Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  I lifted the bottle and had a good look at it. The whisky was dark; testimony, no doubt, to years spent maturing in Olorosso sherry casks. On the reverse was a small white sticker, headed ‘McTears Auction House’ and ‘Lot 234’ marked on it.

  ‘I don’t know what it must have cost you,’ my dad said, thinking I’d held the precious bottle long enough and taking it from me.

  ‘Have a guess,’ I said, in a voice an octave higher than normal. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘How much do you think?’

  ‘ Malky looked it up on the internet - he’s got it on his phone. Did you know they could do that now?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘According to the whisky web-sites, he says it’s got to be worth at least two, three maybe even four…’

  How could I have been so stupid? Of course a bestselling author wouldn’t come all the way to see me just to give me a bottle of cheap blended whisky. Obviously, the old tube was just there for protection. Why hadn’t I at least looked inside before handing over to my dad a four hundred pound bottle of whisky? Well it was gone now. Easier to get your kids back off the social work department than a rare Islay malt from my dad.‘…thousand pounds.’ The splash of single malt that hit the back of my throat was not enough to quell the feeling of nausea gathering in the pit of my wallet.

  ‘Highland Heather Dew,’ my dad shook his head, chuckling to himself. ‘What a kidder.’ He put the prize bottle back into the tube and pressed on the tin lid before ruffling my hair with one of his huge hands. ‘I don’t care if Malky gets me and him tickets for a fourball with Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy at Augusta. Next year it’s going to be all the Munro boys going or nobody.’

  Chapter 9

  Having just let four grand slip through my fingers faster than a melon seed, I was even more determined to take up Mr Posh’s offer. There was no money in the brown envelope he’d given me, just a piece of paper with an address and a phone number on it and a key. It was Tuesday lunch time. I had until close of business to collect Victor Devlin’s property or say goodbye to the promised twenty grand.

  Plenty of time for what I had in mind.

  Initially, I’d wondered about doing a night-time-ninja and visiting the hideaway under cover of darkness. In, out and away before anyone knew. Then I’d wondered; was Mr Posh for real? Yes, I’d been given a key, but did Victor Devlin even own the property? How would it look if I was found sneaking about somebody’s house? I might as well wear a stripy, black and white shirt and carry a bag with swag written on it.

  So, I’d had Grace-Mary do a search in the Registers of Scotland on the address in the brown envelope and it disclosed the proprietor as Devlin Polymineral Investments Ltd. A free on-line check with Company House showed Victor Edward Devlin as managing director.

  That, and the promise of twenty K, was good enough for me, and, so, at two o’clock that Tuesday afternoon, I walked out of a local printer’s with a For Sale sign under my arm and, after a one hour drive east, arrived at my destination.

  If I’d actually been an estate agent, and not just pretending to be one, I might have described the white-washed cottage, perched on the edge of a cliff, somewhere between North Berwick and Dunbar, as enjoying a quiet and secluded setting. But I wasn’t, and if nowhere had a middle I was dead-centre. There wasn’t a pub or a shop or any other sign of civilisation for miles around. Not that the location was undesirable. For the holidaymaker, it was close to such renowned golf courses as Muirfield and Gullane, handy for the beaches of East Lothian and the Lammermuir hills were only a hike away. All in all, it was plain to see why it would make the perfect retreat for Victor Devlin. Somewhere he could put his feet up, relax and formulate new and interesting ways to cheat people out of their life-savings.

  After a juddering trip, swerving my way up a pot-holed track, dodging protruding boulders that threatened to scrape the exhaust from the undercarriage of my car, I alighted, breathed in the cool, fresh, air and had a good look around the curtilage of Devlin’s cottage. If anyone was watching the place they’d have to be hiding in the clumps of straggly silver birch that grew here and there, for there was no other property in line of sight and only fields to the front and the rocky shoreline of the North Sea to the rear.

