‘Like a she. A very important she, who Jill’s trying to impress.’
‘I thought you two would be busy discussing the wedding,’ he said, rinsing the club in the basin of water before giving it a dry with the towel. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you Robbie. You and Jill – I never thought it would work out.’ He smiled and then was serious all of a sudden. ‘Tell me: what thoughts do you have on favours?’
‘Favours?’
Aye, you know, the wee gifts you give to the guests at the wedding reception.
I had absolutely no thoughts. The hiring of a kilt and arriving at the altar on time were already pressing at the limits of my logistical capabilities.
‘When you see Jill next, tell her I was thinking miniatures.’
‘Miniature what?’
‘Miniature whiskies of course. For the men that is. She can dish out the white heather and plastic-horse shoes or those sugar almond things to the women, but men should get something too. You can’t be too careful these days, not with all those equal rights and Europeans going about. You don’t want to go offending anyone.’
‘What about tee-total male guests?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you think they might be offended at having a miniature bottle of whisky thrust at them?’
He grunted, dropped the clean pitching-wedge into the bag and removed a seven-iron. ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ He plunged the club into the basin, tilting his head in the direction of the not so elegantly wrapped Father’s Day gift.
‘It’s for you. Don’t go opening it before Sunday.’
He took a sideways look at the bottle. ‘What is it?’
‘A surprise.’
He frowned suspiciously.
‘It’s something you won’t have tried before.’ That was for sure.
He stopped scraping at the seven-iron with the nail brush. ‘Kilchoman,’ he said confidently and referring to the latest distillery to open on the sacred isle of Islay. ‘I hear the reviews are mixed.’
‘Not all whisky comes from Islay,’ I said.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Just most of the good stuff.’
‘I know you’ll keep an open mind.’ I pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. ‘You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Remember that tomorrow.’
Fathers’ Day was something of a well-honoured tradition at the House of Munro. Malky and I would pitch up to my dad’s place at the appointed hour and present the old man with gifts, or, to be precise, whisky. There would then follow a breakfast of pancakes before we set off for Linlithgow Golf Club. After a round, which my dad and his highly-versatile handicap usually won, we’d have lunch and a couple of pints at the nineteenth before returning to my dad’s to sample the distiller’s art.
‘Usual plan is it?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer, just continued to scrub at the seven-iron, though with added vigour, I couldn’t help but think.
‘I should have won last year. I was driving like a pro.’ I stood up and swished the towel, sending a booming drive down an imaginary fairway. ‘My putting let me down. I think it was probably the state of the greens. Do you not think they were a wee bit hairy?’ No comment from the old man in defence of his local course. I tried again. ‘What time’s Malky coming? He was late last year and we nearly missed our tee-off.’
Criticism of the golden boy, AKA, my big brother, Malcolm, would surely elicit some sort of response.
It didn’t.
‘I’d clean my clubs,’ I said, ‘but it’s really only the mud that’s keeping them together.’
Nothing. Just extra-hard scrubbing. It was when he started to whistle softly through his moustache that I knew something was definitely amiss. ‘Okay, what’s up?’
He looked at me and sighed. ‘We’re not golfing at Linlithgow on Sunday.’
It was a shock, but I’d get over it. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Turnberry. Malky’s got an invite to a pro-am there.’
‘Turnberry? You’re kidding.’ One of the perks of being a has-been, nearly-legend footballer was the occasional invitation to such events. ‘Maybe I will clean my clubs after all.’
My dad came over and took the towel from me. He gave the seven-iron a quick rub with it and dropped the club into the bag. ‘It’s like this, Robbie. When I say we’re going... The invite is only for two people. Malky’s sort of giving it to me as a Fathers’ Day gift.
What was he saying? We’d followed the eat-pancakes, play-golf, drink-whisky routine, every Fathers’ Day since before I was even old enough to join in the drink-whisky part.
I sat down again. ‘But—’
‘You don’t mind do you?’
