‘No comment.’
I could see Christchurch was stuck. The art of questioning a suspect in a police station was not dissimilar to cross-examining a witness in court. It was like boxing. The tough belligerent ones you had to crowd, keep off-balance throwing rights and lefts. The clever ones you just eased off, stepped back and threw jabs, knowing that eventually they’d beat themselves. The Detective Inspector was busy weighing up my client, who I felt had hung his jaw out quite far enough already. If I had any chance of my five grand, I needed Billy out and about. If he sat there and incriminated himself he’d be going nowhere but prison, awaiting trial for double murder.
‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘I want to speak with my client in private.’
Christchurch raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Billy. ‘Would you like a word with your lawyer?’
‘No,’ said Billy. ‘I’d like to know what makes you think I brought down that chopper.’
20
‘They’re just fishing,’ Billy said. ‘They’ve not got a clue.’
My client was in an excellent mood after we left Stewart Street. No wonder. After all the fuss there had been to find him, the obtaining of a warrant to search his cardboard box, all the talk about national security, and then, after a few questions, the Ministry of Defence Police had let him go.
We were walking the half mile to Queen Street Station, Billy destined for Falkirk and the bosom of his estranged family, me undecided as to whether I should go home to my daughter’s sickbed or to the High Court and the rape case that was causing Joanna so much concern. By now the trial would be nearing its conclusion.
While we’d been wrapped in the warm embrace of the police station’s noisy central heating system, outside it had been snowing. Now everything was covered in a thin, grey film of slush that the cars hissing by sprayed at us.
‘Back staying with your missus? Your son will be pleased,’ I said.
‘Not as pleased as you’d think.’ Billy hawked up a fruity one and spat into the gutter. ‘He’s had it too good too long. Just him and his mother. He thinks he’s king of the castle. Things are going to change.’
‘Sounds like they already have. I thought you and...’
‘Maureen.’
‘I got the impression you weren’t on speaking terms.’
‘We’re not. Haven’t been for years. I knocked her up when I was on leave from the Army. After that I was stationed all over and then I got the jail. I’ve never been around for Maureen or my laddie, but things are going to be different.’
‘And she’ll take you back just like that?’
‘Let’s just say when money talks, women listen.’
As far as I was aware, Billy subsisted on benefits.
‘That’s something that’s about to change an’ all. I’m coming into some real dosh and Maureen will be happy to share it with me.’
I was hoping to come into some dosh myself and pretty soon at that. With Billy no longer making himself scarce I was ready to collect on Philip Thorn’s finder’s fee.
‘Has this sudden good fortune got anything to do with what you were discussing just now with the police?’ I found it hard to believe how casually he’d taken the whole affair, how certain he’d been of his release.
‘You see that?’ he jerked his head back the way we’d come. ‘That wasn’t the polis interviewing me. That was me interviewing the polis.’
‘Really? What about?’
‘About whether they can blame the helicopter crash on me. I didn’t see how they could before I went in there, and now I know they’ve got nothing.’
‘They’ve got something,’ I said. ‘Before the interview they had you working at the airport and leaving the scene suddenly after the crash. That’s suspicious. Now they’ve got you on record reciting your Bringing Down Helicopters Guide and, with seventeen years in the REME, you clearly have the necessary skills. I’d say the only thing between you and a police cell right now is that there’s no proof the helicopter was sabotaged, although they seemed pretty certain it was.’
Billy smiled. He did a lot of that these days. Unusual for him. Even more unusual for a murder suspect.
‘So who’s this Perch guy?’ I asked.
‘Welshman. Former Fly-boy. He was also a not bad fly-half. There’s an annual REME v RAF rugby game. I played in a few. In my last game he gave me this with his knee.’ Billy pointed to his deviated nose. ‘I waited for him outside the locker rooms afterwards.’ I could guess the rest. Summary justice having been dispensed, Billy was convicted of assault and spent the next three years scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush. ‘To be fair, Perch didn’t want to press charges, played it all down when he gave his statement, but it wasn’t up to him. There were too many folk saw me do it. I pled guilty. It was that or five years after trial.’
