‘No initials?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Mine don’t have any. It’s my little joke; I say that I don’t have any so that when a club sacks me they don’t have to get new gear for the next manager.’

  ‘When you left the Fonter apartment where did you go?’

  The prisoner frowned. ‘I went back to the training ground in Larkhall. I’d come from there, in a bit of a hurry, ’cos of Annie’s message, and I went back to change into my suit.’

  The DCI nodded. ‘DS Haddock and I visited the training complex yesterday,’ he said. ‘Among the kit waiting to go to the laundry we found a top exactly as you’ve described it. There were marks on it, on the right sleeve. Laboratory analysis has shown them to be blood, and it’s now confirmed that it came from Mrs Fonter. How do you respond to that?’

  Baker gazed at the detectives across the table, silently, for several seconds.

  ‘Sir?’ Pye murmured.

  ‘No comment,’ whispered at first, and then repeated, loudly, with a glance at the tape.

  ‘And as I’ve said before, sir, that is your right. However, I have to tell you that it leads us to a pretty inescapable conclusion, that on Friday evening you went to Mrs Fonter’s apartment at her invitation to discuss something that was concerning her. Whatever that something was, it led to an argument, in the course of which you struck Mrs Fonter, breaking her nose. You then removed your belt and strangled her with it.’

  ‘I deny that, absolutely. Yes, I was there, but Annie wasn’t. I looked for her, all through the apartment. I waited for a while, and then I gave up on her and left. I repeat that I did not see her there and I did not kill he.’

  ‘The evidence says otherwise,’ Pye told him. He looked at his solicitor. ‘Ms Skinner, we see no reason to delay any further. Your client will be charged formally with the murder of Annette Fonter, and will be taken straight to the Sheriff Court, where we’ll ask that he be remanded in custody.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector,’ she replied. ‘I’ll appear for my client at that hearing. We will,’ she emphasised, ‘be asking for bail.’

  Sauce Haddock smiled. ‘Good luck with that one, Alex.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Well?’ Maggie Steele asked as the video link ended. ‘Do we have a case?’

  ‘You have him there on camera,’ Skinner responded. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Going in and leaving, yes?’

  ‘Absolutely, and looking flustered as he leaves.’

  ‘What’s flustered, Mags? He could just have been pissed off at being stood up. Does the bloodstain show on camera?’

  ‘No, but it wouldn’t. The training top was dark blue, almost black, and there isn’t a clear shot of his right sleeve. We’ve got his belt, round her neck, we’ve got his prints beside the body, we’ve got his presence in the apartment at time of death.’

  ‘Okay but do you have her presence coinciding with his?’ he countered.

  ‘Yes, Bob, we do. She came in from the gym before he got there and she never left.’

  ‘Motive?’

  She laughed softly. ‘You know even better than I do that we don’t need a motive. All we need to do is prove beyond reasonable doubt that he killed her. The law doesn’t ask us to establish why. If you want me to speculate, I suggest that they were having an affair and she threatened to go public on it.’

  ‘And he silenced her with Hugo Boss?’

  ‘For whatever reason, he did. Honestly, are you going to tell me you wouldn’t charge him with what we’ve got?’

  He sighed. ‘No, I’m not. Is that all of it, or is there stuff that you’re holding back?’

  ‘We have no more direct forensic evidence as yet, but . . . we have his phone. The text is there, sent from her less than ten minutes after she returned from the health club. “Must see U ASAP. Can’t keep secret any longer. Come to apartment. Building entry code is 7585.” Secret? Theirs, it looks like.’

  ‘Did he text back?’

  ‘There’s a reply, sent immediately. “On my way.” He got there seventy-eight minutes later.’

  ‘I see. Pretty solid, I’ll grant you. Yet he was vehement in his denial,’ Skinner pointed out.

  ‘Is that unusual?’ Steele asked. ‘The man’s a practised liar. He was in a legal dispute with his former club in France, centred on an oral promise he made to the chairman that he would see out his contract there come what may. When he walked out, the man used that promise as the basis for a restraining order preventing him from being employed elsewhere. Before a French judge, Baker denied ever making the promise, then a tape was played. The conversation had been recorded.’

