Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  Isla wiped away a tear with a finger, erasing the thin smear of make-up she’d used to cover the fading bruise around her left eye; an injury I’d already had photographed from several different angles. A single teardrop fell onto my desk.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, brushing it away with the back of her hand, silver bracelet clinking against wood. I pushed the box of tissues at her. Isla cried a lot during our meetings, which was why they tended to drag on. I sat back and let her sob. In fixed fee cases, delays caused by weeping clients were an unaffordable luxury; however, the Legal Aid Board permitted murder to be fee’d time and line. I wondered if paper hankies were a chargeable outlay.

  Isla dabbed at her eyes. ‘Are you going to say it was an accident?’

  ‘That’s one thing your husband’s death wasn’t,’ I said. ‘We have to persuade the Crown, or a jury, that at the time of… At the time of your husband’s death—’

  ‘You mean when I murdered him?’

  I fought off the urge to face-palm and continued. ‘On the night in question, you weren’t thinking clearly. Your normal thought processes were short-circuited, your actions extreme due to emotional factors outwith your control.’

  ‘Like I was crazy or temporarily insane or something?’ she asked so innocently, so politely, that we could have been chatting about the cross-stitch embroidery she had been working on in my waiting room before our meeting.

  ‘Diminished responsibility is what we lawyers call it.’ If the Crown, or, if it came to it, the jury, accepted that, there would be no mandatory life sentence.

  ‘Can you do that, Robbie?’

  ‘Not without some pretty strong mitigation.’

  ‘And how do we get that?’

  ‘You’ve told me how violent Callum was. Now we need to back that up with hard evidence.’

  ‘And if we do?’

  We’d been through all this before in great detail. These meetings with Isla were like making sandcastles on the beach. Just when I thought I’d accomplished something I came back the next day to find all my work washed away with the tide of her tears.

  ‘Then we’ll hit the Judge with a stonker of a plea in mitigation.’

  ‘Will I go to prison?’

  ‘If things go to plan they’ll probably give you a medal.’

  Isla smiled, and then started to cry again. I looked down at the pages of detailed notes I had taken on her background. Information from which I hoped to piece together a picture as to why a gentle young woman from the Long Islands would bludgeon her husband to death with a tomahawk and then stab holes in his head with a screw-driver. In my mind I had the pieces all laid out. I just needed to stick them together with some evidential glue.

  My client’s tear-ducts in full flow, I flicked to the beginning of my notes. Callum Galbraith and Isla Clegg, as she was then, had grown up on the Hebridean Islands of Lewis and Harris, respectively, and met in their late teens when Callum’s brother, Fergus, brought the pretty blonde girl home from a craft show in Stornoway Town Hall. Isla and Fergus had dated for several months until, like so many young islanders, they had left for the mainland and from there each gone their separate way.

  Years went by before Isla and Callum met again, both in their twenties and working in Aberdeen; Isla as a nurse at Forresterhill Hospital, Callum pounding the beat with Grampian Police. According to Isla, the two Galbraith brothers were physically alike: tall, ginger-headed and handsome, but very different in nature. Fergus, the older by less than two years, was witty, flirtatious and fun, always the life and soul of the party, while Callum was a quiet man, strong and good-natured. Though she had paid little heed to the younger Galbraith brother when a teenager, she had fallen in love with him on their very first date, something that came about unexpectedly when Callum was admitted to A&E after a roll around on Union Street with a bag-snatcher. His wounds bandaged, they’d gone for coffee together. Looking back, it was a cappuccino they both would have done well to avoid. As it was, romance blossomed and months later, when Isla took up a post as staff nurse at the Southern General in Glasgow, Callum made the decision to follow her south, transferring to Strathclyde Police. Within a year they were married and trying to start a family. It was after Isla’s second miscarriage that Callum had first raised his hands to her. From then on it had been a regular occurrence.

