I went over and sat beside Isla. Her tears had stopped, for the time being at any rate, and she seemed settled now, more self-assured and in control of herself. After some persuasion she agreed with me that it would be best if her mother left us alone, which Mrs Clegg eventually, if grudgingly, did.
‘I want to tell you the truth about what happened,’ my client said softly, when we were alone. ‘What you told me before about confidentiality. You’ll not repeat this to anyone?’
‘I can’t. Not without your permission.’
She sat back in the sofa and closed her eyes. ‘Callum was being treated for cancer.’ She looked like she was going to start sobbing again and just for a moment I wished her mum would come back and give her another slap. ‘Fergus came down to visit him in hospital. He stayed at our house for a while.’
‘And you had an affair with him. I know. Your mum told me. What about the night he died?’
‘After our…our…fling, once Callum was better, I told him everything, begged his forgiveness. He was upset, of course. Angrier at Fergus than me. He forgave me and we went on with our lives. I didn’t see Fergus for years, never even called him. He still sent me a charm for my bracelet every year and I know he tried to speak to Callum, but Callum wasn’t interested; Fergus was dead to him. A week before this all happened Fergus phoned me. Told me he had a new charm for my bracelet and wanted to deliver it personally. I refused point blank to see him but he pleaded, said he was going to buy a place in the sun and was leaving the country. He said he only wanted to give me the charm as a good-bye gift.’ Isla shrugged. ‘I agreed to see him. Callum was going away for the weekend. How could I have been so stupid? If only...’ The words choked in her throat.
I picked up the story as I understood it. ‘Callum came home unexpectedly and found the two of you in bed?’
Isla nodded. ‘When he hit Fergus the axe broke. A piece of it flew off and hit me on the face just above the eye.’ She gave a hollow little laugh. ‘Callum asked me if I was all right. Even after all that he couldn’t bear to see me hurt.’
‘What then?’
‘Fergus was unconscious. There was blood and clear fluid coming from his ears and nose. The wound on his head was horrible. I’d been a casualty nurse long enough to know he could never recover from an injury like that.’
‘And Callum?’
‘He wanted to hand himself in but I wouldn’t let him. We sat for hours and talked about what to do. If the police found Fergus murdered in my bed it was obvious Callum would get the blame. We thought of disposing of the body but didn’t know where to begin and Callum thought sooner or later people would wonder where Fergus was and start asking questions.’
‘So the brothers switched identities. Whose idea was that?’
‘Mine. I’d always thought how alike they were - in physical appearance at any rate.’
‘And Callum agreed to let you take the blame?’
‘No. I told him I’d say a burglar broke in. He packed Fergus’s belongings and drove off in his car. Most of the houses around here are still being built. There’s no street lighting in yet so no-one would have seen anything unusual.’
‘What about the screwdriver?’
Isla closed her eyes and nodded. ‘Callum and Fergus were alike, not identical.’ She pressed the knuckles of a clenched fist against her forehead. ‘I’d already dialled nine-nine-nine and the police were on their way when I realised the lack of a surgical scar on the side of Fergus’s head might be noticed. It was a horrible thing to have do but he was already dead… dying and—’
‘With a screwdriver? Why?’
Isla picked the silver bracelet from the floor where her mother had thrown it. ‘Fergus put the new charm on my bracelet. He’d brought his tools with him. The screw-driver was lying by the side of the bed.’
She’d told me all this without shedding so much as a tear, something of a personal best for my client. Had the weeping all been for show? Had her tears, like her medical records, been a fraud? Was the shy little-girl-lost routine merely the skin stretched over a skeleton of cold steel? After all, this was a woman who had not only cheated on her husband while he was recovering from cancer treatment, but had rammed a screwdriver through her dead lover’s head.
‘And the burglar story?’
‘It would never have worked.’
She wasn’t daft either. With a cop-killer on the loose the police would never have stopped searching. Sooner or later they’d have learned the truth. Better to keep it plain and simple. Give them a victim and a killer. Case closed. Providing you didn’t mind going to prison for life.
