I went to meet her. She pulled her hand away when I tried to take it. I tried again, this time successfully, manoeuvring her to an empty table.
Over the years I’d been involved in many, too many, one-sided conversations with women for whom I’d once held an affection. A good number of those talks started along the lines of it’s not you, it’s me. This one with Vikki was different. Apparently, it wasn’t her. It was definitely me.
‘I think there’s been too many people in our relationship,’ she said, glancing over at Joanna and Tina. ‘It’s always one or the other, work or babysitting. It’s either Joanna or Tina, it’s never me. We’ll have to cancel our week away because I’ve got a jury trial that’s going to spill over, you say. I can’t make the theatre tonight because Tina’s got a sore tummy, you say. And now this. You can’t even remember a simple thing like meeting me for dinner. I’ve been away for two weeks. You’ve phoned me twice. Twice in two weeks!’
Last time I’d checked, telephones worked in two directions and I also felt a little aggrieved at the cancelled holiday comment. If Vikki had been a court lawyer, she’d have understood that it was impossible to say with certainty how long a trial would last. Any number of unforeseen problems could materialise from nowhere. In the particular instance to which she referred they had, and my trial had gone on for nearly two weeks instead of the three days I’d previously estimated. What was I supposed to do? Stop mid-cross-examination, wave good-bye to Sheriff Brechin and fifteen jurors with a, sorry, I’ve a plane to catch, see you all in a week’s time with a suntan and a sombrero?
Admittedly the theatre thing had been a cop-out. In mitigation, when I’d been told we had tickets to Hamlet it wasn’t mentioned that the play was to be performed by an avant garde group of actors and set in the world of a travelling circus. I liked Shakespeare, but I also liked the Prince of Denmark in doublet and hose, not big feet and red nose.
Whether my forgetting our dinner date was really the last straw in a field of stubble or just a good excuse, I could only sit there, feeling like a mis-matched contender, knowing I was about to be K.O.’d by the champ and just wanting the whole thing to be over, quickly if not painlessly and with as little humiliation as possible.
Like the firing squad commander offering the condemned man a last cigarette, Vikki consoled me, saying she’d enjoyed our time together, what little there had been of it, wished me and Tina a happy future and, with a peck on the cheek, a sour glance at Joanna and another ping of the bell above the door, she was gone. As these things usually went I’d got off pretty lightly, with the welcome absence of any face-slapping or hurled drinks.
‘I never really liked her that much,’ my dad said when I returned to the table, dignity almost intact. He had acquired a mug of tea in the interim, Joanna a latte and Tina a milkshake with a large dollop of ice cream floating on top and into which she was digging with a long-handled spoon. ‘Bit of a cold fish I always thought. What about you, Joanna?’
Joanna spluttered into her coffee. ‘Vikki’s… very nice,’ she said at last. ‘It’s just that Robbie…’ She grabbed my chin and waggled it. ‘Well, he’s an acquired taste.’
A hairy hand set down an Americano in front of me. ‘No, Joanna, Islay single malt, that is an acquired taste. From the way women treat him, Robbie is more of a bad smell.’ Sandy pinched his nose and laughed.
It was bad enough the serving staff making fun of your misery, but when your own daughter joined in… Tina’s giggling only ceased when she dropped a blob of ice cream down her front. ‘I like Vikki,’ she said, while Joanna set about her with a napkin. ‘She smells like flowers. But I like Joanna better because she looks like Pyxie Girl!’
‘Pyxie Woman you mean! Are you forgetting about these?’ Joanna stuck her chest out at Tina and then pretended to rub the paper napkin in my daughter’s face. In the commotion, the milkshake was bumped. I managed to grab the glass to stop it toppling, but couldn’t prevent some of the contents hitting the table and splashing over Tina.
‘And Vikki wasn’t all that pretty either,’ my dad said, not letting up. Having thus opined he tested the temperature of his tea with a careful sip. ‘Not compared to Joanna anyway. Don’t you think so, Robbie?’