  ‘Is that admissible in the High Court?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be. It’s public knowledge. Sammy Pye got it from a sports writer he knows.’

  ‘So what you’re saying to me, Maggie,’ Skinner stood, ‘is that my kid’s going down in flames if she takes this case to court.’

  ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘And what I’m saying to you is that there’s no way in hell I’ll allow that to happen.’

  ‘Then persuade her to plead him guilty, Bob. It’s the only way to avoid it.’

  He smiled as he looked down at her. ‘How many years was it, Maggie? You know there’s another way.’

  Eighteen

  ‘I’m having lunch there with the chief constable after this is done,’ Skinner remarked, glancing at the Royal Scottish Museum. ‘Yesterday’s was aborted before she really had a chance to go to work on me about some sort of a comeback.’

  For all that it was Sunday, Chambers Street had the bustle of a weekday, but he had found a parking place at the South Bridge end, opposite the Richer Sounds Hi-fi store, where he was a regular customer.

  ‘What does Sarah think?’ Alex asked.

  He grinned. ‘About the comeback idea or about me having lunch with Maggie?’

  ‘Both,’ she laughed, ‘if it comes to it.’

  ‘She’s happy about the latter. About the former she’s reserving her judgement. How do you feel about it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m reserving mine too. It would depend on what she’s offering. Can you tell me?’

  ‘In theory no, I can’t.’ He smiled again. ‘In practice, there being nothing I can’t tell you, and since we’ll be bound by lawyer–client privilege . . . reading between the lines of what Maggie said yesterday before we were interrupted by the inconvenient murder of the unfortunate Annette Bordeaux, it seems to me that the First Minister isn’t completely happy with the powers that have been devolved to him, and wants to add to them by setting up his own little security service, without anyone knowing.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Pops,’ she murmured. ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘That’s a question I’ll be asking you if I give any thought to accepting. Hypothetically, if I was to be set up in de facto opposition to MI5, I’d want to be very sure of my legal ground. At the moment, I’m inclined to say “No thanks”. I don’t want to be Clive Graham’s fixer; I had a taste of something similar earlier in my career, as adviser to the Secretary of State before the Holyrood Parliament existed, and it didn’t end well, for either of us.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re being so cautious,’ Alex said. ‘You’ve been more relaxed over the last twelve months than you were in the previous twelve years. There is life for you, post-police. For example,’ she continued, ‘there’s Chaz Baker’s predicament. You spent all of your career in pursuit of the guilty. This is a chance for you to do it the other way round, by defending the innocent.’

  ‘The problem with that, my dear,’ he countered, ‘is that all the evidence says your client is guilty. The only thing the Crown doesn’t have is CCTV footage of him strangling the poor woman.’

  ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘but he says he didn’t do it and I believe him. Fight for him; help me prove it.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, kid,’ he sighed. ‘The police know stuff about him that you don’t.’

  ‘Please, Pops.’

  ‘Stop giving me the big eyes,’ he chuckled. ‘You know I’m a sucker for that look. Okay,’ he said. ‘When the Crown gives you the police report, let me see it and I’ll go through it. If anything in it strikes me as out of place, I might . . . just might, mind . . . look into it.’

  She beamed. ‘You’re a darlin’ man.’

  ‘I know that. Now, you’d better get into court or your client will be there before you. It’s a private session, so I can’t come in with you.’

  She nodded agreement and walked through the ornate iron gateway into the court precinct. The entrance door was guarded by a uniformed security officer; she offered her driving licence as identification. He inspected it, checked her name against a list on a clipboard and nodded her through.

  ‘The clerk of the court’s there already,’ he said, gruffly, visibly annoyed by the disturbance to his peaceful Sunday. ‘So’s Miss Benedict.’

  ‘Miss Benedict?’ she repeated.

  ‘Paula Benedict; she’s the advocate depute.’ He frowned. ‘All we need now’s the sheriff.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Alex countered. ‘We need my client as well.’

  She left the disgruntled guardian at his post and moved into the building, heading straight for the main courtroom. She was still relatively new as a criminal lawyer, but already she knew her way around all of the court buildings in Edinburgh and in Glasgow.

