Murder in Court Three (6 page)

‘Can you be certain it was Mrs Traynor?'

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘Did you see her face?'

‘Not actually in the corridor, but I'm sure it was her with her black dress and blonde hair. Who else would it be?'

Flick ignored the question. ‘What did you do then?'

‘I went back to the archery for a bit and found Rory McIntyre. He'd been fascinated by Knox and Mrs Traynor, and I told him what I'd seen.'

‘Where were you when you told him?'

‘In the hall, where the archery was.'

‘Might you have been overheard?'

‘There were a lot of people nearby.'

‘Was Chief Superintendent Traynor among them?'

‘I honestly don't know. He might have been.'

‘Lachlan Smail?'

‘Don't know him.'

‘He was in Archers' uniform.'

‘There were a lot dressed like that. One or two could have heard me, I suppose.'

‘Gideon Maltravers?'

‘The planning consultant? I don't remember seeing him close by, but he might have been.'

‘Mrs Nicola Smail?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know the lady.'

‘Did you see either Mr Knox or Mrs Traynor later?'

‘Not Mr Knox. I saw Mrs Traynor making her way towards the Ladies before the dancing started. I remember noticing that her face was flushed.' He raised his eyebrows.

‘How long after you believe you saw her enter the judge's door was that?'

‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. I really couldn't be sure.'

‘How much had you had to drink at that stage, sir?'

Anger flashed in his dark eyes. ‘It had been a good evening, Inspector. I have no idea exactly how much I'd had, but I was well able to recognise what I saw and remember it.'

‘Did you tell anyone else apart from Mr McIntyre at that time?'

‘Well, yes, I did. It was pretty hot stuff.'

‘And you could have been overheard?'

He shrugged. ‘Of course. So is the Chief Superintendent your prime suspect?'

‘We don't have a prime suspect. We think the murder may have been linked to the trial Mr Knox was prosecuting.' Flick hated to tell Oliphant anything, but the DCC's instructions to divert attention from Traynor had been clear. ‘Please do not discuss this inquiry further, sir. It is unhelpful if too much information is made public.'

‘From henceforth my lips shall be sealed, Inspector. But the circumstances give rise to the question,
quis custodiet ipsos custodes
?'

Flick stood up less elegantly than she would have liked and looked down on him. ‘Any complaints should be addressed to the Scottish Police Authority. We've come a long way since Juvenal's day, you know.' She paused long enough to enjoy the look of astonishment that she should know the author of the quote before marching out into the fresh air.

‘Has he not got the most punchable face, boss?' di Falco asked.

‘I wouldn't stop at his face,' she muttered.

Appalled by what she had just said, and the look of delight on di Falco's face, she left a message on Baggo's voicemail asking him to interview the Lord Provost after court and a similar message on Wallace's asking him to see the Secretary of State for Scotland.

‘We're off to talk to the scarlet woman,' she told di Falco.

* * *

The Traynors lived on a private road in the affluent suburb of Colinton. The police pool car, its springs knackered, bumped along the uneven surface before pulling into a well-raked gravel driveway in front of a pristine-looking two-storey snowcemmed house with red pantiles. Neatly-clipped boxwoods sat in terracotta pots on either side of a front door studded with black metal bolts designed to hint at a historical pedigree but were shiny enough to have been recently taken off a shelf at B and Q. Bordering the gravel, the sharply-edged lawn completed the impression of order and pride. This could be ‘Craigperfect', the lovely home of the MacPerfect family, all of whom, naturally, lived ideal lives.

‘This place must have cost a packet,' Flick said as Di Falco parked beside the sole discordant note, a grimy white Polo slewed at an angle to the house and carrying battle scars on its front wing.

Flick pressed the bell button and winced at the twee chimes that announced their arrival. After a minute she rang again. ‘I wonder if she's round the back,' she said. Di Falco went to see and Flick stepped back to check the windows.

‘Can I help you?' It was a woman's voice with the lilt of the west coast. Her tone was not welcoming. Wearing a crumpled and faded cotton dress with fancy-looking sunglasses pushed up to sit on her shoulder-length blonde hair, her appearance and posture were too casual for her to be the lady of this house. Her smooth, lightly-tanned skin glistened with sun cream. When asked however, she agreed that she was Mrs Lynda Traynor.

