Murmuring the Judges

74

He rolled on his back, squealing with pleasure as the strong fingers kneaded his bare stomach. He kicked his legs in the air, reaching out with his hands, grasping at nothing.

‘Oooh! Yerghh!’ he bellowed.

‘That’s enough, Bob,’ called Sarah from the sofa. ‘He’ll never sleep if you wind him up any more.’

‘Hear that, wee man,’ said Skinner, tumbling over to lie on the sitting-room floor beside his younger son, and looking sideways at him, their eyes at the same level. ‘Your mother has plans for you. The Sandman is coming.’ He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at Jazz, who gazed back, fascinated. ‘You know, son, when you think of it, only the Americans could believe in a fairy who comes round at night and throws sand in weans’ eyes.

‘Us Scots, now, we simply believe in slipping a mild opiate. . or maybe a small whisky. . into their juice.’

In spite of the slur cast on one of her National Institutions, Sarah laughed as she bent to pick up the toddler from the floor. ‘Sunshine,’ she gasped, ‘you are getting heavier by the day.’ Jazz grinned and nuzzled his forehead against her. ‘Time for bed now, your late pass has expired.’

She glanced down at her husband. ‘You go and tell Mark to get ready. Honestly, the time that boy would spend on his computer. .’

‘Let him,’ Bob grinned. ‘It’s what he likes best. He’s no natural athlete is our Mark, but he may be a genius. All the time he spends exploring those CD Roms, he’s learning.’ He reached out and tickled Jazz once more in the ribs. ‘Now this one, he’s just going to be a bear when he grows up. .’

He patted Sarah on the tail. ‘Go on then, settle him down if you can and I’ll spend some time with Einstein. See you back here in half an hour and you can help me go through that paper I brought home.’

In fact it was almost three quarters of an hour before he reappeared from Mark’s room, having allowed him twenty minutes on the Internet, researching Scottish history. He was still shaking his head as he handed his wife an uncapped Becks. ‘When Big Neil moves on, I think I’ll take him on as my exec.,’ he chuckled. ‘He never forgets anything, and his logic circuits are bloody amazing.’

She squeezed his thigh, as he sat beside her. ‘Don’t forget to let him be a little boy, though.’

‘As if I would. Alexis was a very clever child too, you know, and she’s turned out all right.’

To his surprise, Sarah frowned slightly.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, nothing. You’re right, she has turned out all right; very much so. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being concerned about her. Alex is a volatile personality, like you. . and like her mother. Those things you two found out about Myra, they terrify her, you know.

‘Right now, I sense things going on behind those big eyes of hers, but I don’t know what they are. Almost for the first time since I’ve known her, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.’

Bob looked at her. ‘I’ll have a word with her,’ he said.

‘Okay, but just you be careful.’ She reached down and picked up the folder of papers which he had brought home with him. ‘So what are these, then?’

‘They relate to the judges’ investigation. They’re the papers for a book on the Beatrice Gates case.’

Sarah grinned, wickedly. ‘Oh yes. I didn’t like to ask you in front of the kids. How was Lord Orlach?’

‘Heavily tanned. It must be very hot where he is. His deodorant doesn’t work any more either. Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell!’

‘I can imagine. I really should have been there, you know. It would have been good experience. Even Joe enjoyed it, so he said when I phoned him.’

‘You know the result then?’

‘Yes. Clever you, for thinking of it.’

‘Stupid me for not thinking of it earlier,’ he retorted.

‘Like you said once, it’s a real bastard not being perfect, ain’t it.’ She opened the folder and recoiled involuntarily as she saw the first item. It was a photograph of a dead man, naked on an examination table with the hilt of a knife protruding from his chest.

‘That’s Mr Gates,’ said Bob, almost conversationally. ‘He woke up one morning to find himself dead. However hard she tried, Mrs Gates, who woke up alongside him, couldn’t make the jury believe that she didn’t do it. They were childless, so there was no one to back up her story that he must have been killed by an intruder.’

Sarah peered at the photograph. ‘She must have been pretty strong. That knife is rammed right through the sternum.’

‘Yes, and although it wasn’t known during the trial, they reckon she had incipient MS at the time,’ Bob told her, quietly.

‘The jury wasn’t told that?’

He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘So what do you hope to find in here?’ she asked.

‘Somebody who’s capable of carrying a grudge for twenty years before getting even.’ He took the folder from her and laid it on his lap. Discarding the photographs, he picked up a typed document. ‘This is Mrs Gates’ original statement to the Tayside officers.’ With his wife looking over his shoulder he read his way through it.

‘That’s just an account of what I told you. The woman claims that she was a very heavy sleeper, and that she had been unaware of the intruder or the attack.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Sarah conceded. ‘What’s next?’

‘Copies of all the police, medical and forensic witness statements.’

‘Let’s go through them, then.’

They read on together for almost an hour, studying the overwhelming evidence against Beatrice Gates, as it painted a picture of her certain guilt.

‘Down the road, isn’t she,’ said Bob. ‘No way could the jury acquit.’

‘Hmmph,’ his wife snorted. ‘I cannot believe that the defence was so incompetent that they didn’t uncover and introduce the multiple sclerosis possibility.’

‘You’ve just read the reason. After her arrest, Mrs Gates was examined by the police surgeon. He found that she was fit, and the defence accepted that. Two psychiatrists examined her as well, and neither of them commented.’

‘They were examining her mind, Bob. I suppose it’s possible,’ she conceded, ‘that the disease only started to motor towards the end of the trial. What’s next?’

He picked up the next document and looked at the heading. ‘This is a transcript of an interview with Mrs Pauline Collins, Mrs Gates’ sister, not by the police, but by Arnold Kilmarnock, the author of the book.’

They scanned the document, in which Mrs Collins described her surprise and concern at the depth of her sister’s sleep pattern. She said also that all through her life, Beatrice had been a gentle, friendly woman and that she and her husband had enjoyed a calm tranquil marriage, which, although it had not been blessed with children, had been very happy. Pinned to the back of the report was a photograph of the interviewee, a serious, plain-featured featured middle-aged woman.

‘This depth of sleep could well have had a medical cause,’ said Sarah. ‘Was there any professional evidence led by the defence?’

‘Not that I can see.’

‘Jesus! Why ever not?’

‘You’ve never met Richard Kilmarnock, have you?’ Bob remarked casually, as he picked up the next document. ‘This is an interview with Mrs Collins’ son, Charles.’

The transcript was brief and not entirely relevant to Mrs Gates’ defence, other than as a glowing testimonial to a loving aunt and a faithful and benevolent uncle. As with the notes on Mrs Collins, there was a photograph of the subject clipped to the back. Skinner gave it the briefest glance and was about to discard the document, when suddenly his whole body stiffened.

He stared at the photograph. ‘Good God,’ he whispered. ‘Good God Almighty.

‘I’ve seen this man’s face before. Dan Pringle’s met him, too, only he was dead at the time. This is Curly Collins, one of Andy’s armed robbery gang!’