She started to rise, then paused. ‘Ms Benedict,’ she said, ‘I’ve made my decision, but the Crown does have the right of appeal. Is that your intention?’

  ‘I’ll need to take advice, My Lady,’ the advocate depute replied. ‘I wasn’t instructed on that.’

  Sheriff Wisdom smiled. ‘The Solicitor General was that confident of a remand, was he? Well, you go ahead and take your advice, but I’m pretty sure I know what that will be. Mr Rocco de Matteo knows as well as I do that an appeal wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  Paula Benedict gathered up her papers. ‘See you in the High Court,’ she snapped at Alex as her client left the dock and came towards her.

  She shrugged. ‘You may, you may not. I may instruct a silk.’

  ‘Great game so far, Ms Skinner,’ Baker exclaimed, cheerily.

  She stared at him. ‘That wasn’t the game,’ she countered, frowning back at him. ‘It wasn’t even the warm-up. You’re still charged with murder, Mr Baker, and if you’re convicted you’ll be lucky if you get out of prison before you’re seventy.’

  His smile vanished, and was replaced by a look of naked terror. ‘I told you,’ he moaned, ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘I’m inclined to believe that, but that counts for nothing. On the basis of what we heard this morning, it’ll be difficult to mount a successful defence. They can demonstrate that you were there, in the place where she died, around the time she died. In the absence of anything else, that alone would be tough to overcome, but the blood on your training kit and your belt round her neck . . .’

  She sighed, out of sheer exasperation. ‘If I was sitting on your jury and the advocate depute asked me where’s the reasonable doubt, as it stands I couldn’t find it. My job will be to dig it out and plant it in the minds of the people who will be trying you.’

  ‘And if you can’t?’

  ‘Then you know what’ll happen.’

  The fear that had been in his eyes at their first meeting reappeared; his lips moved, but no sound escaped.

  ‘But I will!’ she declared, firmly. ‘Unless you’re lying to me, and you did throttle the woman, in which case I’d slam the cell door on you myself, I will raise that doubt, and I will exploit it. We’re not without hope. The evidence they have could work in your favour.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It may help us in a perverse sort of way. Since you didn’t kill Annie, it follows that someone’s trying to frame you and it has to be someone with a degree of knowledge of you, and not just a disgruntled Celtic supporter. That’s our starting point. And by the way,’ she added, ‘there’s someone else you’ve got on your side, maybe your biggest asset.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father,’ Alex replied.

  ‘He thinks I’m guilty,’ Baker protested. ‘I could see it in his eyes yesterday.’

  ‘But you’re not, and I’ll make him believe it. Once he does, he’ll see the things I see and, trust me, there’s nobody better at digging out what lies beneath them. Now,’ she continued briskly, ‘about these bloody press conferences that worried the sheriff. They won’t become a problem, will they?’

  ‘No,’ he assured her. ‘I know that judge wasn’t kidding. I’ll get Tank to take them.’

  ‘Tank?’

  ‘Tank Bridges, my assistant manager. He’s not the best with the press, but he’s so fuckin’ scary they never push it with him. Nobody ever pushes it with Tank, not even Artie.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Art Mustard, club captain. He’s a big West Indian boy, hard as nails. He’s one of the toughest guys in the league, they reckon, but even he’s respectful around Tank. Paco, now, he might not take any shit, but he’s too good to ever have any chucked at him.’

  ‘How does Mr Bridges get on with the owner?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Rogozin? He hardly ever sees him; their paths don’t cross as a rule. Tank’s at the training ground mostly, and Dimitri doesn’t go there.’

  ‘How do you get on with Rogozin? On a day-to-day basis; you’ve told me your back story with him.’

  Momentarily, tension showed on Baker’s face, lips tightening, eyes narrowing; then it was gone. ‘He’s a hard taskmaster, a bit of a bully; not physically, but Grigor’s always around, glowering at you. He’s given me performance targets and he keeps on top of me all the time.’

  ‘How will he react to your situation?’

