Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘I said you’re too late.’ The screw came over and grabbed the form.

  I grabbed it back and gave it once more to the receptionist. ‘I’ll not be long.’

  The screw snatched the form out of the receptionist’s hand. ‘I know - because you’re not going in.’

  I thought about asking nicely but it had been a long day and I couldn’t be bothered grovelling to some fat-arsed screw with a personal hygiene problem, just because he was trying to get off on a flier for the weekend. I took out my mobile telephone and punched in a number, like I was punching his face.

  A few feet away, the phone at the reception desk bleeped. The receptionist hesitated then answered.

  ‘The Deputy Governor, please,’ I said.

  The receptionist looked from the phone to me to the screw.

  Ginger threw the form at the receptionist and turned on his heel. I cancelled the call and followed him upstairs to the visit rooms.

  ‘You’ve five minutes,’ he said, after I’d stowed my mobile in one of the lockers.

  ‘Ten,’ I said. ‘Your clock’s fast.’

  Five minutes later, Sean Kelly trudged into the cubicle and sat down. The dark rings around his eyes testified to another sleepless night.

  ‘I’m here to talk about this.’ I unfurled my copy of the forensic report. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  Sean thumbed through the pages. ‘DNA? He glowered at me defiantly. ‘What do you want me to say? I’ve already told you, I never killed that man.’

  Through the glass in the door, I could see the screw sitting on the table at the end of the corridor, Humpty Dumpty in uniform, swinging his legs and watching the clock.

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’ The prisoner returned his gaze to the table top. ‘Well?’ No answer. ‘Have you ever been to his office? Talk to me Sean.’

  ‘All right. Yes – I’ve been there,’ he said at last.

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The night he was killed.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Last time I visited my dad we had a bit of a barney. He was getting on at me ‘cos I’d packed in my college course.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said I was a waster. That I didn’t know how lucky I was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said some things.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like he wasn't exactly a great role-model.’

  That had to qualify for understatement of the year. ‘Is this story going somewhere, Sean?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you. The last time I saw my dad we were arguing and he tells me he’s always tried to do his best for me and my mum. I told him that getting locked up for life hadn’t really been a big help to us and then from nowhere he comes out and tells me he's innocent.’

  A person in jail maintaining their innocence? How not very unusual. ‘Sean, people talk a lot of crap when they’re trying to win an argument. You should hear me in court.’

  ‘Mr Munro, before that day I’d visited my dad twice a month, every month, since I can remember. That whole time he never once talked about his case.’

  ‘What did you normally talk about?’

  ‘I dunno. The usual stuff: football, my mum, the doos.’

  ‘Pigeons?’

  ‘Aye, my dad’s a fancier, me too. They were always around when I was growing up. We had some right crackers. I’ve got this one just now—’

  I held up a hand and cut him off. It was the first sign of passion I’d seen from the boy, though, locked up in that place, I didn’t think that pigeons would be the birds he’d be missing the most.

  ‘We’ve not much time,’ I told him. ‘I need to know why you went to see Mr Abercrombie.’

  ‘Because I believed my dad. Why would he lie?’ Because he was good at stealing and lying and not much else, was the obvious answer. I let the boy continue. ‘He told me he was dying and that he wanted to leave us some money. He was pretty doped-up and didn’t go into detail, but he was going on about a reward and how he’d hidden something and I was to find it and take it to you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘He said you’d know what to do. I was to tell you to get a good deal for me and my mum any way you could. My dad liked you. Said that you were all right. That you’d do anything for money.’

  I felt that was a bit unfair – obviously, it would depend on how much money we were talking about. ‘Take what to me?’

  ‘A package.’

  ‘What has this got to do with Max Abercrombie?’

  ‘I didn’t know who you were or where you were. My dad told me to try an outfit in Glasgow.’

  ‘Caldwell & Craig?’

  ‘Yeah, I think that was them, but they said you’d left and moved to Linlithgow so I looked up the Yellow pages and when I couldn’t find you I thought I’d ask about.’

