‘No,’ said Rose, quietly. ‘But then we are the police.’
The man’s mouth fell open in surprise, but quickly his expression changed to one of anger. ‘Oh really,’ he burst out. ‘This persecution is just too much; I thought it was over, but apparently not. We don’t do any harm to anyone out here. Why can’t you leave us alone?’
‘David,’ Neville broke in, soothingly, ‘we’re not here to persecute anyone. . although — ’ she nodded her head towards the sea, and grinned ‘- if someone persists in flashing his impressive tackle in a public place we might have to prosecute him.
‘We’re looking for help.’
He looked at her doubtfully.
‘Really,’ said Maggie. ‘We are. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Rose and this is Detective Sergeant Neville. We’re engaged in a murder investigation. Didn’t you see our colleagues at the car park?’
‘No. We park in Gullane, then walk around the edge of the golf course.’
‘Well, don’t you read the newspapers?’
‘Never!’ said David vehemently. ‘I can’t stand newspapers: the way they assume the right to pry into everyone’s lives. Television’s just as bad these days. Donovan and I prefer just to run our little gallery and let the world get on with its own business.’
He looked across at Rose. ‘Where did this murder of yours take place?’
‘Here in the Nature Reserve, last Sunday.’ She pointed westwards, across the water. ‘A man was tied up in one of the old submarines out there, and left for the tide to come in.’
‘Oh, how awful! The poor chap, what it must have been like. Who was he?’
‘Have you ever heard of Lord Barnfather, the judge?’
David gave a gasp. ‘Oh no, surely not.’
‘You knew him?’ the DCI asked.
‘Yes. He was a customer of ours, at the gallery.’
‘Did you know he was gay?’
‘Of course I did, my dear. Oh, the poor old fellow!’
‘Were you here last Sunday by any chance, David?’ Karen Neville asked.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I only open the gallery from Monday to Friday during the Festival, for my business customers. We don’t go in for special exhibitions, so all the private buyers are usually elsewhere at weekends. The weather was fine last weekend, so we came down here on both days.’
‘Do you recall seeing Lord Barnfather here, on either day?’
David scratched his head. ‘One sees so many people here whom one knows. We saw His Lordship in the Reserve quite often.’
‘Do you mean on the beach?’ asked Rose.
‘Oh no,’ he replied, frowning. ‘He never came here with chums. He may have been an old queen, my dears, but he was also a serious bird-watcher.’
‘So, last weekend. Concentrate and think back. Did you see him?’
The man put his hands behind his head, fingers interlinked, and closed his eyes.
He sat there, motionless for almost a minute, until at last, his eyes opened. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘I’m certain that I did. It was last Sunday, late in the afternoon.’ He turned and stretched out a hand, pointing westwards. ‘Over there, almost at the point at which the beach bends into the bay.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘No. He was with a man. They were both wearing outdoor clothes as I recall, and they were walking close together.’
‘How near to you were they?’ asked Rose.
David shrugged his round shoulders. ‘They were thirty, perhaps forty yards away.’
‘Did Lord Barnfather see you?’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘Did you call out to him?’
‘No. They seemed engrossed in their conversation.’
‘When you say they were close together,’ asked Neville, ‘how close?’
‘Their arms could have been linked.’
‘Or Lord Barnfather could have been held by an arm?’
David looked at her. ‘I suppose he could.’
‘In which direction were you walking?’ the sergeant asked.
‘East. I had been stretching my legs and I had just turned to come back here.’
‘And them?’
‘Westward.’
‘Towards the submarines?’
‘If they went that far, yes.’
‘And the tide?’
‘It was almost fully out.’
Rose paused. ‘Can you describe the man with Lord Barnfather?’ she asked him.
‘He was in his early middle age. . perhaps about my own age, forty-two. . tallish, approaching six feet, with dark hair. I think he was clean-shaven.’
‘Was Donovan with you when you saw him?’
David laughed softly. ‘No, he was off waving his wand at the water for one last time, before we went home. We were having a supper party that evening.’
‘Was there anyone else nearby?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
The red-haired detective looked at him. ‘If we showed you some photographs, could you pick this man out?’
‘I won’t know until I try. . but I do have a good memory for faces.’
Rose reached into her knapsack and took out her business card. ‘In that case, I’d like you to call in at our headquarters at Fettes Avenue, tomorrow, at around twelve mid-day. Ask for the Head of CID’s Office, show them this and tell them I sent you. Detective Superintendent Mackie will be there will let you see some photographs. Maybe one will be the man you saw.’
49
Even in his home village Bob Skinner was aware of the need to guard his tongue at parties. During the years of his widowhood he had tended to turn down invitations, but since his marriage to Sarah he had been drawn back into the Gullane social circle, among whose number, he had discovered, the consumption of alcohol seemed to have declined with age.
Nevertheless, as he mingled among his friends and neighbours, listening to the inevitable golf chat, he kept a mental note of his own score in cans of Boddington’s Draught.
In a crowd most of whom had been together for twenty years, there were no conversational no-go areas. While he was prepared to discuss his own work in general terms, he had to be careful not to slip into specifics.
Questions were asked and were answered in general terms or the conversation was politely turned into other areas. Therefore Skinner was not surprised, or disturbed, when during a lull in a discussion of the lack of success of Scottish international rugby, one of the newer arrivals in the village. . it was only nine years since his move from Newcastle. . leaned forward and said, ‘Who’s doing in the judges, then, Bob?’
He smiled, as the other three men in the kitchen coughed and shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Come on, Philip, I can’t tell you that before I’ve told the Fiscal,’ he chuckled.
‘Of course you can,’ his stocky acquaintance persisted, as he tore the ring-pull from a bright red can of McEwan’s Export. ‘They’re as good as the confessional, are Gullane parties.’
Bob glanced at his watch, and laughed. ‘After midnight, maybe when most people are too pissed to remember anything. Until then at least, I have nothing to confess.’
‘Saw some of your people today,’ Philip persisted, ‘down at the Reserve. One of them even stopped me; asked if I was there last weekend. Even showed me a photo of the old boy what got done in. Since when did you start employing Africans, by the way?’
The policeman ignored the question. ‘And were you there?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact I was. I go there most weekends with the dog.’ He chuckled, looked over his shoulder, then leaned into the circle. ‘Golf in the morning, walk the dog in the afternoon. Anywhere but bloody Tesco. D’you know, lads, if I sit on my arse for one second, that bloody wife of mine’s at me to be doing something. DIY, shopping, anything. Can’t bloody stand seeing me enjoy myself, Mary can’t.
‘Think I’ll get a mistress.’ He smiled up at the policeman, conspiratorially. ‘You’ve had some experience there, old lad. D’you recommend it?’
As he spoke, Sarah appeared behind him, framed in the kitchen doorway, holding two empty glasses. The grin froze on her face. Two men on either side of Skinner stiffened involuntarily.
But Bob simply leaned against the worktop at his back, smiling. ‘Not as a general rule, Phil,’ he said, then paused. ‘Mind you, in some cases it can come as a blessed relief to the wife involved.’