  ‘God knows. It’s not one you envisage, is it? I’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘That could happen the moment you step out of here. He knew where you were this morning because your wife told him. I advised her that you’d be appearing here, so . . .’

  ‘Dozy cow,’ he snarled. ‘For a doctor, she can be dumb sometimes.’

  ‘She’s a doctor?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. She’s the football club doctor, in fact. They didn’t have one when I arrived, so I brought her on board.’

  ‘She knows Rogozin professionally as well as personally? I didn’t realise that.’

  ‘No reason why you should have.’

  ‘Can I ask you, Mr Baker, how is your relationship with your wife?’

  ‘Fine,’ he exclaimed, his face lighting up. ‘We’ve always got on, Lita and me, even better since we had Letitia, our nipper. She’s a gem.’

  ‘I’ll have to interview your wife in preparing your defence,’ Alex said. ‘I may want to call her as a witness to your state of mind.’

  ‘Can I be there when you talk to her?’

  ‘No way,’ she retorted. ‘Now, do you want to avoid Rogozin, assuming he’s out there?’

  ‘I’d rather.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave by the back entrance and get you into a taxi. The Crown will be briefing the media soon, and you should make yourself scarce. Ideally you should take your family away, somewhere private, and stay there until this is over.’

  ‘But I need to work,’ he insisted. ‘I need to get to the training complex, and to the ground on match days.’

  ‘We’ll cover that, but first let’s get your family out of reach of the media. Do you have somewhere you can go?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I know somebody who might help.’

  ‘Then contact him. I’ll text my dad to let him know what we’re doing. He’s waiting for us outside in Chambers Street, maybe having a rematch with Grigor.’

  ‘I’d pay money to see that,’ Baker chuckled.

  ‘You wouldn’t get value for it,’ Alex retorted. ‘It would be all over in seconds. Come on, let’s get the paperwork done and get you out of here, and be grateful that you’re not leaving in a prison van.’

  Nineteen

  ‘Who was that?’ Mia McCullough asked as her husband pocketed his mobile. ‘Or don’t I want to know?’

  ‘If you didn’t I wouldn’t tell you,’ her husband said. ‘It was Lita Baker, again.’

  ‘What did the good doctor want?’

  ‘Two things; she wanted to thank me for fixing her up with a good lawyer. Chaz has been charged but he’s out on bail.’

  ‘On a murder charge?’

  ‘It happens.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘I was.’

  ‘Ignacio didn’t get bail,’ she complained.

  ‘He was a foreign national,’ McCullough pointed out, ‘and he had to be extradited. It would have been difficult in his case. Mind you,’ he added, ‘his father could probably have fixed it.’

  ‘If he’d stood up in court and admitted to being his father,’ Mia said, ‘but neither he nor I fancied the idea of Bob Skinner’s son being known to be among the prison population. What else did Baker’s wife want?’

  ‘She’s looking for a hideaway for the three of them, somewhere Chaz can avoid the media when he’s not at work.’

  She stared at him across the living room. ‘Eh? He can’t carry on managing the team, can he?’

  ‘He thinks he can, and Rogozin’s backing him up. In fact Dimitri’s insisting on it. He flew in from Russia over the weekend, on his executive toy. He called me earlier on when you were in the gym. He was effing and blinding about Bob Skinner. From what he told me, the silly bugger tried to waylay Alex outside the police station where they were holding Chaz: “to incentivise her”, he said. Bob was there, and it got a bit unfortunate for Dimitri, and that fucking goon of his. He was going to try again, after Chaz’s court appearance, but I marked his card, ordered him not to.’

  ‘You ordered him? I thought Rogozin was the club chairman.’

  ‘He is,’ McCullough acknowledged, ‘but he understands our relationship.’

  ‘What about the minder? Does he understand it?’

  ‘He’d better. That Grigor, he thinks he can have a go at people in the street in Edinburgh? I hope big Bob’s taught him a lesson. If not . . .’

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ Mia said.

