Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘I’ve seen it all now,’ Grace-Mary said, marching into my room waving a piece of paper.

  I’d scoffed my bacon roll, drunk my coffee but was still feeling the effects of my night on the couch and more inclined towards a quick kip than a sift through the day’s mail.

  My secretary floated an official looking form down on to the desk in front of me. ‘Can you believe it? Mags MacGillivray applying for widow’s allowance and she wants you to countersign her application?’

  Andy was at a loose end and couldn’t resist sticking his nose in.

  ‘Credit where credit’s due,’ he said. ‘Kill your man and then claim the government for money because you’re now a widow? Pure class.’

  I signed the form and gave it to Grace-Mary. ‘Send it back to her. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘You think so?’ my secretary asked.

  I did. I had a soft spot for the widow MacGillivray. Everyone likes a winner and Mags had hit the sentencing jackpot. She’d lived with Pete, her violent husband, for twenty extremely-long years during which time she’d had his tea on the table every night, put up with his drinking, his gambling and come to be on first name terms with personnel at the local A&E department.

  One afternoon, Mags was in the kitchen cutting vegetables for broth when Pete came in after blowing the house-keeping on yet another sure-thing. He was drunk and aggressive, gave Mags a few practice slaps and crashed out in front of the fire. He never got up again. Mags came through from the kitchen with a chopping knife, stapled her slumbering husband to the laminate flooring and then called the police while she brought the soup to the boil.

  She was charged with murder, of course, but, on the morning of the trial, after weeks of discussions, the Crown agreed to take a plea of guilty to culpable homicide and I’d wheeled-in the delightful and ever-dramatic Fiona Faye, the Faculty of Advocate’s most recently appointed Q.C. Once the judge had heard Fiona’s heart-rending plea in mitigation, perused Mags’s medical records and read affidavits from friends testifying to the years of abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her husband, the result was a formal admonition and no further punishment. The decision was welcomed by various women’s organisations and most of the dailies carried the story along with a rather good photo of me, senior counsel and my client outside the High Court looking pretty pleased with ourselves.

  ‘What with Isla Galbraith on board, it looks like you’ve got the husband-killer market cornered,’ Grace-Mary said. ‘Or should I say mariticide-market?’

  ‘No, that’s killing your mother,’ Andy said, trying to put my secretary right. Big mistake.

  ‘No,’ Grace-Mary said, patient but firm. ‘You’re thinking of matricide. I said mariticide.’

  ‘She’s right,’ I said, as though my secretary could have been anything else. ‘Mariticide is killing one’s spouse and most commonly associated with the killing of a husband. I felt it an appropriate moment to dust down my Standard Grade Latin. After all, if you’ve got it... ‘The killing of a wife by her husband is known as uxoricide and is statistically much more common.’

  ‘Not for your clients it’s not,’ said Andy, tetchily.

  ‘So what are your plans for the rest of today,’ I asked my assistant, ignoring his lack of respect and a classical education. ‘You’re not just going to stott about here are you? It’s a lovely day, why don’t you get out there and prec some witnesses, like I’m fed up asking you to do?’

  Andy sighed hugely. ‘Precognitions, precognitions. When do I get to go into court?’

  ‘You do go to court,’ Grace-Mary pointed out.

  ‘Yeah - the J.P. Court,’ Andy sulked. ‘Whoopee.’

  ‘You did really well the other day.’

  ‘Because Robbie was busy at the Sheriff Court doing important stuff.’

  ‘Nonsense, yours was an important case and you got the whole thing chucked out on a technicality.’

  ‘And if I hadn’t, my instructions were to have the trial adjourned so that Robbie could do it.’

  ‘Jake Turpie is a special client,’ I reminded Andy. ‘Grace-Mary’s right; you did well. Business is picking up. It's not easy for me to be in two places at the same time. Your chance for the Sheriff Court will come.’

  ‘Speaking of which, are you watching the time, Robbie?’ Grace-Mary asked. ‘Remember, you’ve a trial at ten.’

  I checked my watch. It was ten to the hour. ‘Precognitions are an important part of trial preparation,’ I lectured Andy as I unhooked my gown from the back of the door.

