Good News, Bad News

by WHS McIntyre

Fifty grams of coke? Street value two and a half grand. The rates of pay for young lawyers must have increased significantly since I was a legal trainee. It would have been one hell of a party if the cops hadn’t gate-crashed it before it had even started. Hugh Ogilvie was right. Antonia had been extremely lucky not to be charged with being concerned in the supply. That would have been a whole different ball game.

  But Antonia Brechin wasn’t the only damsel in distress on my mind that Monday night. I hadn’t lied to Joanna. Not exactly. I had no intention of assisting Ellen Fletcher with her life insurance scam, but neither did I want her husband’s death on my conscience, not after being partly responsible for putting him back in Jake Turpie’s firing line. If I wasn’t prepared to help, I thought I knew a man who might. I just had to find him.

  My first port of call was St John’s Hospital in Livingston. Not being as young as he once was, Sammy Veitch didn’t chase ambulances these days; he preferred for them to come to him. Usually he could be found whiling away the hours between accident victims reading the latest legal thriller in the warmth of the A&E waiting room. Unfortunately, not on this particular evening. Instead, I had to journey a further six miles west and traverse the Bathgate hills to the home town of James Young Simpson, the man who discovered the anaesthetic qualities of chloroform. There I found a man who was setting out to rediscover the anaesthetic qualities of single malt whisky.

  ‘It’s yourself, Robbie,’ Sammy said, seeing me alight from my car and walk across the street towards him. The wearing of the kilt was not something Sammy did for show. He wasn’t one of those folk who donned the eight yards of plaid only when attending weddings or ceremonies. For Sammy it was his daily attire, be it work or leisure. Why he wanted to go around dressed as the Victorian idea of a Scotsman, I didn’t know, just as I didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, what he wore under it. All I knew, as I walked up Bathgate Main Street on an early May evening, with a star-studded sky and a chill wind blowing, was that he was a braver man than I.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he said. ‘You didn’t come all this way just to buy an old lawyer a drink, did you?’

  ‘If there were any old lawyers about, I might.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll take it that as a compliment to my youthful appearance and not a criticism of my legal expertise.’

  ‘It’s your legal expertise I’ve come about,’ I said. ‘Would you be interested in taking on a spot of business that I can’t handle?’

  ‘Can’t handle or don’t want to handle?’ There were no flies on Sammy that hadn’t had their passports stamped.

  ‘A little of both.’

  We walked a short way further down the street to his local where the barman had a double whisky and a small jug of water set up in the time it took us to make the trip from front door to the counter.

  ‘Better make it a ginger beer for me,’ I said. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘SNP tossers,’ Sammy said. There weren’t too many people in Bathgate, far less habitual kilt-wearers, who weren’t nationalists, but lowering the drink-drive limit had tested a few resolves. ‘It’s getting that you can’t suck a wine gum without breaking the law.’ Being a personal injury lawyer, it was possible Sammy’s dislike for the lowering of the drink-drive limit was more professionally based than anything else. He waited until my drink was poured and half a dozen ice-cubes added before clinking his glass with mine. ‘So what’s this piece of business you’d like to put my way?’

  ‘It’s a financial matter and a wee bit tricky,’ I said. ‘Let me ask you a question. What if—’

  ‘What if? Is it that kind of business?’ Sammy tapped the side of his nose twice and winked. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘What if someone was sick?’

  ‘How sick?’

  ‘Dying.’

  ‘That’s the worst kind of sick.’

  ‘And she wanted to leave some money behind for her next of kin to remember her by?’

  ‘Just how much does she want to be remembered?’

  ‘Let’s say about half a million pounds’ worth.’

  Sammy took a sip of whisky before adding a drop of water. ‘I always taste it first just in case there’s water in it already, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I think the bottles in here don’t get lower . . .’ He put a hand to the side of his mouth as a barrier in case the barman could lip-read, but spoke the words loud enough for him to hear. ‘They just get paler.’ He stretched, straightened his back and relaxed again.

  ‘Those chairs in A&E been giving you gip?’ I asked.

