Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘And that’s still the plan,’ I assured her.

  ‘Well it wouldn’t be my plan,’ Kincaid said. ‘Plead guilty. Yes you’ll receive a life sentence, but the punishment element will be discounted because of your early plea and you’ll be eligible for parole all the sooner.’

  Isla started to cry. I was out of tissues and Kincaid showed no sign of offering her his snowy-white handkerchief. I watched as my client rained tears onto the teak coffee table. I didn’t care what senior counsel advised. No client of mine pled guilty to murder.

  ‘The indictment has only just been served,’ I told Kincaid, as politely as possible in the circumstances. ‘Like you say, the preliminary diet is two weeks away and that means there’s at least four weeks until the trial; plenty of time to turn the Crown around to our way of thinking. Take these.’ I pulled the Crown’s copies of Isla Galbraith’s medical records from under Leonard’s nose and waved them at Kincaid, who seemed more intent on studying a crack in the ceiling than looking at me. ‘You’re the Dean. Tell Cameron Crowe that if he knows what’s good for his career and the reputation of Strathclyde Police he’ll take a culp hom and like it.’

  Kincaid took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. ‘Mr Munro, I refuse to comport myself as though I were some kind of horse trader.’

  Isla, head bowed, found a screwed-up tissue in her pocket and blew her nose.

  I felt Leonard extract the copy medical records from my grip.

  ‘Awooga, awooga,’ he said.

  Kincaid looked at him as though he were mad. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Leonard took one of the sewn up bundles from Kincaid’s pile of papers and turned to Isla Galbraith’s medical records: the original set she had given to me at our earlier meeting. He laid them alongside the copy of Isla’s records sent to me by the Crown and which now formed part of the updated brief. He slid both sets across the table.

  Kincaid raised the specs from his nose and balanced them on top of his head like a pair of sunglasses. He lifted the documents, one set in each hand, and studied them closely. Gradually, his face darkened and the hands holding the copy medical records began to shake, at first slowly and then more violently.

  ‘Thank-you, Mr Brophy,’ Kincaid’s voice was trembling with anger, ‘for bringing this to my attention.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Something wrong?’

  Kincaid took a few deep breaths. He laid the two sets of papers down, one on top of the other and squared them up neatly on the table before him. He replaced his spectacles and looked me in the eye.

  ‘Yes, Mr Munro, something is wrong - very wrong - and as such I am giving you immediate notice of my intention to withdraw from acting.’

  I might have known. He had never wanted this case and now that his precious sports dinner was past he’d found some spurious reason for backing out. I had a good mind to report him to the Dean. It was just a pity he was the Dean. Without further ado the Q.C. rose, bumping a shin on the coffee table, and, bidding good day to junior counsel but not to me or the client, he walked out.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked Leonard, as Kincaid’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  ‘The client’s medical records,’ he said. A smug smile had replaced the toffee icing at the corners of his mouth. I really wanted to give him a slap.

  ‘What about them?’

  I looked at Isla Galbraith. She had stopped crying and was holding her head in her hands and swaying gently, backwards and forwards.

  ‘This set…’ Leonard picked up the records Isla had given me at our earlier meeting, ‘are different…’ he picked up the records I’d been sent by the Crown and handed them to me, ‘from this set.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  ‘In many and important ways,’ said Leonard. ‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. Your client’s copy of the medical records has been... doctored.’

  CHAPTER 33

  After senior counsel’s dramatic exit from the case, junior counsel felt the remaining contingent of Isla Galbraith’s defence team needed to regroup, discuss strategy, have a scone on jam. And when it came to the search for the perfect scone, the quest began and ended in the Lower Aisle café in the basement of St Giles Cathedral, handily situated on the other side from us of the rapidly emptying Parliament House car park.

  ‘Mind your feet,’ Leonard said to Isla, pointing to a pinkish-brown slab about ten inches square in the middle of parking bay 44. ‘John Knox,’ he said. She stepped over it. I wasn’t sure why. If the dead Calvinist could put up with a judge’s car parked on top of him most of the day, what harm could come from one of my client’s size fives momentarily stepping on his grave marker?

  We entered through a side door of the cathedral and down a short flight of steps into the café. Once inside, Leonard made straight for a large plate piled high with fruit scones. Next to it was a glass bowl full of blackcurrant jam. It was late afternoon and the possibility that the day’s scone supply might be long scoffed must have been a real concern to him. He grabbed a tray, laid a couple of well-fired scones on a side plate and slapped a great dod of jam alongside.

  I wasn’t being paid enough to sit watching junior counsel slobber over a couple of jammy scones and Isla was already in a state of some distress.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ I told Leonard, ‘I think we’ll go for a walk.’ Leaving junior counsel to his snack, Isla and I set off down the Royal Mile, skirting a wide ring of spectators who were watching a juggler, in true Edinburgh fashion, from a distance; close enough to view the entertainment but far enough so as to make off before he came round with his hat. You’ll have had your whip-round.

  ‘You must think I’m really stupid,’ Isla said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’

  ‘You kept saying you wanted bad things to say about Callum and I thought how easy it would be to copy my records and add a few notes.’