  Abercrombie & Co. Had Max been killed because I couldn’t afford to advertise and he came first in the phone book?

  ‘Keep going,’ I said.

  ‘I went to see Mr Abercrombie. He was very nice. Told me not to worry. He said that you and him were friends and he’d pass the package on to you.’

  Why hadn’t Max simply directed him to my office? It was only the other end of the High Street. Had his nose been bothering him perhaps? Or was he suspicious, trying to protect me?

  The young man continued. ‘He wanted to know what was in the package. I told him I didn’t know and that it was private. He opened it, looked inside. I tried to stop him. I grabbed the bag—’

  ‘Bag?’

  ‘The stuff was in a bag and he grabbed it and there was a bit of a struggle. The next thing he’s opening the fire escape with my head and I’m out in the side alley. He told me not to go see you and that I should take the bag to the police.’

  ‘Mr Abercrombie was found dead in his office the next morning,’ I said.

  ‘We argued. He horsed me. My feet never touched.’

  ‘They have a fragment of your skin under one of Mr Abercrombie’s fingernails.’

  ‘I struggled a bit. That's all. Honest.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  The prisoner shifted again in his seat.

  I repeated the question. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You really trying to tell me you never looked?’

  ‘Mr Munro, as far as I know, only my dad and Mr Abercrombie have seen inside that bag.’

  The screw slid off the desk and waddled down the corridor towards us. I had to work fast.

  ‘Where is it?’

  Sean looked at the table top.

  The screw tapped on the glass window in the door.

  I seized Sean by the front of his shirt. ‘Where is it? Where’s the bag?’

  The prisoner’s mouth was set in a determined line. I hauled him across the table.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled the screw.

  He tried to open the door but I pushed it shut with my foot. ‘Tell me!’ I roared at Sean.

  On the other side of the door, a fat face threatened to explode. Sean pulled free of my grip. The screw barged in. ‘Right Kelly, stay there!’ He grabbed the prisoner, pushed him and held him against the wall with one hand. ‘And as for you,’ he said to me, jerking a thumb at the open door. ‘Your time’s up.’

  CHAPTER 28

  H.M. Prison Glenochil squatted in the shadow of the Ochil Hills, near Tullibody, Clackmannanshire and held mainly category B and C prisoners who knew that the joys of open prison or freedom on an electronic tag were only a few months of good behaviour away.

  Following my frustrating meeting with Sean Kelly I suddenly placed a great deal more importance on the frequent calls that had been made to my office by his father.

  I parked in a visitor’s bay and trudged the long walk to the front gate, cursing every falling raindrop. What a way to spend a Saturday morning. If I’d wanted to work my weekend there was a mountain of unan
swered mail on my desk and plenty of upcoming trials to prepare for. The one thing I could have done without was yet another prison trip. I spent too much time in the slammer as it was. Count up all the hours I’d spent on prison visits and I reckoned it was equivalent to a sentence for string of housebreakings or a reasonably serious assault.

  At reception, I flashed my Law Society I.D. card, walked through the metal detector and waited as my briefcase trundled through the X-ray machine and along the conveyor belt towards me. A prison officer appeared swinging a bunch of keys attached to his belt by a chain, each link a year served. ‘Agent for Kelly?’

  He led me through a series of doors, upstairs to a small windowless room inside which there was a wobbly table, two shoogly chairs and the faint aroma of stale urine. On one of the chairs sat an old man. It was many years since I’d clapped eyes on Chic Kelly and I hardly recognised him. The Chic I remembered had never been what you’d call fat but he’d been well built. The person sitting across the table from me was emaciated. The skin at his throat hung in loose folds and sparse, spiky hair stuck out from his head at all angles. A washed-out red polo shirt and pair of faded denims, both several sizes too large, only served to complete the illusion of a scarecrow with no fashion sense. He stared at the wall as though in a trance and didn’t seem to notice that I’d entered the room.