Joanna, who was still busying herself with my daughter and a bunch of paper napkins, looked up at me, blushing like I’d never seen her blush before.
I was saved by the bell above the door. Two black suits walked in. DI Christchurch, beard as immaculate as ever, leading the way, the Detective Constable with the permanent scowl not far behind.
‘Sorry to intrude.’ Christchurch brushed a dusting of hailstones from each of his shoulders and gave a curt little nod of the head to all those gathered at my table. The man was well-mannered if nothing else. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘What is this?’ my dad said.
‘Nothing that concerns you, so shut it,’ replied the Bulldog.
My dad was on his feet. The D.C. stepped forward and put a hand on his chest. Two men with hair triggers. If I didn’t do something fast, Sandy’s rubber wood furniture would be matchsticks in two minutes.
‘It’s okay, Dad. These gentlemen just want to speak to me.’
A glance from Christchurch was enough to make his colleague draw his hand away and back off. The Detective Inspector removed a folded piece of paper and held it out to me. ‘This is for you,’ he said. ‘As requested.’
I took it from him. ‘What is it?’
He gave me a polite little smile, the beard failing to conceal a certain degree of smugness. ‘I believe, Mr Munro, that you know very well what it is.’
14
It was chucking it down when we left Sandy’s. Hailstones bounced like bullets off the pavement as the four of us scurried down the street, me fumbling in my pocket for the keys to the office.
‘Look valid to you?’ I asked Joanna, once we’d found shelter in the close off the High Street. She’d insisted upon accompanying me back to the office with the two Ministry of Defence cops. I was glad. She’d make a good witness. She was already a good lawyer. I had a feeling I’d be needing both before too long.
In the feeble orange glow of the night light, she studied the document I’d given her.
‘Signed, dated and with our office as the locus. I think it’s the most legally valid search warrant I’ve ever seen,’ she said.
That went double for me. I could recognise Sheriff Brechin’s signature a mile off, the final letter of his name done with a certain flourish of the pen that signalled his pleasure at being asked to subscribe.
‘If you don’t mind…’ Christchurch said, when he and the Bulldog had come in out of the rain. Did it matter if I minded? I had little option other than to lead our small party along the close and up the stairs to my office where the man with the beard took the warrant back from me and gestured to the front door. I unlocked it and we all piled into reception.
‘Right,’ Christchurch rubbed his hands together, ‘where is it?’
I wasn’t sure where Grace-Mary had put Billy’s cardboard box, and it was only after a good deal of rummaging around that I found it in the cash room wedged between the safe and the wall.
‘Signature still intact, I see.’ Christchurch turned the box this way and that, inspecting it for any signs of entry. ‘Could you just confirm that’s how it was when Mr Paris left it with you?’
It was worth a try and smoothly done. The young detective inspector’s polite and friendly approach to his job made even the enforcement of a search warrant seem a pleasant enough pastime. But I was yet to confirm to him the provenance of the box. Only Grace-Mary had so far attributed it to my client and she hadn’t actually seen him hand it over. Until I knew what it contained I was saying nothing that might incriminate either myself or the man I might later be asked to defend. Two hundred pounds might not get you much, but at Munro & Co. it guaranteed you weren’t ratted out to the cops.
Christchurch smiled when I didn’t ans
wer. It was almost a mark of respect. I could have liked him. He was courteous, almost friendly, and, talk about diplomatic! The man could have made waterboarding at Guantanamo Bay sound like a surfing holiday. But it was so hard to like cops. Even polite Ministry of Defence cops. I didn’t know why. Years of accusing them in the witness box must have had something to do with it. That and my history with local cop DI Dougie Fleming, the man whose notebook contained more convoluted soliloquies than Shakespeare’s. Why should I not cooperate with these two guys? They were here, so they said, in the interests of national security, and I was part of that nation whether I approved of those running it or not. Was Billy’s two hundred quid really worth it? Why not team up with these officers, find my missing client and collect on Philip Thorn’s fat cheque?
