Present Tense

by William McIntyre

I flopped into an armchair. Wahid seemed happy standing. ‘And how are the kids? Fara and…’

  ‘Latif. They’re both fine. I have to collect them from nursery in…’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Goodness, is that the time?’

  I could take a hint, but only if I wanted to. ‘I’m looking for some advice, Wahid.’

  ‘How long is this going to take?’

  ‘Probably safer to stick the kettle on, but if you’re in a rush to pick up the kids, I can—’

  ‘Go away?’

  ‘Wait here until you come back.’

  The thought of leaving and returning home to have to deal with me and a couple of sprogs was too much. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes without coffee, or ten with,’ he said.

  I had a compromise solution. ‘I’ll talk while you make.’

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ Wahid said, when, twenty minutes later, I’d finished my coffee and filled him in on my predicament. Prior to that it had only taken a brief spell of cross-examination to ascertain that he didn’t have to collect the kids for another two hours. ‘You want to fool Philip Thorn into thinking that you know the identity of his son’s killer in order to fleece—’

  ‘Fleece?’

  ‘Would you rather I said extort?’

  ‘Fleece it is.’

  ‘In order to fleece him out of a lot of money?’

  ‘You were always quick on the uptake,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘But I couldn’t possibly advise you on something like that. It’s unethical.’

  I laughed too, until I realized that Wahid’s had been a serious laugh. ‘Sorry, I can see how it could be viewed that way,’ I said.

  ‘Is there any other way to view it?’

  ‘Surely it comes down to a question of mens rea? If there’s no evil intent on my part to obtain money on false pretences how can it be unethical? I truly believe I have the proof. I just don’t know where it is.’

  Wahid held that argument under reservation for the moment. ‘So, what do you want from me?’

  ‘Even though I don’t have the information Thorn wants, I’m sure I’ll unearth it eventually.’ I would unearth it even if I had to level my offices in the process. ‘I was wondering about drawing up a written contract, something he can’t wriggle out of.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. You’d need to move quickly though. He’s bound to want to put a backstop on it time-wise.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They’ve found the helicopter. Given the publicity and the slur against Kirkton Perch’s good name, there will almost certainly be a fatal accident inquiry. He’ll be desperate to have himself vindicated.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, who do you think is going to be witness number one? You’ll be cited to the FAI and have to answer any questions put to you. Solicitor/client confidentiality privileges will mean nothing. Refusal to testify will be contempt of court.’

  He was right, and, whether I agreed to testify or not, my offices would be thoroughly searched by people who knew how to find things. They might even bring in a team of mothers. Found it. Right here in his desk, second drawer down on the left. If that happened, I’d have no leverage to extract a payment from Philip Thorn. I had to find the evidence, and quickly.

  ‘Of course if there isn’t an FAI then maybe the conspiracy stories will have been right all along,’ Wahid said.

  I didn’t want to think about that. ‘How rich is this guy Thorn? I’ve Googled him and most of the stuff on the internet is about his civil action with Glazed Over.’

  Wahid knew all about the court proceedings. ‘That case has been trundling through the Court of Session for years. It’s a dispute over the performing rights to Glazed Over’s back catalogue.’

  ‘What happens if Thorn loses?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘What happens if he wins?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s the one being sued. Glazed Over say they signed unfair contracts back when they were young and without proper advice. The court is never going to buy that. They had a manager and if he didn’t adequately protect their interests any claim is against him.’

  ‘Who was their manager? Whoever it is, I hope he’s insured.’

  Apparently, he wasn’t insured. He was their dad and he was dead. They’d never told me that part.

  ‘I met them,’ I said. ‘Tony and Greg. They bought me dinner at St Andrews last weekend.’

  ‘You met Glazed Over?’

  ‘Everyone thinks I know who killed Jeremy Thorn and they’re as keen as his father to know who that was.’

  Wahid finished his coffee, placed his mug on the arm of the couch. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Robbie. Dinner with Glazed Over, rendezvous with Phil Thorn. You get everywhere. Like sand.’

