He fabricated a smile. ‘All for the best, ay? I can understand how a case like that could be too much for you - emotionally I mean. Legal aid cash aside, you really should have passed your client to me when you had the chance.’
I would never have tired slapping his smug face, but he was right. Sean Kelly deserved a good defence and when Gordon Devine had offered to put the resources of his Firm into the defence, I’d been crazy to refuse. ‘I wish I had.’ I told him.
‘Really?’ Devine blinked rapidly. ‘Do tell.’
‘I have this horrible feeling he’s innocent.’
‘Innocent?’ Devine laughed dryly. ‘I don’t do innocence. I do not guilty or, at a push, not proven, but innocence is something that doesn’t concern me.’
‘It might,’ I said. ‘If you thought you had evidence to prove it.’
‘And you think you do?’
I’d said too much already.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ Devine’s face had gone all extra bright and shiny.
‘And that is?’ I felt it only polite to enquire.
He paused to let loose a broadside of blinks. ‘Let me tell you all about it over a cup of coffee.’
CHAPTER 42
The offices of Hewitt Kirkwood & Devine were part of Glasgow’s Merchant City; an old established building for an old established law firm. Devine whisked me through the plush vestibule and, giving me no time to take in the works of art that adorned the walls, led me to his office. Outside the door hung an oil portrait of an Edwardian gentleman wearing a black frock coat and a very serious expression. He looked familiar: it was the flowing white hair, the high forehead and Roman nose.
‘Sir Gilmour Hewitt. Our founding partner,’ Devine said, door half open, realising I’d stopped to study the painting.
‘Any relation to the late Lord Hewitt of Muthill?’
‘Grandfather.’ Devine pushed open the door to his office and guided me in.
‘Be it so humble,’ he said, one arm around my shoulder, the other held out in an expansive gesture. ‘Make yourself at home.’
He collapsed into a red leather armchair and I pulled up a chair on the other side of his enormous desk.
‘He ever visit?’
‘Who?’
‘Lord Hewitt.’
‘Not recently.’ Devine blinked a few times, laughed and then frowned. ‘Sorry, that was tasteless. Jim Hewitt trained here. Before my time of course. He went to the Bar after that and, as they say, the rest is history. He did drop by very occasionally. The Firm handled his private affairs and he used to turf up for a sherry on special occasions or if we were trying to impress some big commercial client.’
‘Do you know if... was he... you know... Lord Hewitt... gay?’
Devine stared at me unblinkingly. ‘Very.’
I didn’t know what to say after that. Eventually I came out with, ‘nice place you have.’ I looked around the office; it certainly was something special. I was admiring the arched ceiling with its intricate cornicing when there was a gentle knock at the door and a young woman came in carrying a tray. She was tall, slim and totally stunning.
‘Ah, Valerie,’ said Devine. ‘This is Mr Munro.’
‘Robbie,’ I managed to splutter.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the pretty young woman said, like she actually meant it and then laid the tray on the desk.
Devine pressed down on the cafétiere. ‘Thanks, Val, we’ll take it from here.’
With a parting smile the young woman withdrew. Devine poured and I accepted not a chipped mug or a cardboard tumbler but a delicate white china cup. I sniffed and inhaled pure Arabica.
Devine pulled open a drawer and removed a heavy gold chain from which hung a deep blue enamel plaque. He put the chain around his neck. ‘What do you think? Vice President of the Law Society this year, El Presidenti next.’
‘Very nice and er... well done.’
Devine pointed to a large marble award on the edge of his desk. ‘Scots Lawyer of the year, two-thousand and eight.’
‘Belated congratulations. Now, what’s your big idea?’
‘Straight to the point. I’ve always liked that about you.’ Devine leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘Robbie, you know me and you know I can always pick a winner.’ He blinked. ‘Actually, that’s not true, but if I back a loser I send someone else to the press conference.’ He laughed uproariously, sending himself into a blinking fit. He waved a hand in front of his face. ‘But before we talk business, there’s something I’d like to show you. Something that will help you to understand what we at H. K. & D. are all about.’