  ‘Old age, Robbie.’ He rolled his head, loosening the tension in his neck muscles. ‘It doesn’t come by itself. I had to stop doing school nights up at St John’s a while ago. Sometimes I’ll go up for an hour or two on a Saturday if the wife’s watching that dancing show on telly, just to get away from it, but Friday night’s where it’s at.’ He rubbed the small of his back. ‘Anyway, it’s nothing a wee dram won’t cure.’ He finished his drink and raised a finger to the barman who was already at the optics, glass in hand.

  ‘Same again, Robbie?’ Sammy asked, looking at my full tumbler. I declined and we took our drinks over to a table.

  ‘Half a mill. Let me see.’ Sammy strummed his bottom lip with a finger. ‘It’s going to have to be a term insurance policy of some kind.’

  ‘I don’t want to land you with something you’d rather not get involved in,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘Are you kidding? It’s nice to get some proper business for a change. I’ve not had a serious accident in ages. It’s been all crappy wee trips and slips. Now this . . .’ he lowered his voice. ‘This insurance thing. This is more like it. This is right up my street. I used to do a lot of it in the eighties with the AIDS boys. I had a contact with some gay guys through in Edinburgh. First sign of anything wrong and they’d come to see me before they went anywhere near a doctor. If it was a false alarm, great, they just stopped paying the premiums. If it wasn’t, then their next-of-kin cashed in.’ Sammy took the whisky for a stroll around the glass, studying its legs. ‘Then they went and found a cure.’ He took a sip to console himself.

  ‘I don’t think they’ve found an actual cure for AIDS,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, well, they don’t die the same as they used to.’

  ‘Does that mean you can arrange something for my client and her husband?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘But it’s a lot of money. She’s only got three months to live. Won’t there be an investigation?’

  ‘If there is, what will they find? Woman gets ill and dies. Happens all the time.’ He got up and covered the few metres to the bar with a new spring in his step and a certain swish to his kilt. ‘If it didn’t,’ he said on his return with a replenished glass, and a smile, ‘we wouldn’t need life insurance companies.’

  ‘But half a million. For that kind of money won’t there need to be a medical?’

  Sammy wafted a hand at me. ‘They might write to your girl’s GP and ask if there’s anything dodgy on her records.’ Sammy looked worried for a moment. ‘There’s nothing on them about the Big C is there? I take it that’s what we’re talking about?’

  ‘That’s right. According to Ellen . . .’

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘That’s the client’s name, Ellen Fletcher, do you know her?’

  ‘Of course I know her, and her illustrious husband, by reputation if nothing else. What was his name again?’

  I’d hardly touched my ginger beer. The ice had almost all melted and it scarcely tinkled as I lifted the glass to my lips and took a drink before answering. ‘His name was Freddy. It still is.’

  ‘That a fact?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s surprised.’

  ‘I heard about that thing with Jake Turpie and him a while back and just assumed . . .’

  ‘A lot of people did.’

  ‘So he’s alive and Ellen’s on the way out? Pity it wasn’t the other way around, but there you are.’


  ‘She says she started feeling not well around the time she came into some money, so she went private.’

  ‘How private?’

  ‘Harley Street.’

  Sammy grinned. ‘Nothing of concern there then. That lot are about as likely to breach patient confidentiality as a Swiss Bank will give back its Nazi gold.’

  ‘How much is this going to cost?’

  ‘One and a half ridiculously measly percent. Up front, of course. Cash. You can sort your own commission out with the client.’

  I made a face. Sammy didn’t understand. I had to clarify. ‘I’m not wanting involved. At all.’

  ‘Don’t want to get your hands dirty, eh?’

  ‘It’s not so much my hands, Sammy. It’s the rest of me too. It doesn’t want to do a six stretch for a half-million-pound insurance fraud.’

  He laughed, knocked back his dram and rattled the base of the glass on the table for the barman to hear. ‘Have it your way.’

