Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘There is something up,’ I said, in case he’d forgotten. ‘Someone is trying to kill you.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re sorting that out aren’t you? Look, I can’t stay here any longer. Dad’s doing my head in and he’s started to ask questions. He definitely knows something.’

  Typical. I’d told my dad to keep quiet about Dexy Doyle and already he’d commenced his enquiries. He’d probably opened a case file.

  ‘How about I come back and stay with you again?’

  That was a non-starter, especially now that Dexy Doyle was very much on my brother’s trail. I hadn’t mentioned the bullet on my bed and decided not to say anything about last night’s visitor; not now that Malky was at last beginning to show signs of a return to normality.

  ‘It would only be for a wee while,’ he said. ‘Just until you find me some more work, anything that turns over a few quid. One or two more after-dinners and I could rent a place of my own.’

  ‘No way. You’ll just need to stay where you are and be patient.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do for money? Can’t you find me some more work? And by the way, when am I going to see my end for that judges’ gig?’

  ‘Sit tight for the time being,’ I told him. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  I put the phone down. Who did you call if you wanted to find work for a clapped-out footballer?

  The doorbell rang. Considering what had happened the night before I should have peeked through the spy-hole but it was half eight in the morning, the sun was shining and I had an appointment with a bacon roll and a caffé Americano down at Sandy’s.

  ‘You owe her boyfriend an apology.’ It was Dexy Doyle. He’d calmed down a lot since I’d seen him last. He pushed past me into the hallway with Angie in tow and closed the door behind them. ‘Four stitches and a lump on his head like Kilimanjaro.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He turned to his niece. ‘Tell the man.’

  ‘You’re sacked,’ she said.

  ‘Well, then, if that’s all…’ I gestured to the door.

  ‘No it’s not all,’ Dexy said. ‘I don’t want you speaking to Kieran about any of this, not about her,’ he cocked his head in the direction of Angie, ‘not about your brother. Understand?’

  I did. Perfectly. Dexy had found himself a surrogate daughter. One that was actually prepared to pass the time of day with him. Kieran wouldn’t like it but that was something that needed sorted out between brothers and I couldn’t care less about Angie and her rucksack full of shooters. The phone rang. It was my dad.

  ‘Malky says he’s going back to stay with you?’ he said, accusingly.

  ‘Can’t speak just now, Dad,’ I told him. ‘Busy. Call you later.’ I waved the receiver in Dexy’s face. ‘They have telephones in the east end of Glasgow. You didn’t come all this way just to let me know I was no longer acting for young Juliet here.’ He tried to speak but I wasn’t finished. I wasn’t really a morning person. Combine that with the memory of my late-night altercation with Romeo and the effects of caffeine deprivation and it could be said I was a mite tetchy. ‘And if you’ve come to tell me not to smack your hired-help around, then don’t have them break into my house in the middle of the night and threaten me with chibs. And you,’ I turned on Angie, ‘if you had half a brain you’d keep away from him,’ I said, jabbing a finger at Dexy. ‘Oh, and as for your boyfriend, I never hit him hard enough.’

  Perhaps that was a bit insensitive. Angie seemed to think so at any rate. She flew at me. In a flash, her fingers were in my hair, twisting, pulling. It hurt. Those who hadn’t been trained in the art of self-defence by their policeman father from the age of five might have instinctively pulled away; which would have worked but only as a means of losing a fistful of hair and allowing my attacker the chance to take a free swipe at me as I backed off. I did the opposite, lunging forward, colliding with Angie, knocking her off balance and causing her to fall backwards. She had to let go of my hair so that she could use her hands to break her fall. We ended up on the floor; well Angie did. I was on top of her. She landed heavily, winded, no longer a problem. Dexy was another matter altogether. I scrambled to my feet expecting him to come at me. He didn’t. He backed off. ‘Easy,’ he said, bending down to help Angie to her feet. In panic, she fought him off, desperately gasping for breath.

  ‘Stick her head between her legs,’ I said, when satisfied the hostilities were over.

  Dexy pressed his niece’s head down and forward. Once doubled over she sucked in a great lungful of air.