When Flick told her the nature of her inquiry the woman's face darkened. With evident reluctance, she led the way through a wood-panelled hall into a sitting room facing the back of the house, the slap of her flip-flops on the polished floor expressing her irritation. She gasped with surprise when she saw di Falco peering through a window, but pointed him towards the French door with an expression of semi-amused disdain, as if Inspector Clouseau had come calling. Without offering refreshment or inviting them to sit, she reclined on the sofa, nonchalantly pushing a cushion to the floor. It was a strange, arrogant gesture, one that dissociated her from her immaculate surroundings. Flick's dislike for her intensified.

‘Well?' said Lynda Traynor.

Flick sat on an upright chair facing her. With almond-shaped eyes, a prominent nose and full lips, Lynda Traynor was not classically beautiful, but she had an hour-glass figure and a confidence about the way she carried herself that explained why men were attracted. Di Falco was having difficulty taking his eyes off her legs, which she had angled to give a hint of an intimate view. Flick frowned at him but he paid no heed.

‘As I said, we're here to see you about the murder of Farquhar Knox,' Flick said. ‘And we thought we should do it while your husband was not here.'

‘Stop right there,' Lynda Traynor snapped. ‘Have you read my file?' Seeing Flick's look of astonishment, she carried on quickly. ‘Yes. I can see you have.' She turned to stare at di Falco. ‘But you haven't, though you'll have heard what it says. I'm a “loose cannon”, am I not? Correct? Well, I live my life in my way and have every right to do so. I'm not going to help you. And don't try that “we'll do it down at the station” routine, because it won't wash. Now excuse me but I have an appointment with a sun lounger.'

Flick did not move. ‘Mrs Traynor, we have reason to believe you had sex with Mr Knox just before he was killed. Is that the case?'

‘That is a very impertinent question.'

‘As I just said, this is a murder inquiry. We have witnesses who saw you talking to him in a confidential manner and one who saw you heading for Court Three, which you probably entered using the judge's door. There is also evidence that soon afterwards you went to the Ladies, looking flushed. Scientific evidence has been obtained and it would be conclusive if your DNA were to be found among the stains that will be examined. If we need to, we will easily get a warrant to obtain a sample from you. It really would be in your best interests to cooperate. I should also say that we are Fife officers. Your husband will not have access to this inquiry.'

As Flick spoke, her tone measured, Lynda Traynor's expression changed from defiant to thoughtful. For some time she did not speak then sat up straight and spoke directly. ‘That is all very interesting, but the ifs and probablys tell me you don't have evidence to back your theories. I'm not going to say more because my private life is none of your damn business. But I did not kill Farquhar Knox and I do not believe my husband did, either. I saw nothing suspicious and I have no idea who did kill him.'

‘What were you wearing that night?'

‘A long dress. It was black.'

‘And figure-hugging?'

‘Yes. With a slit up one side.' She did not conceal her impatience.

‘And how did you wear your hair?'

‘As it is now.'

Flick could see how she would have caught the eye of most men at the function. ‘What did you do between the end of the meal and the start of the dancing?'

‘This and that. I talked to some people. Probably went to the Ladies.'

‘Did you talk to Farquhar Knox?'

‘I believe I did. Just after dinner. Then we both went to speak to other people.'

‘Did you see him after that?'

Mrs Traynor screwed up her face as if in thought. ‘I really can't remember,' she said.

‘When did you next see your husband after dinner?' Flick asked.

‘The dancing had started. They were doing that silly one where they go round the floor in threes.'

‘How was he?'

‘Fine. A bit drunk maybe.'

‘Did he seem angry?'

She thought for a moment then said quietly, ‘He said that if he saw that cunt Knox he'd punch his lights out. I coaxed him into the library. He had bought a bottle of wine and I sat with him in a far corner. We left a bit early. I kept a look-out for Farquhar but didn't see him.'

‘Did you and your husband argue that night?'

‘Yes. If you must know, he kept saying I'd crossed a boundary.' There was no hint of guilt in the way she spoke.

‘So he believed you'd had sex with Mr Knox?'

‘He must have. I actually denied it.'

‘So he was with you from the time of the dance they do in threes, the something Sergeant I think they call it?'

‘Dashing White Sergeant, boss,' di Falco interjected as Mrs Traynor nodded.

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Mr Knox dead?'

‘No. And my husband cares too much about his career to commit a crime of passion. It wouldn't be his thing.' Her voice dripped with contempt.

‘And have you subsequently told him that you did have sex with Mr Knox?'

