Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  It was nearly two o’clock as I swung the car through the big black gates and onto a gravel driveway, the tyres on Andy’s car crunching like a hippo wallowing in a river of cornflakes. Taking the blue folder with me I jumped out of the car, pulled the brass bell at the front door and waited. A place like that, there had to be a butler or a maid. I waited some more. Still no response. I rang the bell again and then tried the door. It was open. I walked inside.

  The hallway was the size of my flat. An enormous rug ran the length of the hardwood floor. The ceiling was high and there were hunting trophies everywhere. A huge set of antlers, a stuffed boar’s head, the preserved remains of a couple of unlucky otters and what I could only guess was very possibly a polecat, hung along the walls. Atop a massive sideboard, next to a vase of fresh-cut flowers, a brace of cock pheasants stood frozen in time. It all gave me the creeps. I ventured on searching for a sign of life, poking my head into various rooms including what I took to be the very drawingroom where Lord Hewitt had been murdered.

  ‘Gordon!’ I shouted, my voice echoing around the hall but eliciting no response.

  Upstairs, the first room I came to was a study, spacious and well lit by a picture window looking onto the rear of the house and giving a splendid view of the fields beyond. In the near distance, I could make out a figure, bundled up against the cold and striding through the heather. Gordon out killing more of God’s creatures, I presumed. The clock on the wall chimed to confirm that I was exactly one hour late. My prospective employer had given up on me and in a way I was glad. Now that I was actually here in the study of his splendid house, the scenario I intended to put to Devine seemed more and more like the ravings of a conspiracy theorist and less and less like hard evidence. Did I really want to throw away my future career prospects on some half-baked notion that Devine was involved in Max’s death? Even if I confronted him with what evidence I had, wouldn’t Scotland’s most famous criminal lawyer simply discount the note as a forgery, a hoax? I could almost see him blinking back the tears of laughter. ‘Handwrite a blackmail note? Give me some credit. If I managed a first at Edinburgh, don’t you think I could pass blackmail 101?’I needed something more to go on. Fortunately, my tardiness had presented me with a chance to snoop around, to see what else I could dig up. Where better to start than the man’s private study?

  I glanced around. Pride of place on the mantelpiece stood the bronze figurine of a man aiming a shotgun and on a small plaque along the base the words, ‘Winner - Perthshire Amateur Clay Pigeon Open 2002’. That and some other less significant trophies set the tone for the rest of the room. Framed letters of thanks, newspaper clippings and photographs of Devine shaking hands with various luminaries, criminals and politicians - some were all three - covered the walls.

  Where to begin? The most substantial piece of furniture was a mahogany bureau that took up most of one side of the room. It was an impressive piece, the dark wood warm and waxy to the touch. I started there, pulling open the drawers one by one and carefully sifting through the contents, my search hindered by the fact I had very little idea what I was looking for. After the drawers I checked the end cupboards that turned out to be filled mainly with sporting magazines, legal journals and old newspapers.

  A few raindrops tapped against the windowpane. The change in weather might curtail the shooting trip and lessen the time available to me. I’d have to be quick.

  I moved onto the desk and then a chest of drawers. There was nothing remotely useful.

  Besides a nest of tables the only other items of furniture in the room were a gun cabinet near the window and a small safe that was bolted to the floor and secured to the wall. Surprisingly, both were unlocked. The cabinet housed a number of shotguns and the safe was empty save for Devine’s passport, a set of keys, and miscellaneous papers that were of no interest.

  I was thinking I should leave, when I noticed a tapestry hanging from a rail on brass hoops. I pulled it to the side to reveal a second door. I turned the handle. It was either stiff or locked. I put my shoulder to the door and gave a firm shove. It didn’t budge. I tried again, harder. It flew open and I stumbled into the next room, falling and skidding on the polished parquet flooring. I pushed myself up on the arm of a chesterfield sofa and dusted my legs. They were covered in something sticky. I checked the palms of my hands. Blood. Why? I wasn’t injured. In front of me I saw a pair of shiny black shoes and above them a pair of pin-striped trousers. I gasped, straightened and took a step back. It was Gordon Devine, or, rather, from the clothes, I assumed it was Devine, for he sure wasn’t blinking any more. In fact he wasn’t doing anything anymore; except sitting on the sofa with most of his head missing.