  ‘Just tell me where your brother is and I’ll leave,’ Dexy said, still holding Angie’s head down with one hand, the other rubbing the small of her back.

  The adrenalin was pumping. I was ready to explode. He took his hands off the girl and held them up defensively.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. I’ve been thinking - and you’re right.’

  ‘I am? About what?’

  ‘About your brother. Is he here?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘Then when you see him you can tell him I’m prepared to do a deal.’

  I didn’t believe him. ‘And that would be?’

  ‘I’ll tell him face to face.’

  ‘Tell me. I’m his lawyer.’

  Recovering, but in no fit state to try and get frisky again, Angie shot daggers at me. Dexy told her to go wait in the car.

  ‘I want blood money,’ he said, once she’d left.

  Dexy Doyle accept money for the death of his daughter? What would he spend it on? He had enough pubs and could only drive one emerald green Jag at a time. How could he enjoy anything that to his warped mind was paid for by the murder of his daughter? I played along. ‘How much?’

  ‘The flat in London for starters. It’s in joint names and the insurance will have cleared the mortgage on Cathleen’s death. I want that and a hundred grand cash.’

  ‘I’ll take instructions,’ I said.

  ‘Well make it quick. And tell your brother that once it’s over I don’t ever want to see his face this side of the border, understood?

  CHAPTER 36

  Paul Sharp was a man born a couple of decades too late, not that he was going to let that stop him. From the narrow lapels on his high-buttoned jacket, down sharply-creased drain pipe trousers, all the way to the tip of a pair of patent-leather winkle-pickers, he was a walking, talking advert for the swinging sixties. I didn’t know where he got half his stuff. Finding suppliers of bri-nylon shirts, shoe-string ties and Safari-suits must have taken a lot more time and effort than reaching for an off-the-peg number like the rest of us, and his dedication didn’t end there; he was also the proud owner of an ancient but well-maintained Triumph Spitfire. He even sported a Sixties hairstyle, though, coming from Bathgate, the hair was easier to explain.

  Seeing Paul just-a-walking-down-the-street and you might have dismissed him as another dedicated follower of fashion, or a nutter, but he was a good friend of mine and a fine criminal defence lawyer. He’d conduct my trial if things ever went that far.

  ‘Me?’ Paul tapped a Woodbine on the flat of his silver cigarette case. We were standing on the steps outside Court 2 at the far side of Linlithgow Sheriff Court. The intermediate diets had finished and we lawyers were heading off in search of nourishment before the custody court started at two.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ I told him.

  ‘So it says in very large black letters on the packet.’ Paul put the cigarette in his mouth, swiftly dragged his Zippo down the sleeve of his jacket to flick open the lid, then back the way to strike a light. After he’d lit up he snapped the lighter shut and dropped it into his top pocket from where half an inch of square white hanky was showing. He blew smoke out the side of his mouth. ‘So do you actually have a defence?’

  I had a defence all right, but it involved my impeachment of Jake Turpie and, I supposed, my assistant. There were two main difficulties with that line of defence; firstly, because of the ‘repl
y’ in Dougie Fleming’s notebook it was unlikely to be believed, and, if it was believed, two minutes after my acquittal the cops would either be off to charge Andy or kicking down Jake Turpie’s Portakabin door in a search for counterfeit money. Even if they found nothing, it was the type of occurrence that Jake would not appreciate and he was a man to express his dissatisfaction with events in a highly tangible manner usually involving industrial hand tools. I couldn’t see any upside to the situation.

  ‘I’ve got a defence - I’ve got the truth, but I need something better,’ I told Paul.

  ‘Better than the truth? Don’t think my Gran would agree.’ Paul dropped his cigarette. There was still most of it left. His smoking was more of a fashion statement than a habit. He trod on it with a pointy toe. ‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil – that’s what she’d say.’

