‘I wonder where Zoë’s got to. Maybe I should just put the kettle on and make you a cuppa myself,’ Grace-Mary said to Andy. Clearly, in moments of despair, hot drinks were the answer.
She left the room and I read again my alleged reply to caution and charge: I’m sorry. I don’t know where I got the money from. It seemed innocuous enough to the untrained eye, the sort of thing somebody might say, but that was because in the black art of verballing suspects, I was dealing with a grand master in the shape of D.I. Dougie Fleming. I never thought he’d have the nerve to try it on me.
Right up until that moment, I hadn’t been hugely concerned about my prosecution. It hadn’t been pleasant rotting in the police cells for a few hours or sitting in the dock of the Sheriff Court; nonetheless, I knew that to secure a conviction on a counterfeit charge wasn’t all that easy and nigh impossible where a single banknote was involved, unless, perhaps, it was one of extremely poor quality. The crime couldn’t be committed accidentally; there had to be criminal intent, and how did the Crown go about proving that an accused knew a note was a fake when it was uttered? The accused could just as easily have been duped when he or she received it. That’s why, to convict me, the Crown needed something more than merely my possession. Unfortunately, it didn’t need much more; just an adminicle of evidence from which it could be inferred that I was at it. Now into the mix could be added the entry in D.I. Fleming’s notebook. Most Sheriffs, especially convicters like Bert Brechin, would raise an eyebrow at such a comment straight away. People lucky enough to have a fifty pound note in their pocket know how they came by it, especially a defence agent working for legal aid rates. If I gave evidence at my trial, I’d be cross-examined at length on that point and the Sheriff invited to infer that by my alleged ignorance of where the money came from I was in fact concealing the truth and therefore must have possessed the necessary criminal intent to utter forged currency. Even if, as Andy so naively suggested, I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about where the note came from, it would still sound like I was changing my story and seem even more likely I was lying and therefore guilty.
‘What are you going to do?’ Andy asked. ‘If you’re struck off we’re all out of a job. Do you know how hard it is to find a traineeship? How many interviews I went to?’
However many, he must have crashed and burned at a good few of them if he’d had to settle for the newly-formed Munro & Co.
‘Who’s going to take me on now?’ Andy pretended to read an imaginary C.V. in a posh voice. ‘Oh, I see your last employer was struck off for dealing in counterfeit cash.’
‘I appreciate your concern,’ I told him.
Grace-Mary had returned. ‘Andy doesn’t mean it like that, Robbie. He's worried. We all are.’ She patted my assistant on the head. ‘Kettle’s on,’ she assured him.
I put the statements to the side. ‘This is a load of mince and if you don’t trust me to sort it out then you don’t know who you’re working for.’ Andy got up and slouched to the door, but I wasn’t finished with him. ‘And please remember that you are still working for me. Here.’ I tossed Isla Galbraith’s file through the air. He turned and caught it.
‘What’s this?’ he asked with faint interest, his glum expression slowly lifting. ‘The murder?’ He thumbed the pages eagerly. A murder Petition was a big step up from a J.P. Court speeding complaint. It was what every young criminal lawyer longed for. No lawyer wanted anyone murdered, but, if it happened, it was nice to be in on the action.
‘I’ve got a job for you.’ I said. What I had planned might or might not assist Isla Galbraith’s case but it would keep Andy out of my hair for a while.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I need you to do some private detective work. The P.F. has released Callum Galbraith’s body. The funeral will be on Thursday, maybe Friday. It wouldn’t look good if I went along, but no one’s going to recognise you. Keep your eyes and ears open. A lot of the people who attend these type of affairs, fellow officers and the like, are only doing it out of a sense of duty or the chance to skive off work for a couple of hours and tuck into a purvey at a nice hotel. There’s usually loads of gossip. Go along. Mingle. Listen to what people have to say about Galbraith. Was he well-liked? Was he ever in bother? Were there rumours of domestic abuse? Did anyone witness it? Anything you can dig up I want to know about. Got it?’
‘You’re looking to throw some mud?’
‘Like a tractor in a slurry pit.’
