Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  The virtual parade was to be viewed by two witnesses. The sergeant decided he’d make two separate compilations with all eight stand-ins and the subject in different positions on each. Kelly looked to me for guidance. I suggested he not go first or last; other than that it was down to him. He asked to be placed second and sixth. Then it was time for him to go.

  ‘Will I see you at court on Monday, Mr Munro?’ he asked.

  Why didn’t I just say no? Was I beginning to have second thoughts about Sean Kelly? Such as why would a young lad like him march into a solicitor’s office and gun down the proprietor in cold blood? As insane as it seemed to me that Max might be having an affair, wasn’t it more likely that he’d been killed during some sort of moment of high emotion with his paramour? Why else had Jacqui vanished? The investigating police officer clearly hadn’t ruled it out.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied.

  ‘You think I killed Mr Abercrombie—’

  ‘Remember where you are, son,’ said the inspector. ‘If you want to speak to your lawyer we can arrange an interview room.’

  ‘You do - you think I killed him.’

  I didn’t know what to think. Deciding such things as guilt or innocence were other people’s responsibilities. I didn’t answer his question; I just stood there and watched as the young man was handcuffed and led away.

  Chapter 16

  Another butt-clenching drive later and I was back in Linlithgow, where Bell-Scott parked the car at the rear of the police station. As officer in charge of the murder investigation, she wanted to attend Max’s graveside and hurried off to shower and change into uniform. Fast though the trip had been, all flashing blue lights and wailing sirens, it had gone eleven o’clock. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by walking into church late so I set off on foot for the cemetery. Even walking I’d arrive well before the funeral cortege.

  On the High Street the weather was cold and windy. I pulled up the collar of my raincoat and set off on foot, thinking about Max and the good old days. Outside a paper shop a sandwich board declared ‘Local Lawyer Gunned Down’. The very thought of the funeral was making me feel sick. I wasn’t hungry but I needed food, something inside me to take away the cold empty feeling.

  The heavens opened as I came out of Sandy’s carrying a bacon roll in a brown paper bag. I took shelter in the alleyway at the side of the café and by the time I had finished my roll the sudden cloud burst had reduced to a drizzle. I was wiping my hands on the paper bag when a dog ran from the backyard of the shop and down the alleyway, almost bowling me over. It was a skinny mutt with lop-sided ears and a half-chewed tail. I must have disturbed it while it was raking for food because I could see a wheelie-bin lying on its side, contents strewn across the ground.

  The dog loped out of the alley and onto the street. As I watched it go I saw a dirty-white Astra van come to an abrupt halt at the side of the road and a large man wearing a pair of overalls and black ski-mask jump out. The smoky after-taste of fried-bacon quickly went stale. I dropped the paper bag and before it had hit the ground at my feet, the man in the mask had charged down the alley, grabbed me by my throat and was trying to lift me off the ground. He lowered his masked face level with mine face. The knitted mouth was sewn shut, even the eyes holes were stitched so tightly that it couldn’t have been easy to see out. If he’d said nothing I think I would still have guessed who he was but when he spoke the voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Mr Turpie wants his money or he wants something broken.’

  Deek Pudney. The mask wasn’t to conceal his identity from me, merely a precaution in case he was seen running into the alley. The van I was sure would very soon be burned out on some waste ground or crushed at Jake Turpie’s scrapyard. It was my fervent hope I wouldn’t be in it when it was. I kicked out and caught Deek high on the shin and it was enough for him to let me go. I backed off, treading in rubbish scattered by the dog, Deek lumbering after me.

  ‘Nothing personal, Mr Munro. Just doing what I’m told.’

  Maybe, but Deek Pudney was a man who enjoyed his job. Fists clenched, I was readying myself, the Light Brigade set to charge the Cossack artillery, when I saw someone enter the close entrance behind him. ‘Chief Inspector!’

  I could sense a wide grin forming under the mask. ‘Don’t give me that,’ Deek growled. He advanced until a tap on his shoulder brought him to a sudden halt and turned to see Petra Lockhart, rigged out in full dress uniform. Dougie Fleming and two beat officers stood behind her armed with CS spray canisters.

