Murder in Court Three (13 page)

‘I know,' she said indignantly. ‘I can keep a secret. Now, must dash.' She got up to go. Baggo opened the pub door with a flourish and waved her through ahead of him.

‘Nice arse,' a cockney voice said.

Kenny Cuthbert was on his feet when di Falco arrived at Glasgow High Court. He was arguing that the right to control the length of one's own life was a basic human right, but was facing hostile comments and questions from the bench. The
Vita Dei
group were where they had been the previous day. Di Falco squeezed onto a bench beside Dolan, who was once more reading his Bible. It was the passage in 1Samuel describing David's victory over Goliath. As the afternoon wore on di Falco noticed that, although his lips moved as he read, he never turned a page.

When the court rose, Father Neil greeted di Falco warmly. ‘A good day for us, I think, Billy,' he said outside. ‘I believe their lordships may be coming to understand that human duties are at least as important as human rights.'

Di Falco agreed with him then explained how a mix-up of his shifts in the hotel had enabled him to come to the court unexpectedly. He accepted an invitation to join the group for prayers and tea.

Again di Falco had a rickety chair in the same upstairs room in the Gallowgate. This time, Father Neil's short sermon dealt with Christian duty. He argued that duties were imposed by God and so were far more important than rights, which were of man's devising. Di Falco was impressed by the way he picked up on the themes that had dominated the day's proceedings in court and gave them his own, very Catholic treatment.

After the sermon came a prayer, Christian duty the issue that was being addressed. Di Falco's attention wandered as he planned how he would tackle Dolan. Then something Neil said made him think.

‘… and we pray for those who confuse duties imposed by human society with those fundamental duties that God has laid upon us. Sometimes man-made duties conflict with God's duties. Sometimes, faithful to man-made duties, a sinner can bear false witness before God and His church. Oh Lord, we have one such person here, in this very room. That person is preparing to persecute Your followers in the name of his man-made duty. Oh Lord, help that sinner confess and repent. Help that sinner to speak out now and renounce the works of the devil.
Vita Dei, Vita Dei, Vita Dei
!'

As he ended, the rest joined in the chant. Di Falco looked up from the floor and saw that everyone was staring at him. He felt very scared.

Slowly, he got up and went to stand beside Neil, the semi-circle of acolytes in front of him, their expressions hostile. ‘The Father is right to some extent,' he began. He feared his voice sounded quavery and weak. ‘I am a police officer, but I have no intention of persecuting anyone or renouncing the works of the devil because I do not do the devil's work. I am concerned about a number of letters, anonymous letters, that were sent from Glasgow to Mr Cuthbert. Does anyone know anything about them?' He searched the faces in front of him then turned to look directly at Father Neil who stared back, cold-eyed and unforgiving.

‘No one here needs to confess to you,' Neil said.

No one moved and no one spoke. The only noise came from rush hour traffic on the Gallowgate. Di Falco tried to out-stare Neil but gave up. Moving slowly, as if from a dangerous animal, he walked to the door and left the room.

Continuing to tread steadily, he went down the stairs, aware of footsteps close behind. He was about to open the front door and reach the sanctuary of the street when someone whispered in his ear. ‘Where the fuck do ye think you're going?'

It was Dolan. Di Falco felt something hard and sharp prick his right side and he was pushed into the main hall, which was deserted. Dolan shut the door behind them. He had a six-inch, serrated blade in his right hand.

‘You're no' here about these poxy letters, are you?' Dolan hissed.

‘Yes, actually, I am.' Di Falco tried to sound brave.

‘Don't give me that shite. They wernae even threatening. You're here tae pin that lawyer murder on me as I've got a record.'

‘I don't pin crimes on people.'

‘Haw, that's whit they all say. You'll no' go after the guy whose wife was a right fucking Jezebel because he's one of yours. Ye see my record and it's easy. Just like the retired polis in the paper said.' Shaking with rage, he pushed the point of the knife under di Falco's chin.

‘I promise I'm not here to fit you up,' then, with a silent prayer, he added, ‘But I would like to question you.'