The DI pulled on a pair of white linen gloves. ‘You’ve touched this box, Mr Munro,’ he said, ‘and so I understand has your secretary. You’ll have to tell me who else has if I’m to eliminate them from any further enquiries.’ He looked at Joanna.
‘She knows nothing about this,’ I said.
Meanwhile, the Bulldog was stomping about, wrenching open filing cabinets, tossing folders and paperwork about and generally doing his best to annoy me.
‘Would you tell him to stop doing that?’ I asked. ‘Your warrant only covers a search for the box and examination of the contents.’ Even Sheriff Brechin couldn’t be persuaded to give the cops carte blanche to turn over a solicitor’s office.
‘I can ask him and I’m sure he will stop so long as you provide me with an address for Mr Paris.’
How many times would he ask me that? ‘Like I’ve told you before, my client is of no fixed abode. Your boy can throw as much paper about as he likes, but it’s a waste of time. A bit like his schooldays.’
Christchurch weighed me up and must have decided I was telling the truth. He told the Bulldog to cease, which the D.C. did with a final slam of a metal drawer, turning his attention once more to the cardboard box.
‘There’s a pair of scissors in the stationery drawer,’ Joanna said and then stopped herself. She gave me a guilty shrug as though she’d been caught conspiring with the enemy. To tell the truth I was as interested to know what was inside as everyone else.
‘No need.’ Christchurch retrieved a penknife from his pocket, opened the blade and held it poised over the box like a surgeon waiting for a nurse to pat sweat from his brow.
The Bulldog shoved me aside. ‘You better hope we find what we’re looking for,’ he said, moving in for a closer look.
I squared up to him. ‘Or what?’
Joanna sighed and shoved herself between us. ‘You two behave yourselves.’
The Bulldog ignored her. ‘We’re the government,’ he told me. ‘You wouldn’t believe what we can do.’
‘Do I look worried?’ I said.
The D.C. smiled. ‘Maybe you should be. You’re the one with a daughter going off to France with only granny to look after her. Lot of bad people over there. Remember the Friday the thirteenth massacre? Who knows what could happen?’
How did he know about Tina’s upcoming trip?
‘Step back, constable,’ Christchurch said, sternly. But his colleague didn’t budge an ugly hair. Shoving his face at me, barrel chest puffed out, the man was begging to be hit, and I was sure he was hoping I’d oblige. Arms by his side, held out from his body, and balanced on the balls of his feet, he was ready for me to make his day. So I didn’t. Striking a police officer either led to arrest or a beating or most likely both. I backed away slowly, putting myself out of his reach. He watched me withdraw from the confrontation, the smile spreading further across his face like bread mould on a stale slice. For a split-second I thought that a police assault charge and a good hiding might just be worth it for one good dig at his smug face. Still, as they say, when one door closes another opens and my retreat provided an opportunity for someone else. An opportunity that came with the element of surprise. Joanna used it to her full advantage. From nowhere her right hand scudded hard across the Bulldog’s grinning face. You could have called it a slap in the same way as you could have called the sleet battering against my office window, precipitation. The D.C. wasn’t balancing on the balls of his feet anymore. He was rocking back on his heels.
There are advantages to be being a woman, aside from a longer life span and always being right. If I’d have belted the Bulldog, I’d have been handcuffed and chewing floor tiles before you could say police assault. As it was, the Bulldog just stood there, teeth rattling, not sure what to do next. He turned to his senior officer. ‘You saw that, Sir. Assaulting a—’
‘No I didn’t and you deserved it.’ Christchurch pointed the knife at a chair in the corner of reception by the window. ‘Sit over there and shut up or you can go wait in the car.’
The Bulldog took his bulk across the room and sat down where he’d been ordered, gently seething, too proud to rub the side of a face that by the glow on it had to be stinging.
Christchurch ran the blade across the top of the cardboard box, neatly slicing through the tape and the thick black scrawl of his signature.
‘What exactly are you expecting to find in there?’ I asked.