I glanced up at the kitchen clock. ‘Blast, I’ve just remembered I told what-his-chops I’d meet him down at the West Port. He’s been done with speeding and looking at a totting-up disqualification. I said I’d see what I could do.’
My dad put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Things’ll be back to normal next year,’ he said. ‘This is just a one-off.’
‘Absolutely no problem, Dad,’ I said. ‘Enjoy yourself and take plenty of golf balls. Turnberry wasn’t built with your slice in mind.’
He took his hand away. ‘It’s not a slice – it’s a fade.’
‘Of course it is,’ I said, standing up and giving the wrapped up tube of Co-op blended a gentle tap. ‘Oh, and enjoy your whisky. You deserve it.’
Chapter 7
Jill had arranged to spend Sunday with Felicity on the assumption that I’d be off golfing and wasn’t prepared to alter her plans just because mine had fallen through. I suggested we meet up later, but she had a train to catch early evening and before that a report to read over. So all we managed was a quick phone call late Sunday afternoon.
Afterwards, I settled down with a movie, a jumbo bag of crisps and one or two whiskies. One or two whiskies became three or four, maybe five or six; whatever, Monday morning hadn’t broken so much as fractured.
‘You look rough.’ Joanna Jordan, former assistant of mine, now once more recruited by the dark side of the Force, stared across the well of the court at me. ‘I mean really rough. Even rougher than usual.’
‘Okay, I get it,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t the best weekend of my life, all right?’
Paul Sharp joined me at the defence side of the big table, thumping down a stack of files. ‘You couldn’t cover these intermediate diets for me could you, Robbie? I’m supposed to be in Saughton for a consultation at eleven.’
‘Dominic Quirk?’ I asked.
Joanna snorted. ‘You’re not actually taking it to trial?’
‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Paul replied.
‘Who’ve you got as counsel?’ she asked. Paul was a solicitor-advocate, but I guessed he was bringing in a big-hitter to lead him.
‘Big Jock.’
‘Mulholland?’ Joanna enquired.
Paul nodded. ‘The man, the myth, the legend.’
‘That won’t be cheap,’ Joanna said.
‘Money doesn’t matter. And my client’s family approve: Jock’s an F.P. too.’
‘Better not reveal your own humble educational background,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose St Mary’s, Bathgate compares too favourably with St Ignatius.’
‘But it compares a lot better than Linlithgow Academy,’ Paul said, reminding me of my own secular educational origins.
‘I didn’t hear any complaints when I got him off that death by careless driving charge,’ I said.
Paul slapped my shoulder. ‘You’ve obviously been tumbled. When Honest Al Quirk’s boy needs a lawyer, no proddies need apply.’
‘Robbie a protestant?’ Joanna laughed. ‘The only thing he ever protests about is the legal aid rate.’
‘That and buying a round of drinks,’ Paul said.
‘Are you wanting me to take care of these IDs for you or not?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he is touchy this morning.’ Paul shoved the files in my direction. ‘Don’t plead anyone out. Most of these cases came off my
duty week and I’ll only get half the fixed fee unless they go to trial.’
With a cheery wave he upped and left in the sort of good mood that only lawyers briefed in a privately-funded murder case can fully understand.
‘How’s your love life?’ Joanna asked, as more solicitors wandered into court to occupy the few remaining chairs around the table. ‘Fixed a date for the wedding yet? When can we expect to hear the patter of a little Munro’s cross-examination?’
‘Court!’ the bar officer bellowed. Sheriff Brechin came onto the bench looking even less thrilled than usual at the prospect of a morning spent presiding over fifty or so intermediate diets; however, his arrival allowed me to side-step Joanna’s questioning.
Half an hour into the court and the bar officer approached and cupped a hand to my ear. ‘There’s a strange guy outside who wants a word,’ she whispered. ‘He wouldn’t give me his name. Says it’s very important. I told him you were busy, but I’d pass on the message.’