As we neared West Nile Street a passing lorry trundled by through a roadside puddle sending a tsunami of slush slopping across my shoes.
‘So why are the cops trying to link him to you?’ I asked, shaking the water off.
Billy waved one of his giant hands at me, like I shouldn’t be bothering my pretty little head about such things. ‘It’s all politics.’
‘If they find that chopper and there are copper fragments in the air-filter or compressed air in the fuel tank, they’re taking you in again, and you might not be coming out,’ I said.
Billy was unperturbed. ‘They’ll never pin it on me.’
‘And why would that be?’ I’d seen plenty of prosecutions built on less evidence, and if the Crown was really keen on a conviction they could always rely on some equally enthusiastic cop to fabricate more material. It wouldn’t take much. Just Christchurch or the Bulldog testifying that, before I’d arrived, Billy had blurted out a confession. In my experience suspects in police stations did a lot of blurting.
‘Because I know who did do it.’
I stopped, he walked on and I pulled him back by a shoulder. ‘You know or you think you know?’
Billy’s big face melted into a leer of a grin.
‘Can you prove it?’ I said, not wanting to mention the cardboard box straight out. Billy had given me two hundred pounds to keep it safe and now it was safe all right. Safe in the hands of the police. I was surprised he hadn’t asked about it. ‘Want to let me in on the secret? I’m your lawyer after all. Anything you tell me is completely confidential.’
‘Not a chance.’ Billy jumped a puddle and landed with the grace of a grand piano. ‘The only man I’ll tell is Philip Thorn and he’s going to have to pay for the privilege.’
Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad about selling my client’s whereabouts. Not if the desire to meet was mutual.
‘I can make that happen,’ I said. ‘For a small fee.’
21
‘I can’t go through all that again.’ Mrs Howie blew her nose into a tissue, shaking off her husband’s attempts to put an arm around her. Anyone would have thought it was her staring down the barrel at six years in the beast enclosure of H.M. Prison Shotts.
Joanna explained to me what had happened as we wandered back to the car park. The proceedings against her rape-accused had been aborted. Of the remaining thirteen jurors only ten had turned up for day four of the trial and some of those were decidedly under the weather. The case had been deserted pro loco et tempore, allowing the Crown the chance to re-raise in front of some fresh jurors with more robust immune systems.
‘Probably best it didn’t go ahead today,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I couldn’t help notice the client wasn’t wearing—’
‘Don’t start on about the blue tie of truth.’
‘Every little helps. You’re only looking for an eight/seven verdict, so one person can swing it.’ I’d read somewhere that colours had a psychological impact and surveys showed that those witnesses wearing blue were subconsciously viewed as more honest than others.
Joanna pointed her key fob at the Merc and zapped it from a distance. ‘In that case maybe I shou
ld buy Howie a Smurf suit.’
I could tell how uptight she was. It wasn’t like her. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ I said. ‘All you can do is your best. Look on the bright side. This break in proceedings will give you the chance to ditch Brian what’s-his-name.’
‘Hazelwood, and there’s nothing wrong with Brian for counsel. He was a depute when I was in the Fiscal Service. He knows his stuff.’
‘He knows how to get people convicted, you mean. You need to bring in someone who can cross-examine a witness without sending the jury to sleep.’ I’d only heard some of junior counsel’s cross-examination of the complainer, but found it way too nicey-nicey, almost apologetic.
‘Lady Bothkennar commended Brian on his cross-examination of the complainer.’
‘Exactly. This is your chance to instruct someone to do it properly.’