  ‘How’s business with you?’ I asked.

  ‘So-so. My clerk still tries to send me instructions, but with the kids to look after I’m hardly ever up at Parliament House and, I’m afraid, out of sight is very much out of mind. I scrape by doing the occasional opinion, drafting pleadings, revising agreements. Anything that’ll put food in our mouths.’

  ‘Then draw me up a contract so tight Houdini couldn’t escape from it and I’ll weigh you in for five per cent of whatever I can fleece Philip Thorn for.’

  But Wahid’s ethical principles weren’t for sale. Not for a measly five per cent. He got up from the couch, walked to a sideboard and removed a sheaf of A4 paper from a drawer. ‘Let’s call it ten.’

  40

  I called Paul Sharp on the walk to Haymarket Station. He was happy enough to cover any new legal aid cases for me so they could later be transferred into Joanna’s name.

  That gave me the rest of the afternoon to search my office for Billy Paris’s missing evidence. With the help of Grace-Mary I emptied every filing cabinet, every desk drawer, hunted in every nook and cranny of my room where something, no matter how tiny, could be stored. And found absolutely nothing.

  At five o’clock my secretary left for the day, and I nipped down to Sandy’s for a coffee. While I was there I had an idea.

  ‘My client’s next-of-kin wants his belongings back.’

  The crisp, eloquent tones of DI Christchurch floated back down the airwaves to me. ‘Mr Paris wasn’t married and had no partner, only an ex-partner. Despite my best endeavours, and believe me I’ve looked, I can trace no next-of-kin other than his illegitimate thirteen-year-old son, who I doubt very much will be a big Alistair MacLean fan, nor take size twelve in a boot. Are you quite sure you have instructions?’

  ‘Where’s the box?’

  ‘Safe.’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sentimental reasons. Billy was a valued client of mine for years.’

  ‘Is it the socks, the boots, the socket set or the paperback edition of the Guns of Navarone that holds particular emotional worth?’

  I was getting fed up with the whole thing. I had a business collapsing about my ears, no love life, a daughter with no Christmas present, and a father who’d never let me forget any of it. ‘How about you just tell me if you found something?’ Surely the MDP would have had a team of experts x-raying the box, dismantling it and sifting through everything piece by piece.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. Maybe Christchurch heard the desperation in my voice. ‘You don’t know anything, do you, Mr Munro? You never have.’

  ‘Waste of time you pinning those bugs on me and my client then, wasn’t it?’ I said. He didn’t answer. ‘If you want them back, by the way, I can do you a good price.’

  ‘Good-bye, Mr Munro.’

  I threw my phone onto the table, striking my cup of coffee. Some slopped out. Sandy came over with a cloth. ‘Temper!’ He lifted my cup and wiped underneath. ‘What’s the matter — there’s no Joanna tonight? ‘

  ‘Joanna’s busy doing legal work and making money,’ I said. ‘Like I should be.’

  Sandy made a face. ‘Someone’s not very full of Yulet
ide cheer.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot to be cheery about,’ I said.

  ‘Away. I know what’s wrong with you. You’re missing your bambino.’ Sandy’s grip on the Italian language was as about as secure as my financial future.

  ‘Tina’s a girl,’ I said. ‘She’s a bambina not a bambino and she’s part of the problem. You know that Pyxie Girl doll that everyone wants?’

  ‘You didn’t promise her one for Christmas?’

  ‘My dad did, but it’ll be me getting the blame if Santa doesn’t get his hands on one.’

  ‘On the news it says that there will be plenty in the New Year.’

  ‘I know. Lady Pyxie. But that’s not good enough. I need the girl version and I need it for Sunday morning.’

  ‘You should have had a little Italian bambina. In parts of my home country they don’t open presents until epiphany. That would give you another twelve days.’

  Overlooking the fact that Sandy’s home country, despite his attempts at an Italian accent, was the same as mine, I thought putting Christmas on hold while I changed my child’s nationality was too big a step to take for the sake of a stupid doll.

