Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  A loudspeaker announced the calling of the case. We went into court. The two accused entered the dock and took up position between a couple of security officers. Jock Mulholland was first up to bat. He intimated a plea of not guilty and requested a continued diet in two weeks’ time to enable those instructing him to finalise certain enquiries with regards to the instruction of an expert witness. He didn’t expand further. If he’d been junior counsel, the judge would have been firing questions at him and jumping him through all sorts of procedural hoops, but if Jock Mulholland Q.C. said he needed more time to prepare then that was good enough for the man on the bench.

  Fiona was next up. She confirmed a plea of not guilty, advised the court that, though her client’s case was fully prepared, she would have no objection to a continuation.

  So far so good.

  Cameron Crowe rose to his feet, a glint in his eye. I had expected him to oppose any further delay in proceedings. He didn’t. ‘I am content that a further and final hearing be set down two weeks hence, M’Lord.’ He handed some typed sheets of paper to his Crown junior who handed one to the Clerk and then came around the table and presented first Paul and then myself with copies. A section 67 notice. A criminal indictment must be served twenty-nine days before the trial starts. It includes details of the charges as well as all the witnesses to be called by the Crown. Additional witnesses can be added by giving notice to the defence seven days prior to a preliminary hearing. Surprise witnesses only happened in the movies. By seeking a continuation of the preliminary hearing, the defence had opened the door to a new prosecution witness.

  The clerk announced the date of the continued diet and the hearing was over. The macer pulled back the judge’s chair, the man in the wig and red silk gown stood up and everyone else followed suit.

  Dominic Quirk was led away downstairs. Since the adoption of the European Convention on Human Rights in 1999, murder-accused had been eligible for bail in Scotland. It was a principle, like many others set down in European law, which the Scottish courts tried their hardest not to follow whenever possible.

  Dominic’s previous road traffic conviction for leaving the scene of a fatal accident, had been enough to convince the Sheriff at Cupar, before whom the two accused had first appeared on petition, that he might be a flight risk and as such not a suitable candidate for bail, and, though that decision had been appealed, the High Court had not seen fit to interfere with the Sheriff’s view on the matter.

  I met my client as he emerged from the dock and we stood to one side to allow the prosecution team to file past. I held out the section 67 notice to him and pointed to the name. ‘Who’s he?’

  Starrs stared down at the piece of paper and then looked up at me. I’d seen pints of milk with healthier complexions. Beads of cold sweat studded the roots of his fringe. He shook his head, and then returned his gaze to the sheet of paper. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  Cameron Crowe at the rear of the Crown party reached us and stopped, looming over my client like the angel of death. He had a lot of white teeth and they were all on display. ‘Well, Mr Starrs,’ he said. ‘He sure as hell knows you.’

  Chapter 21

  After an uncomfortable after-court chat with my client, and a promise that we would consult again soon, I set off for my rendezvous with Suzie. She was waiting for me beneath the Scott Monument on Princes Street, clinging to a small wicker picnic basket.

  ‘It’s such a nice day, I thought we could lunch al fresco,’ she said, and we strolled together along the walkway to Princes Street gardens and down the grassy slopes to the lawns. Clear blue sky, a warm breeze, flower beds in full bloom and the castle rock a magnificent backdrop. It was the sort of beautiful day that Edinburgh could muster only occasionally, but, when it did, there was nowhere quite like it. We found a relatively secluded spot on the grassy parkland that was host to a number of open air diners and as Suzie threw a tartan travel rug across the closely mown surface, the one o’clock gun sounded from the nearby castle battlements. The noise made me jump and scattered a passel of pigeons. A few passers-by paused to check their watches.

  ‘What do you think of this as an idea for a murder?’ Suzie asked. ‘Picture the scene. The victim is found dead at Edinburgh Castle or somewhere nearby. He’s been shot in broad daylight, but no-one heard a thing. Why?’ Before I could suggest that a silencer might have been used, Suzie answered her own question. ‘Because the murderer timed the fatal shot to coincide with the one o’clock gun.’

