Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘Good.’ Butch marched over to where the new girl was trying to empty a shovelful of swept hair into a stainless steel bin and spilling most of it in the process. He placed a meaty hand on each of her shoulders and steered the girl across the floor and into place behind my chair. ‘Nikki will touch up your grey bits. After that I’ll do what I can. He gave my hair a disdainful flick. ‘Who normally does for you? Black and Decker?’ There was an obedient titter from the rest of the staff. Butch continued. ‘There’s not much to work with but I’m thinking something graduated, feathered maybe, and come to think of it your colour’s all wrong, doesn’t match your skin tone. Have you thought about lightening up a bit?’ I hadn’t. ‘How about Cinnamon, no, Copper? Yeah. Copper. Not all over, that would be too much, but definitely highlights – how’s that sound?’

  It sounded terrible. I didn’t have that many grey bits and I was getting used to those I had. I didn’t really fancy them being touched-up, far less coloured copper. A rising tide of helplessness threatened to engulf me. I wanted to escape, leap up, rip off the gown and make a frantic dash for the nearest barbers. I remained stuck to my seat. Was this how the holocaust victims felt? The Germans say we’re only here for a shower. No need to panic. Remain dignified. Everything will be fine – probably. And that’s when help arrived. Not the Red Army but in uniform nonetheless. From my position and the angle of the mirror I could only see a pair of trousers and shoes. Dark trousers with stitched permanent creases and heavy black shoes, toes polished to a high degree. Cop trousers. Cop shoes. I remembered how my dad would use his fingers to massage the polish into the leather of his own police issue footwear then heat the toe caps over a flame before taking a duster and setting about them without mercy until they shone like ebony mirrors.

  I twisted and looked over my shoulder to see D.I. Dougie Fleming and his attractive, high-flying superior whom I’d met at Max’s autopsy.

  ‘Jacqui Dillon?’ Fleming enquired in a loud voice.

  ‘Not in today,’ Butch called over to him. ‘Haven’t seen her since Friday. The rest of us still have to work though. Isn’t that right girls?’ The row of heads nodded.

  Lockhart noticed me and came forward. ‘Mr Munro?’ she said to my reddening reflection, the hint of smirk on her pretty face. ‘I thought that was you. Look, I know this is not a good time but I wonder if I could bother you—’

  ‘You’ll need to wait.’ Butch flicked a strand of hair out of his face. ‘I’m just about to bother him - with these.’ He snipped a pair of scissors in mid-air. The young would-be tinter at his side collapsed into a fit of the giggles.

  Lockhart ignored him, her eyes locked on mine in the mirror. ‘It’s about Max Abercrombie.’ She held up her hands defensively. ‘I’m not going to ask any questions about your client.’ I really wished people would stop calling Sean Kelly that. ‘I just thought you might be able to fill me in on a few things regarding Mr Abercrombie’s personal life.’

  ‘Wasting your time pet,’ Butch said. ‘Robbie spends his life telling his clients to blank the pigs - no offence - you’ve got no chance.’

  Butch had indeed grasped the Munro and co philosophy on police interviews and, in any case, I didn’t have much recent knowledge of Max’s personal life. Latterly, we’d hardly seen each other. I also didn’t feel too much like talking about my friend as I was still trying to come to terms with his sudden death; however, at that precise moment, the opportunity to help the police with their enquiries did hold a certain appeal. I unfastened the gown, pulled it from around my neck and twenty seconds later was trotting out of the salon with the two cops at my heels.

  CHAPTER 13

  The muster room was police speak for a kitchen area with a big wooden table in the middle, some chairs, a few grey metal lockers and a sink full of dirty dishes.

  I pulled up a seat and politely refused Dougie Fleming’s offer of a coffee. I knew how he felt about defence agents in general and me in particular and didn’t trust him not to give me a saliva cappuccino.

  Lockhart took off her sweater, loosened the collar of her blouse and sat on the edge of the table. It was all very casual, her approach designed to put me at ease. It was an atmosphere that Dougie Fleming seemed keen to dispel, standing beside my chair, staring down at me.

