Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  Quirk’s property had two public rooms and three bedrooms and had been purchased especially to see him through his University years. It was described in the Estate Agents’ schedule of particulars as a charming detached property within a breath-taking woodland setting. Mark Starrs couldn’t afford to stay there during term-time, though he was a frequent visitor and often stayed overnight. He described Quirk’s pad as a party house and assured me there had been no abduction. Doreen had been happy to go along with them. They’d had a few laughs, a lot to drink and sometime well after midnight Dominic had gone to his bed, Doreen to a spare room, while Starrs crashed out on the living room sofa, something he’d done many times previously. My client recalled being awakened, sometime in the early hours, by noises coming from Doreen’s room. He heard shouting and the sounds of a struggle and had been rousing himself to go through and see what was going on, when, just as suddenly, the commotion stopped. Still half-drunk and not sure if he’d imagined it all, he went back to sleep. The next thing he knew, Dominic was charging about screaming that Doreen was dead.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine the conversation between the two, quickly sobering-up students. There was a lot of explaining needing done, careers hung in the balance. Eventually, it was decided that the easiest course of action would be to ditch the body and act as though nothing had happened. It was a plan that might have worked had it not been for a passing lorry driver who had noticed a brand new BMW convertible abandoned on a roadside verge. He took the registration number, called it in, but when they police arrived they didn’t find a car, they found the body of a dead girl in the undergrowth. The mystery of Doreen’s disappearance was solved before she’d even been reported missing.

  Professor Edward Bradley carried out the Crown autopsy and pronounced death by asphyxiation. He ruled out accidental death on the basis of petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes of the dead girl. There was no fracture of the hyoid bone to suggest strangulation, and so the Professor opined that while Doreen could have been suffocated in various ways, the most likely cause was a pillow placed over the face. Although there was little sign of blunt trauma to suggest any degree of violence, this did not surprise the Crown expert as the toxicology report revealed such high levels of alcohol in Doreen’s bloodstream that her respiration would have been impaired and any resistance negligible.

  ‘So that’s your client’s defence - it’s was all down to Quirk?’

  ‘It’s all we have. When Starrs was arrested he declined a lawyer and what I’ve told you is more or less what he told the cops.’

  ‘And Dominic Quirk? What did he tell them?’

  ‘He did the right thing. He asked to see a lawyer. Paul Sharp was there in no time at all and Quirk told the police nothing.’

  ‘That’s good, right?’

  ‘His powder is well and truly dry,’ I said.

  ‘So he could blame Starrs?’

  ‘He could - but say what? He’s got absolutely nothing to back up an incrimination of my client. No motive. No nothing. Why should anyone believe him when Starrs has got his knife in first? And, of course, there’s Quirk’s DNA.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s all over Doreen.’

  ‘In what way?’

  In intimate ways, was the answer. Forensics disclosed that shortly before death there had been sexual intercourse. A used condom was found on the floor by the bed and a DNA analysis concluded that the chances of the semen tested not having come from Dominic Quirk was a one billion to one shot.

  ‘So what do you think actually happened?’ Suzie asked.

  I hadn’t thought too hard about what actually happened, only about how to convince a jury my client wasn’t there when it did.

  ‘Come on,’ Suzie said. ‘You must have at least a notion of how Doreen ended up smothered. You’ve seen all the evidence. Give me the Robbie Munro theory. Off the record.’

  Off the record didn’t exist, not with cops, not with journalists, not with anyone. I knew that, but one single malt top-up later and I had it all worked out and was happy to opine. ‘Okay, here goes... You’ve seen Quirk’s photo. His mother doesn’t have a display cabinet full of beautiful baby rosettes. My client on the other hand is a good looking lad. It’s obvious who Doreen must have—’

  ‘Not to me it’s not,’ Suzie butted in. ‘Starrs is not rich like his pal. Dominic Quirk is the man with the country property and new beamer...’