Recently there had been statements made from on high, criticising counsel who attempted to destabilise complainers in rape cases through what certain members of the judiciary described as ‘unfeeling questioning’. Too many were taking the criticism to heart. For me the day a judge commended counsel for the considerate questioning of an alleged rape victim would be the last day that counsel received instructions from Munro & Co. Why should rape trials be different? In any trial, someone, somewhere, for some reason, wasn’t telling the truth. It didn’t seem a fair distinction for the alleged victim to be treated with more compassion than the man in the dock. After all, it was the accused who was presumed innocent. There was no presumption in law that if someone complained of rape they therefore must be telling the truth; even if sometimes it seemed that way. And yet I’d wait a long time before a High Court judge waded in on behalf of one of my clients and told Crown counsel to go easy on the poor man and stop trying to destabilise him with suggestions that he was a liar and a sexual predator.
‘So what you’re saying is you don’t think I’m doing things properly?’ Somehow Joanna had managed to take that interpretation from my words. She jammed her handbag and satchel into the sports car’s tiny boot, muttering that she should be trading it in for something more practical. What was eating her? She knew the car was stupidly impractical. That was why she’d thought it so great. ‘Maybe you should take the case over, Robbie. Seeing how I’m making such a mess of things.’
I was about to protest, and most likely make things worse, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my dad to say that the doctor had been round. Tina would be fine with some bed-rest. I was going to pass on the news to Joanna with a view to changing the subject, but in her current mood it would only have led to a line of questioning on the subject of me having abandoned my daughter.
Joanna started the engine. It roared into life. Five and a half litres, nought to sixty in four point five seconds, it was stupidly powerful. I’d have loved one.
‘What do you think the chances are of your client getting his hands on a Pyxie Girl doll?’ I asked, as we commenced our journey back to the Royal Burgh. ‘He’s got a toy shop, hasn’t he? I’ve sort of gone and promised Tina one for Christmas. Well, my dad has.’
All that suggestion produced was a curt, ‘I can ask him.’ I could tell the inward journey was going to be as stimulating conversation-wise as the outward. Still, a sudden change of tack often helped elicit a response during cross-examination. It was worth a try. ‘Have you ever heard of someone called Kirkton Perch?’
Joanna took her eyes off the road for a second to look at me. ‘Why? Haven’t you?’
‘In what context?’
‘In the context that he’s never off the telly.’
I took it she meant adult television. The stuff that came on after the kids’ programmes. The stuff I never had the time to watch these days. ‘Let’s pretend I’ve not got a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Joanna said, as she swung the car onto Argyle Street, heading east. ‘Kirkton Perch is the Tory’s only Scottish MP. He won the recent by-election in Ayrshire or somewhere.’
I must have missed that on Cartoon Network. ‘What else do you know about him?’
Not much, it transpired, other than, as the only Conservative Westminster Member of Parliament for a Scottish constituency, Perch’s reward had been promotion to Secretary of State for Scotland. His position had raised his media profile considerably. Whenever a Scottish current affairs programme wanted to present a balanced political view and needed a senior Westminster Tory politician to even the scales, the choice was limited to one.
Soon we were speeding down the M8 and then onto the M80-bound slip-road. I could sense Joanna wanted to ask me more about my interest in Kirkton Perch, that is, the Right Honourable Kirkton Perch, but whatever was bugging her prevented her from doing so. Two could play at that game. And we did, until Joanna parked her car on the pavement outside Sandy’s.
‘I think I’ll just nip in for some lunch,’ I said. ‘Then I’m going to work from home this afternoon. Tina’s got a wee bit of a sniffle and I think it’s best if I’m there for her. I’ll come in early tomorrow. Maybe we can have a chat about dividing up the caseload in view of the legal aid problems.’
In response, all I received from my assistant was the slightest of shrugs. What was bothering her? ‘Joanna—’
‘She’ll be a journalist, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Your blind date.’
That was tonight? What with my mind full of sick children, fat cheques, rape-accused and murder suspects, I’d almost forgotten.
‘I suppose if she’s one of Kaye’s friends it’s only to be expected,’ I said.
‘Don’t go saying anything stupid and get your name in the papers. You’ve already been struck off by SLAB. Try not to get struck off by the Law Society too.’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘I mean it. No trying to impress her with dodges you’ve pulled in court, and, remember, not everyone holds the same views as you do on rape trials or… well… on just about anything else to do with the law.’