  ‘My mum and dad are very religious,’ she told me. ‘They’ve never had a cross word and they loved Callum. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to them about what was going on. Deep down I think I hoped someone would notice the marks, the bumps and bruises, would see through all the lies, put two and two together. After all, how often does the average person walk into a wardrobe door? Or fall down the stairs?’ She smiled through the tears. ‘Or trip over a cat they don’t have?’

  I grinned at her brave attempt at humour.

  ‘In the end,’ she said, ‘I just got used to it.’

  I let my client prattle on in her gentle voice, weeping and using up my Kleenex supply, while I took notes and planned ahead. I needed to requisition around ten years’ worth of medical records, obtain a statement from Isla’s G.P. regarding any confidential conversations between them on the subject of domestic violence and then it would be time to go calling on the Crown. The more I thought about it the more certain I was the Lord Advocate would not want to run this to trial. Sure, it was an exceptionally violent death and the victim was a cop, but the accused was young, she was pretty, she was a nurse. For ten long years she had stood by her man, a brute who made her life a misery until, one night, traumatised by the pressure of that violent relationship, she had snapped. I was almost tempted to go to the jury with a defence of let’s face it, folks, he deserved it.

  Isla sniffed and tugged another tissue from the box.

  I put down my pen. ‘I think I have enough to be going on with.’

  ‘Has the prosecution said anything?’ she asked. ‘You know, about dropping the charge to… what was it?’

  ‘Culpable homicide. No, not yet. But they will.’

  ‘And if they don’t...?’

  ‘Then there’ll be a trial and it will be up to the jury. But I can’t see it coming to that.’ I set a mandate in front of her. ‘Sign. It’s your consent so that I can contact your G.P. for medical records.’

  For once my client was way ahead of me. From the large bag that held her cross-stitch she produced a thin cardboard folder. It was orange, a bar-code sticker along the bottom and her name and date of birth on the top front cover. She was thirty-two: a couple of years older than Zoë.

  ‘All my records are here,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need, Robbie.’

  I scanned through them. Interspersed between the to–be-expected sore throats and tummy bugs were the tell-tale signs of domestic abuse: bruises to the throat, broken fingers, black-eyes. It was all good stuff. ‘This is great,’ I said. ‘The more we can show what an animal Callum was the better. If you can think of anything else…’

  Isla’s bottom lip trembled. Her face crumpled like one of the paper hankies piled up on my desk and she began to sob uncontrollably. I buzzed Grace-Mary and asked her to bring through a glass of water. Isla wiped her eyes. What little mascara she had been wearing was now black blotches on white tissue.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That was thoughtless of me.’

  Grace-Mary came in with the water and set it down on the desk. Isla looked at it but didn’t take a drink. She ran a fingernail up the side of the glass, leaving a thin trail in the condensation.

  ‘There’s really no excuse for what I did,’ she said with a tight little laugh. ‘It’s all my fault. I deserve whatever happens to me.’

  I put a finger under her chin and lifted her head. ‘Don’t ever say that again.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Wednesday, and like most mornings, I set off in search of my two best pals: Bei & Nannini.

  The proprietor of Sandy’s Café, or, rather, Bistro Alessandro as the High Street signage now pro
udly proclaimed, was a friend of mine from school days. Then the premises had been his dad’s fish and chip shop, but upon his inheritance Sandy had converted the place into a café popular with legal aid lawyers and other court users in need of caffeine and cholesterol injections between trials.

  Recently there had been further, more drastic changes made. The authentic cracked lino was no more, the floor now planks of reclaimed oak timber. Minimalist rubberwood furniture had replaced the plastic bucket seats and shoogly Formica tables of yore, and, pride of place, where the cigarette machine had once been, stood a revolving chrome and glass cake cabinet stocked with scones, French fancies, pastries and, on the bottom tray, some high-fibre brown muffins that looked good for what ailed you. Just about the only thing that hadn’t changed was the old guy sitting on a high-stool near the door, watching the world through the big front window and groping the buttocks of unwary female customers. I didn’t understand why Sandy put up with him, except that the old guy never seemed to be without a mug of milky tea and a Tunnocks teacake. I supposed every business needed its regular customers.