‘Just like Mags MacGillivray’s case?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘All right!’ exclaimed Andy. ‘This is more like it.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Grace-Mary said, a confused look on her face. ‘Am I missing something here? You’re sending the boy to a funeral to try and cheer him up?’
Andy looked at her and cracked a smile. ‘Has that kettle not boiled yet?’
CHAPTER 17
We needed senior counsel for Isla Galbraith’s case and I’d decided that the very man for the job was Ranald Kincaid Q.C.
‘I can’t say I’m happy about taking it on,’ he said as, late Tuesday afternoon, we paced beneath the dramatic hammerbeam ceiling of Parliament Hall, the leather soles of his shiny black shoes squeaking in time with the rubbery squidge of my Hush Puppies on the wooden floor. ‘Not really my thing – crime.’ He spoke the word as though he could taste the filth of it in his mouth.
Kincaid wouldn’t have been everyone’s choice for a murder and I knew that he’d have been better pleased if I’d come to the Advocates Library bearing the brief for an agricultural holdings dispute. The Silk’s experience of criminal work was minimal, the Criminal Procedure (Scotland) Act 1995 as amended or, indeed, in original form, was pretty much a closed book to him and he had the unfortunate civil lawyer’s tendency of referring to Isla Galbraith as, ‘the defender’ instead of ‘the accused’ or ‘the pannel’, and to Callum Galbraith as ‘the decedent’ instead of ‘the dead guy’; nevertheless, he did have the one qualification I was looking for most: he was Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. If, as I sincerely hoped, I managed to have the charge against Isla reduced to culpable homicide; thereafter, everything would rest on the plea in mitigation. Whatever his short-comings on the criminal side of things, as Dean, anything Kincaid had to say would have the ear of the judge and I was going to see to it that he gave the judge an earful.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll provide the ammo and you can blast away ‘til your heart’s content.’
‘Quite,’ he said, head held high, his eyes fixed on the painted glass of the great south window through which flooded streams of sunlight, dappling our path with colour.
Members of the Faculty of Advocates were supposed to be like cab-drivers waiting at the rank, ready to take on any client who happened along. Try finding a civil advocate, far less the Dean, to take on a murder case - a legal aid murder case at that - and normally you wouldn’t see anything but exhaust fumes, as the civil taxis raced for the hills. The only reason I was even in with a chance of instructing Kincaid was down to a chat I’d had with his clerk when I’d been sounding her out on available seniors. In the course of our conversation she’d happened to mention that Kincaid was having difficulties finding a speaker for a sportsman’s dinner the Faculty was hosting in aid of some charity or other. According to his clerk, sport, unless it was deer-stalking or salmon fishing, wasn’t really the Dean’s ‘thing’ and there being a shortage of fly-fishermen and the wrong kind of stalkers on my very short list of sporting clients, I’d offered Malky’s services. Any initial reluctance was overcome when I’d explained there would be no fee in the circumstances.
‘What circumstances are those?’ the clerk had enquired.
‘That the Dean will represent Isla Galbraith,’ I‘d replied.
We’d consulted by telephone the next day and Kincaid had agreed to take the case on. What really swung it was when I told him that Isla had been born and bred on the I
sle of Harris and was a member of the Free Church of Scotland. That was hardcore religion by anyone’s standards and commended her to Kincaid who was Wee Free right down to the tweed in his underpants and the orange juice in his crystal decanter.
‘It’s such a shame when a marriage doesn’t work out,’ he said, as, at the end of the Hall, we turned and started to pace slowly back the way we’d come. It was just the sort of under-statement I’d be looking for when it came time to explain to the judge why Callum Galbraith had a head like a colander.
‘A woman pushed beyond her limits by a violent husband,’ I said.
‘It’s what comes of mixed marriages.’ By which Kincaid was referring to Isla’s Free Presbyterian upbringing and her late husband’s allegiance to the Church of Rome or, as Kincaid probably preferred, the Whore of Babylon.