Christchurch carefully opened the box, pulling out the four flaps one by one and folding them flat. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ he said.
15
‘Well, that was a lot of fuss for an old pair of boots, some paperbacks, a socket set and four pairs of socks.’ Joanna, ensconced in my chair, swivelled gently from side to side.
The whole search warrant rigmarole had lasted less than half an hour. DI Christchurch and his pet Bulldog had left, somewhat deflated, with a box containing, just as my client had said, no guns, knives or drugs, just a few personal belongings which I very much doubted posed any threat to the public, unless the socks hadn’t been washed in a while.
I phoned Sandy, asking him to pass word to my dad that I’d be back to take Tina home, and so he could feel free to go off and attend to some more important business down at the Red Corner Bar. According to the café owner, there was no hurry. Grandfather was onto his first and granddaughter her second ice cream.
‘So who is this William Paris?’ Joanna completed a three-sixty. ‘More importantly, what’s he done?’
‘Who he is, is a client of mine. I’ve done a couple of cases for Billy in the past, before you came to work for... with me. At the moment it’s a scoring draw between him and the Crown. As for what he’s done… well, that’s complicated.’
Joanna leaned back. ‘Try me.’
‘Love to, but I’ve got a daughter who should be in her bed and a father who wants to be in the pub. What about you? Do you not have a home to go to? Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.’
Joanna leapt gracefully from the chair. Nipping in front, she stopped abruptly and turned to face me. ‘Sorry about you and Vikki. Must have been embarrassing, happening in front of everyone like that.’
I’d been dumped less than an hour before. The shock of the search warrant had doused my self-pity. Now that I’d been reminded I was surprised at how little I was bothered. Was that relief I felt? Had I ever held long term plans for me and Vikki? Why not? Was it because she hadn’t made all that much of an effort to get to know Tina? Had I let her? I’d kept telling myself that someone who was head of an adoption agency, as well as a member of the Children’s Panel, probably had enough of kids in her day-job without wanting to be bogged down with one in her spare time. Especially someone else’s. Was that the reason? The real reason? Or was Vikki right? Was there someone else on the edge of our relationship?
‘I’ll get over it,’ I said.
‘That’s the spirit.’ Joanna gave me what she regarded as a playful punch on the arm and I wondered aloud how the Bulldog’s jaw was doing.
‘You don’t think anything will come of that do you?’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean it. Well I meant it, but not that hard.’
I told Joanna not to worry. To my mind the slap
hadn’t been hard enough. We walked the short stretch of High Street to where our cars were parked closely together on the pavement outside Sandy’s, jammed into a space marked out for the café owner. He didn’t have a car and the space was used only occasionally for unloading delivery vans. The rest of the time Joanna and I shared it.
‘We’ll need to talk about where we go from here,’ I said.
‘I thought you’d know your way to Sandy’s by now,’ she laughed. ‘It’s right there.’
‘Seriously, Joanna. My problems with the Legal Aid Board. Grace-Mary mentioned something about you may be looking for another job.’
‘It’s not going to be easy, Robbie. You not being able to take on new legal aid clients. Like tomorrow for instance. What happens if we have custody cases and I’m stuck in the High Court?’
She was right. Who was going to cover the appearances of those arrested overnight and appearing in court the next day?
‘There’s bound to be an appeal process,’ I said. ‘They can’t just cut me loose without allowing some kind of redress. Can they?’
Joanna was of the opinion that they very much could. ‘And, anyway, how long would an appeal take to be heard? It takes SLAB an ice age to grant a legal aid certificate. How long until they grant you the chance of a review hearing? Even then…’
‘Even then what?’
‘Even then you have to admit… you do cut a lot of corners.’
‘I’ll admit I take the occasional shortcut.’
‘Maybe, Robbie, but—’
‘It’s all a load of bureaucratic nonsense.’
‘There are rules and you’ve been—’
‘Flirting with disaster?’ I laughed. It was either that or cry. ‘That’s what the compliance officer at SLAB called it.’
Present Tense Page 8
