Death's Door

Twenty-seven

There had been a period in his career, when he had been Bob Skinner’s executive officer, when Brian Mackie had been a regular visitor to the Edinburgh procurator fiscal’s office. But times had changed, and the promotion ladder had taken him back into uniform, so he felt almost a stranger as he stepped into the Chambers Street building.

The fiscal had moved on too since those days, into a grand new home, cheek by jowl with that of the Lord Advocate, of whose department he was a functionary. The assistant chief constable looked around with a slightly cynical eye. He was not comfortable with opulence in government offices: having seen his mother die in a shabby, badly painted room in an outdated, overcrowded hospital, his preference was for more spartan conditions for civil servants … and he counted himself among their number. . and maximum investment in areas of greatest need.

Inevitably some detectives are antipathetic towards fiscals, seeing them as nit-picking barriers to the clearing up of a crime, rather than as players on the same team, but in his CID days, Mackie had always done his best to understand their position and the needs of the court in terms of evidence. However, from time to time, he too had found himself frustrated.

Gregor Broughton had been no roadblock, though: he and the ACC had worked together on several occasions over the years and the police officer had always found him to be constructive and co-operative. ‘Hello, Brian,’ he said warmly, rising from his swivel chair as Mackie was shown into his office. ‘It’s good to see you again, even if it is a surprise. I can’t remember the last time a cop in uniform walked through that door. I was quite taken aback when my secretary said you wanted to see me. Have a seat, man, have a seat. Would you like a coffee?’

Mackie shook his head. ‘No thanks, Gregor. I ration those, and it’s not that long since breakfast.’

‘Welcome to the world of regular office hours.’ The big lawyer chuckled. ‘How’s Sheila?’

‘She’s fine. How’s Phyl? I’m presuming that we’re still on first-name terms since her elevation to the bench.’

‘I’m not even sure I can do that, mate. Lady Broughton is very well, thank you, although it can be a bit of a bugger when she’s on circuit, sitting in the High Court in places like Airdrie, Inverness and, next week, bloody Wick.’

‘All new Supreme Court judges have to go through that, though, don’t they?’

‘Yes, it’s part of the breaking-in process. It doesn’t matter that we have two sons at secondary school. Mind you, it’s never mattered for her male colleagues, so why should it for her? It’s a part of the changing world we live in. In the old days, in the unlikely event of a woman being appointed to the bench, she’d have been a grandparent by the time it happened. The judicial appointments board has swept all that away, for better or worse. Now, when a vacancy comes up, applications are invited, and recommendations are made to the First Minister on the basis of ability and experience; there are no barriers on grounds of age or gender.’

‘Which do you think, better or worse?’

‘Privately? A bit of both. The principle is okay, but the practice isn’t. I don’t know a single lawyer who agrees with the present make-up of the board, half lay members and half professional, with a lay chair having the casting vote. Lawyers will always know better than lay people who will make a good judge.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Of course, my disapproval is tempered by the fact that they chose to recommend my wife.’

‘Of course,’ said the ACC, with a smile. ‘You must be very proud of her, Gregor.’

‘Pleased as Punch, my friend, and so are the boys. The thing that gives us all the biggest kick, is that she chose to use her married name as her judicial title, could have called herself Lady Anything-she-bloody-liked-within-reason, or used her maiden name. Frankly that’s what I expected, since she practised as Phyllis Davidson QC. I was delighted when she told me what she’d decided.’

‘There won’t be any conflict of interest, will there, with you being in criminal prosecution and her being a judge?’

‘None that haven’t been thought of; Phyl will never try a case where I’ve been involved, even if it’s only in the earliest stages. I’m a district fiscal: my appearances are limited to the Sheriff Court, so there’s no chance of me ever appearing before her as a prosecutor.’

‘You have appeared in the same court, though, haven’t you?’

Broughton laughed. ‘You remember that, do you? Yes, once when I had a merchant banker in the dock pleading not guilty to his third drunk-driving offence. He’d retained senior counsel who came down with appendicitis on the eve of the trial, and the dean of the Faculty of Advocates, mischievous bugger that he was, parachuted Phyl in as a replacement. She gave me a hell of a time; Sheriff Boone was most amused, and let her get away with murder. . not that her client got away with anything at the end of the day.’ He slapped his desk. ‘Now, Brian, to business, since we’re both busy men: what can I do for you?’

‘A favour. You’ve got the Boras investigation on your desk, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. I’ve just been looking at the post-mortem report, in fact. It doesn’t make pretty reading, especially with the Gavin investigation still open. But that’s not in your court any longer, is it? McGuire’s overseeing that in Bob Skinner’s absence, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but. . the victim’s parents are in Edinburgh, and I’ve been looking after them.’

‘Ahh. The very wealthy Mr Boras. Is he making waves?’

‘Not so far, but I have a feeling that he could if he tried.’

‘Would it cut any ice with you if he did?’

‘Not a single cube. No, Gregor, that isn’t why I’m here. The man wants to take his daughter’s body with him when he goes back to London. You can authorise that.’

The fiscal frowned. ‘Just forty-eight hours into the investigation?’ he murmured. ‘It would be unusual.’

‘Sure, but not unprecedented.’

‘What about the defence interests?’

‘There’s no guarantee of there being any defence. . not in the near future at any rate. It’s two months down the road in the Gavin inquiry and we don’t have a single suspect.’

‘No, but you’ll be looking for cross-overs between the two, won’t you?’

‘Sure, but McGuire and Steele tell me that this isn’t an ordinary criminal. His tracks may be well covered. But leaving all that aside, there are no unresolved issues relating to the cause of death in either case. You released Stacey Gavin’s body after eight days.’

‘True. When’s the man going back?’

‘He wants to leave today, after he’s faced the press.’

Broughton looked surprised. ‘You’re putting him through that ordeal, are you?’

‘He’s insisting on it. He has his media guru with him. They have an eye on the London Stock Exchange.’

‘Jesus,’ the fiscal gasped, ‘some people! You know, Brian, the longer I live the more cynical I get. Let me get this clear, you said you want me to do this as a favour.’

‘Yes, but not for him: I’m asking for me and for the guys in the investigation. I don’t want to give Boras any reason to hang around Edinburgh. I want him out of town as quickly and as neatly as can be managed.’

‘In that case, I’ll do it. But I’ll release the body only for burial: no cremation certificate will be issued. I must keep my arse covered to some degree, lest at some time in the future it winds up being kicked by one of my dear wife’s colleagues.’