‘No. Don't be silly, Inspector. I wasn't born yesterday.'

‘Are you prepared to give us a sample of your DNA? The fewer times we have to call the better, I would have thought. Fingerprints, too, for elimination purposes.'

‘Come back once you have a warrant. If you manage to get one. Now if that is all …'

As di Falco made to move, Flick sat still. She longed to dent the confidence of this spoiled, self-centred creature. She leaned forward and stared silently until Mrs Traynor met her gaze. ‘I do intend to find out who killed Mr Knox, no matter how long it takes. Until I do, the shadow of suspicion will be on you and, more importantly, your husband. The longer that shadow exists, the worse the damage to your husband's career, which has already suffered because of you. You probably don't care much about that, but the less he has to lose, the less we bother about the impact of our inquiries on you. If you had sex with Mr Knox in Court Three and left him alive, it would be in everyone's interests if you told us what you can. Please reconsider.'

Mrs Traynor began to shake her head before Flick had finished. ‘You're all so predictable. Now get out.' She rose and led the way to the front door.

As the door slammed shut, the officers made their way to the car, Flick trying to conceal her fury.

‘I wonder what the atmosphere in that house is like. Do they have children, boss?' di Falco asked as they exited the driveway.

‘One, a boy born four months after the wedding. He'll be fourteen now.'

‘There wasn't much evidence of him around the house. I didn't even see a photograph.'

‘I saw in the file that he's at some fancy boarding school. Her family has money.'

‘I wonder what their sex life is like.'

Flick glanced at him, wrinkled her nose then smiled. ‘Non-existent or bizarre, I would have thought. Better not go there.'

The spell of good weather continued to make Edinburgh untypically warm. ‘Too hot' was a phrase on many citizens' lips. It made Baggo think nostalgically of Mumbai. Only Edinburgh was far less crowded than either Mumbai or London. He appreciated the space. As he headed for the Canny Man's along grey streets strewn with short-lived blossom he felt alive and stimulated. This was a city he had imagined as being permanently cold, lashed by winds off the North Sea. In the balmy evening air it lived up to its claim to be the Athens of the North. The weather had taken him by surprise. That week he had bought long-sleeved summer shirts and trousers and wished he had a Fedora or Panama hat so he could strut about like a gentleman. He pulled the visor of his golf cap down. The lower part of his face was still regrettably brown after the golf.

But this was a stimulating investigation. He had enjoyed meeting the Lord Provost. The physically unimposing, soft-spoken little man, well into his sixties, had beamed when Baggo had told him how much he was enjoying his stay. But he had not been able to help the investigation. On Friday he had not sat next to either of the Traynors and remembered nothing of their movements, while his wife, who had sat next to Graeme Traynor and discussed roses with him, had forgotten her distance glasses and observed nothing.

‘Sorry!' a man shouted from behind a hedge as Baggo caught the spray of a misdirected garden hose.

‘Do not worry,' Baggo replied, hoping the stain down one leg of his cream chinos would dry before he reached the pub.

Cutting his pace, he replayed the phone conversation with Flick as she drove back to Fife. After describing her own day, she had told him about Wallace and McKellar's interview with the Secretary of State, a man with a reputation for womanising. A political advisor and two civil servants present, he had denied any recollection of the Traynors on Friday night, despite being seated between Lynda Traynor and the Lord Provost's wife. ‘If he'd been an ordinary punter they'd have jogged his memory at a police station,' Flick had commented. The politician's wife had been no more helpful.

‘Are you going to question the Chief Superintendent?' Baggo had asked.

‘Not yet. Spider Gilsland hasn't found anything helpful on the CCTV but I want to have a good look at it. Also, I got Knox's laptop and mobile from Fettes and I'll give them to Spider when I get to Cupar. Dr MacGregor took the arrow out at the PM and the lab has had it since this morning. I'm still waiting to hear if there are any fingerprints on it. The Edinburgh SOCOs took some prints from the court and I have them with me. We won't get any comparisons till tomorrow. We don't have enough to arrest Traynor, but if I interview him I'd have to treat him as a suspect. He'd have to be suspended and the news would spread like wildfire. I'm going to talk to the DCC before I take that step.'

They agreed that there was no point in Baggo attending the briefing in Cupar the next morning. He would stay in Edinburgh and continue his inquiries there.