  ‘Check the state of you,’ Sandy said, already at the espresso machine.

  I glanced at my reflection in the cake cabinet and winced.

  ‘You’re not getting any younger you know. What are you now? Forty?’

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Which makes you thirty-two and a half.’

  ‘Well you older boys can’t expect to burn the candle at both ends. Leave that to us young guys. By the way how is the new girl?’

  ‘Zoë?’

  ‘Why you not ever send her down here for your coffee? Why you always send Andy?’

  Sandy was as Scottish as a wet weekend in Wishaw but insisted, when he could remember, on lapsing into a faux Italian accent.

  ‘You got something against Andy?’

  ‘No. It’s just… I just…’

  ‘Fancy Zoë?’

  Sandy smiled, ‘I am only a man.’

  ‘Me too,’ I told him. ‘A man that needs his caffeine level topped-up at regular intervals. I send Andy for my coffee because if I send Zoë, you chat her up and she comes back half an hour later with a cup of cold mud.’

  ‘Sure that’s the only reason? I mean, if you can’t stand the competition…’ Sandy tailed off with a shrug. ‘Oh and your dad was in earlier,’ he said, still clattering and banging away at the espresso machine. ‘He was looking for you.’

  Earlier? It was only seven-thirty now – did the man never sleep? ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Didn’t say.’ I could hardly hear Sandy over the hiss of steam. ‘He’d been phoning you but couldn’t get an answer.’

  I vaguely recalled a phone ringing in one of my dreams. I think it was the one where I was not on the couch but back in my own bed; my lovely, soft, double-bed. The one Malky had commandeered so that he could rest his injured arm and stretch the leg of his that had an alleged tendency to cramp.

  Sandy placed a cardboard cup of coffee on the counter. ‘You want a bran muffin with that?’ He put a brown paper bag on the counter. ‘Only kidding. White roll, crispy bacon, brown sauce.’

  I held the cup to my nose and inhaled deeply. ‘Bung this lot on my tab will you Sandy?’ I put a lid on the coffee, the greasy bag in my jacket pocket and, with practised ease, performed a swift about turn as I headed for the door, the gap between my shoulder blades tensing to receive the verbal arrows.

  ‘No problemo, Robbie. Arrivaderci.’

  I stopped, turned around. ‘No problemo? What do you mean no problemo? I’ve a slate you could use to roof Linlithgow Palace.’

  ‘Not anymore.’ Sandy drew a damp cloth over the counter and tossed it into the sink. ‘Your old man - what a gent - settled your tab while he was here.’

  I left the café and wasn’t entirely surprised to happen upon former Police Sergeant, Alex Munro, a short distance away at Linlithgow Cross, down the cobbled brae from the Palace, sitting on his usual bench and taking up most of the space. As I approached, he looked over the top of his newspaper and stared at me, or, more precisely, at the cup I was carrying.

  ‘You pay for that?’ he asked through his bushy moustache.

  I didn’t answer. Took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Bloody disgrace. That man’s got a living to make.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad - for settling my tab.’

  ‘Twenty-seven quid. I’m a pensioner you know.’

  Perfectly true, though, having been a cop for thirty years, they probably delivered his monthly payment by armoured car.

  ‘I know, I know. I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, which I’m sure he knew I’d do anyway. ‘Just try and remember that I wasn’t put on earth just so you could sail through life without troubling your wallet.’ He folded his newspaper. ‘Seen your brother lately?’

  ‘Yes, you gave him the key to my flat – thanks for that.’

  ‘You’re not still angry with him are you? Where’s he staying? He was supposed to come and see me. Did he say how long he’s going to be up here on business?’

