But neither had ever been inside the Lord Reid Building, the advocates' consultation centre, until they arrived in its small courtyard off the Royal Mile. Number 142 High Street, in New Assembly Close, was built in 1814 by James Gillespie Graham as the Commercial Bank. Much later, before its acquisition by the Faculty of Advocates, it housed the popular Edinburgh Wax Museum. Skinner guessed that currently far fewer people passed through its doors every year than during its time as a tourist attraction, but that in income terms, its turnover was far greater.
'Consultation with Miss Christabel Innes Dawson, QC,' Mitchel Laidlaw announced to the uniformed Faculty Officer at the smal desk in the reception hal.
'Very good, sir,' said the man. 'If your party wil please go into the waiting room.' He pointed them towards a large, leather-upholstered waiting room, its walls hung with works of art from the Faculty's extensive collection, and with a large fireplace similar in size and style to that in the formal drawing room in Bute House, and which Skinner guessed at once was original. The policeman in him thought of the profitable trade in stolen antiquities and of the signs posted on several disused Georgian and Victorian offices in and around Edinburgh's Golden Mile which advised potential burglars that al fireplaces had been removed. 'If they ever find out where the store is…' he had said once to Andy Martin.
Normally an advocate will arrive to greet solicitors and clients and to take them to their consultation rooms. But Christabel Innes Dawson QC was far too senior and venerable to do her own fetching.
After a few minutes, the attendant reappeared. 'If you will follow me, gentlemen, madam… Miss Dawson will receive you in Room Five.'
The trio followed him, latterly in single file because of the narrowness of the corridor which led to the rear of the building, until they reached a flight of four steps, with a varnished door at the top.
The attendant knocked, opened it and announced them: 'Mr Laidlaw and party, Miss Dawson.'
Christabel Innes Dawson QC did not rise as her instructing solicitor led her client into the room. She was seated at a very ordinary round table, in a very ordinary room, a far cry from that in which they had awaited her pleasure. She surveyed them as they entered one by one, the attendant retreating and closing the door.
Final y she nodded to the solicitor. 'Well, Mr Laidlaw.' The words seemed to roll from her tongue. 'I had begun to despair that you would ever instruct me in a case. I know al about you, mind. When Ken, my clerk, told me you wanted me in this matter, I asked three senior members of Faculty about you. Two of them described you as the best litigation solicitor in Scotland. The third said you were a shark in a lagoon fil ed with holiday-making children. I think he was saying the same thing as the other two, only in a different way.
'Sit down, sit down please. You're all so tall.'
She turned her attention to Skinner. 'Well, Chief Inspector… or what is it now?… this is a sad surprise. I never imagined for one instant that when the great Mr Laidlaw finally called on me it would be to represent you in a criminal cause.
'Last time our paths crossed, literally, was in Aberlady, I think, a couple of weeks ago. Your informal salute was appreciated. So few people pay respects these days to a funeral cortege. There was a time when gentlemen always removed their hats as a hearse passed by. So few gentlemen left now,' she mused.
'Maybe just fewer with hats, Miss Dawson,' said Skinner, gently.
'Maybe, maybe.' Her eyes flashed suddenly, with a cunning gleam.
'If memory serves, you were in your car with the young lady I've been reading about. Well, I certainly won't be the one to criticise you for such a relationship.' She frowned for an instant. 'I'd tell her she's a bloody fool though.'
Beside her father Alex gasped, but Miss Dawson ignored her presence. She guessed that with her apprenticeship completed and two or three years' experience at the Bar, she might merit a nod.
Skinner looked at his Senior Counsel. He had seen her only twice before out of her court dress, each time from a distance. For their meeting she wore a formal charcoal grey suit, and a white blouse, with a ruffled col ar. He guessed that she had a dozen such outfits in her wardrobe, and precious little else.
Close to, she really did look old, he realised, but he was not surprised, since judging by the year of her Cal ing to the Bar, she could not be less than seventy-eight years old. He had expected her hair to be shorter, and more grey, until he took a second look and realised that she wore a wig not only for court but on al public appearances.
But her voice disguised her frailty and her years. It had kept its strength through over fifty years of practice, and even now, it was only faintly reedy as she spoke.
She addressed Laidlaw once more. 'Thank you for the papers which you sent to my clerk. I have read them.' She glanced quickly and slightly mischievously at Skinner.'You realise that means that the meter's running, young man.'
Skinner nodded. He knew also that her meter was one of the most reasonable at the Bar. Although her clerk was free to negotiate private fees, she never charged more than the appropriate Legal Aid rate for criminal work.
She looked directly at Laidlaw once more. 'As I say, I've read them, and I've been made aware of yesterday's subsequent development, the discovery of the receipt in Mr Skinner's office. I'm glad at least that there were no fingerprints on it.
'You know I must ask you this. Would a plea of "Guilty" be considered by our client, should the Crown wish to negotiate surrender terms?'
Mitch Laidlaw shook his round head vigorously. 'Under no circumstances. Our client maintains his innocence, and believes that he is the victim of a clever, ruthless and well-planned conspiracy.'
He relaxed slightly. 'In any event, given the evidence which they have, it's difficult to imagine how the Crown could come up with a reduced charge, or why it would wish to.'
'Indeed. Very well. Let's look at our cards.' She leaned across the table, her skinny arms folded. 'On the face of it, the signature is a problem. However, I note Mr Skinner's explanation of how it might have been obtained. I find that credible. So, I believe, will the members of the jury, as long as we can sow other seeds of doubt in their minds, in respect of other aspects of the Crown case.'
She glanced briefly at Skinner. 'I like the point about the Bank of England notes. I think that is odd enough to start the jury thinking, also.
'Then there is the bank manager's unwitting identification of the photofit of the suspect in the McGrath and Anderson cases as the courier who delivered the money, a chap with evident malice towards our client. That's a piece of luck.'
'Hold on, though, Miss Dawson,' Skinner intervened. 'That's a coincidence, that's all. Not even I believe for a second that it's the same man.'
The ancient Queen's Counsel gathered her breath and frowned at him, with a degree of outrage. 'What you believe or do not is of no interest to me or relevance to your case. You are the accused here, not the investigator. It is what I can make the jury believe that will determine your future liberty, so any doubts you may have about 219 your own defence arguments would be best kept to yourself.'
The big policeman grinned. No-one had spoken to him in that tone since he was a detective constable.
'We can argue on both those points,' his counsel continued. 'But for me, the strongest card they have is the Crown's lack of information on who might have paid this money, and for what purpose.'
She looked at Skinner again. 'Now,' she said, 'I'l ask for your professional view. Would you be completely happy to be proceeding in a case with such an omission?'