  ‘Inspector Fleming,’ Lockhart said, ‘arrest this man. Book him for parking on a double yellow for starters. After that you can use your imagination. I’ve heard it can be quite vivid at times.’

  Deek stood dumfounded as Fleming strode forward and ripped off his mask. The big man was soon handcuffed.

  Lockhart gestured me to come forward. ‘You’ll need to get a move on if you don’t want to be late for the funeral. Can I offer you a lift?’

  What a woman. She'd rescued me for the second time that morning. I walked down the alley towards her, smiling, squeezing past my assailant and grinding a heel into one of his big fat feet on the way.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘In the sure and certain hope of resurrection...’

  Cold and dreich. A fitting day for a funeral. An impatient north wind whipped the minister’s robes and riffled the pages of his Bible.

  Irene Abercrombie stood by the graveside, her children either side. I hadn’t seen the kids for quite a while. They’d grown. Once I’d been Uncle Robbie, an always-present at family occasions. Over the years, the get-togethers had become fewer and fewer until birthdays and Christmases were only cards on the mantelpiece. When had that happened? Where had the years gone? In recent times, my contact with the Abercrombie family had been restricted to professional dealings with Max, usually conducted by telephone. I’d punt my non-criminal clients his way and now and again he’d refer me a local businessman facing road traffic or domestic violence charges. Once in a blue moon we’d grab lunch but, usually, I’d be rushing off to court before the sticky-toffee pudding arrived.

  ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the man in the back-to-front collar. He closed the Bible, bent over and scooped up a handful of dirt letting it filter slowly through his fingers and into the hole in the ground. I shuffled forward with the other mourners who were filing past the open grave to pay their last respects. Staring six feet down at a polished lacquered box with shiny bronze nameplate already partially obscured by clods of dirt, for a moment I was lost in my memories, alone with my grief. A swift shove in the back brought me rudely to my senses. I tried to keep my balance but stumbled, sprawling across a mound of earth that was camouflaged by a sheet of bright green plastic turf.

  I looked up at the figure in black standing over me and into the contemptuous stare of Irene Abercrombie whose lace veil was raised to reveal a tear-stained face. ‘Get away from here, you blood-sucker,’ she spat at me. ‘You were supposed to be his friend but you can’t turn down a fee, can you? Legal Aid rates – fifty quid an hour - that’s the price of your friendship.’ I clambered to my feet as Max’s widow kicked dirt in my face. Other mourners gathered around, one or two of them mumbled something vaguely apologetic that I didn’t quite catch and led her away to a waiting car, leaving me wet and muddy and ashamed.

  Soon the crowd had dispersed and a line of traffic snaked its way through the narrow cemetery roads. Two gravediggers emerged from the shelter of a nearby cypress tree, doffed their caps to the deceased and lifted their tools. I stayed, watching them work; the crunching and clanging of spades and Irene Abercrombie’s words ringing in my ears.

  I should have told her. Told Irene how I’d been forced to act for Sean Kelly, that he’d soon have another lawyer. With Lorna Wylie acting in his defence, at least Max’s widow could be assured of a conviction. And there lay the problem: I had a doubt. Not a reasonable one, not yet, but a doubt nonetheless
and until I was satisfied as to the boy’s guilt I would never rest; for if, as Frankie seemed convinced, the young man was truly innocent then someone else was guilty. I really had to keep acting. What better place to be than on the inside, speaking to witnesses, examining the Crown productions, assessing all the evidence, making up my own mind? Surely that was better than leaving it up to fifteen people on a jury to consider some half-baked defence cobbled together by Lorna Wylie?

  The sound of footsteps caused me to turn and meet the stocky yet dapper figure of Gordon Devine, senior partner of Glasgow city centre firm, Hewitt Kirkwood & Devine. ‘Gorgeous’ Gordon was wealthy, brash and flamboyant; a man palatable only in small doses. He was wearing a black Crombie coat over his trademark dark suit with wide chalk pinstripes. His face was tanned and moisturised, his improbably jet-black hair swept back.