  As she entered the chamber she saw two people, a man and a woman, in conversation. Alan Milroy, the clerk of the Sheriff Court, was well known to her. He smiled and waved as she approached.

  Paula Benedict was not. She was dressed for battle, in a black robe over dark trousers and white blouse, formal court dress. Alex had heard of her from other defence lawyers and not all of their reviews had been positive. A member of the Faculty of Advocates, she had been at the bar for only four years, but saw herself on a fast track to senior counsel status and, beyond that, to the Supreme Court judiciary. A stint as a prosecutor in the Crown Office was an essential prerequisite for both.

  ‘Ms Benedict; Alex Skinner,’ she introduced herself, hand outstretched.

  Her counterpart, a good four inches shorter than her five feet eight, gave her a look of appraisal that lasted a couple of seconds too long, before offering the briefest of handshakes.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve heard of you; you obviously know who I am.’

  Alex smiled, but not with her eyes. ‘You’re the only woman in the room and Sheriff Wisdom isn’t here yet, so yes, it was rather obvious. The Crown’s sending in the heavy artillery early, isn’t it, fielding an AD at a first hearing? A fiscal could have handled this, surely.’

  Benedict sniffed. ‘Could have, yes. But the Solicitor General called me personally and asked me to appear. He’s determined there will be no laxity in any aspect of the prosecution of this case. My being here is a statement of sorts.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Alan Milroy laughed. ‘Who’s noting it down, Paula? This is a private hearing, and it goes from here to the High Court.’

  ‘The Sol Gen’s briefing the media at two o’clock. He’ll make the point in his statement, once Baker’s safely tucked up in the remand unit in Saughton Prison.’

  Alex felt her eyes narrow; she held back a retort, but with difficulty.

  The official picked up her involuntary signals, but before he could react, a door opened, behind the bench, and Sheriff Lesley Wisdom appeared. Like Alex, she wore no formal court clothing, only a suit.

  She moved straight to her chair, looking down into the well of the court. ‘Good morning,’ she began then glanced up at the clock on the wall as the two lawyers took their positions facing her. ‘No, it’s afternoon. Are you ready to proceed, Alan?’ The clerk nodded. ‘Are you doing the record of the hearing?’ He nodded for a second time. ‘Counsel?’ she continued.

  ‘Yes, M’ Lady. Paula Benedict, advocate depute for the Crown.’

  ‘I know who you are, Paula,’ the judge said. ‘You too, Alex. Do you need any time with your client before I bring him in? If you do, I can give you a few minutes.’

  She shook her head. ‘No thank you, My Lady. I’m fully instructed.’

  ‘Very good. We’re short handed today, no court officer present, so Alan, if you don’t mind.’

  Milroy stood and walked across the chamber to a door at the rear. He opened it, spoke briefly and returned to his position below the sheriff. As he did so, two custody officers led Chaz Baker into the court and into the dock, where all three remained standing.

  ‘This court is in session, before Sheriff Lesley Wisdom, QC,’ the clerk announced. ‘The prisoner Charles Lofthouse Baker is charged with the murder of Annette Brody or Fonter, also known as Annette Bordeaux, on Friday evening at a time to be determined, in her home at King Robert Village, Edinburgh. Mr Baker, you are not required to enter a plea at this diet, but do you understand the charges against you?’

  The prisoner looked at his solicitor. She nodded, briefly, and he answered, in a clear voice, ‘Yes.’

  The advocate depute rose to her feet. ‘My Lady, the Crown makes application that the accused be remanded in custody pending an appearance for full committal.’

  Sheriff Wisdom peered down at Alex over the rim of her spectacles. Her question was unspoken.

  She rose. ‘Alexis Skinner, solicitor advocate; I appear for Mr Baker, and I move that he be granted bail pending service of the full indictment.’

  Her opponent launched herself from her seat. ‘My Lady, the Crown strenuously opposes bail in this case. Mr Baker is charged with murder, he is a man of considerable resources, and must be regarded as a possible absconder. I submit that if this court grants him his liberty pending trial it will be sending out entirely the wrong signal.’

