Eye of the raven

TWELVE

It rained heavily on Thursday morning, giving the city a dark, gloomy, depressing air as Steven’s taxi made its way slowly through Edinburgh’s morning traffic to the new town premises of Seymour and Nicholson. He’d decided not to drive because of likely parking problems and knew he’d made the right decision when congestion forced them to halt yet again at the West End of Princes Street. The clatter of the taxi’s idling diesel engine vied with the sound of the rain on its roof as clouds of cold exhaust from neighbouring vehicles drifted upwards in the chilly air.

‘ What’s this prat doing’?’ growled the driver as the bus ahead seemed to take an eternity at the stop ahead. ‘How long does it take to hand out a few tickets for Christ’s sake?’ grumbled the man.

‘ There’s no hurry,’ said Steven.

‘ Maybe no’ for you, pal, but ah’ve got a livin’ tae make,’ snapped the driver.

Steven abandoned his calming initiative.

The bus eventually moved off to ironic cheers from the taxi driver and they continued down into the Georgian new town.

‘ Abercromby Place, you say?’ said the driver.

‘ That’s right,’ said Steven, adding the number.

‘ I think that’s at the far end. It bloody well would be…’

The cab turned into Abercromby Place where the driver leaned forward over the wheel to look up at the numbers as they moved along. He had slowed to a crawl, which annoyed a Volvo driver behind who couldn’t get past because of parked cars. He tooted his displeasure, which set off the cab driver on another rant. ‘What’s your problem pal?’ he yelled out the window, and then turning to Steven, he added, ‘See Volvo drivers? They’re all the bloody same. Think they own the bloody road.’

Steven adopted a neutral smile and got out. He paid the driver, aware that they were still holding up the car behind.

‘ No hurry, pal. Let the bugger wait,’ advised the driver.

Steven gave the man a ten pound note, told him to keep the change and stood on the pavement for a moment as the cab drove off slowly with the Volvo estate only inches from its bumper and its driver gesticulating furiously.

Steven turned away from social interaction in the city and looked up at the imposing blue door of Seymour and Nicholson. It stood tall and wide at the head of a flight of stone steps flanked by recently-painted black iron railings. A polished brass nameplate on the wall at the side cited the names and credentials of those who worked within.

The door was slightly ajar so Steven pushed it open and passed through an inner, tiled porch and then through a frosted glass door where he was met with the smell of air that had been dried-out by electric heaters.

‘ Can I help you?’ asked the young girl who appeared at a sliding glass panel. Steven saw this as a test of his theory that the person asking this question never could.

‘ I wonder if I might have a word with either Mr Seymour or Mr Nicholson.’ Steven asked, knowing that the reply would be, as indeed it was, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

He admitted that he didn’t and showed her his warrant card.

‘ One moment please,’ said the girl, peering at the card as she walked away with it.

Steven could hear whispering female voices while he waited. He heard an older woman finally say, ‘I’ll deal with this, Marlene and the girl reply, ‘Yes, Mrs Woodgate.’ His theory remained intact.

Mrs Woodgate appeared at the sliding panel, all glasses and blue-rinsed hair and asked, ‘You’re some kind of policeman?’

‘ You could say,’ agreed Steven.

‘ Can I ask what this is about?’

‘ Fire regulations,’ lied Steven.

‘ Fire regulations?’ repeated the woman, sounding alarmed.

Steven nodded. ‘There’s a problem.’

‘ I see, well, I’ll just see which one of the partners might be available first.’

‘ Thanks.’

Steven only had to wait a couple of minutes before the woman reappeared and pressed a button to release the electronic door lock, which allowed him to enter the offices proper. ‘Mr Seymour will see you,’ she said, leading the way up carpeted stairs to an elegant room, which had three tall Georgian windows, all looking out on to Abercromby Place. A tall silver-haired man got up from his desk to greet him.

‘ I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Doctor,’ he smiled, showing even white teeth. He reminded Steven of advertisements for holidays in the sun for the over fifties. ‘I don’t think I’ve come across the Sci-Med Inspectorate before.’

‘ No reason why you should,’ replied Steven, saying briefly what they did.

‘ But I understood there was a problem with fire regulations,’ said Seymour, sounding puzzled and looking concerned in an exaggerated way.

‘ My business is not for your outer office,’ said Steven. ‘It concerns a man named Paul Verdi.’