  ‘Did he ever hit you?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Not even the occasional slap?’

  ‘No.’

  The Clock on the spire of the Tron Kirk showed four-thirty.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the station,’ I said, and we crossed the road and turned down Cockburn Street. We were at the top step of Fleshmarket Close when Isla broke the silence.

  ‘Should I be looking for a new solicitor?’

  ‘Let’s not be hasty,’ I said.

  ‘But… Mr Kincaid…?’

  ‘Counsel can be overly precious at times. Especially when they’re being paid legal aid rates.’

  ‘But, I lied to you,’ she said.

  I couldn’t deny it, but a criminal defence agent refusing to take on clients because they were dishonest would be like a doctor turning away patients because they looked a little peaky.

  ‘True,’ I said, ‘but at least you showed some initiative.’

  Halfway down the steps we came to The Jinglin’ Geordie, a pub named after George Heriot, the seventeenth century goldsmith much patronised by Queen Anne. He it was who founded the school that still bore his name, originally intended for orphans and the fatherless poor children of Edinburgh. Nowadays the school preferred children with living parents, rich ones who could afford the fees. At my suggestion we went in for a drink and after a glass of house red Isla relaxed and wanted to know more about the benefits of an early guilty plea.

  ‘Mr Kincaid was quite correct,’ I told her. ‘If you plead guilty to murder, avoid all the unpleasantness of a trial, you can’t escape a life sentence but the judge can seriously restrict the amount of time you require to spend in jail before becoming eligible for parole.’

  ‘How long?’ Isla asked, swirling the last drop of wine in her glass.

  ‘I’d say you’d still be well into double figures for the punishment element of your sentence, so I’m not recommending you plead. I’ll have another dash at the Crown, but I can’t go empty-handed. I’m only glad I hadn’t actually lodged your medical records in court or I might have ende
d up in the dock beside you on an attempt to pervert the course of justice charge.’

  She knocked back her drink and held her hand out for my empty glass.

  ‘Would you like?’

  ‘An explanation would be nice,’ I said. ‘A reason why you killed Callum. If he wasn’t knocking you about, had he been unfaithful? Did he have a gambling problem? Drink too much? Were you sleep-walking when you did it? Give me something. Anything.’

  Without a word, Isla took our glasses to the bar and came back a few minutes later with refills. ‘Callum only ever drank wine with a meal and he hated whisky. He never really drank much at all. Just a glass of beer once in a while, if he was out with his pals or we were on holiday, but generally he liked to keep his wits about him. Didn’t want alcohol clouding his judgement.’

  He sounded like a real party animal.

  ‘I know he injured a ned who was spraying graffiti,’ I said.

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘More than that, I think.’

  ‘He was just doing his job. I know he could have a temper at times but he never took it out on me.’

  Not what I’d hoped to hear. I wanted to give her a shake. There had to be a dark side to her dead husband. ‘Any other accidents during his career that you know of? Was he ever disciplined for misconduct, anything like that? Do you know of any colleagues who might be able to dish some dirt?’

  Isla shook her head and took a glug of wine. ‘He fell out with a couple of the lads over a football match once. There was a punch-up on the pitch, he broke someone’s nose and got suspended from duties for a fortnight. It was all brushed under the carpet. He never played again but I don’t think he cared. Callum didn’t socialise much with other police officers. He preferred his own company, and mine. We did a lot of hill walking together. I suppose it was our Highland upbringing.’

  ‘What about his family?’

  ‘There’s only his brother.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you mentioned him before. What’s his name again?’

  ‘Fergus.’

  I sensed a note of hesitation in her voice. ‘I’m told he wasn’t at the funeral.’

  Isla didn’t reply.

  ‘Don’t you find that a little strange?’

  ‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘They didn’t get on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Isla didn’t answer.

  ‘There had to be a reason.’

  Isla finished her drink and got to her feet.

  ‘It must have been something pretty important to stop him going to his brother’s funeral.’

  ‘No not really.’

  ‘Then what’s the big secret? Tell me. What did they fall out about?’

  She stood beside me, gazing down at her empty glass. ‘About me.’

  A flicker of light at the end of the tunnel? With any luck a miner coming out of the pit carrying a big bag of filthy coal.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘No. It’s ancient history. Don’t ask me again.’

  She reached out to take my glass, but I pulled it away.

  ‘Where is he – Fergus?’

  She didn’t answer. Just stood there.

  ‘Isla,’ I said, ‘are you keeping something else from me? Is there something important I should know?’

  She started to cry. I knew there was a lot for her to be worried about but her continual weeping was really starting to bug me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, eventually, wiping the tears away. ‘I think I should go and freshen myself up. She handed me the wine glass, picked up her handbag and headed for the Ladies.

  I went to the bar and ordered another glass of wine for her. After twenty minutes, when she still hadn’t returned to our table, I realised I was going to have to drink it myself.