  ‘I’d rather go to court with you.’

  Grace-Mary gave me an aw, go on look.

  ‘All right,’ I relented, ‘but tomorrow I want you take that pile of witness lists from my in-tray and precognosce everything that moves.’

  ‘Will do,’ Andy said, beating me out of the door. ‘I can’t wait to see the master at work.’

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Guilty.’

  Scots law had generously provided three possible verdicts: guilty, not guilty and not proven. That was two verdicts too many, so far as Sheriff Albert Brechin was concerned. The trial had lasted all day. It had taken the Sheriff five seconds to reach a verdict. I wished, just once, the old fart would let me get my bum back down on the seat before convicting my client.

  ‘Mr Munro,’ he sighed, ‘is there anything that can be said in mitigation?’

  There was, but not enough to prevent Brechin launching my client on a nine month sentence.

  ‘Appeal it, Robbie!’ were the prisoner’s shouted instructions to me as he was led away. I knew that appealing the conviction would be a waste of time; the High Court never interfered with a Sheriff’s take on the evidence. In a routine summary case there was no jury and it was for the Sheriff alone to decide upon those witnesses he believed and those he didn’t. In over twenty years on the shrieval bench, I doubted if Albert Brechin had ever had a credible or reliable defence witness pass through his witness box.

  So, with a disillusioned assistant in tow, I trudged downstairs from Court One to the Clerk’s office where I drafted an appeal against sentence on the basis that nine moons was excessive for a relatively minor breach of the peace; an offence that prior to the recent change in sentencing powers would have carried a three month maximum.

  It was nearly five o’clock by the time the appeal was lodged and so I let Andy go home while I visited the cells to bid my client adieu. Criminal clients were, on the whole, a stoical bunch and could forgive a lot of things, but not a lawyer who didn’t take the trouble to say cheerio to them after they’d been sentenced. On the way back to the office I passed the Cross Well and recalled the earlier conversation with my dad. I rang Malky at the house using our pre-arranged system of three rings, hanging up and then ringing again.

  ‘That you Robbie? Is everything okay?’

  ‘Have you been to see Dad yet?’

  ‘I don’t want to be seen out and about. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘You went to the Rose Club with me, yesterday. It’s a wonder he never got wind of that.’

  ‘Come on, Robbie, I’m trying to keep my head down. You know what dad’s like. If he finds out where I am I might as well take out an ad in the newspaper.’

  ‘If he finds out you’re staying at my bit and I haven’t told him – I’ll be in the newspaper: the obituaries.’

  ‘Look Robbie. I’m going nowhere until you’ve sorted things out with Dexy Doyle. Simple as that.’ The line went dead.

  Back at the office, the only person around was Zoë.

  ‘What are you doing still here?’ I asked.

  ‘Grace-Mary wanted me to wait behind and give you this.’ She held out a yellow Post-it note on which a name was jotted down: Simon Hart. I’d never heard of him.

  ‘I think he’s going to call back later. Something urgent about your brother.’

  I took the note and stuffed it into my pocket.

  ‘I’ll just tidy up a few things and then I’ll be off
,’ Zoë said and busied herself, tidying up an already tidy reception desk, laying out the phone pad, squaring up the Rolodex and carrying out other such non-essential duties.

  I was on my way through to my office to begin dictating some letters when Zoë shouted through to ask if I wanted her to make me a coffee, even though she must have known I wouldn't. Life was just too short for instant coffee. I wondered: Grace-Mary asked Zoë to stay behind and give me a message she could have stuck on my computer screen in time-honoured fashion?

  I turned around in the doorway, smoothed my hair and took a deep breath. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, trying to keep it casual. ‘Coffee - why don’t we go down to Sandy’s for one? You and me,’ I added for the avoidance of doubt.

  ‘Great.’ Zoë sounded pleased. ‘Just let me finish up here.’ She arranged some pens in a jam jar.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Ready.’ Zoë slinked around the reception counter, looking at me expectantly, apparently oblivious to the ringing phone.

  I hesitated.

  ‘Coming?’