  CHAPTER 51

  D.I. Dougie Fleming laid the shotgun on the table between us. It was wrapped in a heavy duty polythene bag, a brown cardboard police production label attached to the cable-tie that bound the top. We were in Linlithgow police station; not the muster room on this occasion, but a much smaller room, along with Detective Chief Inspector Petra Lockhart and a tape-recorder.

  Immediately after I’d discovered Gordon Devine’s body I’d called Petra Lockhart. Not only was she the highest-ranking officer I knew, she was about the only cop with whom I was on relatively friendly terms and, after all, she had kindly given me her card only the day before. I gave a brief statement to Central Scotland Police at the scene and Lockhart had arranged for me to provide more details the next day at Linlithgow.

  The chance to interrogate a defence lawyer must rank high on every cop’s professional wish-list; revenge for hours spent cross-examined in the witness box on the subject of notebook irregularities and the like, and, even though I was there on a voluntary basis, Fleming was making the most of his opportunity.

  ‘They usually destroy murder weapons but not this one,’ he said. Through the thick polythene production bag I could see the intricate carving on the weapon’s stock and silver ribs. ‘It’s a Boss & Co. over and under, thirty thousand quids' worth of firepower. Lovely isn’t it? Even your pal Frankie McPhee wouldn’t saw down those barrels.’

  ‘Is that the gun that killed Devine?’ I ventured, feeling ever so slightly off the pace.

  ‘And Lord Hewitt,’ Fleming said. Lockhart was taking a back seat. ‘Gordon Devine bought it along with the rest of Lord Hewitt’s estate.

  ‘Gordon’s death,’ I asked. ‘Suicide?’

  Fleming rubbed his chin and frowned. ‘Possibly, but only if he shot himself from the other side of the room.’

  ‘That’s enough, Inspector,’ Lockhart said. ‘Robbie... Mr Munro, we think Mr Devine’s wound…’ she made it sound like a grazed knee and not the loss of a head. ‘There is only a slight possibility that it was self-inflicted. His safe was found open and we don’t know yet what, if anything, was taken.’

  Fleming dived in again. ‘A bit strange, don’t you think?’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘One lawyer friend of yours shot dead, another, you just happen to be visiting, also shot dead. You seem to be the common denominator when it comes to murdered briefs.’

  I leaned forward across the table, my hands clasped tightly, wishing they were around my interrogator’s fat neck. ‘Am I a suspect?’ I stood up. ‘Because if I am we can stop this interview right now.’

  ‘The interviewee is now standing,’ Fleming said for the benefit of the tape.

  ‘Well he can sit down again.’ Lockhart tugged my sleeve. ‘No, Mr Munro, you are not a suspect, you are a witness, and if Inspector Fleming can bear that in mind perhaps we can proceed.’

  ‘Seems a bit strange to me, that’s all,’ Fleming muttered under his breath.

  ‘What’s a bit strange?’ I asked. ‘That if I were the killer, I’d bother phoning you lot to tell you about it? Or that I’d blow the head off the man who was about to offer me a job with one of the country’s top law firms?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fleming, ‘the job offer. I’ve had someone make a call. Why is it, you think, that none of Devine’s partners seem to
know about it?’

  ‘It was early days,’ I said. ‘That’s why we were meeting - to talk things over.’ I looked to Lockhart. ‘I was in your car the other morning when I took the call, remember?’

  Lockhart grimaced. ‘Not sure if I do actually. I mean, I recollect you took a call but my mind was on other things.’

  Fleming held out a hand. ‘I’d like to have the hi-tech unit check over your mobile phone. I take it you’d have no objection?’

  That would be shining. I was sure Fleming’s ability to fabricate evidence wasn’t limited to police notebooks.

  ‘Not without a warrant,’ I said. ‘Now if that’s everything, I think I’ll leave.’