I handed him the provisional brief. It was in two parts: the first part, or ‘bundle’, as counsel liked to call anything comprising more than one sheet of paper, contained the Petition, or charge sheet, along with my client’s precognition, her medical records, the defence autopsy report and copy police statements. The second bundle, all printed on pink paper, held copies of the Crown documentary productions: death certificate, arrest forms and the transcript of Isla’s taped interview with the police.
Legal briefs came in all shapes and sizes: in ring-binders, cardboard folders, even held together by rubber-bands - not so from Munro & Company. Grace-Mary Gribbin was a legal secretary from a time before word processors and spell-checks; the days when you typed an eighty-page lease and there couldn’t be any mistakes unless you wanted to do the whole thing again. Ask Grace-Mary to make up a brief and she did it the old way, the proper way. Ranald Kincaid examined the spines, neatly stitched with pink thread, the two bundles tied with red legal tape. He emitted a small grunt of satisfaction and smiled for the first time.
‘Thank goodness for small mercies,’ he said. ‘Got a brief last week in a dispute over a long prescriptive servitude right of way. It came inside a yellow plastic envelope complete with a sunglass-wearing cartoon sun on the front and Have a Nice Day, underneath. I sent it back. The Lands Tribunal wasn’t established so that people could, have a nice day.’
We reached the other end of the hall, about-turned and walked back in silence, past Ravaillac’s marble statue of Lord President Forbes of Culloden, until we were half-way down and adjacent to the great fireplace where the statue of Walter Scott sat by the entrance to the Advocates Library.
We shook hands.
‘This dinner of mine…’ Kincaid said, an anxious expression on his face. ‘Your brother, you say he has some experience?’
‘Bags.’
‘It’s only that I haven’t heard the name before.’
At last; someone who’d never heard of Malky Munro.
‘I can assure you, you’ve absolutely nothing to worry about. His is a weel kent name in the world of sport. Works a lot down south in the Home Counties. In constant demand for these types of occasions. You’re lucky to get him.’
Kincaid relaxed a little. ‘In that case,’ he held up the two bundles in one hand and waggled them, like I expected he waggled his big black Bible at Sabbath-breakers, ‘I’ll read these and then I think we should consult with the client.’
I parted company with the Dean feeling pretty pleased with myself; so far so good. I had the big gun. All I needed now were the bullets. Isla Galbraith’s medical records were a start but there had to be other skeletons in her late husband’s cupboard. I’d go hunting and when I found so much as a bone I’d see that it received a very public airing.
CHAPTER 18
For the Munro boys there was no such thing as too long a movie, only too few snacks. We were ten minutes in and already knee-deep in fake blood, latex innards and screaming teens when Malky returned from the foyer laden with munchies. ‘What a size of a queue,’ he said as he handed me a small paper cup of coffee.
‘That it?’
‘It’s a large. Should have got one of these.’ He held up a bucket of cola. ‘This is a small.’
On the screen one of the living dead was having its head caved in by a crowbar, skull and brains squelching like an over-ripe melon. I had a sudden mental image of Callum Galbraith, sprawled across his bed and Isla, his tomahawk-wielding wife, standing over him in a blood-soaked nightie.
‘And this is a regular-size.’ Malky sat down beside me and dropped a paper sack overflowing with popcorn in my lap.
I settled back. It was like old times: Malky and me out for a night at the flicks. Of course, back then we’d have dates with us and by the end of the first reel Malky would be snogging the pretty one and I’d still be plucking up courage to feign a yawn and put my arm around her pal.
‘Will you two shut it!’ some guy shouted from a couple of rows behind us. We both turned around.
‘Malky? Malky Munro! It is, isn’t it?’ exclaimed the voice in the dark. ‘Sorry mate. Didn’t realise that was you there. No offence.’ The owner of the voice leaned across the row of seats that separated us, in doing so spilling a handful of peanut M&M’s down the neck of the person in front. He reached out and shook Malky’s hand. ‘Tell your mate to keep the noise down will you?’
