green Harris Tweed jacket. Someone had heard me–someone had come to help, and I had rewarded this, this
saviour
with a broken glass.
‘He started shouting: “Am I cut badly? Am I cut badly?” Kailash gulped for air like a stranded fish as she recalled the night’s events. ‘But the blood just kept gushing out of him.’
So Lord Arbuthnot had died a hero attempting to save a woman in distress. I wondered if he would have rushed to the rescue if he had known who she was?
‘The bunch of criminals fled, but not before they lifted my handbag…and I was left alone with Alistair MacGregor,’ she concluded.
I sat up sharply in my seat. She had called him by his own name. She would not have known that, unless she knew him well. Lord Arbuthnot was his judicial title, assumed when he took his seat as a senator in the college of justice. Judges don’t always take judicial titles but his father, Lord MacGregor, was, at the time, still sitting as the Lord Justice Clerk, the second most powerful judge in Scotland.
The MacGregors could trace their judicial lineageback for four centuries. But that bloodline ended last night, on a Princes Street pavement. Alistair MacGregor died without issue.
Sheriff Strathclyde sat watching Kailash, visibly moved by her story, and somewhat impressed that his deceased colleague had performed such a chivalrous, if fatal task. If a lauded man had to die, how much better that he should die in the pursuit of a noble deed, even if the heroine was a whore. Kailash wiped some tears away and decided she had a few more words to add.
‘I held him in my arms, but the blood just kept flowing.’
She paused and looked at the tape recorder before continuing.
‘I don’t know where he came from…’
She paused again, as though considering the dead man’s options. She lifted her eyes from the whirring tape inside the machine and reverted back to staring at Sheriff Strathclyde.
‘Oh…’ she whispered, before her voice became steadily stronger.
‘He must have come from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde leaped to his feet as a slow smile spread across Kailash’s face.
‘Stop that tape now! Stop it! I demand that you stop it!’ he shrieked at the stunned clerk.
‘Yes,’ went on Kailash Coutts. ‘I think he did. In fact, I’m positive. Lord Arbuthnot came from the public toilets. He came from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde was now on his feet, blustering, moving back and forth.
‘I order you to stop! Just stop speaking now, woman!’
Kailash looked at him one more time, looked at the still-whirring tape machine and pronounced:
‘Certainly. I’ve said all I needed to say. Thank you, M’Lord. Thank you.’
EIGHT
After the court was cleared and Kailash escorted back to the cells, I left as quickly as possible. I didn’t want, or need, to speak to my client just now, but I did have to go over what had just happened. Alone.
Ordinarily, I would have tried to nip back to the flat. Some mornings, some afternoons, some trials just left me needing time spent with nothing more strenuous than a cookbook in front of me. Running often worked, drinking too, but there was nothing more satisfying than taking your frustrations out on a block of meat or chocolate. Today wasn’t shaping up to be the sort where I could slip in a bit of kitchen action–Kailash’s outburst had seen to that.
Strathclyde’s behaviour was unheard of–judicial interference with a witness’s evidence may happen, but never so publicly, and never on tape. I couldn’t blame Strathclyde for his outburst. The toilets at the East End of Princes Street are a notorious gay haunt, particularly favoured by those keen on a nice wee bit of cottaging to go with their double lives.
Could it really be that, seconds before he died, the Lord President was ensconced in a grubby toilet cubicle, with a stranger? He was married, without children, but Alistair MacGregor and his wife Bunny had a public life that did not allow
saviour
with a broken glass.
‘He started shouting: “Am I cut badly? Am I cut badly?” Kailash gulped for air like a stranded fish as she recalled the night’s events. ‘But the blood just kept gushing out of him.’
So Lord Arbuthnot had died a hero attempting to save a woman in distress. I wondered if he would have rushed to the rescue if he had known who she was?
‘The bunch of criminals fled, but not before they lifted my handbag…and I was left alone with Alistair MacGregor,’ she concluded.
I sat up sharply in my seat. She had called him by his own name. She would not have known that, unless she knew him well. Lord Arbuthnot was his judicial title, assumed when he took his seat as a senator in the college of justice. Judges don’t always take judicial titles but his father, Lord MacGregor, was, at the time, still sitting as the Lord Justice Clerk, the second most powerful judge in Scotland.
The MacGregors could trace their judicial lineageback for four centuries. But that bloodline ended last night, on a Princes Street pavement. Alistair MacGregor died without issue.
Sheriff Strathclyde sat watching Kailash, visibly moved by her story, and somewhat impressed that his deceased colleague had performed such a chivalrous, if fatal task. If a lauded man had to die, how much better that he should die in the pursuit of a noble deed, even if the heroine was a whore. Kailash wiped some tears away and decided she had a few more words to add.
‘I held him in my arms, but the blood just kept flowing.’
She paused and looked at the tape recorder before continuing.
‘I don’t know where he came from…’
She paused again, as though considering the dead man’s options. She lifted her eyes from the whirring tape inside the machine and reverted back to staring at Sheriff Strathclyde.
‘Oh…’ she whispered, before her voice became steadily stronger.
‘He must have come from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde leaped to his feet as a slow smile spread across Kailash’s face.
‘Stop that tape now! Stop it! I demand that you stop it!’ he shrieked at the stunned clerk.
‘Yes,’ went on Kailash Coutts. ‘I think he did. In fact, I’m positive. Lord Arbuthnot came from the public toilets. He came from the toilets.’
Sheriff Strathclyde was now on his feet, blustering, moving back and forth.
‘I order you to stop! Just stop speaking now, woman!’
Kailash looked at him one more time, looked at the still-whirring tape machine and pronounced:
‘Certainly. I’ve said all I needed to say. Thank you, M’Lord. Thank you.’
EIGHT
After the court was cleared and Kailash escorted back to the cells, I left as quickly as possible. I didn’t want, or need, to speak to my client just now, but I did have to go over what had just happened. Alone.
Ordinarily, I would have tried to nip back to the flat. Some mornings, some afternoons, some trials just left me needing time spent with nothing more strenuous than a cookbook in front of me. Running often worked, drinking too, but there was nothing more satisfying than taking your frustrations out on a block of meat or chocolate. Today wasn’t shaping up to be the sort where I could slip in a bit of kitchen action–Kailash’s outburst had seen to that.
Strathclyde’s behaviour was unheard of–judicial interference with a witness’s evidence may happen, but never so publicly, and never on tape. I couldn’t blame Strathclyde for his outburst. The toilets at the East End of Princes Street are a notorious gay haunt, particularly favoured by those keen on a nice wee bit of cottaging to go with their double lives.
Could it really be that, seconds before he died, the Lord President was ensconced in a grubby toilet cubicle, with a stranger? He was married, without children, but Alistair MacGregor and his wife Bunny had a public life that did not allow
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