  Fleming leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘Before you do, I’d like you to tell me again about the mystery man you say you saw walking through the Perthshire countryside.’

  I went over it all again but when he asked me to go through my entire movements that day in reverse order - a classic police interview tactic based on the premise that it’s much harder to tell lies working backwards – I declined. I’d had enough.

  ‘I’m finished,’ I said, ‘If you want to ask me any more questions, you’ll have to detain me.’

  Fleming leaned forward, pushing his face at me. ‘Don’t think I won’t. I’m the one who decides when we’re finished.’

  I said nothing and that’s how I planned the rest of the interview going. Fleming could detain me at the police station for the purpose of his investigations and ask all the daft questions he wanted, but I was under no obligation to answer any and in due course he’d either have to charge me or let me go.

  ‘Actually, Inspector Fleming,’ Lockhart said, ‘I’m the one who decides when we’re finished and we are.’ She switched off the tape. I politely declined to sign Fleming’s infamous notebook and was free to go.

  I walked to the door accompanied by the two detectives. Lockhart held the door open for me, her friendly smile in stark contrast to Fleming’s dark scowl. ‘Better not skip town.’

  CHAPTER 52

  Back at the office, Grace-Mary was waiting for me with a face like a half-chewed toffee. There are only two things in the world that really frighten me: the Scottish Parliament’s criminal justice reforms and the sight of my secretary as the month-end looms with the Firm account in overdraft.

  ‘Do I take it we’re staying put?’ she asked.

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Good. I don’t like the city. Too many crooks.’

  I was about to explain, not for the first time, that crooks paid her wages, when Frankie strolled into the office and went straight to the toilet. He came into my room brushing hair trimmings from his shoulders. ‘Just back from the barber’s. What do you think? It’s the new me.’ He went to the mirror and ran his fingers over his short stubbly hair.

  I’d seen enough new Frankie McPhees. ‘Get out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. I want you to leave - get out.’

  ‘Robbie, are you okay?’

  I took the blue folder from my desk drawer and laid it on the desk. ‘You never really cared about Sean, did you?’ You came here looking for me so you could get your hands on the evidence that links you to the murder of Lord Hewitt.’

  Frankie hesitated, but only for a second. He moved closer and picked up the folder.

  ‘Chic Kelly gave the cops a signed statement,’ I said. ‘All they need now is corroboration.’

  ‘Robbie, you’re making a mistake.’

  I lifted a brass letter-opener off the desk; the handle was shaped like a golf club. I levelled the pointy end at him. ‘The only mistake I made was in believing that you’d changed. My dad was right. People like you don’t change.’

  ‘Your dad hates me. He’s got every right to. But, Robbie,’ he implored, moving even closer, ‘trust me, I don’t care about the photos or the note.’

  ‘Give me them back then.’

  Frankie puffed out his cheeks and blew a sigh. ‘No. While you have them you’re in danger.’

  ‘Did you kill Max?’

  He laughed. ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘What about Hewitt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not what Chic says in his statement.’

  ‘Chic didn’t know the full story. He was never the brightest. Getting caught with the gun was proof of that. He knew he was never going to walk from the murder charge and asked me to do something about his wife and wean. He was in a terrible state. The police had already questioned me about the judge. I couldn’t trust him.’ Frankie shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. ‘I could have lifted the phone and Chic wouldn’t have been a problem any longer, but we were mates. I told him that if he confessed, kept my name out of it, then for as long as he was in prison I’d see that Betty and Sean were never short of cash.’

  It was plausible, almost, and yet people were dead because of those photos and I had no intention of joining them.

  Frankie moved closer still. ‘Robbie, I came to you looking for help for Sean, nothing else.’ He leaned the palm of a hand on my desk.

  I gripped the letter-opener. ‘I’m not wearing it, Frankie.’

  ‘Well you should. You see Sean’s my son.’

  I lowered the letter-opener.

  Frankie pushed himself away, turned and paced the room. ‘Years ago Chic got himself a new bird, young and a bit of a looker. I sent him away on a job and took her out for the night. I told her we’d meet up with Chic later, though I don’t think she believed that line for a minute. We had a good time. She’d never tasted champagne before. We ended up staying the night at a hotel.’