  Still, I had been warned. I opened the boot and removed the For Sale sign and a three foot length of wood. I nailed the sign to the wooden post and then drove it into a patch of soft earth and weeds outside the front door. That done, I proceeded to make a show of walking around the property, gazing up at the roof and scratching my head thoughtfully. I even kicked one of the white-washed walls with the toe of my shoe a couple of times. Every now and then I made a note in my pocket diary. Eventually, satisfied that anyone watching would have got the idea by now, I went up to a front door that was guarded either side by large enamel plant pots, each containing earth and a selection of healthy weeds.

  The thought of entering someone else’s house when they weren’t in was a surprisingly nerve-wracking one, even with their permission. No wonder housebreakers sometimes found it a bowel-loosening experience. A couple of deep breaths and I took the key out of my pocket. It fitted the lock. I turned it, the door opened and I let myself in.

  According to Mr Posh, Devlin’s memory-stick was in a kitchen drawer, taped to the underside of a plastic cutlery-organiser. I found a drawer right next to the gas hob. I pulled it open. The moulded tray had five compartments holding knives, forks, spoons, teaspoons and a larger one with two wooden-handled carving knives. I glanced about to make sure my actions weren’t visible through the kitchen window and then lifted out the cutlery tray and held it up over my head for a look underneath. Nothing. I groped around with my hand. Definitely no memory-stick. There was a tea towel draped over the back of a chair. I spread it on the countertop and, using it to deaden the noise, lifted the cutlery items out of their respective compartments and set them down. I gave the cutlery tray another thorough examination before replacing the various items and closing the drawer. What was I supposed to do now?

  Just in case I’d misunderstood my instructions, I searched the bedrooms, checking out wardrobes, bedside cabinets, dressing tables, chests of drawers and any other pieces of furniture that were lying around.

  Next was the sitting room. There was not much in the way of furniture, just a coffee table, a wooden stand for the television and a sideboard. The TV stand had a drawer containing a few DVDs. Some crystal-ware was neatly placed on a silver charger on the sideboard and the end cabinets held a wide array of single malts. There was nothing on the coffee table apart from a large hardback book about golf, on which rested a lump of rock the size of a grapefruit. It wasn’t what I was looking for and yet I was intrigued. The rock was so silvery-grey that it might have been lead. It certainly felt heavy enough, but its shape was odd, almost crystalline as though it were made of a series of rectangular prisms stuck together at various angles. Was this tantalite? Had Devlin used this impressive sample to lure unwary investors?

  The house, even the bathroom having been thoroughly searched, I had no option other than to phone Mr Posh; something he’d told me not to do unless absolutely necessary. The signal on my phone ranged from weak to dead. I hoped for better reception outside and, still trying to retain an air of estate agency, wandered the grounds of the cottage until I managed to achieve a single bar on my phone display meaning that communication with the outside world was possible.

  Posh was annoyed. ‘I told you not to phone me.’

  ‘You said I was only to phone if absolutely necessary,’ I said. ‘Well, it is. The thing I’m looking for isn’t where you said it would be.’

  ‘Where have you looked?’

  ‘Everywhere. I can’t find it.’

  Even with the poor reception I could hear a sigh travel down the line. ‘Where exactly have you looked?’

  My turn to sigh. ‘The kitchen, both bedrooms, the sitting room, even the bathroom.’

  ‘And the utility room?’ Either the si
gnal died or he hung up.

  Utility room? Where was that? I returned to the cottage and into the kitchen. Sure enough there was a small wooden door which led into a tiny room with a stone floor, home to a washing machine, some gardening implements and, more importantly, a work top with a single drawer. Muttering to myself that this was a utility room and not the kitchen, I tugged open the drawer to reveal an identical plastic cutlery tray. This one held a much older range of assorted cutlery and barbecue items. I lifted them out, turned the tray upside-down and found underneath, wedged securely between the compartments for knives and forks, and held in place by sticky-tape, the USB memory-stick that I’d been sent for. I peeled off the tape and prised it out.

  A few minutes later I replaced the key under a plant pot as I’d been told and after a few final estate agent type glances under the eaves, returned to my car. Easy. Or so I thought, until half way down the track I met a Jaguar XF coming in the opposite direction.