Steven could have sworn that Seymour paled slightly but after faltering for a moment the urbane smile returned and Seymour said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there; Mr Verdi is no longer with us. He left some… let me see; it must be seven years ago at least.’

‘ But he was a full partner in the firm?’

Seymour conceded with a shrug. ‘He was, but after a deal of heart searching, Paul felt that he’d had enough of law. I think he felt frustrated by its… constraints. He decided to embark on a change of career and went into business for himself I understand; the sort of move that takes courage.’

Steven paused before saying, ‘So Paul Verdi gave up a full partnership in an old established city law firm… to do what exactly?’

‘ I think there was some talk at the time of involvement with health clubs, gymnasiums, keep-fit, that sort of nonsense,’ Seymour added with what he obviously thought was a disarming smile. ‘Not my cup of tea at all although I believe they’ve become very popular. The truth is we’ve completely lost touch with one another. These things happen; people move on.’

‘ So you’d be amazed to learn that Paul Verdi runs a number of sauna parlours in the city?’ asked Steven.

Seymour looked uncomfortable. ‘Why are you really here, Doctor Dunbar?’ he asked.

‘ Paul Verdi was by all accounts a very successful criminal lawyer and yet he gave it all up to run a chain of knocking shops,’ said Steven. ‘Make sense to you?’

Seymour winced at the vulgarity, his mouth set into a tight, thin line. He said, ‘Mr Verdi’s business interests are of no concern to me or this firm. You still haven’t answered my question; why are you here?’

‘ I’ll be frank with you, Mr Seymour,’ said Steven. ‘I think Mr Verdi left under a cloud. I’d like you to tell me what that cloud was. I think it may have some relevance to a case I’m working on.’

Seymour considered for a moment before saying, ‘It would be true to say that we had a difference of opinion over certain matters.’

‘ What matters?’

‘ Paul was very successful but there was a question mark over how he went about things. He wasn’t…’

Steven filled in the gap with a silent, ‘One of the old school.’

‘- conventional in his handling of certain cases,’ completed Seymour.

‘ Could we be talking about witness intimidation, Mr Seymour?’

‘ There were rumours,’ admitted Seymour. ‘We simply couldn’t have anything like that associated with this firm.’

‘ Of course not,’ said Steven, waiting for Seymour to continue. When he didn’t, he said bluntly, ‘Rumours however, wouldn’t be enough to get a man like Verdi to fall on his sword and opt out of a full partnership in a firm like this, would they?’

‘ I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at,’ said Seymour.

‘ You would have needed more than rumours to confront Verdi with,’ said Steven. ‘You must have had absolute positive proof of something he’d done and I’d like to know what it was.’

‘ I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Seymour, putting up mental shutters and looking at his watch.

‘ I think you do, Mr Seymour. You and your partner must have had something big on Verdi, something clearly criminal but instead of calling in the police — as you should have done — you gave him the chance of resigning in return for your silence. That way he could keep his freedom and you could get rid of a rotten apple and keep your all-important reputation. Justice would be the only thing to suffer but hey, you can’t have everything.’

‘ How dare you!’ exclaimed Seymour.

‘ Oh, I do dare, Mr Seymour,’ replied Steven calmly. ‘Now are you going to tell me what it was that Verdi was involved in?’

‘ I have nothing more to say to you,’ said Seymour.

‘ You will not be prosecuted: you have my word…’

Seymour appeared to waver for a moment but then shook his head.

‘ Verdi conducted the defence of David Little in the Julie Summers case,’ said Steven, suddenly changing tack. ‘Why?’

Seymour looked surprised. ‘It was a favour,’ he said. ‘Little’s wife worked for him: Charlotte was his secretary.’

It was Steven’s turn to be taken aback. ‘His secretary,’ he repeated.

‘ Yes, a nice woman, she’d been living in America: the whole family had. We all felt so sorry for her and the children when her husband was charged. Paul did the decent thing and offered to defend him.’

‘ But not with any great vigour,’ said Steven.

‘ He was clearly guilty,’ countered Seymour.

Steven nodded thoughtfully before changing tack again in an effort to unsettle Seymour. ‘Verdi was also involved in defending three high-profile criminals who got off through elementary errors he exposed in the forensic evidence. Did these cases have anything to do with his subsequent downfall?’ he asked.