  Sandy was drying my phone with a tea towel when it buzzed. It was Joanna checking in to say that Keith Howie’s trial had started and without any trace of a sick juror they were rattling through the evidence. It seemed certain to finish by Friday.

  ‘The Crown case will finish Thursday morning at the latest,’ Joanna said. ‘Mrs Howie is next up for the Crown and not looking forward to it. She’s the classic two-edged sword. Heard nothing unusual at the time the rape is supposed to have taken place, which is good for us, but the Crown want her to confirm that her husband was the only male person in the house and, just as importantly, she speaks to the girl’s distressed state.’

  It sounded to me that one edge of the blade was a lot keener than the other, and it wouldn’t take long for an expert cross-examiner like Cameron Crowe to blunt the defence edge even further, by pointing out that the reason Mrs Howie had heard nothing unusual was because she’d been sound asleep.

  ‘I’m just checking that you’re going to be free to come to the High Court on Thursday,’ Joanna continued.

  ‘Why, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Mrs Howie. Just like I thought, she’s going off the deep end. Every time I even mention about her husband giving evidence, or what will happen if he’s convicted, she goes hysterical on me. I was hoping you could come through and, you know…’

  ‘Hold her hand? The hand of the woman whose husband I called a numpty?’

  ‘Please?’

  I relented. ‘I’ll do it, but only if you remember to ask him what the chances are of a Pyxie Girl at trade price.’

  ‘I think he has other more important matters on his mind at the moment, Robbie.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to hope the jurors are in Christmas spirit and come back with a not proven,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Always look on the bright side,’ she said.

  Was there a bright side? For me or my rape-accused client? I had Sandy pour the rest of my coffee into a cardboard cup and took it and the telephone call onto the High Street. ‘Joanna, we need to talk about the business. I don’t know how things are going to be in the New Year. I just don’t think there is going to be the turnover for two lawyers at Munro & Co.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I can maybe scrape by on my own. Who knows? I might have to fold the whole thing.’

  ‘What about your partnership offer?’

  ‘It was unfair of me to even suggest it and expect you to take on the lion’s share of the work. Maybe it would be better if you did get back your old job at the PF’s.’

  ‘Stop this right now, Robbie. I’m supposed to be the pessimistic one, remember? What happened to Mr Rainbows and Unicorns? In January you can hit the Legal Aid Board with a New Year’s resolution that you’ll promise to try harder. In fact, who needs it? We can take on more private work. Move up the social strata of criminal clients. In the meantime, we can ride the storm out. Me and you.’

  ‘And until then?’

  ‘You’ll think of something.’ Joanna laughed. There was nothing remotely funny about my situation; nonetheless, hearing her smile down the phone at me somehow helped. ‘You always do.’

  41

  It was a bad day for fishing. The tide was out, the rocky outcrop was surrounded by sand and five hundred miles of mountainous waves lay between us and the Norwegian coastline.

  Homer was at his usual place in the security hut on the access road into the airport. The haar was rolling in off the North Sea, visibility was registering poor to pea-soup and St Edzell Bay airport was closed for take-off or landing.

  I’d left home early that Wednesday morning and arrived shortly after ten. According to Maggie Sinclair, when I’d called her at home the previous evening, Philip Thorn was in Scotland, settling his son’s affairs. He’d decided not to pursue Jeremy’s spaceport tender and was listening to offers from prospective purchasers. Some said that the tragic death of his son had knocked the fight out of the usually rambunctious music mogul, others that he simply didn’t have the funding to continue his son’s grand scheme. The fortunes of his own business, Blunt Instrument, were on the slide. They had been since its top two assets had opted for early retirement. That was all I could get out of Maggie during our thirty-second telephone call. She’d been hosting a sherry party and not amused at the interruption.

  Homer came down to the barrier to greet me.

  ‘How’s the fishing?’ I asked.