Isla played with the silver bracelet. ‘I thought I loved him,’ she said. ‘I didn’t. Whatever I felt for Fergus, it wasn’t love. I love Callum. I know that now. I knew it as soon as I saw Fergus lying there dying and all I could think of was Callum being sent to prison because of me. When the police arrived I felt so guilty I was happy to confess. It was only later, during that week in Cornton Vale, that I began to think what life in prison would actually mean. Then I remembered reading in the newspaper how you’d got some woman off with stabbing her husband. Callum had been moaning about it one morning at breakfast, saying how women were always getting away with murdering their partners and how the same never happened to men who killed women.’
‘Isla. About court tomorrow,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to tell the Crown about Callum. The Advocate Depute and I don’t get on very well. I don’t expect him to believe me about Callum being alive. He already thinks I’ve tried to pull the wool over his eyes with the violent spouse story as supported by your dodgy medical records.’
‘And if he doesn’t believe it? What then?’
‘It depends what body tissues were kept following the post mortem and whether there are any known samples of Callum or Fergus’s DNA available to compare it with. Failing that it will be down to fingerprint comparisons, dental records, those sorts of things. It won’t be straight-forward. A lot of the samples that would routinely have been taken weren’t because there was never any doubt as to the identity of the body - until now. That was the beauty of your idea.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘Then we’ll have to seek a court order for exhumation.’
Isla swallowed hard. ‘Dig Fergus up?’
‘I’m afraid so. Forensic tests will prove the body isn’t who it’s supposed to be, the indictment against you will fall and there will be a massive man-hunt for Callum.’
‘What can he do?’
‘Keep running.’
‘And if he’s caught?’
‘There’ll be one hell of an interesting trial.’
‘But he will be convicted?’
‘Well there are really only two possible suspects and finding his brother in bed with you clearly gives Callum a motive. Fleeing the country won’t have helped matters either; it’s another adminicle of evidence from which guilt can be inferred.’ I stood up. ‘But all that’s a long way off and I’m only interested in you. You’re my client, not Callum, so first things first - tomorrow’s preliminary diet. Do you know where you’re going?’
‘I think so.’
‘Glasgow High Court is at the Saltmarket, by the Clyde. You can’t miss it. It’s directly across the road from the McLennan Arch on the west end of Glasgow Green.’
Isla nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ve something else on tomorrow so I’ll be asking counsel to have the case knocked on a week. It will give us time to talk some more and decide how we’re going to play things.’
With Ranald Kincaid having withdrawn from the case and Fiona Faye wielding a barge-pole, I’d have to leave it to Leonard to seek a continuation. Most preliminary hearings were continued at first time of calling so it shouldn’t pose a problem even for him.
‘What do you think will happen?’ Isla asked.
‘The most likely outcome is that after we’ve told the Crown our news they’ll want to make mor
e enquiries and the case will be put off for a while for that purpose. You never know - Callum might come back and face the music.’ I patted Isla’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s going to work out fine for you.’
Isla followed me from the room and down the cluttered hallway to the front porch. Mrs Clegg, whose temper seemed to have cooled, materialised by her daughter’s side. The two of them came to the door to wave me off and as I walked down the plant-lined path to my car I couldn’t help thinking how much I loved the case of HMA –v- Isla Jane Galbraith. Struck off or not, I would dine out on the story for years to come.
I started the engine and bumped my way down the unsurfaced roads of the new estate, swerving around a group of workies who were gathered beside a JCB. I had not made it out onto the main road when my mobile rang. It was Isla.
‘Mr Munro,’ she said; not Robbie. I sensed trouble. ‘What we talked about... You said it was strictly confidential?’
‘Yes, of course. I told you that.’
‘Then, about tomorrow - I’ve made my decision - I’m going to plead guilty.’ I drew the car into the side, narrowly avoiding a skip full of rubble.