  ‘No, really, Sammy. I feel bad about passing this onto you. If I’m not prepared to do it, I don’t see why you—’

  ‘Whoah there, Trigger. I’m more than happy to do it. But if you want to stay squeaky and still cash in, why don’t you do the wills?’

  ‘What wills?’

  ‘They’ll both need wills, and if I’m doing the insurance for fifteen grand—’

  ‘Both? Why both? And fifteen thousand? The last time I checked one and a half per cent of half a million was seven and a half.’

  Sammy patted my cheek. ‘Think about it. If you’ve got a man and wife and it’s only the one who’s taken out life insurance that happens to croak before the ink’s dry on the policy, then it’s bound to raise a few eyebrows.’ The barman came over with a bottle and filled Sammy’s glass. ‘Raised eyebrows are what you try to avoid in this game,’ Sammy said, after he’d gone. ‘And . . .’ Apparently there was more to it. ‘They’ll also have to make up some reason why they’re taking out a term policy so that it looks legit — a mortgage, something like that.’ He took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips. ‘You see?’

  I was beginning to.

  ‘As for the wills, they’ll make for less paperwork and less paperwork means fewer awkward questions later. Come the day, it should just be a case of having hubby appointed executor, lodging a claim, sitting back and waiting for the cheque to arrive.

  He made serious fraud sound so simple.

  ‘Simple is best,’ Sammy said.

  ‘I suppose I could bash out a couple of wills.’ Where was the harm? I was a lawyer, and if clients asked me to draft wills for them, it would be unprofessional to say no.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Sammy raised his glass to me and I joined him in a toast. ‘Ellen might not be able to take her money with her, but we can see that she leaves some of it behind for us.’

  22

  ‘Say one for me when you’re down there.’ I was on my knees in the corner of the room raking about in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet when Grace-Mary came in with the files for a long court day ahead.

  ‘I’m looking for a style,’ I said.

  ‘Well you know what they say about style. You’ve either got it or you haven’t, and, I hate to tell you—’

  ‘A style for a will. I had a whole stack of them in my old trusts and executry lecture notes from uni.’

  ‘What? Those ancient things? They’re long gone.’

  I stopped rummaging and stood up. ‘Gone? You threw them out?’

  ‘Ages ago, when I was having a clear-out. You never used them. Most weren’t even in your handwriting, and those that were, were illegible. What’s come over you? Feeling all grown up and responsible now you’re going to be a married man and want to make out a will for the distribution of your estate? That’s not going to take you long once you decide who’s getting left the PlayStation. You can leave me Tina if you like.’

  ‘If I do I’ll have to leave you my dad as well.’

  ‘No thanks, I can only manage one child at a time.’ Grace-Mary thumped the files down on my desk. ‘By the way, you’re late for court.’

  I filled my briefcase with the case files and picked up my car keys. ‘Grace-Mary, any chance you could—’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve got Ellen Fletcher coming in at three to make a will. When they get here, don’t put them in the waiting room, bring them straight through to my room.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘She’s bringing her husband, and I’m not wanting him on display to the public just yet.’

  Grace-Mary, who had almost made it to the door, stopped and about-turned. ‘Ellen Fletcher’s re-married?’

  ‘Not a new husband - the old one.’

  ‘You want me to rustle you up an Ouija board as well?’

  ‘No,’ I said, taking my briefcase and edging past her out of the door, ‘a style for a standard, no-frills will should suffice. Four o’clock.’

  And at four o’clock I returned to find, on my computer screen, a simple enough looking template that would only need a few tweaks here and there to form the last will and testaments of Mr and Mrs Frederick Fletcher.

  Ellen arrived bang on four and alone. It gave us time to talk.

  ‘I’d rather it was you doing the insurance for us, Robbie,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want involved. Speak to Sammy Veitch.’

  ‘But you said you’d help.’

  ‘No, you said I’d help. I said I’d think about it and I have and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Robbie . . .’

  ‘I’m not doing it, Ellen. If you want help, Sammy will do the business for you. You don’t even need a lawyer to take out a life policy.’