  ‘Caught a few flatties on lugworm,’ he said. ‘A good size, but murder to fillet. And it’s getting too cold. I think I might put the rods away until the spring. What brings you back?’

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Thorn.’ En route I’d asked Grace-Mary to phone and make sure that he was at the airport.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Was that your office who called?’ Homer scratched the back of his head, pushing the peak of his baseball cap down to meet the rim of his mirrored shades. He puffed his cheeks and blew. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. He was here first thing with some folk wanting to see round the place, in fact he’s not long away.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘No, but I could try and find out,’ he said, ducking back into his hut. Two minutes later he was out again. ‘I’ve phoned the rest of the boys. No one knows where the boss is or when he’s coming back. If it’s okay, you’ve to wait here because Oleg’s coming over to see you.’

  My first impression of the man who, seconds later, pulled up at the security gate in a little golf-type buggy, was of someone you seriously did not want to piss off. There was nothing soft about him. Not a smooth edge anywhere. Not from the buzz-cut of grey hair above a large-featured, craggy face, to the gnarled knuckles of the hands that gripped the steering wheel. He looked like head of security all right: security for the President, not a remote airport clinging for dear life to the Scottish coastline. He alighted and shook my hand. Unlike his colleagues he did not favour blue overalls with a hi-vis tabard, but a dark suit over a white shirt and a black tie knotted tightly around his broad neck.

  ‘You are looking for Mr Thorn,’ he said, in an accent that was a cross between St Petersburg and Peterhead. ‘He have to leave on urgent business. I am to let him know when you get here.’

  I really hoped I hadn’t had a three-hour drive for nothing. The Russian seemed suitably apologetic and although I thought he might tell me to wait in my car, or join Homer in the glass hut, instead I was invited into the buggy, scooted over to the main terminal building and from there led up a flight of stairs to a small office. Other than the dark green, metal locker parked against a far wall, the rest of the fixtures and fittings consisted of a stainless steel desk and chair, both situated in front of a bank of video screens. Judging by the rundown state of the building, I’d have expected a few fuzzy CRT monitors, not plasmas showing high definition images from around the
airport. It all looked very new.

  ‘Impressive,’ I said.

  ‘Civil Aviation Authority make us upgrade. And also we get many VIP. So surveillance very important.’ VIPs? Oleg must have picked up on my unspoken incredulity. ‘Many of Jerry’s friends visit. This is like playground to them. They race their sports cars along the runway. Fly in the helicopters. You need top-notch security. There are many nutters who want to see them. One day we have a nutter parachute in. Another time a speed boat full of them arrive. Many nutters come along the beach also. It’s not easy to keep them out. We are not allowed to make the security fence go past the high tide mark. Her Majesty, she owns the rest down to the sea. But you are a lawyer. You know this.’

  I did recall once having to skim through something about the Crown’s ownership of the foreshore during my University studies. After the exam I’d felt I had better use for the brain space than cluttering it up with riparian law and water rights.

  ‘Oh, yeah, the Queen likes to hit the beach,’ I said. ‘What about Glazed Over? Ever see them here?’

  ‘Yes, Tony and Greg very big pals of Jerry. He try to teach them to fly. Flying a chopper it is like patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time while tapping your foot. Not easy. Greg could never get the hang of it. Tony very good pilot.’

  ‘Can’t be much fun sitting here watching nothing happen all day.’ I said.

  Oleg agreed it wasn’t. Which was why the security team took turns, rotating in two-hour stints. ‘It is worse since we go digital. Nothing but trouble. The old system was not good, but it worked all the time.’

  ‘Were you here the night Jerry’s helicopter went missing,’ I asked.

  ‘Nyet.’

  ‘But you were here the day before.’

  Oleg’s face hardened as though I’d accused him of a dereliction of duty. ‘I supposed to work ’til five o’clock. That day it’s very busy. Mr Thorn visit Jerry and Jerry getting ready for many friends to come here. I have to work late, six, seven maybe.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to Mr Thorn about his son’s death. Find out some more information. Maybe help him discover the truth.’