He sprang to his feet, clearly expecting me to do likewise. I took a gulp of coffee, burnt my tongue in the process and followed his pinstripe suit out of the room at a trot, tailing him further into the building to where it opened up into an atrium with a glass ceiling. At this, the crossroads of the office, legal assistants, paralegals, clerks and secretaries, who had been scurrying about their business, scurried a wee bit faster when they saw the boss on the march.
We continued until Devine stopped and pushed open a great wooden door that led onto a cobblestone courtyard.
‘This,’ he said grandly, ‘is what used to be the main entrance. And this…’ he pointed down to the large sandstone doorstep on which we stood, ‘is the original Attorney’s Stone.’ Devine bobbed his head, blinking enthusiastically, expecting, it seemed, some kind of equally eager response from me. I smiled politely. ‘You have heard of the Attorney’s Stone?’ I hadn’t. Devine was only too happy to cure my ignorance. He scuffed the sole of his shoe on the doorstep. ‘See how the stone is bevelled, worn away with the passage of feet over many years? Well, sometime between the world wars, the then senior partner, Sinclair Kirkwood, decided to replace the stone with a new one. Peter Hewitt, Lord Hewitt’s father as a matter of fact, was an apprentice at the time and had the bright idea that in order to save money they should simply dig up the existing stone, turn it over and put the worn surface on the underside. Mr Kirkwood agreed. He even told young Peter that if he did the job himself he could keep the sum the Firm would otherwise have spent on a stonemason. One Saturday morning, Peter got up early and set about the doorstep with hammer and crowbar. Eventually, after much blood, sweat and tears, he levered up the stone and flipped it over, only to discover that sometime in the past some bright spark had come up with the same idea – the stone was worn on both sides. The young law apprentice learned the hard way the importance of knowing the history of any situation before embarking on what is perceived to be a novel course of action.’
‘It’s a fine story,’ I told Devine as we walked back to his room.
‘It’s history, Robbie. It’s tradition. We at H. K. and D. have all the latest technology, yet we never forget who we are. I want you to be part of this.’
I wasn’t sure I was hearing him properly. ‘Did you just offer me a job?’
He blinked several times at me. ‘It would be a great opportunity for you. All I’d ask in return is your full commitment.’ I wondered if that included sharing the cash donations that I encouraged from grateful clients.
Devine offered his hand. ‘We’d be a great team. We might even be able to wrest back that murder case of yours. In fact I’d make it my top priority.’ It was all happening so fast. With Devine on my side I could surely solve the riddle of Max’s death and while Sean Kelly no longer wanted me for his defence, surely he wouldn’t turn down the great Gordon Devine.
‘Send me the papers.’ Devine was on fire. ‘Whatever you’ve got, anything and everything you think might be relevant and leave the rest to me. I’ll have this new lawyer ditched in two seconds and young master Kelly eating out of my hand in no time. It will be the first of many famous victories for us.’
I listened on a like an enraptured juror as Devine continued his pitch. Working for a Firm like his was certainly an attractive proposition. I thought about the glass-domed atrium, the courtyard, the worn sandstone
doorstep and I remembered the dingy close that served my own office. I thought of the works of art that were strewn around the corridors of Hewitt Kirkwood & Devine and of my own mummified rubber plant and the piece of tinsel taped to the ceiling of my room that I hadn’t managed to get down since Christmas. I thought of Valerie’s beautiful smile and Andy’s petted lip.
‘What do you say?’
I stared at the compact little hand thrust out to me, the light falling through the big sash window catching the gemstone pinky ring.
I hesitated. Why? What was there to think about?