Unlike the bag of popcorn, the movie had an end. Even then Malky wouldn’t budge. Apparently there was a wee extra bit after the titles. He’d heard the girls at the sweetie counter talking about how everyone always missed it. Ten minutes later the titles were still rolling. Everyone who’d made so much as a cup of tea during production was receiving a mention. We waited. And waited. The screen went blank. The lights came on. Some people in red and white uniforms entered and climbed the aisle towards us collecting empty soft drink containers in black bin-bags and giving us funny looks.
‘Must have been talking about another film,’ Malky said as we walked through the lobby and outside to the car park. It was chilly now because, just as it had been another clear cloudless day, it was now a clear cloudless night.
I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. ‘Dad will be wondering where you are.’
‘Don’t I know it? He’s driving me crazy, him and his pals. All they think about is football. If I see Archie Gemmill’s goal against Holland one more time I’m going to scream. A night at the pictures was a great idea.’
I accepted his thanks. Though I was quite partial to the occasional celluloid gore-fest myself, Malky was something of an aficionado and a George A. Romero re-make was the ideal way to soften him up before raising the subject of Ranald Kincaid’s sportsman’s dinner. Malky might have acquired some after-dinner experience south of the border, but the Signet Library in Parliament House would have to be approached somewhat differently than, say, the Brighton & Hove Albion player of the year awards.
As I drove along the High Street on the way back to my dad’s we passed my flat and I thought I could make out a figure lurking in the shadows outside. I slowed down. Malky had noticed it too. ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled at me. ‘Drive on.’
I stopped the car, disentangled myself from the seat belt and jumped out. Malky, who was tugging at my sleeve, tried to haul me back in but I wriggled free. Not sure what to expect and with thoughts of Dexy Doyle on my mind, I walked towards my building. As I approached, a puff of smoke wafted from the mouth of the close and I heard the faint sound of someone whistling.
‘Who’s there?’ I said.
Kieran Doyle stepped out of the gloom, a flat cap covering his nylon hair, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. Beside him, still wearing the green and white football top and whistling through his teeth, was the young man from Dexy Doyle’s bar.
‘Robbie!’ Malky came running over.
‘This has nothing to do with you,’ Kieran snapped at him.
Malky looked surprised.
‘You deaf?’ said the boy in the hoops. ‘He twisted a knife in front of his face, leering at Malky.
Kieran slapped the hand holding the knife. ‘Eejit. Put that thing away
and go wait in the car.’
The boy in the hoops did what he was told, walking backwards, eyes fixed on Malky.
‘What’s this all about, Kieran?’ I asked.
‘Angie.’
It took me a moment or two to remember that, like his brother, Kieran Doyle also had a daughter; his being very much alive.
‘What about her?’
‘She was visiting her gran in Belfast. The police stopped her on the way home. She had guns in her luggage.’
‘Handguns?’
‘Aye. She’s been lifted. He was too.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of Mr Hoops who by now was sitting in the passenger seat of a racing green Jag parked nearby. ‘He’s one of Dechlan’s boys. They had to let him go – nothing on him.’
I’d never met Angie Doyle but she sounded like a chip off the old Doyle block. Gun running had been one of her Uncle Dexy’s favourite past-times. Back then it was from Scotland to Ulster but, in these enlightened times, with the paramilitaries supposedly decommissioning their weapons, what was the point of beating some perfectly good hardware into ploughshares when it could be sold back across the water?
‘Angie’s off the rails,’ Kieran said. He shook his head, drew deeply on his cigarette and blew smoke heavenwards. ‘She’s always been a right handful but it would kill her mother if she went to prison. I’d have to resign from the Council.’ He groaned. ‘You know, I love her to bits but sometimes I wonder how I ended up with Angie and Dechlan with Cathleen.’
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘Ayr police station. I’ve only just found out. She’s appearing in court tomorrow afternoon and her mother’s sick with worry. You’ve got to get her out.’
Bail on firearms charges? Handguns? Had the man never heard of Dunblane?
Kieran read my mind. ‘I know it won’t be easy. I’ve spoken to the lawyers.’
I’d foolishly assumed that, on matters criminal, I was the Doyle family’s lawyer.
Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1) Page 7