  ‘Bit morbid, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The murderer’s brief at the graveside?’ Devine blinked his eyes a few times. It was a habit of his. He seemed to never blink and then just when you thought he had some kind of snake eyes he’d blink several times in quick succession as though trying to make up for lost blinks.

  I brushed mud from my coat. ‘Max was a friend. What’s your excuse? Things a bit slow? Trying to rustle up some executry work?’

  Devine stopped blinking. ‘Law Society business.’ The smile on his lips was as smooth as the felt collar of his coat, the look in his eyes as cold as the dirt piling up on Max’s coffin. ‘We like to show face at these type of events - lend support.’ He made it sound like a charity cheese and wine. ‘Heard you’d gone back to your roots,’ he went on in his oily voice. ‘How are things shaping up out in the sticks?’

  Before I could answer, a royal blue Bentley slid to a halt nearby. Devine stooped and pinged a dod of muck from the hem of my raincoat. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘About this murder. If you feel you have to bail out, conflict of interest and all that.’

  ‘It’s legal aid.’

  Devine feigned a hurt expression. ‘I don’t mind the occasional spot of legal aid.’ First I’d heard of it. Devine’s manicurist probably charged more than LA rates. ‘Pro bono and all that,’ he said.

  ‘Pro bono for you is what I call making a living.’

  ‘Whatever. Pass me the papers and I’ll take a shufty.’

  It was tempting. I could withdraw from acting and Sean Kelly could still get himself some very decent legal representation – but I wouldn’t be in control.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Let me think about it.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘How’d it go?’ Grace-Mary asked when I got into the office next morning. I showed her the dirty smear down one side of my raincoat that no amount of scrubbing had managed to shift.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That well.’ Andy didn’t acknowledge my presence. He was sitting hunched over his desk, reconciling a pile of precognitions with an indictment witness list, using a felt-tipped pen to mark off those who’d been precognosced.

  ‘How goes it?’ I asked. Andy didn’t look up. He lifted a statement, checked the name and ticked it off. ‘Hard at it, I see.’ Andy sighed and picked up another precognition, pen poised. He swatted my hand away when I tried to ruffle his hair. ‘Preparation - boring but very important,’ I said. ‘You know, court work can be tedious too. It’s not all liar, liar pants on fire.’

  Grace-Mary peered at me over the top of her glasses, brow furrowed, lips pursed in mild disapproval.

  ‘You’ve a First Diet this morning,’ she said.

  First Diets were the same as intermediate diets but where the case was more serious and being dealt with by way of solemn rather than summary procedure.

  I’d almost forgotten the case of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Oskaras Salavejus. I could have done with a trial, and the fee that came with it, but the case was crying out for a plea of guilty and that was exactly what I’d been going to recommend to my client - until I’d learned from the Clerk’s office that Sheriff Brechin was down to deal with First Diets that day. The plan now was to bump the case on to trial and hope for a more lenient sentencer at that stage.

  ‘Have you seen the file anywhere?’ I wrenched open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. It hadn’t been oiled in a while and screeched horribly. I was searching under ‘S’ when I heard Grace-Mary cough meaningfully.

  Andy closed the file he was working on and held it out to me.

  ‘Andy’s been preparing that case for days now,’ Grace-Mary said in a highly rehearsed tone. ‘Been down to the Bombay Balti and precked the witnesses himself. I’m sure he must know it inside out.’

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror near the door. There was quite a lot of grey in my hair. I’d never really given it much thought before but at this rate I’d be white before I was forty. Another loud cough from Grace-Mary. ‘I’m sure Andy could handle a wee first diet.’

  Andy held out the Salavejus file to me. I took it and studied it, conscious of Grace-Mary’s stare and that Andy had momentarily raised himself from his marinade of self-pity and was now casting an optimistic eye in my direction. I gave him the file back. ‘All right. But stick to the script. It’s a straightforward plea of not guilty. Got that? Not guilty, continue to trial and that’s it. Okay?’ Andy nodded vigorously. ‘And if Sheriff Brechin starts banging on about discounts for early pleas - ignore him. A discounted sentence from Brechin is like a swingeing sentence from anyone else. Clear?’ Andy was still nodding.