  ‘I think maybe I should just take that,’ I said.

  The smile fell from her face. ‘Do you?’

  I extracted the yellow-sticky she had given me moments before. ‘Remember? The important call – about Malky?’

  ‘Robbie Munro?’ the voice on the phone was English, Midlands accent.

  I heard the click of the front door as Zoë let herself out. ‘Simon Hart?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. I’m phoning about Malky. Where is he?’

  ‘How is it that you know my brother, Mr Hart?’

  ‘Sorry, of course, can’t be too careful eh? I thought maybe Malky might have mentioned me. I’m like his unofficial agent down here.’

  ‘Really? For what?’

  ‘Endorsements, stuff like that. And Malky’s made some good money on the after-dinner speaking circuit thanks to my contacts. I’m pretty well known hereabouts: played for the Seagulls - back in the seventies - when we had a team. Maybe you’ve heard of me?’

  I hadn’t.

  ‘Anyway, he continued, ‘the station has been pretty good about the accident, despite the rumours, but they’re not very happy about your brother’s sudden departure up to Jock-o-land. Tell him to get in touch pronto.’

  If I got rid of him quickly, I could catch up with Zoë. ‘Thanks for calling. I’ll be sure and tell Malky. Good —’

  ‘Well, actually, there’s more to it than that. The real reason I’m phoning is because there has been a…an incident.’

  ‘What kind of an incident?’ I said wishing I hadn’t. Would Zoë go to Sandy’s? Would she wait for me there?

  ‘Some idiot came into the station yesterday looking for Malky. He was asking lots of questions and generally causing trouble. In the end I had to have security throw him out. I didn’t think much of it really, just assumed it was a stalker or something.’

  ‘Oh, well, not to worry. I expect all you famous footballers have your share of nutters stalking you.’ If I ran I reckoned I could make Sandy’s in under a minute.

  ‘It gets worse. This morning on her way to work the show’s producer was attacked. We think it was the same guy. He had a knife. He slit one of her nostrils.’

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘Slit her nostril. He wanted to know where Malky had gone.’

  Maybe Malky wasn’t completely paranoid.

  ‘And did she tell him?’

  ‘Of course she told him. Are you listening to me? He slit one of her nostrils. That’s why I’m calling. You’ve got to warn Malky.’

  I said good-bye, promising to let my brother know what had happened and to pass on Hart’s best wishes to him. From my window I could see a pink satin blouse further down the High Street, heading for Sandy’s.

  Go see Zoë or go see Dexy Doyle?

  Zoë was beautiful, fun, I loved it when she was around. One day - who knew? But for now she was only my receptionist. Malky was a royal pain in the butt but he’d always be my brother.

  CHAPTER 9

  The bar stank of smoke and stale beer. Dexy Doyle sat alone at a corner table. Near the door a group of four men, white shirts, black-ties, had a bottle of Bushmills surrounded. One of them I recognised: Cathleen’s Uncle Kieran, off-white sheep of the Doyle family. Kieran was a local councillor, pillar of the community. With the amount of money he had to be making in kick-backs alone, he could surely have afforded a better toupee than the highly-unconvincing, shiny-black rug that looked like it had been dropped onto his head from a great height. He was smartly dressed and clearly uncomfortable and feeling out of place beside his brother’s bunch of rag-tag cronies. He gave me a half-smile of acknowledgement as I entered the bar and then lit up a Capstan full-strength. The anti-smoking regulations hadn’t quite made it to this part of Glasgow. They probably never would.

  Behind the bar, a tall, lanky lad dressed in a Glasgow Celtic football top and black Kappa tracksuit bottoms, leaned against the counter, eyeing me suspiciously as he whistled an out of tune rendition of ‘The Fields of Athenry’ through the gap in his front teeth.

  Other than those mentioned, the place was empty. None of the regulars, it seemed, was keen to encroach on Dexy’s grief. I took a few paces forward. One or two of the men threw me a concerned, sideways look before turning their attention once more to the bottle of Irish whiskey. Kieran sucked on his cigarette and nodded to the boy in the hoops who, without missing a tuneless beat, led me across the vastness of the deserted bar to the dark corner where Dexy sat staring into a glass of milk.