  ‘Well, let me know when she passes the Bar exams. Until then my defence is work in progress.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Okay, sort it and I’ll do it. Give me a call later. Not Thursday.’ In answer to my unasked question he took off the court gown that was folded and draped over his shoulder. Holding it in both hands he mimed a golf shot. ‘Blagged myself a ticket to the Pro-Celebrity. The boss was going and now he can’t because he’s got some big property transaction completing. I was knocking his door down as soon as I heard. The tickets are two fifty a skull. The only snag is I’ve got to meet up with this estate agent guy at the nineteenth and try and talk him into firing some conveyancing our way.’

  My phone rang. Grace-Mary. ‘Your dad’s at the office. I think you’d better get here - fast.’

  CHAPTER 37

  ‘A gangster! A bloody murderer!’

  It wasn’t the welcome I’d expected when I got back to the office. Andy was eating a Pot Noodle and reading the sports pages, Zoë had gone for lunch and Grace-Mary had taken her place at the reception desk; not that I could actually see my secretary because she was obscured by the combined bulk of Malky and my dad.

  ‘Right there on my doorstep! A terrorist!’ my dad continued to bellow. Since I’d last spoken to him he’d obviously familiarised himself with Dechlan ‘Dexy’ Doyle’s C.V.

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you before about coming here and disturbing the staff. People are trying to work.’

  Andy sucked his fork and flipped the paper over to the front page.

  Malky butted in. ‘It was Dexy. I don’t know how he found me. He said he’d spoken to you this morning and that you were going to speak to me. He wants an answer - unfortunately Dad chased him before I could find out the question.’

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, Malky?’ Grace-Mary enquired as though suddenly I was running a cocktail bar. She had a stupid smile on her face. I knew the signs. Grace-Mary was as tough as they came. She treated me like an errant child, sales reps quaked at the thought of meeting her and she could frog-march an obstreperous client off the premises in a time that would astound the average nightclub bouncer, and yet in the presence of my big brother she metamorphosised into a giggly school girl.

  ‘No thanks,’ Malky said. ‘I’d like to talk to Robbie.’ He took me by the upper arm and pulled me aside. ‘In private.’

  We left my dad to fume.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’ Malky demanded to know once we’d crossed the corridor, gone into my room and closed the door.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ I said. ‘Dexy only came to see me this morning. I had to go straight to court. This is me just back.’

  ‘Is it good or bad?’

  I was still wondering that myself.

  ‘On the face of it, it’s good. He says he’ll leave you alone if you transfer your share of the London flat to him and bung him a hundred thou.’

  ‘That’s blackmail!’

  Extortion was the correct legal term but Malky was on the right track. I couldn’t understand why he sounded so surprised about it.

  ‘The man was going to kill you and you more or less took it for granted. Now he wants money and you’re outraged.’

  ‘You think it’s true?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Why would he bother putting it to you if he didn’t mean it?’

  ‘I can think of only two possibilities. One, he wants to lull you into a false sense of security…’

  Malky frowned at that suggestion. ‘Or?’

  ‘It’s just possible, though highly unlikely, that with the lack of support from across the water, this could be his way of saving face.’

  Malky seemed to like option two. He grabbed me by the ears and planted a smacker on the top of my head. ‘Robbie, this is great. I think you’ve done it. I think Dexy is finally off my case.’

  ‘Even if it’s true, you’ll lose the house,’ I reminded him.

  ‘I don’t care. It was Cat who paid the mortgage on the place. I’d already agreed to transfer it to her. It was why we were meeting the day of the accident.’

  ‘And the hundred grand?’

  ‘I’ve a bit put away, not enough, not nearly enough, but hopefully he’ll not want it all in one go.’

  I couldn’t see Dexy Doyle offering an easy payment plan for his blood money. ‘And if he does?’

  ‘That’s where you come to the rescue again.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re my agent, stall him. Use your contacts. Get me onto the after-dinner circuit or set up an advertising deal and I’ll have Dexy paid off in no time.’

  CHAPTER 38

  The gown room at Glasgow High Court was hidden away at the top of a winding staircase accessed by a security keypad, the code for which was a rather unimaginative 1-2-3-4, and it was where, ten to ten Wednesday morning, I found Fiona Faye Q.C. buttoning up a voluminous white blouse over her impressive bosom.