  She looked pleased. I felt worried. Was it a scene from one of her books? The ones I’d told her I enjoyed so much, but hadn’t actually read? I really should say something. ‘Difficult to time the two shots exactly. Synchronicity is everything.’ I smiled and gave a little involuntary laugh.

  Suzie flushed’ What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It must be something or you wouldn’t be laughing. What’s wrong. My plot-lines not up to scratch?’

  Touchy. Lesson one when talking to authors: anything other than unalloyed praise of their work is considered criticism. I’d have to explain. ‘I was cross-examining a witness once. She was a former school teacher, literally old-school, like something out of the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. It was all to do with historic acts of violence towards pupils in the sixties and seventies. The sort of acts seen as horrific these days, but, back then, a dunt across the earhole was all in a day’s work and helped concentrate a pupil’s mind.’

  Suzie’s pretty face was now wearing a wry expression, not buying any of what I was saying. ‘My plot. Synchronicity is everything?’ She reminded me.

  ‘Well she needed to fart, but in the witness box there’s nowhere to hide.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She coughed to camouflage the sound except she coughed too early. The coughing finished and...’ I provided the necessary sound effects to finish the story. ‘Without the required synchronicity, the cough only highlighted the fart and what she’d been trying to do which, of course, made the whole thing much funnier. Some of the jury corpsed and the Sheriff had to adjourn the court for ten minutes. The same would happen with a gunshot and the one o’clock cannon. Unless they both happened simultaneously, one would draw more attention to the other. Witnesses would remember the day they heard two one o’clock guns. That would be worse for the murderer than letting off one random—’

  ‘Okay, I get it,’ Suzie said. She coughed, blew a raspberry and started to laugh. ‘You should write a book of these stories.’

  I didn’t remember Jill being so enamoured by that particular tale when I’d recounted it to her and, yet, who didn’t love a fart gag?

  ‘Seriously, I’ll put my agent on to you.’ Suzie looked over her shoulder and jerked a thumb westwards. ‘I should have asked him to come down and have lunch with us, his offices are just the other end of Princes Street .’ She opened the picnic hamper and set down a plastic box of sandwiches, a brown paper bag, two glasses and finally a bottle of red wine which she cracked open while I dived into the tub of sandwiches. Suzie was a vegetarian. She’d either made up a couple of tuna pieces especially for me or else, like a lot of veggies, she thought that fish was a fruit.

  Suzie passed me a glass of wine.

  ‘About London...’ I said.

  ‘You snore a lot, did you know that?’

  It had been remarked on previously, so I let that topic of conversation drift away with dandelion seeds. ‘You didn’t just bump into me did you? I mean what were the chances?’

  Suzie bit the corner off a water cress and egg sandwich. Chickens or, at least their unfertilised ovum, weren’t meat either. ‘I’ve made a good start on the new book,’ she said, after a few chews. ‘More or less drafted a rough outline for part one. The rest—’

  ‘I met a man called Rupert in London, the night after I met you. He said he knew you.’

  ‘A lot of people do. I’m a famous author, remember?’

  ‘A famous author with two agents?’

/>   Suzie didn’t say anything, just chewed chopped-egg and cress.

  ‘You told me when we met in London that you were down seeing your agent,’ I said as unaccusingly as I could. ‘Now you’ve just told me your agent is based right here in Edinburgh.’

  Suzie set the uneaten half of her sandwich down on the travel rug and wiped her mouth with one of the red paper napkins that were held in a little pouch on the inside of the hamper lid. ‘Is this why you wanted to see me? To practise your cross-examination techniques?’

  ‘I’m just wondering why you lied to me, that’s all,’ I said, prepared on this occasion to overlook the suggestion that my cross-examination techniques weren’t sufficiently honed already. Defence lawyers could be sensitive to criticism too.