Strange guys were my stock in trade. They called intermediate diets in alphabetical order and so I had a ten minute window between my next two cases: surnames Foster and Inglis. From the top of the stairs leading down from the court I could see Mr Posh pacing up and down the courtyard next to the café in a beige summer suit. A lemon silk handkerchief spilled from the breast pocket. What was he doing here? Surely he didn’t expect me to have come up with an elaborate and fool-proof plan already? Not when I’d been far too busy moping about and feeling sorry for myself. He saw me coming down the steps from the court and strode over.
‘What have you got?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot.’ The more thought I’d given it, the more I’d realised that the sort of people who could scare Victor Devlin would terrify me. They’d also be doing their utmost to track down their money. I made my fears known.
He lowered his head and peered at me over a pair of sunglasses. ‘Why do you think you are being paid five—’
‘Twenty.’
‘Thousand pounds?’
I had only a few minutes until my next case called. ‘If you can hang around until court is finished, we can talk,’ I said.
‘How long is that likely to be?’
‘I don’t know. Probably another hour or so.’
‘Too long.’
‘Meet me somewhere later, then. We’ll go for lunch.’
Posh’s smile was one of exasperation. ‘I’m already taking a chance coming here,’ he said. ‘I can’t go swanning off to lunch. Mr Devlin’s enemies have eyes everywhere.’
Then why didn’t he try being less conspicuous? Waltzing around West Lothian in his summer-finery; would it have been too hard to stick on a shell suit and blend in?
‘Well you’ll have to wait,’ I said. ‘I need time to think how I’m going to do this.’
He shoved a hand in his pocket and brought it back out with a brown envelope. ‘It’ll be done tomorrow or you can forget it.’
With a deftness honed over many years practice, I spirited the brown envelope away and into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. ‘Tomorrow it is.’
Chapter 8
My office, Monday, half-past five. Grace-Mary had left for the day. Armed with a cup of coffee, I sat down to think up a way to recover Victor Devlin’s memory-stick. Why Captain Posh thought I should be the one to devise a cunning plan when he worked for a man who made fortunes thinking up clever ways to con people, I didn’t know; even although I was a little flattered.
The phone on my desk derailed my train of thought. Only two people have my direct dial number. I took it hoping it was Jill. It wasn’t.
‘What you doing?’ my dad wanted to know.
‘Working.’
‘Too busy to come round and see your old man?’
Great - he’d be wanting me to go over so he could tell me all about his and golden boy’s trip to Turnberry. I wasn’t interested. ‘Snowed under.’
‘Well, when you’re finished digging your way out, why not come over for your tea?’
He sounded unusually happy and I couldn’t say I wasn’t intrigued to find out why; however, I was still officially in the huff and my dad’s offer of some home cooking wasn’t enough enticement to snap me out of it. I well knew my dad’s culinary capabilities. When Malky and I were boys, he used to rustle up weird and wonderful meals in which beans featured prominently. We only ate them because there was nothing else and because, apparently, if we didn’t we would never make it as cowboys. I was seven when I decided I didn’t really mind if I never rode the range and eight before I realised that the smoke alarm wasn’t the oven-timer.
I had paused to think up a polite yet cutting way to tell him where to stick his burnt offerings when he announced, ‘I’m making pancakes.’
My dad was no chef, but he did retain a small repertoire of recipes at which he excelled and foremost amongst these was the humble pancake. Pancakes were what I should have had yesterday. Was this his way of apologising?
‘I’ve got maple syrup,’ he added.
Butter, golden syrup, jam at a push, were the only things my dad would allow anywhere near a pancake. I preferred maple syrup. He knew that. He just refused to buy any. The man wasn’t apologising. He was grovelling.
When I arrived at his cottage ten minutes later, there was already a stack of warm pancakes on the kitchen table under a clean tea towel.
He dusted his hands off on his apron and sat down. ‘Dig in,’ he said.
I joined him at the table and the two of us got stuck in. The man could barely boil water, but his pancake-making skills were second to none. ‘You can’t go wrong with your granddad’s recipe and his old girdle, can you?’ he said.