Devine’s warm smile began to ice up. He retracted his hand.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Take some time. Think it over.’ He guided me to the door. ‘You know, I’m sure I heard it said somewhere that you’re a golfer.’ He made it sound like an afterthought, but someone had done their homework. My dad was hugely keen, if ungifted, and his enthusiasm for the game, and, sadly, his swing, had rubbed off on me at an early age.
‘I hack about.’
‘Superb. Why don’t we go out for a few holes next Sunday, talk things over some more and, if you like, you can let me have your decision at the nineteenth? How does that sound?’
It sounded great.
CHAPTER 43
Back at the ranch Grace-Mary was at the reception desk, manning the phones and reconciling the bank statement, wielding, I noticed, a lot of red pen. Andy was floating about trying to look busy.
I sat down at my desk. My office suddenly appeared so very shoddy. My clients, everything, seemed like a complete waste of time. Why did I bother? If I packed up and went to work for Devine, who’d care? One or two more toe-rags get banged up – so what? Most of my clients were junkies, never eating, always stealing, spending every penny their sticky little fingers could grab on smack. They needed the jail as much for nourishment as punishment.
Frankie McPhee walked past my door and caused me to jump. The man was the reason I’d slept the last two nights in my office and why I was in the process of having a new door installed and security locks put on all the windows at home. I went out into the corridor to see him standing on a chair in the waiting room, replacing a fluorescent strip. I stepped into reception.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I whispered to Grace-Mary.
‘He said something about Mohammed not answering the mountain’s telephone calls. While he’s been waiting he’s fixed the cistern, bled all the radiators and now he’s onto the electrics.’
‘Doesn’t he know about me being sacked from the Kelly case?’
Before my secretary could answer my question, Frankie came through wiping his hands on a green paper towel.
‘Too bad about Sean,’ he said. I thought he was taking the news very philosophically considering how much he’d wanted me to take on the case in the first place. ‘The boy’s his own worst enemy. Terrible business about his dad wasn't it? Poor old Chic.’ Frankie threw the paper towel in the bin. ‘I heard,’ he said lightly, ‘that you paid his mum a visit.’
I took him into my room and closed the door. ‘About the rent…’
‘For old time’s sake.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? And how did Andy know about it and I didn’t?’
‘Turpie, your landlord, dropped in one day when I was here trying to find you. He was making a fuss so I squared him up. Your assistant was there at the time but I asked him to keep quiet. I know you have a lot on your plate and I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I hope you don’t mind.’
With a promise to repay him – sometime, I led him back out to the corridor where we were met by Andy. He needed his car back for the weekend. I could hardly say no, but it did leave me with a problem. I needed a car for my golf trip with Gordon Devine.
‘You can have Big Jo-Jo’s motor, if you like,’ Frankie said. ‘Really, I mean it. He hardly uses it during the week and we’re always busy at the soup kitchen on a Saturday night and Sunday anyway.’
I didn’t want to be any more beholden to Frankie than I already was but I had places to go, people to see and Jo-Jo’s motorised scrapheap was the only mode of vehicular transportation readily available to me.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Frankie said. He slapped me on the back. ‘I’ll have the big man drop it off here on Saturday morning. He can get the train back to Edinburgh.’
Once Frankie had left, Grace-Mary appeared and dragged me through to her room where a ledger book lay open on her desk. She was about to start lecturing me on cash-flow or, rather, the lack of it when she seemed to sense something. She looked me in the eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Something’s going on and I want to know what it is.’
The woman was psychic. She would have made a fortune picking lottery numbers if she didn’t think the whole thing was a tax on the statistically challenged.
‘Do you like it here?’ I asked.
‘I suppose.’
‘How’d you fancy a move?’
‘How do I fancy a move?’
‘You and me.’
‘And Andy?’
‘Andy’s young. There will be other opportunities, better than this dump.’
Grace-Mary hitched her tartan skirt, revealing an inch of American-tan tight above the knee and sat on the edge of my desk.
‘What is going on?’ she asked. ‘Exactly.’