  I shouldn’t have come. Yes, it had been a handy escape route from the clutches of Butch and his trainee-tinter, but I was still duty agent, if only for a few more days, and, though it pained me to think in those terms, it followed that Sean Kelly was my client. Discussing his case with the police, even if they were only seeking background information on the victim, did present something of a conflict of interest.

  ‘How well do you know Jacqui Dillon?’ Lockhart asked.

  It wasn’t a line of questioning I’d anticipated and I had to think for a moment or two. I knew Jacqui like I knew a lot of the girls from the salon. They mostly lived locally and frequented Sandy’s café.

  ‘Do you usually have your hair done there?’ asked Lockhart, a cute little smile on her face.

  ‘No – not usually,’ I replied.

  Lockhart was about to speak when Fleming butted in. ‘When did you see her last?’ he demanded and received a look of mild annoyance from his senior officer.

  ‘Have you seen Miss Dillon recently?’ Lockhart asked.

  I had to think about that for a moment. ‘I may have seen her out and about or at the café but the last time we spoke was two or three weeks ago.’

  ‘About a road traffic violation?’ Fleming made it sound like she’d gang-banged a mini.

  ‘I think it would be easier, Inspector,’ Lockhart said, ‘if only one of us asked the questions. We don’t want Mr Munro to feel as though he’s being interrogated.’

  I doubted whether Fleming cared what I thought.

  ‘Why the questions about Jacqui?’ I asked. ‘I thought you wanted information on Max.’

  ‘We do.’ Lockhart cleared her throat. ‘And we’d like to know if you ever saw Mr Abercrombie and Miss Dillon out together… socially.’

  ‘What? Like on a date?’

  Fleming sighed loudly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lockhart patiently. ‘Out for dinner perhaps, or the cinema, that sort of thing.’

  I laughed. Max was the most married man I knew and Irene Abercrombie definitely not the sort of woman to let any man trifle with her affections.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That seems very unlikely to have ever happened.’

  ‘Told you, ma’am,’ Fleming said. ‘Load of rubbish.’

  Lockhart ignored the remark. ‘It has come to our attention—‘

  Fleming coughed meaningfully. His senior officer conceded the point.

  ‘It has come to my attention, that Mr Abercrombie and Miss Dillon may have been having an affair.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said.

  Lockhart continued. ‘My source doesn’t think so. Seems fairly certain that there was a romantic affiliation of some sort.’

  Max? Play away from home? It was almost too ridiculous to contemplate.

  ‘Who told you about this supposed romantic affiliation and just how drunk were they at the time?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I protect the identity of my source.’

  I’d liked to have known who it was, and why they’d let whoever it was out of the nut-house, but I let it go.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, ‘the fact is, now you’re looking for Jacqui?’

  Fleming interrupted again. ‘Just answer the question.’

  Lockhart glared at him. ‘Inspector, when I need your assistance I’ll let you know.’

  Fleming stomped over to the sink and helped himself to a glass of water.

  ‘To answer your question,’ Lockhart said, ‘I would like very much to speak to Miss Dillon, if only so that we…’ she looked over at Fleming. ‘So that I can eliminate her from my enquiries.’

  ‘And she hasn’t been seen for how long?’

  ‘Since Friday night.’

  Th
e night Max had been killed.

  ‘Is she a suspect?’ I asked.

  Fleming blew out his cheeks and let loose another loud sigh.

  ‘Inspector Fleming doesn’t think so, but let’s just say,’ she stared meaningfully at Fleming, ‘as the senior officer, in charge of this murder investigation, I’m keeping all lines of enquiry open at the present time.’

  ‘How does this affect Sean Kelly?’

  Lockhart laughed. ‘You’ll remember it was me who asked you here for questioning?’

  ‘And you’ve established that I know nothing about Max and Jacqui having an affair. Now I’d like to know why Sean Kelly is remanded on a murder petition when there’s at least one person you, as officer in charge, haven’t ruled out as a possible suspect.’