  So, Malky hadn’t been back to visit my dad. Great. If the old man found out that Malky was staying with me it would somehow be my fault. Like I was hogging Golden Boy all to myself.

  ‘He’s around somewhere. You know what Malky’s like, he’d get a piece at anyone’s door. I’m sure he’ll be descending on you soon.’

  My dad seemed happy at that. He moved his bulk over a fraction and patted the slats of the bench. I sat down and he draped an arm around my shoulder. It was all a little worrying; first settling my debts, now signs of affection.

  ‘I’ve a favour to ask you,’ he said. I could sense his pain. The words struggled to come out. He cleared his throat. ‘This woman. The teuchter. The one who killed her man... you know, the cop.’

  ‘Isla Galbraith? What about her?’

  A wee girl in a summer frock toddled past us and went over to the Cross Well: an intricate sculpture in the form of an octagonal Crown which, as any attentive Linlithgow school child knew, was carved by a one-armed stone mason in 1807 after the original well head had been destroyed by Cromwell’s army back in the 17th Century. The girl dropped a few coppers into the water and closed her eyes to make a wish.

  ‘She’s guilty,’ said my dad, masterfully stating the bleeding obvious.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think it would be best if she pled guilty.’

  ‘Dad, you’re a cop. You think everyone should plead guilty.’

  ‘She brained him and then stabbed him through the head while he was sleeping. Do you really need to run the thing to trial? I know you. You’ll dig up dirt, throw mud, blacken the poor man’s character, embarrass his family, his friends.’

  Now we were coming to it.

  ‘I don’t know about his friends,’ I said, ‘but his family? He has no kids, his parents are dead and his wife killed him. As far as I know he’s got a brother - that’s his family.’

  My dad wasn’t listening. ‘Everyone has their faults—’

  ‘He used to hit her.’

  ‘Perhaps he was a mite heavy-handed now and again.’

  ‘She had injuries.’

  ‘The door to the matrimonial home wasn’t locked. She could have left him at any time.’

  ‘He was a wife-beater.’

  ‘And that gave her the right to scramble his brains with a screwdriver?’ my dad roared.

  The wee girl had returned from the well. Her big blue eyes were wide open now and staring at my old man. A woman steering a bag of messages in a pushchair came over, scowled at us and pulled the child away by the arm.

  ‘Your buddies been giving you the low-down?’ I asked, once I felt my dad’s blood-pressure had reduced sufficiently and aware that the bacon roll was growing cold in my pocket.

  But he was there to ask not answer. ‘Come on, Robbie. You must know it’s the right thing to do.’

  How rich. An ex-
cop telling my client to do the right thing and plead guilty. In my years at the criminal bar I’d seen a lot of police officers in the dock, acted for a few of them, but I’d never even heard of one pleading guilty to anything; not until they’d spent every last penny the Police Federation would fork out on legal fees, running the case into the ground, doing everything and anything to avoid one night in prison or, even worse, loss of pension rights.

  ‘You know the score, Dad. No-one in their right mind pleads to murder. And as for Isla Galbraith? Wait until the Crown sees the medical records: the black-eyes, broken fingers, a history of unreported assaults – there’s photos too. The Lord Advocate will bite my hand off when I offer a plea to culp hom.’

  That was the plan. It had worked before. Medical records, photos, perhaps a helpful psychology report. Combine that little lot with a tear-jerker of a plea in mitigation in front of the right judge and, notwithstanding her husband’s gruesome demise, P.C. Callum Galbraith’s widow would be looking at eighteen months tops with an outside chance of probation.

  My old man let rip a trademark snort that parted his moustache. I’d made my point. I didn’t have to say any more, but I did. ‘You do know what we defence agents call a woman with a violent partner?’

  He didn’t answer. So far as he was concerned the conversation was over. He stood, tucked his newspaper under his arm and started to pick his way across the cobbles to the High Street.

  ‘Jane Bond,’ I called after him. ‘Double-o-seven. Licensed to kill.’