‘I'll tell you once and that's all: I didnae kill that man. And I'm no' answering yer fucking questions.' He pressed the knife deeper, breaking the skin. ‘And if you bear fucking false witness against me, I've got friends who'll make you wish yer mother had remained a fucking virgin. Remember that.' He took a step back, hid the knife under his shirt and went to the door. ‘And remember, Father Anthony in St Andrews told Father Neil a lot about you. I know where you live. And where your family live.'

Di Falco lost no time in leaving the building. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace to the station. His chin had stopped bleeding but he was still shaking when he boarded the train to Fife.

* * *

Before seeing Baggo entering The Verdict, Osborne had passed an uneventful day. His hangover was far from the worst he had experienced, but it still made him ponder whether he should give up drink completely. The sight of a bottle of beer in the fridge made up his mind and he succeeded in finding the opener as Bothwell phoned from the lobby. Osborne had forgotten about their ten am meeting. He decided to give his hangover the fry-up treatment, pulled on some clothes and went down full of bravado to cover for his lack of ideas.

In the breakfast area Bothwell sipped a coffee while Osborne, in default mode, told him how he cleaned up the East End, omitting incriminating details.

‘These posh hotels don't do a fry-up like a proper greasy spoon caf,' he complained after Bothwell had asked how he'd persuaded a particular villain to confess. A mouthful of black pudding gave him thinking time. ‘Guilt's a burden,' he said, not mentioning the accused's broken arm. ‘Sometimes it wells up inside the worst villains. They need to confess and they can't hold it in. The jury could see that and he went down.' No thanks to the ivory-tower, do-gooder on the bench, he thought to himself.

‘So what do we put in the paper tomorrow?' Bothwell asked.

‘Dunno yet, Pizza. Phone me later. I'm going to take a gander at this trial. Sniffing about, listening to your gut. That's what good detective work is all about.'

Soon afterwards, blinking in the sunlight, Osborne crossed the Lawnmarket to the High Court building and found the fraud trial that Knox had been prosecuting when he was killed. A tall, unhappy-looking man, clearly one of the accused, was giving evidence, denying that he had known from the start that the project was one massive scam. He was the sort of white-collar criminal Osborne detested, with his posh voice and fancy suit. He didn't like the prosecuting lawyer either. He was smooth, smug and artificially courteous.

Osborne had never before been in a Scottish court. The lawyers sat round a big table in the well of the court. The judge wore white robes with large red crosses. It reminded Osborne of the Ku Klux Klan costume without the hood. He could tell this judge was the real thing. On the few occasions when he did intervene, he did so intelligently and with quiet authority. At one point he scanned round the public benches, his searching eyes fastening on Osborne, who felt quite uncomfortable as the big man with hooded eyes and tiny glasses stared at him.

An hour of that was quite enough. Osborne crossed the Lawnmarket again, this time to visit the scene of the crime. While the court he had left was modern with artificial lighting and pine panels, Parliament House oozed history. Despite himself, he was impressed by Parliament Hall where the archery had taken place. There was a dark, high, wooden roof, a huge stained glass window and a highly-polished wooden floor on which lawyers in earnest discussion walked up and down. The corridors near the hall were flanked by rows of wooden boxes, each bearing the name of an advocate. Some boxes were overflowing with papers. Others were empty. Directed to Court Three, Osborne entered a strangely intimate courtroom, all old wood and red drapes. Two judges, a diminutive woman and an old man, were hearing criminal appeals against sentence. They were the sort of judges Osborne could respect, showing no compunction about rejecting eloquent pleas for mercy.

He was beginning to enjoy himself when the court rose for lunch. Not hungry after his breakfast, he strolled down the Royal Mile, mingling with tourists from many nations. Venturing into a tartan shop, he could hardly believe how much money a tall Scandinavian youth was prepared to pay for a kilt, his puny white legs sticking out under folds of garish tartan to the apparent delight of his girlfriend.

For some reason the youth reminded Osborne of Pizza. He had no idea what he should say to him when he phoned. He decided to return to the G and V and read up about the case. The newspaper clippings failed to capture the real flavour and he felt little wiser. Looking out of his window, he saw Baggo entering The Verdict. Osborne decided to follow him and left the papers strewn round the bed. Casually and quietly, he walked into the pub and looked round. Baggo's back was to him. He got a pint of lager and sat in the booth behind him, hoping to overhear what was being said.