  ‘I never get involved,’ her husband countered. ‘But it might be best for Grigor if he stays in Russia from now on, and that might have to be explained forcefully, if Dimitri doesn’t agree.’

  ‘I don’t know if I like the sound of that. Who’ll do the explaining?’

  ‘My granddaughter’s partner, young Haddock: if it comes to it, I’m sure he will. Grigor has form in Russia, under another name, the sort that would have seen him turned down for a visa if his boss hadn’t bought him a new identity and new passport. If I pass the details to Sauce through young Cheeky, the clown’s feet won’t touch the ground.’

  ‘Maybe you should. He sounds like a potential embarrassment, and Merrytown FC is exposed enough at the moment.’

  ‘Dimitri wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Bugger him!’ she snorted. ‘Would that bother you?’ she asked. ‘What he thinks?’

  ‘To be frank, no: this whole bloody mess is down to him. It was him that brought Baker in as manager, and it was him that insisted on signing Paco Fonter. He claims to be an expert, with a database of thousands of footballers and managers, but apart from Chaz and Paco I’ve seen no evidence of it.’

  ‘Then go ahead. Get rid of Grigor and tell Rogozin to behave himself. What about the Bakers?’ she added. ‘Can we help?’

  ‘I can give them one of the lodge houses,’ he suggested, ‘here in the hotel grounds.’

  ‘What if the media find out and stake the place out?’

  ‘We can keep them at the entrance, but I reckon they’d get bored pretty quick. If they did become a nuisance, I could instruct a lawyer to go to court to interdict them.’

  Mia shrugged. ‘Your hotel, your football club; if it helps them, go for it. But it won’t be your biggest problem.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘No. If Baker does go back to work, how’s he going to take training sessions when he’s accused of killing the wife of his star player?’

  Her husband laughed. ‘Good point,’ he conceded. ‘Rogozin can deal with that. After all, he saddled us with the pair of them.’

  Twenty

  ‘I wasn’t sure we’d even start this lunch date,’ Skinner admitted, as he took his seat on the Royal Scottish Museum’s Tower Restaurant, on the opposite side of Chambers Street from Edinburgh Sheriff Court. ‘I expected you to be hauled into another press briefing, given what’s just happened.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Chief Constable Maggie Steele asked. ‘I know the plan was to get Baker into court at midday, but nobody’s told me whether they managed it.’

  ‘My clever daughter got him bailed . . .’ he said, ‘. . . to the fury of the Crown Office, I imagine. I had a text from her saying she was whipping him out of the back entrance, to avoid anyone waiting outside.’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone, was there? I had a grandstand view from the terrace and I didn’t see anyone but you. Not that any media were expected; they don’t know about Baker yet.’

  ‘You can’t keep it under wraps any longer. When are you going to make an announcement?’

  ‘We’re not; the Solicitor General’s doing it himself,’ Steele said. ‘His press people decreed that he doesn’t need any police presence, since constitutionally we act on behalf of his office in investigating crime. Bloody politicians,’ she grumbled. ‘That de Matteo’s an ambitious boy; he’s an MSP as well as a law officer, as you know, and he has his eyes on being the next Justice Secretary.’

  ‘In his dreams,’ Skinner laughed. ‘Somebody should take the spade off him before he digs himself a hole he can’t climb out of. He’ll bugger it up, as soon as it gets to questions.’

  ‘He’s not taking any. The plan was that he’ll make a simple statement, on camera, then he’ll get up and walk out, no press questions: two thirty, across the road there in the Crown Office, next to the Sheriff Court. The assumption was that Baker would be locked up in Saughton before they called the briefing. That’s knocked on the head now he’s got bail.’

  All at once, her companion’s eyes shone; he beamed. He took out his mobile, checked the time, and called June Crampsey. ‘Have you just been called to a briefing in the Crown Office this afternoon?’ he asked her.

  ‘As it happens we have,’ she admitted. ‘News desk’s assuming that it has to do with the Annette Bordeaux investigation, but that’s unconfirmed.’