‘I’m being head-hunted.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She snapped the ledger shut, jumped down from the desk and walked to the door. ‘Then you’d better be careful – it’s a big target.’
CHAPTER 44
I alighted from the train at Waverley station and set off for the High Court. The reason for my trip to the capital was to find out what I could about case reference ED01011276 and the link, if any, between it and Max’s murder. Sean Kelly may have sacked me but I was out to get justice for Max and not quite ready to end my involvement in the case. The Crown would continue to join their few dots to make a picture of young Sean as the killer, he was all they had, but I believed the killer was still at large and that I had the murder weapon and bruises to support my theory.
From the foot of Cockburn Street, I climbed the steps of Advocates Close, all one hundred and eighteen of them, and entered onto the High Street.
At the Lawnmarket, a bunch of Japanese tourists kitted-out in a rainbow of plastic waterproof ponchos, were studying the statue of David Hume, thumbing through guide books, trying to work out who exactly he was and what he was doing sitting on a plinth opposite St Giles Cathedral. I’d always wanted to meet the town planner who out of ignorance, mischief or as part of some kind of philosophical balancing act, took the decision to park a monument to Scotland’s most famous atheist directly across the street from the High Kirk of Edinburgh.
I skirted the ponchos and entered the building which had formerly housed the Sheriff Court until a no-expense-spared refurbishment had transformed it into the High Court of Justiciary. The whole place was fitted throughout with plenty of glass and polished brass, contemporary tapestries hung on the wall of the mezzanine floor outside court three, rubber plants loitered in corners; all in all it was a bright and cheery place to start a prison sentence.
Two flights up in the Clerk’s office there was no queue and only the counter separated me from four paper-shuffling civil servants.
I cleared my throat, drummed my fingers, rang the bell and while I was wondering if I’d accidentally donned a cloak of invisibility, I spied, to my right, beside the window, a fifth figure, that of a young man sitting at his desk. He was eating a bridie and reading a graphic novel; the kind where the women are all candidates for breast reduction surgery and apparently never seem to feel the cold.
‘You busy?’ I called to him.
He set down the comic, placed his pastry on top and came over to the counter. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his collar button undone and his floral tie, either horribly out of fashion or cutting edge, was askew.
�
�Can I help?’ he asked, concealing his enthusiasm behind a yawn.
‘Hope so. I’m looking for some information about a case from a few years back.’
I could almost see the spirit try to depart his body.
‘We’re terribly busy.’
‘It’s terribly important.’
The clerk sighed, went to the nearest computer terminal and tapped a few keys.
‘Name?’
‘Munro.’
He looked about, possibly for a weapon.
‘Not your name. The name of the accused.’
‘I’ve got a PF’s reference number if that’s any good.’
‘Might be - if this was the PF’s office. I need a name and a date of birth.’
He needed a slap. ‘I think it was one of Lord Hewitt’s last cases if that’s any help.’
‘Hewitt?’
‘James Hewitt - of Muthill – he used to be Lord Justice Clerk.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He died.’
‘When?’
‘Two thousand and one...ish.’
The young clerk rapped the fingers of both hands on the keyboard with an air of finality.
‘The computer only goes back five years. We’ll need to get the books out.’
I checked my watch.
‘How long will that take?’
‘I dunno,’ said the clerk. ‘Two… three... weeks.’
‘What?’
The clerk gave me a condescending look and I only just refrained from jumping the counter.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘I can’t get the books out unless I have a request in writing specifying the precise information you require and why it’s needed. It’s a big job and we’re snowed under.’ He gestured to the still life of humanity behind him. ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t look it. He turned his back on me and skulked off to his snack and reading material.
I was on the point of leaving when an older clerk wandered over. He was a friendly wee man with a bright, cheery face and a toupee that was fooling no-one. I recognised him, but for the life of me couldn’t remember his name.
Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2) Page 16