  CHAPTER 34

  My ears popped as the train rattled west-bound and into the tunnel at Winchburgh Junction. What could possibly be so important about Fergus that the mere mention of his name had caused Isla to run out on me? And what was I going to do about the dodgy medical records that were now wasting valuable space in the briefcase resting on my lap? Emerging fromtunnel, my phone picked up a signal again and began to vibrate in the top pocket of my jacket. I checked the screen: my dad’s number. No doubt Malky wanting to know how my discussions with Dexy Doyle were coming along. I bumped the call but knew I’d have to try and resurrect negotiations with Cat’s father sooner rather than later.

  The train rolled on, hurtling by Turpie (International) Salvage Ltd, speed blurring the awkward shapes of former showroom specials, now crumpled and smashed and piled high, reminding me that my life had its own complications. How could I have been so stupid as to have spent a fifty pound note that came from Jake Turpie? I should have known that if he was giving money away there had to be a catch. And why did it have to be a fake fifty? Why not a ten or a twenty? Nobody checked them. Fifties were such a scunner. Shopkeepers never had enough change; some places just wouldn’t take them. If it had been a forged twenty, no-one would have noticed, but a fifty? People were always going to make sure it was genuine – everyone, that is, except me.

  Having alighted from the train, I walked down Station Brae and trudged homeward along Linlithgow High Street, deep in thought about a forged fifty, a homicidal Irishman and a murder defence that had dissolved before my eyes. I was cursing my luck and thinking things couldn’t get much worse as I opened the front door of my flat, walked down the hall into the kitchen and switched on the light.

  ‘What kept you?’

  I jumped in fright. Sitting in a chair, picking at his nails with the tip of a knife was Angie Doyle’s Romeo. He’d exchanged the green hoops for a darker strip, the sponsor’s name printed diagonally across the chest, the shamrock on the left breast standing out brightly.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked, rather lamely. What did you say in that type of situation?

  Romeo swung back on the chair, his eyes on the knife as he dragged the point of it along the inside of his thumb nail. ‘Dexy’s not happy. He says you’ve been speaking to people across the water. He says you’re a grass.’

  ‘You’re one to talk,’ I said. ‘Letting Angie take the blame for those guns. I thought she was your girlfriend.’

  ‘She is whatever Dexy tells me she is.’

  ‘And the shooters? They Dexy’s idea too?’

  The young man swung forward so that all four chair legs were in contact with the floor, at the same time sticking the point of the knife into the kitchen table so that it stood upright. ‘I’m asking the questions. Where’s your brother?’

  ‘And if I tell you, you’ll go?’

  ‘Yeah. And if you’re lying I’ll come back.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Dexy says I’ve to find out where he is...’ he pulled the knife free of the table. ‘Any way I can.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s negotiate.’

  He stared at me all slitty-eyed. ‘Dexy said nothing about negotiating.’

  ‘Believe me son. There’s always room for negotiation. Tell you what. Why don’t I bung you a few quid and you can go back to Dexy and tell him I stayed out all night. How’s that sound?’

  ‘He said I was to wait until you showed.’

  ‘Five hundred.’

  He didn’t reply. I moved closer to him and put my briefcase on the table.

  ‘How about it?’ I said. ‘Five hundred cash.’

  ‘You’ve not got it.’

  I sprung the clips on the briefcase. The young man’s hand tightened on the knife handle.

  ‘Take a look in there.’

  He stabbed the knife into the table again, pulled the briefcase onto his lap and swung back on his chair. It was now or never. I kicked the rear legs, the young man toppled, dropping the case, putting a hand down on the floor to steady himself.

  By the time he had regained his balance and was leaping to his feet, I had seized my dad’s pancake girdle from the cooker hob and brought it down to meet the top of his head.
I raised the girdle again but there was no need. The young man dropped onto his knees then pitched forward, his forehead making a hollow sound as it cracked off the tiled floor. For a moment I was worried I might have killed him until he began to grunt and whimper softly. In his trouser pocket I found a mobile phone and, on the recent calls list, the letter ‘D’. I pressed re-dial. The call was answered immediately. It was Dexy Doyle.

  ‘Come and get your boy,’ I said, and rang off.

  I stuffed the phone back in the unconscious man’s trouser pocket, took a hold of one of his ankles and was dragging him towards the front door when I noticed I was trailing blood across the kitchen floor. A carrier bag over his split-head stopped any further mess and actually made it easier to pull him along, his plastic-covered head gliding across the tiles and then over the wooden floor of the hallway.

  At the front door, I ripped off the bag and the young man started to come to, groaning and moving about like he was in the throes of a nightmare. Taking him under the arms, I heaved him through the door and onto the pavement. On the street, double-parked, engine running, an emerald green Jag was waiting.

  The Doyle brothers were dissimilar in many ways but clearly they had the same taste in motors. Dexy jumped out of the car, took one glance at his fallen comrade and came running towards me, his face a mask of fury.

  I flipped him the prongs, turned around, walked into my flat and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 35

  Tuesday morning, I was mopping Romeo’s blood off the kitchen floor when Malky rang.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Housework.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Really. What are you doing? You busy?’

  ‘Oh, you know, I thought I might go into the office. Perhaps drop into court. Get some baddies off. Make money. Survive.’

  ‘Okay, okay, listen, we need to talk. Dad keeps harping on at me. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a diamond but he thinks there’s something up.’