It was just after nine when Baggo found the door of the Canny Man's. A brass plate beside it forbade credit cards, cameras, mobile phones and backpackers. It did not look like his sort of place. He was relieved he had taken out cash recently. As neither policemen nor Indians were banned, he shoved his cap in his pocket, checked his phone was on silent and pushed open the swing doors. The interior was beyond quirky. A profusion of clocks, jugs, stuffed birds and animals, old photographs and paintings decorated the place. A mannequin in a faded sequin dress was suspended from the ceiling above copper-topped tables. Beside a row of Champagne magnums the gantry held a stupendous collection of spirit bottles, mostly whisky, a mirror at the back making it appear even more extensive.

‘Hi, there!' As Baggo peered round Melanie broke away from one of the younger groups of drinkers and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She wore jeans and a tee shirt with a low neckline.

‘This is Baggo,' she said to her group. ‘What do you want to drink, Baggo?' she asked.

‘A pint, please, real ale if they have it,'

‘And a pint of real ale,' she shouted to a man at the bar. ‘Good timing, mate!'

None of the group asked what he did. Articulate, quick-witted and sparky, they continued their conversation. They all seemed to be lawyers. When they began to talk about the murder Baggo learned nothing he did not know, but it was clear that the police were barely ahead of common gossip.

After half an hour, muttering something about the Appeal Court, a woman got up to go. The rest drifted out after her, refusing Baggo's offer of a drink. When only he and Melanie were left, she moved to an alcove with room for two only and asked for a pint of IPA.

‘Well?' she asked, sipping the rich, brown beer appreciatively, ‘tell me about yourself.'

So he did. She listened intently as he described his childhood in Mumbai, his move to England as a teenager and some of the difficulties he had encountered, despite his father being an eminent urologist.

‘Why a policeman?' she asked.

‘I loved cop shows and detective stories.' He looked round the walls of the alcove which, papered with sheet music and varnished, had turned a yellow-brown colour. ‘I read all the Rebus books and expected Edinburgh to be gritty and cold. But it is warm and civilised.'

‘Not all the time,' she countered. ‘Let me get you one, then I must go.'

‘What about you?' he asked when she returned.

‘Very boring, I'm afraid. I was brought up in Morningside, went to school here, George Watson's, then Edinburgh University and followed my dad into the law. I still live in Morningside and my folks are five minutes away.' She pulled a face.

‘You are very lucky. It is good to be comfortable in a place, and I do not find you at all boring.'

Her face lit up. ‘Comfortable is good if it's not boring. And Edinburgh has lots of culture and history.'

‘You are right there. So your father was a lawyer?'

‘Dad was at the bar. He always wants to know what firms are instructing me, and gets quite pissed off if the firms that used to instruct him thirty years ago don't send work to me. Now he's a sheriff in Airdrie. Sheriffs are judges, you know. I hope he'll retire soon and go off and play lots of golf, but he says he still wants the buzz of work. Mum says she won't know what to do with him if he's around all day. Sorry, I'm gabbling.'

Baggo reached across the table and put a hand on hers. ‘You gabble beautifully,' he said then added, ‘Sorry, that's pure Bollywood.' They both laughed and she blushed a little.

‘So how's the inquiry going?' she asked.

‘Frankly, we're not much ahead of the gossip, but please keep that under your hat. I expect we will get a breakthrough soon. Patient work generally pays off.' He wished he meant what he said. ‘We are going round all those at the function on Friday night. It is a huge task.'

‘Well I saw nothing that would help.'

‘But you were not there.' He had checked the lists, looking for her name.

‘Oh yes I was. Angie Jack, the first woman to leave this evening, had a migraine. I was at a loose end and took her ticket.'

She grinned sheepishly. ‘I got truly smashed. The next morning I was calling God on the big, white phone. Not good. So you can write “too pissed to notice” opposite my name on your spread-sheet.'

Baggo looked into her twinkling eyes. There was an electricity between them which he was sure she also felt.

She drained her glass. ‘Time to go,' she said.

Outside, the long Scottish summer twilight had faded and the streetlamps were lit. They were heading in the same direction. After about a quarter of a mile Melanie turned down a wide street and Baggo walked her to the outer door of her tenement, hovering as she found her keys.

‘See you tomorrow,' she said quickly then turned the lock and slipped inside. The heavy door swung back and gave a loud click as it shut.

As he walked back to Newington, initial disappointment gave way to quiet optimism. ‘Patient work generally pays off,' he repeated to himself.