  It was almost surreal. That I should actually believe for one moment that Max would be involved in extra-marital relations was crazy enough, without the suggestion that my hairdresser client could have been his murderer. I put it down to my defence agent instincts kicking in on auto-pilot. If the cops were still actively investigating the case, why had they locked up my client? Albeit he was soon to be my ex-client.

  Fleming had had enough. He slammed his glass down hard on the metal draining board.

  Before he could say anything, Lockhart had lowered herself from the table and stood facing me. She was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than me, five nine or thereabouts. I don’t know what perfume she was wearing but I could have stood there smelling it all day. ‘Mr Munro…’ She took a pace back and cleared her throat. ‘There is a very strong prima facie case against Sean Kelly. He’ll likely be put at the scene by two eye witnesses who heard an argument between Mr Abercrombie and another male on the evening of the murder. You will be notified shortly of an identification parade. As yet we don’t have a motive but there exists physiological evidence suggestive of a struggle between the deceased and your client. I think you’ll agree that’s more than enough to support initial proceedings.’

  ‘And Jacqui?’ I asked.

  ‘Like I’ve already said…’ She stared hard at Fleming. ‘That particular avenue of enquiry remains open.’

  CHAPTER 14

  I fumbled sleepily amongst the books on my bedside table, located my alarm and beat it into submission. Another restless night punctuated by dreams about Max’s shooting.

  I got out of the sack and tottered to the bathroom. On the way I cracked my leg off a bedpost, the shoogly one with the annoying tendency to fall off and drop to the floor with a loud clunk during moments of high passion. It was the first time it had been disturbed in a while. I was rubbing my knee when the phone rang.

  ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep, Mr Munro.’ The duty sergeant was bright and, I thought, unnecessarily breezy for that time of the morning. ‘Inspector Fleming asked me to call, wants to do Kelly’s ID parade at ten.’

  I’d learned on my return to the office the previous afternoon, following my discussions with the lovely Chief Inspector Lockhart, that the Procurator Fiscal had rubber-stamped the release of Max’s body. With no objection from me on behalf of the defence, it meant the funeral could now go ahead and the morning’s court had been suspended until later in the day to allow local Faculty members to pay their last respects. As duty agent, I had little option other than to attend the parade but I’d be cutting it fine for the funeral; nonetheless, as there were only two witnesses: Max’s paralegal and receptionist, and as they’d be going to the funeral as well, I didn’t foresee any major difficulty.

  I avoided my usual early morning trip to Sandy’s for a bacon roll and coffee. I wasn’t feeling hungry. The mere thought of food made me feel queasy.

  ‘What you doing here?’ asked the duty sergeant when I walked into the station.

  ‘ID parade,’ I said. ‘Hope you’re all set. The funeral’s at eleven.’

  ‘You’re going? I think the Inspector imagined you would be staying away - you acting for the accused and all.’ He must have read my face. ‘Anyway…’ he hurried along, ‘the parade’s not happening here. It’s a VIPER 1 up at Livingston.’

  I should have known. My brain just didn’t seem to be working properly. There was no way I could make the drive to Livingston, attend the parade and be back in time for Max’s funeral.

  ‘You’ll have to phone Livingston and tell them to postpone the VIPER.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said the sergeant. ‘The lad’s on his way from Polmont. There’s an inspector and a sergeant standing by. Everything’s ready.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Lockhart appeared behind the front desk. Her hair was wet. A sweat-soaked sports top clung to her slim athletic torso. ‘Morning, Mr Munro. You’ll need to excuse me. I’ve been out for a run.’ She gave her head a vigorous rub with the white towel that had been slung around her neck. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be up at the VIPER.’

  I explained my predicament.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she said. ‘Sergeant, what wheels have we got?’

  The Sergeant didn’t check the board on the wall that had several hooks but only one set of keys dangling. ‘Zilch. Everything’s out.’