  Suzie held my gaze for a long moment and then lost our staring competition by reaching for her glass of wine. ‘I didn’t lie to you. Not completely. I went to London to see Rupert, but he’s not my agent, he’s a financial adviser. He wanted to talk to me about a new publishing deal I have in the offing. My present agent doesn’t know about it and I don’t want it leaking out that I might be jumping ship, so I’m terribly sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ She smiled mirthlessly, then cheered up and gave me a friendly shove. ‘A girl’s got to have some secrets you know.’

  Posh Rupert an investment adviser. Why didn’t that surprise me? I remembered what Jill had said about him. A man with digits in a portfolio of corporate pies. ‘Is Rupert’s surname top secret too?’ I asked.

  Suzie drank some wine, dabbed her lips again. ‘Smith.’

  I gave her an is-that-the-best-you-can-come-up-with look.

  ‘That’s his name. Smith. Oh, and, while I’m confessing my sins, no, I didn’t just happen to bump into you. I called your office and your secretary said you’d gone to London for a few days. I asked where you were staying and she told me. It wasn’t exactly a job for the intrepid D.I. Debbie Day.’

  I could only apologise. ‘I don’t mean to pry into your affairs, I was just worried about you.’

  Suzie looked puzzled. ‘Why on earth—’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Victor Devlin?’

  She hadn’t.

  ‘Well I have. He’s a world class conman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This Rupert Smith is an associate of his. He came to see me recently—’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Rupert. He was asking for some... legal advice in relation to his boss.’

  ‘What sort of legal advice did he want?’ she asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Oh, I see. Confidential is it?’ Point made, Suzie took another bite of sandwich. On such a warm summer’s day I could detect a distinct touch of frost. ‘So is that the only reason you wanted to see me? To check up on me?’

  Though the answer to that question was yes, I decided to phrase it another way. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to know what happened in court today.’ Come to think of it, if Suzie was so keen on writing a book about the Dominic Quirk case why hadn’t she been there? The hearing hadn’t been in private.

  Suzie relaxed. She finished the sandwich, lightly dusted crumbs from her fingers and ripped the side of the brown paper bag to reveal a couple of sticky-glazed, cinnamon pastries. She took one delicately between thumb and forefinger and with her other hand gently nudged the bag in my direction.

  ‘So it looks like you’re all set for trial,’ Suzie said, after I’d given her an update on the court proceedings and she had packed everything bar our wineglasses back into the hamper.

  ‘One more preliminary hearing first to make sure everything’s ready,’ I said. ‘And then it’s the real thing.’

  ‘What would you do, if it was you?’ Suzie asked. ‘Would you stay around for trial or head for Brazil or somewhere?’

  ‘Brazil’s no good now,’ I said. ‘You’d need to head for somewhere like Iran or North Korea, somewhere without an extradition treaty.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Would you stay or would you go?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On how guilty you were?’

  ‘On how good my defence was.’

  ‘And if you were Mark Starrs?’

  ‘I’d stick around.’

  ‘Dominic Quirk?’

  ‘He’s got no option. He’s on remand so he has to stick around.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem very fair to me,’ Suzie said. ‘Both charged with the same crimes and one is out and about, the other banged up.’

  ‘One has a previous conviction, one doesn’t,’ I said. ‘It’s still possible that Quirk could get out before trial, if there was some substantial change in his personal circumstances that allowed the High Court to reconsider and grant him bail.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I couldn’t think of anything obvious offhand. The most common reason for accused persons being released on bail was because the Crown couldn’t start the trial within the one hundred and forty day time limit.

  ‘How long has he been in so far?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘Let me see. Got to be well over a hundred days by now. Anyway, it’s academic. The Crown seem to be ready. They’ve cited a new witness, but apart from that it’s all systems go.’

  ‘If I were your client I’d disappear,’ Suzie said. ‘Not to Iran. I ‘d just move to the Highlands or slip over the channel, go to Bulgaria or somewhere, change my name and work as a grape-picker.’

  I laughed. ‘Maybe in one of your books. In real life, people don’t just move to the Highlands or slip across international borders. We live on an island. An island with the most CCTV in the world. Mark Starrs would be traced and arrested in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘And if money was no object?’