  The sheriff frowned. ‘Noted. Ms Skinner, do you wish to offer reasons why I should bail your client?’

  ‘My Lady,’ she replied, ‘I would be struggling to offer a reason why you should not. It’s well established by recent precedent that the gravity of the charge is not an automatic bar to the grant of bail. Any refusal must be based on objective evidence that the accused is likely to abscond, that he is likely to obstruct the course of justice or that he is a threat to witnesses.’

  ‘Thank you for advising me of the law, Ms Skinner,’ Sheriff Wisdom murmured.

  ‘I was advising my learned friend, My Lady,’ Alex countered, quietly, ‘since her motion seemed to indicate that she might be unaware of those aspects. My client is indeed a well-off individual, and he gives the court an assurance that he would not do anything to put that status at risk. He is prepared to abide by any conditions that you attach to a grant of bail, and to appear at all subsequent hearings in this matter, through to trial.’

  She sensed Paula Benedict bristling in her seat, and carried on before she could intervene. ‘As for the safety of witnesses, although the Crown has yet to make full disclosure of its case against my client, it is my understanding that there are none. My information is, the evidence that has led the Crown to charge my client is entirely scientific and circumstantial, and that it cannot and will not bring forward any person who claims to have seen Mr Baker murder Mrs Fonter. In all those circumstances I can see no bar to your granting bail, and I respectfully request that you do.’

  Benedict made to rise, but the white-haired sheriff waved her back down. Alex suspected that her age was greater than those of both advocates combined. ‘You’ve made your submission, Advocate Depute.’ She looked across at Baker, who had remained standing in the dock.

  ‘I know who your client is, Ms Skinner, and what he does for a living. I share your view that there’s no serious chance of him absconding, even less if he doesn’t have his passport, which will be surrendered in the event I grant him bail. Nor do I believe that he’d be a danger to witnesses even if there were any. But . . . when it comes to obstructing the course of justice, then I can see where he might be a danger, to himself.’

  Her gaze switched back to the accused. ‘Mr Baker,’ she addressed him, ‘do you know what sub judice means?’

  ‘I’ve heard the term, My Lady,’ he acknowledged calmly, ‘but I’m not a hundred per cent sure.’

  ‘Then let me fill you in. It means that the judicial process is under way and that its detail may not be reported or discussed in the media. Any breach is regarded as contempt of court and the breacher is liable to pretty much any sanction that the court may prescribe, including imprisonment. With me?’

  ‘Yes, My Lady,’ Baker said, meekly.

  ‘Very good. Now, advise me if I’m correct in this. I understand that in the course of your duties as a football manager you are obliged to appear before the media, at press conferences, before and after games. Is that the case?’

  ‘Yes, My Lady, the league top brass at Hampden, they insist on it. It’s the same in England and in France. You can get into real bother over there if you don’t speak the language too well. Ironic, innit? They make us speak to the press then they fine us if they don’t like the answers we give.’

  ‘Have you ever been fined, Mr Baker?’ the sheriff asked.

  His smile hinted at both guilt and pride. ‘Three times, My Lady; twice in England, once in France.’

  ‘In other words you have a record of intemperance of speech in a media environment.’ She looked down at Alex. ‘You see my concern, Ms Skinner? I can’t make an order granting your client anonymity. In a few hours this will be all over the media, and if your client goes back to work, I can only imagine the chaos at his next press conference.’

  ‘Yes, My Lady,’ Alex replied. Out of a corner of her right eye she saw her learned opponent smile, but ignored it, knowing that the sheriff was considering her decision and would brook no interruption.

  ‘Okay,’ the judge declared. ‘I’ll grant bail, on three conditions, one being passport surrender, obviously, the second being that he makes himself available to the police for further interview at any time they require it, and third that from the moment he steps out of this building to the time this case is disposed of, or his bail is revoked by another court, he does not speak to a single journalist, in any circumstances, about any subject under the sun. You can go back to work, Mr Baker, pending your trial, but no more press conferences. If the top brass in the league have a problem with that, they can talk to me, because I’m forbidding it. This case is adjourned, for trial in the High Court at a date to be determined.’