Murder in Court Three by Ian Simpson Page A

them with me. We won’t get any comparisons till tomorrow. We don’t have enough to arrest Traynor, but if I interview him I’d have to treat him as a suspect. He’d have to be suspended and the news would spread like wildfire. I’m going to talk to the DCC before I take that step.’
    They agreed that there was no point in Baggo attending the briefing in Cupar the next morning. He would stay in Edinburgh and continue his inquiries there.
    It was just after nine when Baggo found the door of the Canny Man’s. A brass plate beside it forbade credit cards, cameras, mobile phones and backpackers. It did not look like his sort of place. He was relieved he had taken out cash recently. As neither policemen nor Indians were banned, he shoved his cap in his pocket, checked his phone was on silent and pushed open the swing doors. The interior was beyond quirky. A profusion of clocks, jugs, stuffed birds and animals, old photographs and paintings decorated the place. A mannequin in a faded sequin dress was suspended from the ceiling above copper-topped tables. Beside a row of Champagne magnums the gantry held a stupendous collection of spirit bottles, mostly whisky, a mirror at the back making it appear even more extensive.
    â€˜Hi, there!’ As Baggo peered round Melanie broke away from one of the younger groups of drinkers and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. She wore jeans and a tee shirt with a low neckline.
    â€˜This is Baggo,’ she said to her group. ‘What do you want to drink, Baggo?’ she asked.
    â€˜A pint, please, real ale if they have it,’
    â€˜And a pint of real ale,’ she shouted to a man at the bar. ‘Good timing, mate!’
    None of the group asked what he did. Articulate, quick-witted and sparky, they continued their conversation. They all seemed to be lawyers. When they began to talk about the murder Baggo learned nothing he did not know, but it was clear that the police were barely ahead of common gossip.
    After half an hour, muttering something about the Appeal Court, a woman got up to go. The rest drifted out after her, refusing Baggo’s offer of a drink. When only he and Melanie were left, she moved to an alcove with room for two only and asked for a pint of IPA.
    â€˜Well?’ she asked, sipping the rich, brown beer appreciatively, ‘tell me about yourself.’
    So he did. She listened intently as he described his childhood in Mumbai, his move to England as a teenager and some of the difficulties he had encountered, despite his father being an eminent urologist.
    â€˜Why a policeman?’ she asked.
    â€˜I loved cop shows and detective stories.’ He looked round the walls of the alcove which, papered with sheet music and varnished, had turned a yellow-brown colour. ‘I read all the Rebus books and expected Edinburgh to be gritty and cold. But it is warm and civilised.’
    â€˜Not all the time,’ she countered. ‘Let me get you one, then I must go.’
    â€˜What about you?’ he asked when she returned.
    â€˜Very boring, I’m afraid. I was brought up in Morningside, went to school here, George Watson’s, then Edinburgh University and followed my dad into the law. I still live in Morningside and my folks are five minutes away.’ She pulled a face.
    â€˜You are very lucky. It is good to be comfortable in a place, and I do not find you at all boring.’
    Her face lit up. ‘Comfortable is good if it’s not boring. And Edinburgh has lots of culture and history.’
    â€˜You are right there. So your father was a lawyer?’
    â€˜Dad was at the bar. He always wants to know what firms are instructing me, and gets quite pissed off if the firms that used to instruct him thirty years ago don’t send work to me. Now he’s a sheriff in Airdrie. Sheriffs are judges, you know. I hope he’ll retire soon and go off and play lots of golf, but he says he still wants the buzz