‘Look Isla. We’ve already been through this. You’re charged with murdering Callum and he’s not dead. Call me old-fashioned but…’ I thought I heard someone whispering in the background. ‘Isla are you listening to me?’
‘My mind is made up,’ she said.
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ I was about to hang up when I heard my client’s softly spoken reply.
‘No we won’t. Because you won’t be there tomorrow.’
She was right - my trial. ‘Okay. Once we have the case continued, we can talk later in the week.’
‘No,’ Isla said, ‘that’s not going to happen.’
I remembered Isla’s suicide bid and hoped she wasn’t contemplating anything stupid. She dispelled any fears I might have had on that score.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie...’ I could tell she was about to start crying again. ‘But you’re sacked.’
CHAPTER 53
Next morning I set off with Andy on the short walk, or, as my assistant rather melodramatically put it, the last mile to the Sheriff Court. The good weather of the past few weeks was on the turn. A skein of wispy cloud was teased thinly across the now not so blue sky and an accumulation of dark grey threatened on the western horizon.
On the way my mobile went off. It was Leonard phoning from Glasgow High Court. I’d forgotten to let him know we were sacked.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked in hurt tone. ‘I arrive nice and early for Isla Galbraith’s preliminary hearing only to be given my marching papers and find there’s a whole new defence team warming up with Ranald Kincaid wearing the captain’s armband. Did you know she was going to plead guilty? Can you believe it? Guilty to a murder charge. What a waste.’
Leonard ranted on for another couple of minutes, clearly finding it hard to come to terms with the loss of a three week trial. It was more work than I guessed he’d seen since being admitted to the Bar and fudge doughnuts didn’t grow on trees.
As we walked up the hill towards the court I noticed a sign being erected in the car park, facing onto the High Street. Built one hundred and fifty years ago, Linlithgow Sheriff Court was now up for sale. The end of an era. Soon the administration of justice would be transferred to a soulless complex in the depressingly new town of Livingston.
Checking the court notice-board upon our arrival, it became apparent that the unseemly haste with which my trial had been fixed had resulted in a problem with court accommodation. Court One was hosting a Sheriff and Jury trial, while business in Court Two was taken up by cited cases and custodies. For that reason the trial had been shunted into Court Three, a small room in an out of the way corner on the first floor, normally used for private hearings in civil matters: adoptions, children’s referrals and the like. In a way it was better to have it there. The lack of space would severely limit the number of spectators and might allow Sheriff Brechin, who loved any opportunity to play to the gallery, to leave his high-horse tethered outside. On the other hand, there was something undignified about the possibility of ending my career in a courtroom not much larger than my own livingroom and with a bench, dock and witness box that came in on wheels.
‘What do you think your chances would be on appeal?’ Andy asked.
‘I’m not convicted yet.’
‘It’s Bert Brechin,’ he reminded me.
‘Yeah, well, I’m afraid an appeal based on Brechin being a vindictive sod who’s never given anyone the benefit of the doubt in his puff won’t cut it with the Appeal Court.’
The clerk came on and took his place.
‘Brechin,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’
The clerk gave a helpless shrug. ‘I had it down for Sheriff Dalrymple but his jury’s spilled over from last week. There’s still a couple of days in it and the floater in Court Two has been landed with the cited crap.’
Typical. As senior Sheriff, Brechin would have been allowed the privilege to choose his business for the day. Court Two: listen to thirty or forty pleas in mitigation, followed by an afternoon dealing with those arrested overnight, or, Court Three: a trial which could be done and dusted by lunch-time and came with the added attraction of sticking it right up one of the local, bleeding-heart defence agents. No contest. Was it too late for me to come down with the lurgy? I was certainly beginning to feel quite queasy. An adjournment would give me a chance of a different Sheriff and a fair trial on the next occasion.
The door of the court flew open and in came Fiona Faye, Paul Sharp trotting behind in her shadow.