‘ I have nothing to say,’ said Seymour.

Steven could sense that Seymour wasn’t going to budge. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You are obviously determined not to tell me. My previous offer of immunity from prosecution is withdrawn. When I find out what Verdi was up to and if it seems appropriate, I’ll throw the book at you and your firm.’

Seymour swallowed but didn’t respond.

As Steven left, he passed an elderly lady waiting in the outer office: she was wearing a fur coat. He couldn’t help but think of a sheep who’d come to be fleeced. Outside on the street, he was about to hail a taxi when he thought better of it. Recollections of his earlier cab ride and his recent experience of dealing with the legal profession decreed that he sample fresh air and avoid contact with humanity for a bit.

It had stopped raining so he started walking uphill towards Princes Street. Edinburgh Castle stood high on its rock, wreathed in low cloud. The citizens scurrying below would come and go but it would go on oblivious. Discovering that David Little’s wife had worked for Paul Verdi had come as a bit of a shock to Steven and was still making him feel uneasy although he couldn’t think why. He supposed that there was no reason why staff in legal offices shouldn’t get perks just like any other people in commerce. They would probably get cheap conveyancing when they bought houses just as bank staff got cheap mortgages and airline staff cheap travel. So what disturbed him so much about Verdi having taken on David Little’s defence for that reason? he wondered.

The fact that Verdi was a crook was the obvious answer. Seymour had more or less confirmed what McClintock had suspected, albeit without giving away any of the details. He felt sure that Verdi had been ousted from the partnership. The state of play was now that the evidence against Little had come from a lab run by a drunk whom no one trusted and his defence had been conducted by a crook who’d been ousted from the profession. But the evidence was sound and there was little or nothing the defence could have done against that, he reminded himself. So why did he still feel uneasy?

The cold and damp was getting to his bones; he needed coffee and warmth. He had been walking on the south side of Princes Street, looking down at the well-kept gardens which sat in the shadow of the castle and where once there had been water but which had become so polluted with the detritus and sewage of the residents of the old town that it had had to be drained. A respectable front on a murky past, he thought with a wry smile as he turned away to cross over to where the shops were.

‘ Any spare change, mister?’ asked a boy huddled in the doorway of one of them. He couldn’t have been much more than eighteen years old and looked cold and miserable, wrapped up in a blanket as he was and with cold sores all along his bottom lip. Steven gave him a pound and a smile born more of embarrassment than warmth.

‘ He’ll only spend it on drink,’ rasped a passer by.

Steven almost retorted, ‘Shut up, you sanctimonious bastard,’ but he didn’t. He ignored the comment, got his coffee and sat down to look out at the rain, which had just started again. It was rare for him to feel so bad about humanity at this time of the morning — it usually took him till well after eight in the evening.

He recognised that if he were to continue trying to find out the reason for Verdi’s professional demise, it would mean tackling the man himself and he didn’t feel optimistic about the outcome of that. Why should Verdi tell him anything? He’d counted on Seymour’s weakness being his fear of losing his reputation but he’d managed to hold out. Verdi by all accounts had none to lose. Still, he reasoned, if you didn’t put the ferret down the hole you didn’t find out if the rabbit was there. He finished his coffee and called McClintock.

‘ Where do I find Paul Verdi?’

‘ Shit, you can’t be serious,’ said McClintock.

‘ Needs must,’ replied Steven. ‘You were right about his legal partners getting rid of him but I couldn’t find out what they had on him exactly.’

‘ And you think Verdi will tell you?’ exclaimed McClintock, as if it were the most ridiculous thing he could imagine. ‘Why should he, for Christ’s sake?’

‘ Maybe I can play one off against the other,’ said Steven. ‘Rattle their cages and see what happens.’

‘ You’ll get your arm bitten off,’ said McClintock.

‘ It’s worth a try,’ said Steven. ‘Just while I’m waiting for the lab result.’

‘ Try playing chicken on the East Coast mainline. It’s probably safer,’ said McClintock. ‘Why are you so interested in Verdi? I thought that bloke Merton had told you what you wanted to know. Why fly off at a tangent?’

‘ I think I’ve just worked that out for myself,’ said Steven. ‘The cases you showed me collapsed because of sloppy forensics,’ said Steven. ‘But I don’t think they were down to screw-ups in the lab.’