  ‘Well,’ he chuckled, ‘this is a little bird . . . or a bloody great shite-hawk, you choose . . . whispering in your ear. About half an hour ago Chaz Baker, the manager of Merrytown Football Club, appeared in Edinburgh Sheriff Court charged with her murder. He was granted bail on the application of his defence counsel, Ms Alexis Skinner, and his next appearance will be in the High Court.’

  He heard her gasp as he spoke. ‘Is this for real?’ she whispered.

  ‘Check the date; it’s September, not April the first. It’s legit, and you can use it right away. You’re free to get it out in the Saltire online version and on your social media platforms, and to pass it on to all InterMedia group outlets. You have Alex’s mobile number; if you tell Lennox Webster, the crime reporter, to call her, she’ll give her as much of a quote as she’s able to.’

  ‘If you were here, Bob,’ the editor exclaimed, ‘I’d hug you.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t, because it wouldn’t be seemly and we’d both be embarrassed. Get on with it.’

  Steele frowned at him as he ended the call, but her eyes were smiling. ‘You are wicked,’ she said. ‘Every reporter in the room will have gone in there knowing what the story is.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s see now if the boy de Matteo gets away without taking questions. As you said, bloody politicians. They get on my tits.’

  ‘Is Baker guilty, Bob?’ she asked, quietly.

  He looked back at her blandly. ‘You saw the same interview that I did. You’re an experienced police officer. What do you think?’

  ‘As such, I don’t think. As I told you, I look at the evidence and it tells me he did it.’

  He tapped the spectacles that he had put on to read the lunch menu. ‘Never mind that. What did your eyes tell you, looking at him on camera?’

  ‘The same, that he’s an impulsive murderer. Now answer my question. What do you think?’

  ‘No different from you, but I’m not going to admit that to my daughter. She’s sticking to the presumption of innocence and I’m not going to do or say anything that’ll undermine her belief in him.’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, peering at the menu as the waiter approached. ‘Sweetcorn soup and fish for me,’ he declared.

  ‘And I’ll have the salmon starter and the veggie tagliatelli . . . in honour of our friend Mr de Matteo,’ she chuckled.

  With their selections, Skinner ordered a bottle of sparkling water, and a glass of wine for his friend. ‘So,’ he said, as the waiter left, ‘do we pick up where we left off yesterday?’

  Steele nodded. ‘We might as well. Have you given it any thought?

  ‘About two seconds’ worth,’ he replied. ‘Mags, I voted for independence but my side of the debate didn’t get the result we wanted. I didn’t like it, but I lived with it. The First Minister has to live with it too, and with its consequences. He can’t set up the equivalent of his own private security service, off the books, unless he has the devolved power to do so. I do not see anything in the Police Scotland Act, or any other piece of legislation, that says he can.’

  ‘His advice is that he can.’

  ‘Who gave him that advice?’

  ‘The Solicitor General,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed?’ Skinner murmured, with a light smile on his face. ‘Suppose I was interested in Clive’s proposition, I’d want to hear that advice from the Lord Advocate himself, and I’d want it confirmed by the Lord President of the Court, before I’d take it on.’

  He sighed. ‘But I’m not interested. I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole because I don’t believe that any head of government should have his own private personal heavy. So, Mags, please tell the First Minister that he should have had the balls to approach me personally about this because I’d rather have looked him in the eye as I shot him down than have to do it through you.’

  ‘Word for word,’ she promised.

  ‘You think it’s rubbish too?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes and no,’ she responded. ‘I’ve already got a counter-terrorism and serious organised crime division under my command. I wouldn’t want anyone riding roughshod over them, or bringing my authority into question. But if Clive Graham persuaded the Prime Minister that the Security Service needs to be strengthened in Scotland and given its own command structure, answerable to him as well as Westminster, I’d be happy with that.’

  ‘Then make that case to him,’ Skinner suggested. ‘If he can swing that, maybe this conversation can happen again; but,’ he laughed, ‘with him buying the lunch next time.’

  Twenty-One