Murder in Court Three by Ian Simpson Page B

of work. Mum says she won’t know what to do with him if he’s around all day. Sorry, I’m gabbling.’
    Baggo reached across the table and put a hand on hers. ‘You gabble beautifully,’ he said then added, ‘Sorry, that’s pure Bollywood.’ They both laughed and she blushed a little.
    â€˜So how’s the inquiry going?’ she asked.
    â€˜Frankly, we’re not much ahead of the gossip, but please keep that under your hat. I expect we will get a breakthrough soon. Patient work generally pays off.’ He wished he meant what he said. ‘We are going round all those at the function on Friday night. It is a huge task.’
    â€˜Well I saw nothing that would help.’
    â€˜But you were not there.’ He had checked the lists, looking for her name.
    â€˜Oh yes I was. Angie Jack, the first woman to leave this evening, had a migraine. I was at a loose end and took her ticket.’
    She grinned sheepishly. ‘I got truly smashed. The next morning I was calling God on the big, white phone. Not good. So you can write “too pissed to notice” opposite my name on your spread-sheet.’
    Baggo looked into her twinkling eyes. There was an electricity between them which he was sure she also felt.
    She drained her glass. ‘Time to go,’ she said.
    Outside, the long Scottish summer twilight had faded and the streetlamps were lit. They were heading in the same direction. After about a quarter of a mile Melanie turned down a wide street and Baggo walked her to the outer door of her tenement, hovering as she found her keys.
    â€˜See you tomorrow,’ she said quickly then turned the lock and slipped inside. The heavy door swung back and gave a loud click as it shut.
    As he walked back to Newington, initial disappointment gave way to quiet optimism. ‘Patient work generally pays off,’ he repeated to himself.

9

    â€˜A lot of serious assaults are committed by people who wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ Fergus said as he stirred the scrambled eggs. ‘They take it so long then explode.’ He pulled several rashers of bacon from the grill, arranged them on plates and served the eggs. ‘Eat up,’ he commanded.
    Flick smiled wanly. Her appetite was poor and the quantity of food on her plate was putting her off. ‘You mean Traynor suddenly had enough?’
    â€˜Could be.’
    â€˜I need something more to go on. There isn’t the evidence to arrest him at the moment and he’s too smart to incriminate himself if I ever do get to interview him.’
    â€˜What about Mrs Knox? She seemed a bit …’ the phone interrupted him. He answered then passed over the receiver. ‘The DCC,’ he mouthed.
    Flick’s greeting was cut short. ‘Have you seen
Good News
this morning?’ the DCC’s voice was an octave higher than the last time they had spoken.
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜It’s all blown open. Knox and Mrs Traynor, how he died, the lot. They’re saying Traynor should be suspended and even offering a reward, twenty thousand pounds, for anyone who brings them evidence that directly results in a conviction. They say they’ll pass everything they get to us immediately, meaning as soon as they’ve used it as a scoop. They practically accuse us of protecting our own and looking to pin the murder on someone connected to the fraud trial. They’ve even hired some retired cop from London to advise their readers about what should be happening. Some buffoon called Osborne. He seems to know you.’
    Flick’s heart sank. Inspector Noel Osborne, known as Inspector No, had been the bane of her life when she had been his sergeant in Wimbledon. Lucky not to have ended up in jail beside the criminals he had framed, and even luckier to have retired with an intact pension, he had gone to Spain but had not sunk quietly into Rioja-sodden Andalucian obscurity. He neglected no opportunity