  She reached out across the desk and took hold of my hands. ‘But I do need a lawyer. And not Sammy. A lawyer I can trust. If it’s about the size of your fee . . .’

  ‘It’s not always about money,’ I heard myself say, as though from a distance. ‘I don’t mind doing a couple of wills. Sammy says it’ll make things easier, but I’m not assisting in a large-scale fraud just so that your waster of a husband can have an easy life after you’re gone.’

  Ellen yanked her hands away. ‘This is not about giving Freddy an easy life and you know it. It’s about giving him back his life. He can’t stay in Scotland. Not while Jake Turpie’s alive.’

  ‘Freddy’s made a pretty good job of staying hidden for the past year. He can keep doing it.’

  ‘Come on, Robbie. It’s not like these big insurance companies can’t afford it. And it’s not really all that risky for you. How would anyone find out you knew I was dying? I won’t be around to tell them, and there’s no chance Freddy would say anything. I’ll bet if I was leaving the money to you, you wouldn’t mind so much.’

  There was a knock at the door and Grace-Mary showed Freddy into the room.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, ‘the train I went for left without me.’ Nothing was ever Freddy’s fault.

  I squared up the keyboard, one finger on each hand poised and ready to type. ‘Okay, let’s get started. First of all, Ellen, I’m going to need your full name and an address, and then you’ll have to decide who’s going to be your executor.’

  ‘What’s an executor?’

  ‘It’s the person who engathers your estate and pays it out in accordance with the will.’

  ‘Probably best if you do that, Robbie,’ Ellen said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, that is.’

  I ignored her sarcasm. After that it was more or less a case of filling in the blanks so that Ellen left her entire estate to Freddy.

  As Sammy had recommended, for the sake of appearances, I rattled off a mirror will for Freddy. ‘All done. You can sign them now with Grace-Mary as a witness if you like.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Ellen said. ‘There wasn’t much to it, was there?’

  ‘What you don’t see,’ I said, ‘is the hours of work I’ve done beforehand, tailoring this legal document to your specific requi
rements. This here . . .’ I tapped the computer screen. ‘This is years of university studies and legal experience condensed into a few pages.’ I emailed the wills through to Grace-Mary for her to print off. A few minutes later, when I was wondering what was taking so long, Grace-Mary walked in and put the documents on my desk. ‘Can you squeeze in another appointment?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. Mr Turpie phoned to say he was on his way, so I’m guessing he’ll be here any moment.’

  Jake wasn’t a man to follow the normal rules of professional etiquette such as making appointments or even checking into reception when he arrived. He’d barge straight into my office and let any other client with whom I might be engaged take the hint that it was time for them to leave. He would only have phoned to make sure I was in.

  When Freddy heard the news of Jake’s imminent arrival, he jumped out of his seat like it had been plugged into the mains. He pushed past Grace-Mary and out of the door. ‘I’ll call you!’ His yell was swiftly followed by the sound of clattering feet on the stone steps to the front door. I went to the window and saw him exit the close, turn left and try to blend in with those few pedestrians on the High Street. He had only walked twenty metres or so when a familiarly grubby Transit van pulled up on the double-yellows outside.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Grace-Mary said, making a tactical withdrawal to reception.

  Seconds later Jake marched into my office clad in his usual oil-stained boiler suit and steelies and smelling strongly of eau de diesel oil. He was about to say something when he noticed my remaining client and came to an abrupt halt. ‘Ellen?’

  ‘Hello Jake.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  I was about to tell him it was none of his business, but Ellen was in first. ‘I’m seeing my lawyer about something.’

  Jake could probably have worked that one out for himself, but he seemed satisfied by the answer, subdued by it almost. ‘All right then. I’ll . . . away and leave you to it.’ He backed towards the door, pointing at me. ‘I’ll see you later, Robbie,’ he said, almost politely and was gone.

  ‘What just happened?’ I asked.

  Ellen joined me at the window and we both stared down at the street where Jake was climbing back into the white van. With the rattle of a dodgy exhaust it pulled out into traffic and headed east.