  ‘That’s very shallow of you,’ I joked.

  ‘What’s shallow? Is fancying someone for their money any more shallow than fancying them because they’ve got a nice face?’

  ‘Whatever, I’m not sure what Doreen knew. Remember, it was Starrs who was driving the car when they picked her up.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Suzie said, allowing me to continue with my version.

  ‘They all go back to Quirk’s place, have a few drinks and in the middle of the night he goes to her room and tries his luck. Clearly, they have sex, whether it was consensual or not is another question.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘According to Starrs, everyone was very drunk. Maybe Doreen was too drunk to know what she was doing.’

  ‘You mean she could have been raped? I thought there were no injuries. What makes you think she could have been forced?’ Suzie asked.

  That wasn’t the legal test any more. A woman could be too drunk to consent to sex, even though a man was deemed never too drunk not to know what he was doing.

  ‘So, you think she woke up later, found Quirk in her bed, realised what had happened...’

  ‘Started shouting, there was a bit of a struggle, Quirk tried to quieten her down...’

  ‘With a pillow over the face?’

  ‘He’d been drinking and wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  ‘She suffocates? Just like that?’

  I drained the last drop of Glendronach. By this stage it could have been Glen Paraffin and I wouldn’t have known the difference. ‘Easily done. Especially if all concerned have had too much to drink.’

  ‘You make it sound like a tragic accident,’ Suzie said, as the waiter arrived bearing the same again for me and another French Martini for Suzie; a round of drinks I had no recollection of ordering.

  ‘Probably was.’

  ‘It would explain why Starrs allowed himself to be persuaded into assisting Quirk to get rid of the body - if, as you say, it was all a mistake.’ Suzie was forgetting that I was only guessing at what happened.

  ‘I’m only interested in seeing that my client isn’t convicted of a murder he probably didn’t commit.’

  ‘Probably?’

  ‘Good enough for me.’ I was conscious of slurring my words, just not sufficiently to care about it. ‘The evidence against him is so thin it’s practically non-existent.’

  ‘Then why has he been indicted for murder?’

  Even in my tipsy state I could answer that one. ‘Don’t get the idea that the evidence and what the Crown puts onto an indictment are directly related.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Suzie said.

  ‘You would if you were charged with a murder you didn’t commit and the Crown sidled up to you and offered to make it all go away, just so long as you grass-up your best mate.’

  ‘But surely Starrs could be called as witness anyway?’

  ‘Not by the Crown. Not while he’s still on the indictment for disposing of the body.’

  ‘But he’d have to give evidence in his own defence,’ Suzie said. ‘His version would come out then.’

  Suzie had departed law school before we studied evidence and criminal procedure. I explained. ‘Starrs can just sit there and say nothing. The Crown has to prove the case against him and they have nothing, no evidence at all to say that he had any reason to harm Doreen or that he assisted Quirk in any way prior to getting rid of the body.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t the Crown use his statement to the police against Quirk?’

  ‘Because at trial what an accused has said to
the police about his co-accused is inadmissible. He would actually need to testify.’

  ‘Sounds complicated,’ Suzie said.

  ‘Not really. The Crown just has to figure a way to make him go into the witness box.’

  ‘And so they charge him with a murder they don’t think they can prove?’ Suzie dipped into her handbag. It was different from the last one, just as huge, but black patent leather with gold fixtures. She took out a very small notebook and started to jot things down.

  ‘The Crown is trying to help Starrs to concentrate on what is important,’ I said. ‘And what the Crown thinks important is that Quirk is convicted. Starrs was prepared to help Quirk bury a dead body, that’s what I call friendship. The prosecution can’t assume that he’ll say anything remotely incriminatory without a little persuasion.’

  ‘Sounds like blackmail.’

  Suzie was getting the idea.

  ‘And is Starrs taking the deal?’ she asked.

  ‘With both hands.’