‘Relax,’ I said, ‘I’m wearing blue tonight.’ I held up my right hand. ‘She’ll get nothing but the truth, the whole truth—’
‘Yeah,’ Joanna said. ‘And nothing like the truth.’
22
Blue was most certainly the colour. Dark blue, almost navy, my linen suit was the perfect item of clothing for most occasions. Perhaps it was pushing it, wearing a summer suit in the depths of a Scottish winter, but I really did wonder how I had managed so long without one. Any shirt went with it and if it came across a bit crumpled-looking, hey, it was a linen suit, it was supposed to be crumpled.
‘You look like you’ve had a shower in that thing and dried yourself in a wind tunnel,’ was Malky’s wardrobe critique. My brother had been called upon to babysit. Tuesday night was domino night down at the Red Corner Bar, and with prizes that included steak pies and cans of McEwan’s Export there was no way anyone was keeping my dad’s hands off the ebony and ivories, even if his grandchild was in her sickbed. Not that there was any scope for me to criticise. Not when I was ditching my daughter for a date with a total stranger. Why had I agreed? Joanna was right. It did all seem extremely hasty after my very recent break-up with Vikki. Was this some kind of subconscious attempt by me to get back at her?
‘Keep your fashion tips to yourself and make sure that your niece is kept tucked up in bed. Give her a drink of water or milk now and again and try and have her eat something. There’s bread and I’ve sliced some cheese so you could make her roasted cheese. She likes that. I’ll not be late. Any problems, give me a call and I’ll jump on a train.’
My date was called Cherry and I was meeting her in Edinburgh at the Aspen Lounge on Princes Street. She worked nearby, usually didn’t finish work until late and popped in there for a drink most evenings.
‘Do you want me to phone anyway? Even if there isn’t a problem?’ Malky asked, after I’d gone to check on Tina. He was stretching out on the couch, preparing himself for an evening of telly-w
atching.
‘Why would I want you to do that?’
‘Think about it. What if this Cherry isn’t everything you’ve dreamed she’d be and you want to bail out? You’ll need an escape plan. Say the word and I’ll phone you half an hour in. If you want to pull the rip-cord, all you do is tell her something incredibly urgent has cropped up and—’
‘Thank you but that won’t be necessary.’ Malky was plumbing new depths of shallowness even for him. ‘Kaye has assured me that there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. This girl’s got it all, apparently.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Malky put an arm down the side of a cushion and salvaged the remote. ‘Maybe it’s her I should be giving an escape-call.’
But I was only half listening. I had it all planned out. It would be perfect. Christmas in Edinburgh. We’d have a beer or two at the Aspen, a stroll through the Christmas Market, a mug of mulled wine, a bratwurst burger, heavy on the mustard, and, to top it all, a go on the Big Wheel. How could I fail to show a girl a good time?
23
‘You’d never catch me up in that thing.’ Cherry sipped a cocktail through a straw and stared over the heads of the crowded room to the window. Princes Street was an illuminated wonderland. The Ferris wheel, our topic of conversation, revolved next to the Scott Monument like a slow-motion Catherine wheel. Across the rooftops of the Christmas market, the buildings on the mound, bathed in a rainbow of colours, were a cheerful backdrop for the funfair that buzzed in the gardens below, and, above it all, the Castle, shining like a diamond set on a mountain of gold. ‘And never mind that death trap, how about the market? Tacky or what? All those naff wooden huts selling German sausages and novelty knitwear.’
We were sitting on stools at the bar of the Aspen Lounge, Cherry casually attired in a pair of tight-fitting faded blue jeans, and a pink cashmere sweater.
‘How’s your drink?’ I asked. I’d never heard of a Barbotage before. I had now and so had my wallet. Cognac, Triple Sec, Brut Champagne and a twist of lemon, served in a flute glass with a straw. Cherry liked to drink them at New Year and, well, it was only a couple of weeks away, wasn’t it?
Present Tense Page 11