  A man alighted. A very big man. Dark suit, dark hair, dark stubble, dark sunglasses. The black tie around the neck of his white shirt had been tied using a pair of pliers into a knot the size of a walnut. He didn’t look like a farmer. I got out to meet him.

  ‘Great property,’ I said, attempting a smile. ‘Shouldn’t be difficult to shift, even in the current climate. These sort of holiday homes are always in demand. Are you interested? I expect it will be snapped-up in no time at all.’

  The big man stepped forward. The look on his face suggested that the state of the local housing market was of little interest to him. He took off his jacket, folded it slowly and carefully as though it was as important as anything else he’d do that day and draped it over the bonnet of the Jag.

  ‘I want the data-stick,’ he said.

  If my smile had at first been half-hearted, it was now on the verge of cardiac arrest. ‘I don’t know what you—’

  ‘It’s simple.’ Mr Big turned his solemn attention to the rolling-up of his shirt sleeves. ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way.’

  Chapter 10

  I really wished I’d opted for the easy way. But it was the money. I couldn’t let it go just like that. Using the door handle of my car, I dragged myself into a standing position. It felt like someone had removed my brain, given it a shake and reinstalled it, upside down.

  With an effort I yanked open the car door and let myself fall into the driver’s seat. The rear-view mirror showed me what I already suspected: the side of my face was as bruised and swollen as a blind carpenter’s thumb.

  Whoever Mr Big was, he wasn’t some drunk out to take a swing at me for noising him up in the witness box. This guy was quick and strong and knew a lot more about martial arts than Sergeant Alex Munro had ever taught his son. He’d battered through my defence like I’d erected a beach-windbreak in the face of a tornado and the one punch I had managed to throw was still looking for somewhere to land.

  I pressed gently against the side of my jaw with the palm of my hand and opened my mouth in a wide yawn. Painful, not broken. I just wanted to go home. First of all I had to call Mr Posh. I remembered the abrupt manner in which my earlier call had ended. I thought he’d just been annoyed. Was there more to it? Those men Victor Devlin had upset; the ones who started wars; it looked like they had their money back. Had that been enough for them? Or had they needed blood as well?

  No reply. I tried a few miles further down the road where there was better reception; still there was no answer. He was gone and all I had to show for my efforts was the upfront money I’d insisted on. Unfortunately, Mr Posh didn’t deal in cash and had transferred the first tranche of my agreed fee into the Munro & Co. firm’s account by electronic transfer. Five thousand pounds for a trip to the seaside on a pleasant summer’s day and a sore face. I’d had sore faces for less. The thing was to look at it as five thousand gained and not fifteen thousand lost.

  I arrived back home to find someone had entered without my permission. My dad. He’d left a brochure from a company that supplied wedding favours. It was lying open at a page displaying whisky miniatures with custom labels. More importantly, he’d made soup and left some in a pot on the cooker for me. It was a lot easier to suck from a spoon than the day-before pizza I’d originally had on the menu. I pressed an ice-cold can of beer across my jaw, before cracking the tin open. Taking delicate sips, I took it through to the livingroom while I waited for the soup to heat.

  The main item on the Scottish evening news was, as usual, to do with the upcoming Scottish independence referendum. As far as I could make out independence meant keeping the Royal Family, Sterling and the submarine bases on the Clyde, while staying in the EU and sharing the British embassies around the world. Given that the SNP’s Justice Secretary seemed intent on turning the Scots legal system into a copy of the English legal system, I wondered what we were being asked to vote for and why the politicians found it necessary to waste my TV-viewing time by constantly discussing it on air. I turned to the brochure my dad had left. I thought I’d better at least give it a glance or I’d never hear the end of it. I was disturbed by the buzzing of my mobile phone. It was Suzie. I’d been meaning to call her.

  ‘Listen Suzie,’ I said after our opening pleasantries, ‘that bottle of whisky, there was no need to go to such expense.’