  ‘What if he does and then they drop the murder charge and he refuses to speak up at the trial?’

  ‘That won’t happen. He’ll agree with the Crown in advance what his evidence is going to be and he’ll sign an affidavit to that effect. If his evidence diverges from what is set out in the affidavit he’ll go to prison.’

  Suzie sipped her martini. She had a slightly puzzled expression so I explained. ‘If he changes his story it means that he’s either lying in the witness box or he lied in his sworn affidavit – it’s perjury whichever way you slice it.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Standard Crown practice.’

  ‘So Starrs turns stool pigeon and what? He walks?’

  ‘No. The AD wants him to plead guilty to attempting to defeat the ends of justice by helping Quirk dispose of the body.’

  ‘Why should he?’ Because he did it and was found doing it by half of the local constabulary, was the obvious answer, but before I could slur it, Suzie was off again. ‘Doesn’t seem like a very good deal to me. He gives the Crown Quirk’s head on a platter and he still has to go to jail?’

  ‘Not for very long,’ I said.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘With remission, about two or three years, maybe more.’

  ‘That’s the best you can do?’

  Up until then I’d thought it was an excellent deal. Okay there wasn’t much evidence against Starrs, but you can’t bury a dead body without some mud sticking to you. Jurors were strange creatures. If he went to trial on the murder charge and only eight out of the fifteen took a no-smoke-without-fire view of things, then my client would end up doing life and he needn’t expect the Appeal Court to ride to the rescue. These days its sole purpose was to justify convictions, not set them aside.

  Suzie didn’t see it that way. ‘It just means he’s getting off with something he didn’t do. I thought you’d be able to do better than that, Robbie.’ She laid her glass down on the low table in front of us and looked up at me. ‘I’d heard you could do miracles when it came to court work.’

  I finished my whisky and aimed to put my tumbler down beside Suzie’s martini glass. The surface of the table was a mosaic and the glass slid across the tiny ceramic tiles and almost toppled over the other side. I didn’t know what time it was or how long we’d been talking. I did know I’d consumed way too many drams of fine Highland malt in the process.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘That’s more or less it,’ I yawned.

  ‘No, I meant what’s Dominic Quirk’s plan? If he’s pleading not guilty, how is he going to counter Starrs’ evidence?’

  I’d no idea. That was between Quirk and his lawyer.

  Suzie pouted. ‘Don’t you have any inside information? I thought you were friends with Quirk’s lawyer?’ Somehow she managed to wriggle even closer.

  ‘I..,’ I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘I am but Quirk said nothing to the cops. I won’t know his defence until the trial, like everyone else.’

  ‘What would you do if he was your client?’

  ‘You’re asking me to…’ I took a couple of goes at speculate and settled for guess. ‘How can I when I don’t know Quirk’s position? I only know what Starrs has told me.’

  Suzie sipped her martini, so close to me I could smell the sharp tang of the raspberry liqueur. ‘What if you really wanted to get Quirk off? Imagine he’s your client and all you are interested in is seeing that he isn’t convicted of a murder—’

  ‘That he probably didn’t commit?’

  ‘Or even that he probably did. Imagine you had absolutely no scruples.’

  That I could do.

  ‘It’s so hot and stuffy in here.’ Suzie wafted herself with the tiny notebook two or three times. She straightened up the two empty glasses on the tiled table. ‘Why don’t we talk about this somewhere cooler?’

  Chapter 14

  It was the sound of running water that woke me next morning. I was slouched in the armchair in my hotel room, a blanket draped over me. The sheets on the empty bed were drawn back and rumpled.

  The sound of running water ceased and shortly afterwards Suzie appeared wrapped in a white dressing gown, rubbing her wet hair with a towel.

  ‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

  Tongue like the candlewick bed spread, I could only grunt. Single malt made for a terrific sleeping draught, but every joint in my body had seized. With an effort, I threw off the blanket, straightened my spine and flexed a few essential but recalcitrant muscles. Apart from a lack of shoes, I was fully clothed.