I would have replied if my mouth hadn’t been full of light, fluffy pancake, soaked in the juice of Canada’s national tree, so I made do with enthusiastic nods of the head.
After we’d consumed our respective body-weights in pancakes, I tried to take the dirty plates to the sink to wash up, but my dad wouldn’t hear of it, sending me off to the livingroom with orders to put my feet up.
‘I know you’ve got the car, but one wee dram won’t harm you, will it?’ he said, and from the cupboard under the sink produced a bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail. ‘ Malky got me this for Father’s Day.’
Malky hadn’t only come up with an invite to an Open Championship golf course, but also a bottle of an Islay single malt, once voted best whisky in the world. What was the old man’s game? Was he rubbing it in? Showing me how generous my brother could be while the best I could do was chuck him a bottle of blended whisky that was continually on special offer? If so, he could have done that without the pancakes or lashing out on a bottle of maple syrup. And why did he look so pleased? Any more smiling and he’d pull a muscle in his moustache.
As instructed I went through to the next room and sat down. My dad didn’t take his usual chair by the fire, instead, he sat on the couch next to me. He handed me a glass and clinked it with his own. ‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us?’
He waited, glass poised, for me to finish off the toast in the time-honoured fashion. I didn’t.
‘Okay,’ I said, setting the whisky glass on the arm of the sofa. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘What’s what all about?’
‘The pancakes, the good whisky, the maple syrup. What’s going on?’ No way could he be feeling this guilty for having ditched me on Sunday. Unless… ‘What happened? Was Turnberry a disaster? Well, don’t say I never warned you. Those championship courses are very unforgiving, especially with your slice—’
‘Fade.’
‘...at this time of year you could hide an elephant in the rough.’
‘Could you?’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘I wouldn’t know. I was never off the fairway. Drove for show and putted for the dough. Me, Malky and our pro’ tore the course apart. Won second prize: a spa weekend at the Turnberry Hotel and another round of golf.’
Was that why he was so pleased with life? One good round of golf?
>
‘And then, after a lovely day, I come back here and open up your gift to me.’ His moustache quivered slightly.
Shit. Here it came. There were few things my dad felt so strongly about as whisky. Not only had I completely ignored the sacred Isle of Islay, I had presented him with a blend. And not just any blend. A supermarket blend.
He went not to the cupboard under the sink where he kept his whisky supply, but to a wooden door set in an alcove next to the fire where I knew he kept those items most dear to him: photographs of my mother, a video of Malky’s cup-winning goal. Come to think of it there was a ton of stuff about Malky in there. What was there of mine? My law degree scroll? I didn’t remember seeing that again after my graduation, but, if it was there, that was about it. I was mulling over the lack of Robbie artefacts when he returned and sat down next to me again, the offending cream cardboard tube in his hand, a tartan ribbon and stag’s head displayed proudly on the front.
‘You always were a wee comic,’ he said.
The man was taking sarcasm to a whole new dimension and really enjoying himself in the process. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes sparkled. If he’d had a beard to match his moustache there would be kids sending letters up the chimney to him.
‘Look, dad—’
He popped the lid off with his thumb and slipped the bottle out of the tube. It was covered in bubble wrap. He removed it carefully and stared down at the bottle in his hands. I thought I saw tears gather in his eyes as he said tenderly, ‘the Black Bowmore.’
‘I know, Dad, I’m sorry, I never had time to… The what?’
The label on the front of the bottle was black with silver edging and silver script. He gently smoothed it with the flat of his hand. ‘Nineteen sixty-four. The year I finished my police probation and became a real cop. Where did you get it? There were only two thousand of the first edition bottled. I know. I had Malky look it up on the internet. They reckon there’s only a dozen or so bottles of this left in the wild.’
Carefully, he pulled out a small side table and set the bottle down. ‘Never judge a book by its cover.’ He gently rapped the empty cardboard tube off my head. ‘You really had me going there for a moment.’
Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5) Page 4