  ‘What are those for?’ Lockhart pointed at the lonely keys.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Those are for the Firearms Response Vehicle.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Before the man with the stripes could verbally express the look of protest on his face, Lockhart had tossed her towel at him and unhooked the keys. Grabbing my arm she led me at speed outside and around the rear of the police station to an awaiting fluorescent yellow and blue chequered flying machine. Beautiful and decisive. I was beginning to see why she had made Chief Inspector.

  Chapter 15

  Like everything else, identification parades had succumbed to the relentless march of technology. No longer did the accused line up beside reluctant stand-ins dragged from the high street, while nervous witnesses viewed proceedings wondering if the two-way mirror really worked. The first stage of the new Video Identity Parade Electronically Recorded procedure involved capturing a moving image of the suspect and compiling a virtual line-up using other images sourced from a database of thousands, held by West Yorkshire Police.

  The witnesses weren’t brought in until the second stage, VIPER 2, usually a few days later. At that time they were shown a compilation on DVD and asked to make an identification. Popcorn was optional.

  Sean Kelly was wearing the standard remand kit of jeans, white trainers and an orange polo shirt embroidered with a Scottish Prison Service logo on the left breast. The Reliance security officer unlocked his handcuffs and ushered him into the room. Other than the prisoner’s lank, greasy hair and an insipid complexion, he seemed well enough for someone dubbed-up twenty-three and a half hours a day and sharing toilet facilities with a psycho from Easterhouse.

  When he came into the VIPER room it was the first time I’d had a really good look at the person charged with Max’s murder. During our earlier brief encounter before his court appearance I’d been in no fit state to care. Now for some reason, perhaps it was Lockhart’s interest in Jacqui Dillon, the AWOL hairdresser, I was curious.

  ‘In you come, son,’ said the inspector, pointing at the swivel stool that was situated in the centre of the room, fixed to the concrete floor.

  The young man sat and stared around at four breeze-block walls, coated with matt white paint. Every VIPER room throughout the country was built to the same dimensions and layout.

  ‘I’m inspector Docherty, this is sergeant McColl and I take it you know Mr Munro.’ The prisoner gave me a half-baked smile. I remained tight-lipped.

  After the inspector had gone through the formalities, recorded the details of all those present, noted down a description of the accused and read out loud the parade procedures, I was asked if I had any objections to the arrangements. There was one obvious one and I had the young man’s prison shirt removed and replaced by a sports top from a selection of T-shirts the VIPER team kept handy for
just such occasions.

  Once the subject was properly attired the inspector nodded to the sergeant which was the signal for the man with the three stripes to take over. The Sergeant left his computer terminal, went over and pulled down a projector screen that stretched from ceiling to floor behind the prisoner’s back. He adjusted the stool, lowering its height by spinning the seat around with the young man still sitting on it. ‘Right you are Sean,’ he said, switching on the halogen lighting. ‘Look into the camera.’

  Kelly did as he was told and his face appeared on the computer monitor where there was a cross drawn in correcting fluid and the sergeant lowered the stool some more so that the subject’s nose was aligned precisely with the white cross-hairs.

  ‘Great. What I want you to do is keep looking straight into the camera and hold up this card.’ He handed Kelly a white card with a long number written on it in black felt-tipped pen. ‘Hold it in front of your face, count to five, then lower it. Once you’ve done that, keep staring straight ahead until I tell you to look to your left, then to your right and face the camera again and count to ten, not out loud, in your head.’

  It always seemed such a simple enough process but I’d yet to see anyone perform it first time without a hitch. It took Kelly four goes. On his first try he turned right then left, instead of the other way around. On the second go there was too much body movement.

  ‘Just turn your head,’ said the sergeant. ‘Keep your body still.’ By the third attempt, Kelly had slouched and his face was too low on the screen but the fourth take was a wrap. After that the sergeant beckoned us over to the computer to view potential stand-ins. There were several pages from which we were allowed to select a shortlist of eight. Like most of my clients he complained when he didn’t see any doppelgangers of himself but, once it was explained that the only criteria for an ID parade stand-in were gender, age and similar colouring, he chose fairly well