  I stood for a while at the side of the table, not sure what to say or do and was beginning to think that maybe I should call back later when my host lifted his chin from his chest and used it to point to the chair opposite.

  Like his brother, Dexy had plenty of hair, though his was real. The untidy brown mop he’d had when I’d first met him during my time at Caldwell & Craig was now mostly grey, the fringe tinged nicotine-yellow, flopping down, partially obscuring the lenses of the sort of specs the NHS provided in the 1960’s. I suspected he kept his hair long to help cover the right side of his face where the mottled red skin was stretched tight and shiny. He’d had the scars since he was a boy growing up in the Falls Road. It’s what happened when you cut too short a rag for your petrol bomb.

  I sat down. Cathleen had been buried earlier that day; the funeral strictly family. Dexy still wore a band of black crepe around his left bicep and a thin, black tie knotted tightly at the collar of his white shirt: pretty serious mourning for a man whose daughter had all but disowned him many years before.

  He raised a pale hand, showing skin grafts, cratered and translucent, beckoning the lad in the hooped top. ‘Get Mr Munro a drink.’

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Hoops asked.

  I knew my host’s liver had waved the white-flag many years ago and he was now tee-total. Rumour was his daughter had been chauffeured to her death by a drink-driver. I didn’t feel comfortable shouting up a cheeky wee Laphroaig.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. The boy shrugged and drifted away.

  ‘Get the man a drink!’ Dexy roared after him, sending the boy in the hoops ducking under the bar.

  Dexy took off his glasses and began to polish them with the end of his tie. ‘Bloody specs. So mocket you’d need good eyesight to see through them.’ He put them back on his face and began to shove the glass of milk from side to side between his hands.

  Mr Hoops returned with a shot of Bushmills and set it down in front of me.

  ‘I was very sorry to hear about Cathleen,’ I said, after what I thought was a suitably respectful interval.

  ‘Why?’ Dexy said. ‘She dumped you for your brother. Got what she deserved. That’s what you really think isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not.’

  A quiff of yellowy hair fell across his face. He brushed it back. ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘To express my sincere condolences.’

  Dexy gru
nted.

  ‘And I’m here to ask you not to do anything rash. Something that you might regret.’

  The sound of Dexy’s harsh laughter caused the men at the end of the bar to turn in our direction. The lad in the hooped top loped back over to our table, game as a pebble. Dexy waved him away again.

  ‘Are you trying to threaten me,’ he asked.

  ‘What I’m trying to do is tell you that harming Malky isn’t the answer.’

  Dexy lifted the glass of milk to his lips. A thin dribble escaped the side of his mouth where his disfigured face seemed to run out of lips. ‘Orange bastard,’ he muttered.

  If Malky held strong views on Roman Catholicism then he’d always kept them well hidden.

  ‘There’s no reason to bring religion into this,’ I said.

  ‘When I heard Cathleen had hooked up with your Hun of a brother it nearly killed me. But, I said, if he makes her happy that’s all that’s important. I set aside my own feelings, sent her mother money for them so they could put it down on a house, even bought him a car so he could keep up his image as the great football star. And for what? So he could murder her?’

  ‘Cathleen’s death was an accident.’ Maybe Grace-Mary would have been more convincing. ‘It could have happened to anyone.’ Dexy stared at me. I’d seen that look before: in the eyes of Sheriff Brechin around about the time I’m asking for community service and just before he packs my client off to jail. I pressed on. ‘What you’re trying to do is not what Cathleen would have wanted.’

  ‘We’ll never know that because she’s not here to tell us. Maybe, if you’d been more of a man, she’d still be alive.’

  Great. Now I was getting the blame.

  Dexy stood and swept his fringe from his face. He was in not bad shape for a man in his late fifties. Tall and lean, sharp-featured and yet - scars aside - he was nothing special to look at. Not someone you’d give a second glance if you met him in the street; all the same, if he had his way, there’d be football fans all over Glasgow chucking scarves on a make-shift shrine to the late, and nearly-great, Malky Munro.