  ‘Looks like we’re going to miss breakfast,’ Suzie said. ‘Why don’t you jump into the shower and I’ll call room service?’

  I reached over to the bedside and grabbed the clock radio. The red digits pronounced 09:35. Having worked out the time, I was trying to remember what day it was. Saturday, I finally decided. What were my plans? Oh, yeah, I was meeting Jill. When? After her meeting finished. What time would that be? Well, if it was a breakfast meeting, probably no later than ten o’clock. How long by taxi from Westminster to Kensington? Time enough for a quick shower? I couldn’t risk it. I had to lose Suzie. I shook my head, felt my brain rattle. ‘No, no room service.’

  I prised my aching bones from the armchair and found my shoes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘Last night,’ I said. ‘When you asked me why I was in London and I said I was here on business…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not… here on business. I’m visiting my girlfriend.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I sat down on the edge of the bed to take off my shoes. ‘My fiancée, in fact.’

  ‘Even more, oh.’

  ‘And she’ll be here any minute. So…’

  ‘You’d like me to go?’ Suzie floated across the room towards me, untying the belt of her dressing gown en route. ‘Then I’d better hurry and get dressed.’ She let the garment fall the length of her perfect body to the floor. I’d wanted to see Suzie with her togs off since I was eighteen years old and here she was at the foot of my bed. ‘If that is really what you want.’

  It was, wasn’t it? I closed my eyes tight, ran a hand through my hair and realised that panic, or, more probably, lust had seen off my headache.

  ‘Is it?’ Suzie asked.

  I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. I flopped backwards onto the bed. The glorious pressure of Suzie’s body, started at my feet, then slowly padded its way on all fours up the mattress towards me. I shouldn’t be doing this, but—

  A knock at the door. Jill’s voice. ‘Robbie?’

  As hangover cures go, the sudden fear of your wife-to-be strolling into your hotel room to find you on the bed, straddled by a very attractive, very naked woman, is an incredibly effective one. I leapt up, knocking Suzie to the side and jumped into my shoes. In ten seconds, I was at the door. In two more I was in the corridor giving Jill a peck on the cheek.

  She pushed me away. ‘You smell like an ol
d jakey. Have you even brushed your teeth this morning?’

  ‘After breakfast,’ I said, taking hold of her arm and dragging her along. ‘If I hurry, I can still make it.’

  Chapter 15

  Having pretended how much I wanted breakfast, I had to force some down. Scrambled eggs and lightly buttered toast was about all I felt I could safely manage.

  ‘You really are in a bad way,’ Jill said. ‘First time ever in the history of the world that Robbie Munro didn’t go for the five-star fry-up.’

  I smiled humourlessly over a cup of tea and awaited a lecture on over-indulgence. It never arrived. Did Jill feel partly to blame for my binge, having abandoned me the night before?

  When we returned to my room so I could shower and change my clothes, Suzie was gone. Thankfully, the bed showed signs of only one occupant and no traces of make-up on the pillow.

  Jill suggested a trip to the shops, and I didn’t have the physical or mental strength to object. Physically I was tired and aching all over. Mentally, I was... what? Guilty? Why? Nothing had actually happened between Suzie and me. Was my guilt to do with a degree of regret about that?

  Self-psychoanalysis over, my penance was to let myself be dragged off in the direction of Oxford Street, where our morning’s shopping excursion lasted until around four in the afternoon. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse they did and, after a pre-theatre dinner off Covent Garden, I found myself in the circle watching a blonde, ex-soap-actress bend and snatch while a lot of other people danced around her singing.

  Later we returned to the hotel and stopped off at the bar. I ordered a shandy for me and a glass of pinot grigio for Jill.

  ‘You sure?’ asked the barman, with a look of overt innocence. He turned to Jill. ‘I do a lovely French Martini.’