‘ Of course they were,’ insisted McClintock. ‘It’s all down there in black and white.’

‘ Oh yes, but I don’t think the screw-ups were actually screw-ups if you get my meaning,’ said Steven.

‘ Not really,’ said McClintock.

‘ I think they were deliberate,’ said Steven.

‘ Jesus Christ,’ breathed McClintock as realisation dawned. ‘You think that someone in the lab deliberately fucked-up so that Verdi could get his clients off?’

‘ In a word, yes.’

‘ Sweet Jesus,’ murmured McClintock, now sounding almost reverential. ‘No one came up with that one before. Are we talking about Ronnie Lee?’

‘ He’s certainly a strong candidate,’ said Steven. ‘Maybe he wasn’t as pissed as people made out. It probably took a great deal of deviousness and cunning to get the faulty evidence past the others in the lab and through to the court stage.’

‘ Where Verdi would be waiting for him with a cut of a big fat cheque that he’d got from his client,’ said McClintock.

‘ Exactly. It’s possible that Verdi and Ronnie Lee had a thing going. Lee would plant flaws in the evidence and Verdi would expose them. The same said clients would then pay out handsomely to both parties.’

‘ Jesus, it’s a thought,’ agreed McClintock. ‘It might also put Verdi behind Lee’s death. He might have got nervous when he heard you’d started asking questions up north.’

‘ That’s also possible,’ agreed Steven.

‘ But what has this to do with David Little?’

‘ Nothing,’ admitted Steven. ‘Apart from the fact that Verdi defended him and Little’s wife Charlotte was his secretary at the time.’

‘ I didn’t know that,’ admitted McClintock. ‘But at least you’ve found out why Verdi defended him.’

‘ Yep,’ said Steven, reminding himself that this is how he should have viewed the news himself instead of allowing it to fuel his feelings of uncertainty.

‘ Maybe this isn’t a job for a one man band anymore?’ suggested McClintock. ‘Why not talk to Santini?’

‘ Let’s keep things the way they are for the moment,’ said Steven. ‘At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to Verdi.’

‘ Okay,’ said McClintock. ‘Verdi lives in a gin palace in a place called, Silverton Gate. It’s a small, exclusive development of four or five houses by the shores of the Forth near Aberlady. His is called Aberlee. You don’t get much change from three-quarters of a million for one of these babies. It’s on the North Berwick road. Know it?’

‘ I’ll find it,’ said Steven.

Verdi’s business doesn’t really start running till the sun goes down so there’s a good chance he might be home in the afternoon,’ said McClintock. ‘Who says crime doesn’t pay?’

‘ Not me.’

‘ Be careful.’

Steven took a cab back to his hotel. He connected his laptop to the Sci-Med server via his mobile phone and checked for new mail. There wasn’t any. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearing twelve thirty. He didn’t want to arrive at Verdi’s place until after lunch time so he thought he’d grab a sandwich in the hotel bar before driving the twenty miles or so down to East Lothian. He caught up with the newspapers while he ate.

Ronald Lee’s murder had dropped from being front-page news a few days ago to a couple of column inches on page eight. Police were reportedly still searching the ground around Lee’s house and conducting door to door inquiries in neighbouring Grantown on Spey. The chief constable of the local force had rejected the idea of asking Strathclyde police for help with the investigation but the paper — which had made the suggestion in the first place — had somewhat undermined him by listing just how little there had been in the way of murder cases in his region in the past twenty years.

Steven slowed as he saw the sign ahead announcing Silverton Gate and signalled a left turn. There followed a succession of signs stressing the fact that this was private property and no through road to anywhere. The houses, when he finally reached them, were, as McClintock had suggested, very large and very modern. Stone had been used extensively in their construction to create an air of timeless respectability but Steven thought the Greek-columned portico on Aberlee a step too far.

Aberlee enjoyed a prime position, facing the sea and with views across to Fife and the hills beyond. It had a six-foot wall around it with security cameras mounted at each corner. High-railinged gates afforded a view of the front entrance at the head of a semi-circular drive surfaced with white granite chippings. A dark green 7 series BMW sat there, its fat front wheels turned out at a roguish angle.

Steven walked over to the communicator set in the wall to the left of the gates and pressed the brass button. He pulled up his collar against the wind while he waited.