  The door slammed shut. I went over and offered him my hand. ‘Been a long time,’ I said. The prisoner didn’t budge at first and then after a moment or two his eyes drifted in my direction. He stared hard at me but said nothing. ‘Robbie Munro, I’m here to see you,’ I said, rather stating the obvious.

  He seemed to be in pain and took several deep breaths before he spoke. ‘About time,’ he said, each word a struggle. ‘Have you seen Sean?’

  I’d been granted a half-hour slot and was grateful for that at short notice on a Saturday. There was no time to waste. I was there to ask questions not answer them.

  ‘Yes, I have. What’s in the package?’

  ‘What do you mean? I thought you said Sean had been to see you?’

  ‘Sean took it to the wrong lawyer by mistake. Now he’ll not tell me where it is.’

  The prisoner’s eyes lost focus for a moment. There was a lengthy pause before he replied. ‘You mean you’ve not got it?’ he gasped at last. His body stiffened. His hands clenched and unclenched, his face tightened into a grimace.

  I wondered whether I should get help. Slowly his body relaxed. He sat back and wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Where’s the package? Where’s Sean?’

  Had nobody told him?

  I don’t know where the package is. Sean won’t say. He took it to another lawyer and now that lawyer is dead.’

  ‘The cops. Have you been to the cops? Have you done a deal? What about the newspaper?’

  ‘Chic,’ I said. ‘Sean’s been charged with murdering the lawyer. Don’t you know that? He’s on remand. There’ll be no deal and it’s all over the papers.’

  Maybe I could have broken the news more gently.

  With unexpected speed, the prisoner jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. He lunged for me. I leaned back, placed a foot on the edge of the table and shoved. The table hit Chic at thigh level, not hard but it didn’t need to. He fell.

  The door burst open. The screw marched in and looked accusingly at me. ‘What’s going on?’

  I shrugged. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Chic said, wheezing, fighting for breath. ‘Just an accident… I’m okay.’ The screw gave me a long sideways look and then between us we helped the prisoner back onto his feet and into his chair.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Chic said, once the prison officer had left us alone again. He sounded more coherent now. Maybe the surge of adrenalin had cut through whatever drugs he was on. ‘I can’t handle it anymore.’ He gave a bitter little laugh ‘Then again, I’ll not need to. Not with the time I’ve got left.’ He took a few deep wheezy breaths. ‘You wouldn’t believe the dope they’ve got me on. There’s junkies in here would kill you for it.’

  ‘The package you asked Sean to deliver didn’t reach me,’ I told him, moving things swiftly along before he decided to take another little turn to himself. ‘Tell me what it is, where it is and what I’m supposed to do with it.’ Under normal circumstances I’d have a couple of additional questions along the lines of, ‘how do I get paid, how much and when?’ but these were nothing like normal circumstances.

  ‘I don’t know where it is. I told Sean to hide it somewhere safe. It was years ago, he was just a laddie at the time. I told him he was never to look in it and that I didn’t want to know where it was.’

  Okay, so only Sean knew the whereabouts of the package and he wasn’t prepared to divulge its location. ‘Tell me what’s in it.’

  Chic bowed his head, put a hand on the table to brace himself and for a moment I thought he was going to fly for me again. He didn’t. He held his breath, squeezed shut his eyes and bit his bottom lip. ‘You know why I’m in here,’ he panted, coming out of the seizure. ‘For killing that judge?’ He looked me straight in the eye, just as his son had at our first meeting in Polmont YOI. ‘Well,’ he gasped, still gripping the table edge, ‘it wasn’t me.’

  Oh, no, I thought. Here we go. There was a legal presumption that a person found in possession of recently stolen property was the thief. Lord Hewitt of Muthill had been blown away by a stolen shotgun - his own extremely valuable antique shotgun. The same shotgun, in fact, that Chic Kelly, housebreaker extraordinaire, was found trying to flog the next day. As I recalled, he’d pled guilty.

  Chic was a man, old before his time, dying a painful death in prison. I humoured him. ‘Who was it then, Chic? Who killed the judge if it wasn’t you?’