By the time Baggo and the girl left, Osborne was smiling. He could see she had a nice arse and said so, quite loudly. Baggo nearly jumped out of his skin.

The horror on Baggo's face turned to fury. He followed the girl out and Osborne could hear his raised voice in the street. The door swung open again and Baggo came back in. He sat opposite Osborne and glared. ‘What the hell are you doing?' he asked.

Over the years Osborne had developed a variety of techniques for dealing with angry people, frequently colleagues. ‘Why, Baggo, what's wrong? Can I get you a drink?' he asked, beaming serenely.

‘Have you been listening to what we were saying?'

‘Well I wasn't going to stuff cotton wool in my ears, was I?'

‘You mustn't tell that shitty little reporter.'

‘Or?' He put an edge into his voice.

‘Or you'll make life even more difficult for us than it already is.'

‘So you're asking?' Osborne's lips continued to smile but his eyes bored into Baggo's.

‘Yes. I'm asking. But if they publish something that hinders our investigation we'll prosecute Bothwell. And we'd prosecute you, too. Do not think that we wouldn't.'

‘Bollocks. The crown lawyers would throw it out. At least they always did when I tried that trick.' Baggo's face fell. Osborne could see he had won. ‘Pint?'

‘IPA.' A whisper.

‘Fucking stupid name for beer.' As Osborne waited to gain the surly and slow-moving barman's attention, he remembered how things used to be. When he had run Wimbledon CID, he could tell Baggo to jump and he'd ask how high. Although their circumstances had changed, vestiges of their former relationship remained. At length the beers were poured. Osborne carried them to the table, brown IPA for Baggo, lager for himself. ‘Down the hatch,' he said, slurping his drink, then asked, ‘How's it going?'

Baggo ignored his pint. ‘What that rag has been saying about Inspector Fortune should never have been written. She has been conducting this inquiry as well as possible in difficult circumstances. We are following the evidence and it will eventually lead us to the truth, so please do not make things any more difficult than you have already.' Still not touching his beer, he sat back and scowled across the table.

Osborne shook his head. There was no one nearby but he still spoke quietly. ‘Did you learn nothing from me? I had you down as a likely lad. You talk about evidence. What is that? A collection of facts, half-truths and downright, fucking lies that you haven't seen through. Evidence can lead you so badly off course you need to call the fucking mountain rescue boys. What I did, and it fucking well worked, was identify a criminal and then look for the evidence that would persuade a court to find them guilty. I heard you talking about some religious nutter who might have thought Knox was someone else. Does he have a record? Well, does he?'

Baggo searched for the answer in his beer and took a first swallow. ‘What if he does?'

‘What if he does? It makes it much more fucking likely that he's your man. Your first time is the most difficult, whether we're talking shagging or murder. You should be going after him.'

‘We are. Please do not put anything about this in the paper, but we have an officer undercover who has infiltrated the sect. If anything were to appear in the paper it would put him in great danger.'

Osborne silently clapped his hands. ‘Right you are, Baggo. I'm glad you told me that. The more you tell me the more careful I'll be when I'm talking to Pizza.'

‘Pizza?'

‘The reporter. Have you seen the state of his face?'

‘Oh, I get it. Acne.' Baggo caught himself smiling and checked himself.

‘And this judge who fancies the rich widow. All my days in the Met and I never arrested a judge, worse luck. That would be a trophy for you, Baggo. What are you going to do about him?'

‘I don't know, honestly.'

‘Hunt him down at home. Take him by surprise. Stay on the offensive.'

‘When?'

‘Now, of course. He who hesitates is fucking lost.'

‘What are you going to say in tomorrow's paper?'

‘As you've told me something, I think I'll be nice. And I'll make the point that masterminds ain't wot they used to be. In the East End a mastermind who got caught had no right to call himself a fucking mastermind. Yet here we have your John Burns sitting in jail, ready to go down for how long? Six? Eight? Ten, even? I know the do-gooders on the Parole Board will have him out as soon after half time as they can, but even so it's a stretch. And will that four and a half million really be sitting waiting for him to pick up when he gets out? That makes me think, Baggo, and it should make you think too.'