‘ Yes?’ asked a woman’s voice.

Steven asked if Verdi was at home.

‘ Who wants to know?’ asked the woman.

‘ My name’s Dunbar. I’m with the Sci-Med Inspectorate.’

‘ He’s busy.’

‘ So am I. Tell him please.’

Steven turned his back to the wind and pulled his collar up even higher.

‘ Yes, what is it?’ asked a man’s voice.

‘ I need to ask you a few questions, Mr Verdi.’

‘ What about?’

Steven was becoming tired of holding a conversation with a grating in a wall. ‘About your time as a partner with Seymour and Nicholson.’

‘ Christ, that was years ago.’

‘ We can talk here or at the local police station if you prefer,’ said Steven.

Verdi did not reply. Instead the electronic lock on the gate buzzed and the latch snapped open. Steven took this as his cue to enter and walk up the gravel drive. If he’d thought the Greek pillars a bit pretentious they paled to nothing when he came across the classical statues he could now see standing in the lawns. He half expected to do battle with a Minotaur guarding the entrance to Aberlee when a woman appeared there instead. She was dressed in a waxed cotton jacket, beige slacks and green Wellington boots. She was struggling to hold on to the door while simultaneously restraining two black Labradors who clearly sensed they were about to be taken for a walk.

The woman didn’t introduce herself. She simply said, ‘You’ll find him through there,’ gesturing with the angle of her head towards a ground floor room. With that she left and Steven entered, thinking that who was taking who for a walk was a moot point.

‘ Mr Verdi?’ asked Steven, knocking on the door, which was half-open.

‘ In here.’

Verdi was a small, fashionably dressed man with dark hair and an olive complexion that spoke of his family’s Mediterranean origins. He did not get up when Steven came in but he did look up from the papers on his desk, wearing a neutral expression. ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ he said.

‘ Shouldn’t,’ said Steven. ‘I’d like to know why you resigned your partnership with Seymour and Nicholson. I’ve heard their version, now I’d like to hear yours.’

Verdi’s eyes opened wide. ‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’ he said angrily.

‘ I’m just giving you a chance to defend yourself,’ said Steven. ‘These new-town chaps made some pretty damning accusations about you. I’d like to hear your version of events before I think about instigating proceedings.’

Verdi, who had been thrown off balance by Steven’s all-out assault, took a few moments to compose himself. Steven could sense that the initiative was slipping away from him with each passing second. Eventually, Verdi leaned across his desk and rasped in a low voice, ‘Just who the fuck are you?’

Steven showed his ID and Verdi slid it back across the desk to him as if it were of no interest. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Get out.’

‘ Then what Seymour told me is true?’ said Steven.

‘ Seymour told you fuck-all,’ snapped Verdi. ‘Just like you’re going to hear from me. My private life has nothing to do with you or anybody else.’

‘ It does when it involves criminal activity,’ said Steven. ‘That’s really why you had to come off the new town gravy train, isn’t it?’

‘ No, I got sick of working with a bunch of public school toss-pots who spent most of their days sending notes to each other like kids in primary 6 so I left. All right? That’s all there was to it.’

‘ Apart from your deal with Ronnie Lee’s lab,’ said Steven.

Although he remained outwardly impassive, Steven felt distinctly unsettled by the dark look that appeared in Verdi’s eyes. It was the first indication he’d had of just how dangerous the man might be.

‘ I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Verdi coldly.

‘ I’m talking about your defence of three well-known criminals and the flawed forensic evidence you exposed to get them off.’

‘ The lab was incompetent,’ said Verdi. ‘If he hadn’t been wearing the right school tie, Lee would have been out on his arse years before.’

‘ Somehow, I don’t think he was that incompetent,’ said Steven.

‘ You’re pissing in the wind, Dunbar and I’m a busy man.’

‘ Ah yes, Cuddles,’ said Steven.

‘ What kind of car did you drive up in?’ sneered Verdi.

‘ Filthy lucre, Paul,’ said Steven getting up to leave. ‘Can’t buy you love… or class.’

‘ Get the fuck out of here.’

‘ Just out of interest,’ said Steven, pausing and turning round. ‘You weren’t such a hot shot with your defence of David Little. What was the deal there?’

‘ Little got what he deserved,’ said Verdi. ‘He was guilty. Now get out!’