Murder in Court Three by Ian Simpson Page A

their heads.
    Baggo asked, ‘Do you remember anything, however trivial, that Mr Knox said during the evening about the fraud trial?’
    Molly shook her head. ‘And I was beside him at dinner. He always seemed to arrange that. He was going on about the Archers. Actually he was very funny. He could be, you know, if he was in the mood.’
    â€˜Was he in a good mood during the meal?’
    â€˜Oh yes, no doubt anticipating his tryst with Mrs Traynor. It was a bit embarrassing when he sang the Robin Hood song when the head Archer passed the table. Funny too, though.’ She giggled.
    Rab said, ‘He did say something to me before the meal when we were having drinks. He said during the trial he was in he’d been re-visiting – that was the word he used – the sort of grass you could grow in different types of soil. Six years ago, before he took silk, I was devilling to him and he was involved in a massive planning inquiry about a golf course near Montrose, Culrathie it was called. There was lots of evidence about grasses and soil types and we had to become quite knowledgeable about them – birds’ nesting habits and so on. That’s one of the odd things about the bar, you occasionally have to learn an awful lot about stuff you’d never expect to know about.
    â€˜It’s odd you should mention Henry Hutton. He was our senior in that inquiry. There’s nothing like a big planning inquiry for boosting your income at the bar. One night Hutton got pissed and told us he intended to paper his study with twenty-pound notes after that one.’
    â€˜That is interesting,’ Baggo said as di Falco took a note.
    There was nothing else. The officers thanked the Bertrams and left. As they drove away, passing drab net curtains and colourful window boxes, di Falco said, ‘I wonder which house was the brothel?’

    * * *

    Kenny and Jen Cuthbert lived in the Murrayfield area of the city, an easy walk to the rugby stadium. Their house was like many: part of a grey stone terrace three storeys high with a small front garden, which was trim and colourful. Baggo and di Falco had to wait before the bell was answered. Locks clicked then an anxious-looking woman opened the heavy front door a fraction.
    Baggo put on his warmest smile. ‘Mrs Cuthbert?’ She nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Chandavarkar and Detective Constable di Falco. May we come in, please?’
    Mrs Cuthbert almost sniffed their warrants as she examined them. She peered up and down the street then stood aside for them. ‘You’ll guess why I’m nervous,’ she said.
    â€˜May we sit down and discuss this?’ Baggo said, wondering what had scared this middle-aged, middle-class woman who was married to a QC.
    She took care to lock the door then, scurrying like a mouse, led them into a sitting room which was north-facing and dark. It had a high ceiling, an attractive cornice and a dado rail. The sofa on which both officers sat although comfortable, was not new and covered in chintz whose colours clashed with the rich red of the large Oriental rug covering half of the polished wooden floor. An eclectic collection of paintings, most done in oil or acrylic, made Baggo think of a badly curated art gallery.
    â€˜We are here to investigate the murder of Farquhar Knox,’ he said. ‘But please tell us why you are nervous.’
    â€˜The threats, of course.’ She pursed her lips. She was a small, wiry woman, barely five feet tall, with short, jet-black hair and dark, wandering eyes. Her irregular eyebrows looked as if they had been painted on during a mild earthquake. Her blue trousers were tailored but the matching blouse looked a size too big.
    â€˜Please tell us,’ he said gently.
    â€˜You know my husband is defending Harry Nugent?’
    Puzzled, Baggo smiled vaguely. Di Falco cut in, ‘Yes, of course, in Glasgow. The assisted suicide case.’
    Mrs Cuthbert clearly