  ‘Ah, the lovely Robbie Munro,’ she said. ‘What have you brought me?’ She stood to attention while, on tip-toe, the gown-room assistant reached up and wrapped a silk fall about her neck and fastened it under her chin with a single pearl stud.

  The Q.C. reached out, took the lapel of my jacket between two fingers and rubbed the material. ‘Legal Aid cuts beginning to bite?’

  ‘It’s a murder.’

  ‘Excellent. Anyone we know?’ She put her arms into a steel-grey, lace waistcoat and let the female robing room assistant button it up. ‘Gown,’ she said, like a surgeon ordering a fresh set of scrubs from a theatre nurse.

  The assistant opened one of the metal lockers that lined two of the walls and removed a black silk gown in pristine condition.

  ‘Whose rag is that?’ Fiona demanded, eyeing it suspiciously. ‘That’s not mine.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said the assistant. ‘Your junior, Mr Hetherington, sent yours away to be let out.’ Fiona glowered down at the woman. ‘I mean, altered,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Should have it back next week. Mrs Simpson has kindly said that you can use hers while she’s on holiday.’

  ‘Holiday,’ Fiona snorted. She took the gown from the assistant and held it up for inspection. For a moment or two she studied the neatness of the crisply-ironed folds in the capacious sleeves and then put it on and admired herself in a full length mirror, sideways and from the front. ‘Too short, too wide, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’ She removed a dainty horse-hair wig from a black enamel tin box that had her name written in gold lacquer on the lid and balanced it carefully on the top of her coiffure. Fully dressed and ready for battle, she turned to me. ‘I’m late. We’ll need to talk on the hoof.’

  I followed her at a pace out of the robing room, as always, amazed at how she could cover the ground so quickly.

  ‘What you doing a week on Tuesday?’ I asked when we reached the bottom of the stairs and she stopped to allow me to open the door for her.

  ‘What I’m doing right now I expect. Sitting, bored rigid, in a VAT fraud.’

  She walked on and I trotted after her. We didn’t pause until we were on the marble chessboard floor of the lobby outside the North and South Courts.

 
‘Can you get away for an hour and do a plea?’

  She looked me in the eyes. ‘Plead guilty? To murder?’ She gripped my upper arms and shook me. ‘Who are you and what have you done with the real Robbie Munro?’

  ‘Not to murder,’ I said. ‘I thought maybe, before that, you could come with me and have a word with the A.D.’

  ‘Whose case is it?’

  ‘Junior counsel is some girl Meadows.’

  ‘And senior. . . ?’

  ‘Cameron…’

  Fiona raised one sculpted eyebrow.

  ‘Crowe,’ I finished.

  Fiona held her hands aloft. ‘Hold it right there, Tiger. Is this the policeman’s wife?’ She was onto me. ‘The one the Dean dropped like a hot Catholic?’

  The swing doors to the North Court parted slightly and a young man in a shiny-white wig peeked out. ‘Miss Faye, the macer’s gone for the judge.’

  Fiona patted him on his horse-hair hat. ‘Be right there, my dear.’ She turned to me. ‘What have you got? Apart, that is from some D.I.Y. medical records.’

  She’d heard.

  ‘I’ve got a young woman who’s bashed her husband’s head in with an axe while he was sleeping.’

  ‘Yup, sounds like murder.’

  ‘And then ventilated his skull with a screwdriver.’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Where do you find them?’

  ‘She’s got no previous. Used to teach Sunday school.’

  I flashed one of the photos of Isla Galbraith’s black-eye that I had kept handy.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, come on. What do you care if the Dean chickened out? It’s not like taking it on might ruin your career ambitions. The day they make you a judge I’ll be Law Society President.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ She put a hand on the door, ready to push it open.

  ‘What then?’

  She pouted. ‘Why didn’t you come to me before now? I don’t appreciate being second choice.’

  My initial thoughts had been to instruct Fiona, but when the chance to instruct the Dean of the Faculty arose I'd felt sure he’d have the clout required to see everything end happily-ever-after for Isla Galbraith.