  ‘Good,’ Grace-Mary said. ‘That means you’ll have plenty time to return some calls, Robbie.’ She peeled a yellow Post-it note from the frame of my computer monitor and stuck it onto the back of my hand. ‘Some newspaper guy - posh and very persistent - wants to speak to you, wouldn’t say what about.’ She stuck another note on top. ‘Oh, and Mr Turpie called too. Says it’s urgent.’ As the vindictive features of Jake Turpie flashed before my eyes, Grace-Mary slapped another yellow sticky onto the back of my hand. ‘Glenochil. Chic Kelly’s prison social worker phoned again. Says Mr Kelly’s wondering when to expect you.’

  I screwed up the note and hurled it in the bin. ‘I’m not going. He’ll only want to find out what’s happening to Sean—’

  ‘Oh, it’s Sean now?’ she said. ‘That’s not what you were calling him the other day there. The swear box thought it had won the lottery.’

  I let that pass.

  Grace-Mary wasn’t finished. Arms folded she drummed a bicep with her fingers. ‘Well? Have I to phone back and say that the boy’s new lawyer can go see him?’

  ‘Yes… maybe… no... I don’t know.’

  ‘Well while you’re thinking it about it…’ She handed me a carrier bag containing an assortment of tools, screwdrivers, spanners, a hammer and such like. ‘The cistern in the loo is still leaking and driving me crazy. Then there’s the squeaky drawers on that ancient filing cabinet that you refuse to replace.’ She sat down at the reception desk. ‘Afterwards, if you ask nicely, I might give you a hand moving the furniture around in here. It was a bit heavy for Andy and I still say you’re not making good use of the space in here.’

  The main perk of self-employment is being your own boss.

  Grace-Mary put earphones on and began to type. ‘Now clear off, I’m busy.’

  It’s good to be in control.

  Chapter 19

  There was quite a crowd outside Linlithgow Sheriff Court, Monday morning. Max’s death had caused a stir in the quiet town of Linlithgow. Although there was some crime locally, most of the serious stuff came from elsewhere. The Sheriff Court at Linlithgow had jurisdiction purely due to historical reasons, the town having been appointed a Royal Burgh as far back as the twelfth century. That was why after centuries the administration of justice was soon to be transferred nine miles to the south and the sprawling new town of Livingston.

  As I neared the court I recognised the faces of a number of those present: the Provost, Max’s bank manager, his accountant, a few neighbours and several old school friends. Not e
xactly a group of angry townsfolk, there wasn’t a pitchfork in sight, but the gathering was a show of civic disapproval by a town that had lost not only a well-liked lawyer but one of their own.

  I weaved a path amidst the throng and stepped over the chain bordering the Court car park. There were a few cat calls shouted in my direction, but they were drowned out by the sound of a Reliance Security van turning off the High Street onto the service road between the courthouse and the County Buildings. The big white vehicle, a row of tinted windows along each flank, turned and came to a halt when met by the congregation blocking its path. Boos and jeers rang out. One ill-informed man in the crowd broke ranks, ran up to the slow moving van, banging his fists on the back doors, screaming, ‘Peedo!’ In response, four constables and a couple of traffic wardens sauntered out from the nearby police station and ushered the onlookers to one side of the road, where without much difficulty they were held at bay until the white van could move off again to the rear of the courthouse.

  I walked on into the court. My earlier than usual arrival that morning was with a view to intercepting the new duty agent, Lorna Wylie, before she got her hooks into Sean Kelly. I’d had a restless weekend and a sleepless Sunday night. If I let Lorna Wylie take over the case, she would go through the motions, rack up the legal aid fees, but would the correct person be convicted? The thought of an innocent young man going to prison while the real culprit went untraced was one I wasn’t prepared to contemplate further. I was a notoriously poor judge of character, but, even taking Jacqui’s mysterious disappearance out of the equation, no matter how hard I tried I could not conjure up a mental image of Sean Kelly gunning down my old friend in cold blood. For one thing, what possible motive could he have had? Surely he would have to have been put up to it by someone else and there was no point catching a fly if the hornet went free. I had to continue acting. Find out the truth. When the jury came back with a verdict I had to know in my heart of hearts that justice had been done, not so much for the accused as for Max.