  Chic took a few deep breaths and sat back in his chair. He stared across the table at me, the whites of his eyes yellow, the rims red raw.

  ‘Frankie,’ he said. ‘He gave me the bag. He thinks I destroyed it but I didn’t. Frankie McPhee killed the judge and what’s in that bag will prove it.

  CHAPTER 29

  Cairnpapple Hill, the site of an ancient burial ground, lies in the Bathgate Hills not far from the pretty village of Torphichen to the south of Linlithgow. It is the highest point in West Lothian offering on a good day, or so it is said, a line of sight that stretches across the width of Scotland from the Bass Rock in the east to the Isle of Arran in the west. The countryside around is desolate, the wind blows incessantly and the few trees that draw sustenance from the rocky soil are thin and spindly.

  Jacqui Dillon’s body was found in an area of scrub heather and blaeberry not half a mile from the Neolithic cemetery. A body doesn’t last long exposed to the elements and the proprietor of Jay Deez Salon would have gone undiscovered had it not been for a troop of orienteering Boy Scouts that, well off-route, literally stumbled across her. Corpse discovery: there was probably a badge for it.

  When Jacqui hadn’t come into work for a day or two the staff had found it slightly worrying and later her prolonged absence from the salon was a cause for concern. Now that she was definitely not coming back, the girls didn’t know what to do. They didn’t even know if the boss had next of kin. Butch thought there might be an aunt in Ayrshire but Jacqui’s life outside of the shop was largely a mystery.

  I learned of her death late Sunday afternoon. The police were looking for someone to identify the body and had phoned around the girls from the salon who unanimously nominated Butch. He wanted me to go with him.

  At the morgue, we were met by two uniformed officers. One, a female sergeant, stepped forward and introduced herself. It couldn’t have been an easy job preparing friends and relatives for the shock of seeing a loved one in a state of advanced decomposition, but I could tell she had done this sort of thing many times before. She spoke unhurriedly, calmly, her tone formal yet sympathetic. Pretty soon she had put Butch at ease and when satisfied that the hairdresser was ready for the ordeal, a discrete nod to her youn
g male colleague was enough to have him disappear out of a side door.

  Moments later there came the soft squeak of rubber wheels on tiled floor and I felt Butch tense as a metal trolley disturbed the vertical plastic strips that hung across the wide doorway of the examination room. He took one of my hands in his sweaty grip and squeezed, cracking my knuckles.

  The female officer spoke again, this time explaining in her firm but gentle way that due to trauma, decomposition, environmental factors and interference from what she described as ‘natural agencies’, Jacqui’s facial features might not be recognisable. Again she nodded to her male colleague who slowly pulled back the white sheet. Cause of death wasn’t much of a puzzler. The bullet had gone in at the left temple and exited the lower jaw taking much flesh, tooth and bone with it.

  At the sight of his dead employer, Butch’s mouth went slack. He wobbled for a moment, expelled air like a weather balloon with a slow puncture and collapsed in a heap, despite the young constable’s best efforts to catch him. The policewoman gave me a wry look.

  While we were manoeuvring the fallen hairdresser into a recovery position, the trolley was put in reverse and trundled out of sight. When Butch eventually came round we were taken to a small waiting room and plied with sweet tea and some rather soft Bourbon creams; however, even duly refreshed, the big man was a wild horses job and could not be cajoled into a return trip to the examination room. Time marched on. The policewoman looked at me. ‘Did you know the deceased?’

  The trolley was wheeled through again.

  The identification procedure was pretty much a formality. Jacqui had been found fully clothed, still wearing her jewellery and with a credit card in the front pocket of her jeans. The various items had already been shown to some of the girls at the salon who had confirmed them as belonging to the boss, but, before the body could be released for burial, the authorities required corroboration by way of the deceased’s physical identification. Dental checks of what teeth were left intact would take time and fingerprint comparisons hadn’t been possible due to the effect of ‘natural agencies’- the small furry kind with big teeth and long tails. That’s where I came in.