanne nodded. Although she had no idea what this signified, in the company of McAllister she wanted to appear worldly.

Calum was reading out a long list of qualifications of the consultant pathologist, one Dr. Mitchell of Edinburgh, whom Calum Sinclair had asked to appear for the defense.

Aside from being eminent in his profession, Dr. Mitchell was a prickly man. Small, immaculate, intolerant to having his authority questioned, he had a brusque manner that intimidated juries. But his certainty in his opinions was well founded—he knew the secrets of death.

The train journey from Edinburgh had not improved his demeanor; there had been no kippers on the dining car breakfast menu. He was also determined to make the evening train home—to him the Highlands were as barbaric now as they had been in the time of Dr. Johnson's celebrated journey.

The preliminaries over, Calum Sinclair began the case for the defense.

“You have read the finding of the postmortem conducted by . . .”

“Of course, that is why I am here.”

Not a good start
Calum thought,
but kept calm.

“And you came to the Highlands to conduct your own examination of the deceased.”

“I did.”

“Dr. Mitchell, I would like to ask about the time of death.”

“I agree with my colleague's opinion, it was between three and six in the morning.”

“About the cause of death . . . ?” Calum asked.

“I agree with my colleague. Cerebral hemorrhage.”

Calum paused. Dr. Mitchell looked at him. Dr. Mitchell saw the cogs in Calum's brain freewheel. In normal circumstances,
he would sit in the witness box and watch the council for either party stew and sweat, and he would relish the spectacle. But there was a train to catch.

“Yes,” Dr. Mitchell elaborated, “cerebral hemorrhage caused by a blow to the head.” He paused. Always create a nice piece of drama was another of Dr. Mitchell's maxims. “It is
probable
that the fatal blow was struck within an hour of the victim's death.”

“What?” Calum was stunned.

The murmur that rattled the courtroom indicated that he was not the only one.

“Could you repeat that, please?” the sheriff asked.

“The bruising was along the hairline and it is probable that the fatal blow was struck approximately one hour before death.” The consultant pathologist was enjoying the commotion. “The bruising was along the hairline, so it was easy to miss. But it was this blow which caused a massive and rapid buildup of blood in the cavities of the skull, which in turn put pressure on the brain and caused death.”

“You are sure?” the sheriff asked.

“Of course I'm sure.” Dr. Mitchell was cross. He had an hour to get to the station otherwise it meant staying the night in this outpost of civilization. “I came all the way up here from Edinburgh, I examined the body, I know what I saw.”

So why didn't you tell me,
Calum was thinking,
why only let me know now?

“If you weren't looking for it,” Dr. Mitchell continued, “it was not obvious. The blow was at the base of the skull with little bruising, caused by the proverbial blunt instrument. And yes, it could have been caused by a kick. As I have already stated the blow was certainly administered in the early hours of the morning, between four and five-thirty, and if I were asked an
opinion . . .” this last part was said to Calum, who was standing staring at the pathologist, “I'd say the blow was struck nearer five-thirty than four. It is there in my report.”

“Ah yes,” Calum said, “the addendum to the first report. The one I received from you
this lunchtime
.”

“I had to be certain,” Dr. Mitchell said, and glared at Calum.

Calum glared back.

Dr. Mitchell was not one to give credit to others, particularly the local doctor, a lowly general practitioner, but he broke his own rule—two of his own rules; he gave evidence without being asked.

“If you look at the detailed notes the local doctor made at the scene of the crime, you can see that he had the foresight to take the deceased's temperature. The body was warm, the temperature had hardly dropped, hence my conclusion as to the time of death.”

Not now,
Calum told himself,
don't let the pompous old fart get to you. But why on earth didn't he tell me this before? Why wasn't it included in his report?

The procurator fiscal was also furious. DS Wilkie had not provided him with a copy of the local doctor's medical report, only his statement.

“I see no mention of this in the post mortem report. Why is that?” Calum asked.

“Because the man is a GP, not a qualified pathologist.”

Leave it at that,
Calum told himself.
The man's medical bombshell is more than we could have hoped for—even if he is an arrogant so-and-so.

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchel.” Calum said and sat back down at his table.

The procurator fiscal rose.

“Dr. Mitchell,” he said, “is it not possible that the original blows, which the victim suffered the previous evening, caused the bleeding to the brain?”

“Yes,” the doctor said, “it is certainly possible. But not
probable
.”

There it is.
Calum almost shouted his pleasure on hearing the statement—the sacred tenant of Scots law was “the balance of probabilities.”

And in uttering the qualifying adverbial phrase beloved by all Scots, “certainly possible,” Dr. Mitchell had stated his opinion loudly and clearly. In any other version of English, “certainly” meant the man was certain, sure, without a doubt. In Scots English, “certainly possible” equals not very likely. That a blow from eight hours earlier had caused the death was “not probable” in Dr. Mitchell's opinion—an opinion that could never be doubted, so the man himself believed.

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. No further questions.” The fiscal said. He knew when he was on difficult ground.

As soon as he uttered the words, the man was gone. Only his statement lingered—“. . . certainly possible. But not
probable
.”

It took Calum a moment to regather his thoughts. Not that that mattered, the procurator fiscal and the sheriff and the jury were also busy considering the import of the pathologist's testimony.

Douglas Donald was next for the defense. Calum prayed the McPhee boys wouldn't wave at him, or call him Duggie the Dummy. He had put the fear of Jimmy into them, and so far, it was working.

Initially, Calum had not expected much from Duggie, seeing him as at best a distraction.
Now however
. . . Calum thought.

“Douglas Donald,” came the announcement.

At the battle of Messina, a piece of shrapnel had removed Duggie Donald's tongue. The scars on one side of his face and mouth had ruined not just his face, but also his chances of marriage and family. But his hearing sharpened. He hated daylight and the looks from strangers and children, so he lived for the night. Owls were his favorites, and foxes—he admired foxes.

What brains Duggie had been born with remained intact, but had been modified by the constant company of the creatures of the forests and woods and hedgerows and ditches of the Black Isle.

After Duggie swore the oath, which took a good four minutes, Calum began. Having an interpreter signing Duggie's answers slowed the proceedings.

“Where were you on the night Fraser Munro died?” was Calum's first question.

A flurry of hand gestures, and the reply was spoken by a young, fair girl who looked sixteen, but was twenty-seven and a teacher of sign language.