  ‘Nonsense. If it hadn’t been for you I’d still be freelancing historic shorts for the tartan and shortbread magazines. Or, worse still,’ she laughed, ‘a legal aid lawyer like yourself.’

  I tried and failed to find the humour in that last remark.

  ‘Really. You deserve it,’ she said. ‘Have you tried it yet?’

  ‘Are you joking? How could I bring myself to drink it knowing that every sip was worth hundreds of pounds?’

  ‘I suppose it could be a good investment,’ Suzie said. ‘Better than drinking it.’ She made a choking noise down the line and I could imagine her screwing up her face. ‘Whisky, it all tastes like poison to me, especially that peaty stuff, I don’t know how you can do it to yourself. Anyway, enjoy.’

  The chance would be a fine thing. If, and it was a big if, my dad opened the bottle I would be lucky to get anywhere near it.

  ‘Anyway, the reason I’m calling, Robbie, is because I’ve made a decision about my next book. I’ve decided to take a detour from the usual stuff and write something non-fiction like, ‘In Cold Blood’. You know? The book by Truman Capote?’

  I’d read Truman Capote’s non-fiction novel, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms, and seen the films. While Suzie was sufficiently gifted to bash-out a competent pot-boiler, I wasn’t quite so sure she would be able to put together something comparable to Capote’s masterpiece.

  ‘Won’t be easy,’ I said, trying to rein in my disbelief.

  ‘It will be a lot easier if I have good material,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the low down on the Quirk murder.’

  I could see why Dominic Quirk might be good subject matter. His father, once a small-time bookie with a shady past, now Scotland’s on-line gambling king. From humble roots the Quirk family had become part of the Scots-Catholic aristocracy and now the heir apparent was facing trial for murder. Throw into the mix a back-stabbing best friend, not to mention his earlier tragic car crash and I could see why there might be the makings of an excellent true-crime story.

  ‘I’m not sure what information I could give you that you won’t find from the newspapers and internet,’ I said.

  Suzie came back quickly. ‘You’re involved in the case. Can’t you slip me some info on his background, past girlfriends, any interesting stuff about his family, his private life, stuff that you might hear about that won’t come out during the trial? Don’t worry,’ she added, reading my mind. ‘I’ll not name my source and nothing will be printed until the case is over.’ She laughed. ‘There might even be another bottle of whisky in it for you.’

  I thought about the whisky...

  ‘I really need
this, Robbie.’

  ...and about the constitutional law exam. But most of all about Suzie.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ I heard myself say. How was I going to find out any private details about Quirk? I wasn’t his lawyer. ‘No promises.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she purred. ‘Got to go now, Robbie. Thanks for always being there for me.’

  Being there? I had seen her twice in the last fifteen years. I returned to my now cold soup and chewy toast and sat down on the wedding brochure. It was hard to believe. In a short time I’d be married. I tried to imagine our life together. What would the future hold? I closed my eyes and thought about Jill, but the more I did, the more all I could see was Suzie’s smile.

  Chapter 11

  Kings Cross, mid-day Friday. I found Jill among the hordes of people; most of whom were standing next to or sitting on suitcases, staring up at the giant departures/arrivals board.

  After we’d hugged, she drew a suspicious hand down the side of my face. I’d thought the swelling had died down completely. Obviously it hadn’t, at least not to my fiancée’s critical eye.

  ‘Toothache.’ I said. ‘Murder.’

  ‘What made you come down?’ she asked, apparently satisfied at my explanation. ‘I could have flown back tonight, or tomorrow morning. What about your work? What’s happening to all your court cases?’

  ‘They’re being taken care of,’ I said, picking up my holdall and following closely behind her until we’d fought our way through the crowd to the front door and onto Euston Road. In actual fact I had so little business that, of the few cases I had, there were no trials, just some intermediate diets and one or two deferred sentences which I’d instructed another firm to cover for me. ‘I thought I’d come down and we could make a long weekend of it. Catch a show or something,’ I’d blurted before I could stop myself.