First Among Equals

“He even calls his wife ‘Mrs. Sinclair’ when she rings the office,” Sir Duncan once told him. Andrew was willing to join in the game.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. I need your advice as Procurator Fiscal.”

“Always happy to be of service, sir.”

“I want to talk to you off the record about the Paddy O’Halloran case. Do you remember it?”

“Of course, everyone in this office remembers that case.”

“Good,” said Andrew. “Then you’ll know what a help you can be to me in cutting through the thicket.”

“Thank you, sir,” the slight burr came back down the telephone.

“A group of my constituents, whom I wouldn’t trust further than I could toss a caber, claim O’Halloran was framed for the Princes Street bank robbery last year. They don’t deny he has criminal tendencies”—Andrew would have chuckled if he hadn’t been speaking to Angus Sinclair—“but they say he never left a pub called the Sir Walter Scott the entire time the robbery was taking place. All you have to tell me, Mr. Sinclair, is that you have no doubt that O’Halloran was guilty and I’ll drop my inquiries. If you say nothing, I shall dig deeper.”

Andrew waited, but he received no reply.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.” Although he knew it would elicit no response, he couldn’t resist adding: “No doubt I’ll see you at the golf club some time over the weekend.” The silence continued.

“Good-bye, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Good day, Mr. Fraser.”

Andrew settled back: it was going to be a lengthy exercise. He started by checking with all the people who had confirmed O’Halloran’s alibi that night but after interviewing the first eight he came to the reluctant conclusion that none of them could be trusted as a witness. Whenever he came across another of O’Halloran’s friends the expression “anyone’s for a pint” kept crossing his mind. The time had come to talk with the landlord of the Sir Walter Scott.

“I couldn’t be sure, Mr. Fraser, but I think he was here that evening. Trouble is, O’Halloran came almost every night. It’s hard to recall.”

“Do you know anyone who might remember? Someone you could trust with your cash register?”

“That’d be pushing your luck in this pub, Mr. Fraser.” The landlord thought for a moment. “However, there’s old Mrs. Bloxham,” he said at last, slapping the drying-up cloth over his shoulder. “She sits in that corner every night.” He pointed to a small round table that would have been crowded had it seated more than two people. “If she says he was here, he was.”

Andrew asked the landlord where Mrs. Bloxham lived and then, hoping she was in, made his way to 43 Mafeking Road, neatly sidestepping a gang of young children playing football in the middle of the street. He climbed some steps that badly needed repairing and knocked on the door of number forty-three.

“Is it another general election already, Mr. Fraser?” asked a disbelieving old lady as she peered through the letterbox.

“No, it’s nothing to do with politics, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew, bending down. “I came round to seek your advice on a personal matter.”

“A personal matter? Better come on in out of the cold then,” she said, opening the door to him. “There’s a terrible draft rushes through this corridor.”

Andrew followed the old lady as she shuffled down the dingy corridor in her carpet slippers to a room that he would have said was colder than it had been outside on the street. There were no ornaments in the room save a crucifix that stood on a narrow mantelpiece below a pastel print of the Virgin Mary. Mrs. Bloxham beckoned Andrew to a wooden seat by a table yet unlaid. She eased her plump frame into an ancient stuffed armchair. It groaned under her weight and a strand of horsehair fell to the floor. Andrew looked more carefully at the old lady. She was wearing a black shawl over a dress she must have worn a thousand times. Once settled in her chair, she kicked off her slippers.

“Feet still giving you trouble, then?” he inquired.

“Doctor doesn’t seem to be able to explain the swellings,” she said, without bitterness.

Andrew leaned on the table and noticed what a fine piece of furniture it was, and how incongruous it looked in its present surroundings. He was struck by the craftsmanship of the carved Georgian legs. She noticed he was admiring it. “My great-grandfather gave that to my great-grandmother the day they were married, Mr. Fraser.”

“It’s magnificent,” said Andrew.

She didn’t seem to hear because all she said was, “What can I do for you, sir?” The second time that day he had been addressed by an elder in that way.

Andrew went over the O’Halloran story again. Mrs. Bloxham listened intently, leaning forward slightly and cupping her hand round her ear to be sure she could hear every word.

“That O’Halloran’s an evil one,” she said, “not to be trusted. Our Blessed Lady will have to be very forgiving to allow the likes of him to enter the kingdom of heavens.” Andrew smiled. “Not that I’m expecting to meet all that many politicians when I get there either,” she added, giving Andrew a toothless grin.

“Could O’Halloran possibly have been there that Friday night as all his friends claim?” Andrew asked.

“He was there all right,” said Mrs. Bloxham. “No doubt about that—saw him with my own eyes.”