‘Okay, lover-boy,’ she said to me, ‘let’s get this party started. File?’ She held out a hand and Paul laid onto it a thin buff folder. ‘The way I see it, Robbie, there’s clearly no mens rea end of story.’
‘And my reply?’
‘Are you kidding? You’ve been practising criminal law for how long? You spend all your time telling punters to keep quiet and this clown Fleming thinks anyone’s going to believe that you sang like a linty? Give me five minutes and he’ll wish he’d been a traffic warden. In fact give me ten minutes and he will be a traffic warden.’
‘And what about your VAT fraud?’ I asked.
‘Still moving slower than a cement snail. As far as I can make out it’s all to do with mobile phones coming into and going out of the country but somehow managing to stay in the same place. My geeky junior knows all the boring details. I’ve left him in charge, probably pooping himself in case he has to cross-examine someone. But, getting back to the matter at hand, you do appreciate that you’ll have to give evidence? Tell the court where the fake fifty actually came from.’
I looked at Andy. He looked at me.
‘I gave it to Robbie after a client had given it to me,’ he said. ‘A thank-you for a job well done.’
There was imminent danger of the truth leaking out. Oh, no. I suddenly remembered: Jake Turpie. Bad enough the bizzies swarm over Jake’s place searching for counterfeit notes, if they actually found any dodgy currency I’d be booked on a one way ticket to the crusher inside a written-off hatchback.
Meanwhile the tiny court room was beginning to fill: a few defence agents, a local journalist, the court social worker and a handful of cops who were waiting to give evidence in the jury trial and saw my case as a more entertaining way of passing the time than sitting in the witness room perusing cookery recipes in vintage copies of the Peoples Friend. The clerk waved to the Bar Officer who was sitting on a chair near the door reading a gardening magazine.
I nipped out to call Jake with a warning and met Zoë and Grace-Mary on their way in.
‘Just here to lend moral support.’ Grace-Mary punched my arm.
Zoë pecked my cheek. ‘Good luck Robbie,’ she said and tailed Grace-Mary into the small court room.
I found a quiet corner, whipped out my mobile. I had to warn Jake and wasn’t looking forward to it. When it came to bad news
, Jake was more of a maker than a taker. I punched his number but there was no answer. The Bar Officer hoved into view leading Sheriff Brechin along the side corridor. By the time I had returned to the courtroom the Sheriff was already on the bench and the Clerk was calling me forward.
‘Morituri te salutant,’ my assistant muttered darkly as I trudged past him. He’d obviously been reading up on his Latin.
I took my place in the dock. To my right at the table in the well of the court sat my defence team, Fiona Faye and Paul Sharp. Across from them, Hugh Ogilvie, the Procurator Fiscal, nothing unusual there. What I hadn’t expected was the added presence of the loathsome Cameron Crowe. What was he doing here? Fair enough he had taken a special interest in my case but what about Isla Galbraith? Did he really hate me so much that he’d forego the preliminary hearing in a murder in favour of my summary trial?
‘I take it you appear, Miss Faye?’ the Sheriff remarked after I had formally identified myself to the Clerk. He set down a big blue notebook and removed the cap from his fountain pen. By the gleam in his eye and uncharacteristically content expression I could tell Brechin was looking forward to proceedings almost as much as I wasn’t.
Fiona Faye rose to her feet. ‘Yes, M’Lord,’ she confirmed, her voice booming around the small courtroom. She flicked open the buff file and picked out the charge sheet. ‘Mr Munro adheres to his plea of not guilty.’
The moment was so surreal. I’d been involved in countless trials over the years and here I was at probably my last and I was going to experience it from the point of view of the accused. I had good reason to be worried, even with Fiona Faye conducting my defence, and yet all I could think about was Isla waiting to plead guilty and go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit. I tried to focus on my own case, fixing my eyes on the buff file lying on the table, the hand of my Q.C. resting upon it, a manicured red-painted fingernail tapping lightly as she waited for the Procurator Fiscal to address the court.
Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1) Page 24