  ‘For Mark Starrs money is very much an object and, in any event, if he doesn’t turn up the only person benefitting would be Dominic Quirk.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Firstly, running away would make Starrs look guilty, which would help any incrimination attempt by Quirk. Secondly, I can’t see the Crown running the trial without him. They need Starrs as a witness to incriminate Quirk.’

  ‘So if Starrs didn’t show, they’d let Quirk go free?’

  ‘Not exactly. They’d put him on trial by himself if they had to, but they wouldn’t be keen. First of all there would be a manhunt for Starrs, during which, Quirk would enjoy some time out on bail. After all, if Starrs did a runner and the trial had to be put off, it wouldn’t be Dominic’s fault and they couldn’t keep him on remand beyond the time limit.’

  I was sitting cross-legged. Suzie had been sitting on a hip, propped up on one arm. Without warning, she uncoiled, reclined and rested her head on my thigh. She closed her eyes. The light breeze blew a strand of hair across her forehead and I only just managed to resist the urge to brush it back.

  Suzie sighed contentedly. ‘And this new witness. Do you know what he is going to say?’

  I had absolutely no idea and right at that moment I could not have cared less.

  Chapter 22

  Thursday. Remand court day at Falkirk Sheriff Court and, compared to the usual stagnant flow of business at Livingston, things were moving along like an express train. Why couldn’t all my clients commit crimes in this jurisdiction? My case called, my client was made the subject of a community pay-back order and I was sitting in the court café drinking coffee, or something very like it, by half past.

  Paul Sharp came up the stairs after a visit to the cells. These days my friend’s attire was not quite the show-stopping material it had once been. Gone was the sixties gear, the safari suits, cravats, skinny trousers, skinny lapels and even skinnier ties. Paul wanted to be a Sheriff. I knew he’d applied once and been knocked back. Although he’d never mentioned it to me, I did wonder if someone had had a word in his ear about his dress sense. It was all very well having a personality disorder, it was more or less expect
ed in the average Sheriff, but wearing funny clothes? Not on, old boy.

  Paul came over to the table where I was sitting and threw his gown and case file onto the marble bench that ran around the circumference of the semi-circular café. He went to the counter and pumped a large silver vacuum flask.

  ‘Another satisfied client,’ he said upon his return, carrying a foam cup filled with a murky brew. Paul had been acting for my client’s less fortunate co-accused. A man who, with three pages of previous and a couple of bail contraventions to boot, was now on vacation courtesy of the Queen. ‘Four months was about right. He was always going to get at least one month consec for the bail act. He’ll be out before your client has finished his two hundred hours, Robbie.’

  We were joined by a local lawyer, Simon Kendall. Everyone called him Minty, after the cakes, I assumed. He brought with him tea, not in a polystyrene cup like the rest of us, but in his own mug. A moment or so later one of the counter girls came across with a cheese toastie on a paper plate. Minty ripped open a small sachet of salt and, like a farmer sowing seed on a tiny ploughed field, sprinkled grains of salt into the ridges of the top slice; presumably the combination of cheese and fried bread wasn’t sufficiently unhealthy already. ‘Good to see you two on speaking terms,’ he said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t we be?’ I asked.

  Carefully balancing the toastie so as not to let any of the salt run off, Minty took a bite, recoiled and dropped it onto the plate. For a moment or two he juggled a blob of molten cheese in his mouth, before spitting it out on to the plate. ‘Ow, ya bastard! That’s f—’

  ‘Hot?’ Paul enquired.

  Minty looked round accusingly at the girl who’d brought him the dangerous food item. ‘These things should come with a health and safety warning,’ he yelled in the direction of her two fingers. There then followed a passionate, if unedifying, rant from Minty on the subject of delictual liability for the non-risk assessment of toasted-bread products, which Paul and I endured while we drank our coffee and the offending toastie cooled down to a safer temperature.