  I could just about imagine a young Betty, late teens early twenties, being given the full five-star treatment by Frankie McPhee in his prime. It would have been like a night out with Royalty, swanning around all the best clubs, money no object.

  Frankie stopped pacing and stared down at his shoes. ‘After that she wouldn’t stop calling me. She seemed to think it had all meant something. I didn’t. She was Chic’s bird and there were plenty of fish, you know?’

  ‘And Chic? Did Betty never tell him about you and her? About Sean?’

  ‘No way. He was just daft enough to do something rash. Betty wasn’t stupid. She married Chic and told him the wean was his. Better a wife than a widow. Chic’s trust fund isn’t the proceeds of blackmailing Gordon Devine. It’s from me. Money for my son. I pay it through Devine’s firm, not even Betty knows where it comes from.’

  Frankie’s revelation certainly explained Betty’s reaction when I’d mentioned his name and, of course, Frankie’s interest in Sean’s case. That is if what he was telling me now was the truth.

  ‘Whatever you may think about these.’ He held the folder aloft. ‘Think again. The photos and the note prove nothing against anyone other than Gordon Devine. Have you ever thought that Chic might have talked while inside? That someone else has worked out that the blackmail note is in Gordon’s handwriting and wants to put the squeeze on him?’

  ‘This no longer concerns Gordon Devine,’ I said. ‘He’s dead.’

  If Frankie had already heard the news then he was one hell of an actor.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. Shot by someone not long after I’d told you I was going to see him.’

  Frankie shook his head sadly. ‘I didn’t know. I swear, I had nothing to do with it and there’s a soup kitchen full of witnesses who’ll testify in my defence.’ I only remembered Jo-Jo Johnstone being in Frankie’s company around the relevant time. He waved the folder at me. ‘If I wanted these so bad, I could have taken them from you yesterday. I didn’t need to kill Gordon Devine.’

  Who said he hadn’t tried to take them? Not yesterday perhaps, but I remembered Jo-Jo’s shiny new plastic stookie. He used to be a bare-knuckle boxer. These days he got injured peeling spuds? I lifted the phone with my free hand. ‘Get out or I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Robbie. Keep the phot
os. Show them to whoever you want. I don’t care.’

  I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out the crunched-up leather gloves wrapped in their plastic bag; they’d been the first things to fall out of Chic Kelly’s canvas satchel, and, next, the bag containing the white shirt. The bloodstains were clearly visible even through the yellowing polythene bag. The type of bloodstains that come from blasting someone at point blank range with a shotgun. DNA testing would tell exactly whose blood it was. It would also tell who’d been wearing the gloves and the shirt when the trigger was pulled.

  I laid the items on the desk in full view. ‘Come near me or my office again and it’s going to be case re-opened.’

  In all the years I had known Frankie McPhee, that moment was the first time I had ever seen fear on his face.

  ‘Robbie…’ Frankie’s voice was suddenly very hoarse. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Out,’ I said.

  He tried to speak. The words wouldn’t come.

  ‘I’m counting to three.’

  I had reached two when he turned and walked out, taking the folder and photos with him.

  I don’t know how long I sat there in a daze, my heart pounding.

  ‘Hello?’

  I didn’t recognise the voice. I put the letter-opener down and went to the door of my office to see who it was.

  ‘Robbie Munro?’

  The man in the hallway was wearing a hounds-tooth sports jacket. Around the neck of his lemon shirt was a candy-striped silk tie. His brown corduroy trousers were faded at the knees, his ox-blood brogues gleamed. Anyone who dressed that badly had to be a journalist. The only thing missing was a trilby hat with a ticket sticking out of the band.

  ‘Samuel Reynard. Please, call me Sam.’ His voice was as rich and fruity as a slice of clooty-dumpling. For a moment I thought he might bow. ‘We meet at last.’

  CHAPTER 53

  Sam Reynard was a former Fleet Street feature-editor, now freelance. He’d been so keen to meet me I thought the least he could do was take me to lunch.