Present Tense

by William McIntyre

  Somehow, while wrestling with my thoughts, I managed to fall asleep, awaking in the early hours scrunched up on a two-seater sofa feeling exactly like someone who’d fallen asleep scrunched up on a two-seater sofa. After a shower and change of clothes I felt better. Not coffee-and-a-bacon-roll better, but fresher and clearer of mind.

  Inside a kitchen cupboard I found and dismissed a jar of supermarket own-brand instant coffee. The only food item was a pack of high-fibre cereal guaranteed to clear out a digestive system faster than a pull-through with a Christmas tree. I was checking the fridge for anything remotely edible when my phone buzzed. It was Philip Thorn. He hadn’t lied. He was an early riser and was already on the road south to my office. I told him to steer a course for Edinburgh. He reckoned he’d be there inside a couple of hours. Plenty of time for me to go off in search of a decent cup of coffee and bacon roll and, before that, to make one very important phone call.

  ‘Robbie!’ Cherry Lovell greeted me as though I were her long-lost brother. ‘You won’t believe this, but I’m outside your house right now. Where are you? Can you spare me some time for a quick chat over the recent developments? How about lunch? I’m paying.’ She knew me so well.

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast,’ I said. I didn’t have to say it twice. By seven o’clock I was crunching on finest crispy Ayrshire bacon. By eight o’clock Cherry was sitting beside me on the sofa in the safe house, a cameraman tinkering with the lighting and a sound technician twiddling knobs.

  Christchurch arrived as final arrangements to the furniture were being carried out. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘This,’ I said, ‘is an interview with Night News. Have you met Cherry Lovell? Stick around and you can watch yourself on TV tonight. Ten thirty.’

  For the first time the DI looked flustered and annoyed. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person. ‘Get out, this minute. All of you.’

  The Bulldog moved closer, keen to get in on the action. The camera turned on him, the light shining in his face.

  Cherry produced a microphone and stepped in between camera and Detective Constable. ‘The investigation into the deaths of Jeremy Thorn and Madeleine Moreau moved a step forward last night with an AAIB report stating that their helicopter had indeed been sabotaged. We’re here at a secret location to interview Mr Robbie Munro, solicitor, who is currently being held by Ministry of Defence Police. Mr Munro, I understand the police are keen on you assisting them with their enquiries...’ The Bulldog stepped forward menacingly. Christchurch reached out and placed a hand on his colleague’s shoulder, reining him in.

  ‘Can you fill us in on what’s been happening?’ Cherry asked me.

  I could and I did. The more I’d thought about it, the more I’d come to believe Christchurch was bluffing. Obtaining a warrant to search a solicitor’s office was not an easy thing to do, even if the office was mine and the Sheriff being asked to sign off on it was my old adversary, Albert Brechin. For one thing, the cops would have to have a reasonable suspicion that I possessed evidence that might secure the conviction of the person responsible for murdering Jeremy Thorn. That in itself raised certain tricky issues of client/solicitor privilege, and the only way Christchurch could explain his suspicion was by reference to his clandestine eavesdropping. To prove the point, I produced a matchbox with the two tiny bugs resting comfortably on a wad of cotton wool. In case I was wrong, and Christchurch had obtained the necessary authority to plant a bug on me, I explained to camera – for the benefit of those members of the Scottish Parliament who might later watch — how police officers, not from Police Scotland, but acting on behalf of the Westminster Government, were attempting to run roughshod over due process and a Scots citizen’s right to privacy.

  In truth, much of what I had to say would not have borne any degree of jurisprudential scrutiny, nothing too unusual there, but what my speech to camera would do, once broadcast, was buy me time. Cherry would take what I gave her, tuck it under her arm and charge head-down towards the goalposts of a government conspiracy. What would happen to the evidence if I had it and it was taken from me? Would it ever see the light of day? Would the public ever know the truth about Kirkton Perch’s role in the death of Jeremy Thorn? The involvement of MDP officers, instead of good old Scottish bobbies, only went to show it was all part of a Westminster cover-up.

  As I reached the pinnacle of my high-dudgeon, Christchurch and his companion drifted away. Cherry wasn’t finished. ‘Mr Munro, what do you know about the death of Jeremy Thorn and his fiancée?’

  ‘No more than you,’ I said.

  ‘Your own client Mr William Paris was considered a suspect and it has been alleged that you hold evidence vital to finding the murderer. What have you to say on that?’

  In law, possession was defined as having the knowledge and control of an item. If the evidence was in my office it was arguably under my control; however, if I had no idea where it was, how could I have actual knowledge of its presence? ‘I’m sorry, Cherry, but for legal reasons I am unable to confirm or deny if I possess the evidence to prove the identity of the person responsible for killing Jeremy Thorn or Madeleine Moreau.’

  It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for, but it was sufficiently ambiguous for her to put on it whatever slant she wanted. More importantly it gave me time to strike a deal with Philip Thorn without Christchurch and the Bulldog breathing down my neck.

  ‘So, is it the case that you are unwilling to assist with any enquiries to establish the truth?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I am simply stating that for certain reasons I can’t help anyone at the moment.’

  And I couldn’t. Not yet. But when I could, the person I’d be looking to help most was myself.

  44

  Christchurch and his colleague were long gone, and the Night News crew all packed up and away, when, holdall slung over a shoulder, I walked to the end of the street and exited via a door cut into an ancient sandstone wall, leading to Holyrood Park. By nine thirty I was sitting on a frosty bench on the east edge of St Margaret’s Loch, watching a pale disc of sun struggle to climb the ruins of St Andrew’s Chapel.

  A couple of joggers ran by, breathing hard and startling the flotilla of swans that was heading my way in a futile search for bread. Behind me I heard the throaty growl of a high-powered engine and turned to see a bright red E-type Roadster pulling up by the side of Queen’s Drive. Two men alighted. One I recognised immediately as Oleg, head of security at St Edzell Bay, the other, dressed in a long camel coat with a felt collar and tobacco Trilby, could only be Philip Thorn. I stood and the latter marched over to me, leaving the Russian standing by the car holding a metal briefcase that was handcuffed to his wrist, no doubt in anticipation of the evidence his boss thought I was about to deliver.

  Thorn tugged off a brown leather driving glove and shook my hand. ‘Mr Munro?’

  I confirmed my identity and would have complimented him on his choice of motor car had he not come straight out and asked, ‘How much?’

  Here was a man with whom I could do business. ‘Forty thousand,’ I said, preparing to haggle.

  Thorn looked as though I’d picked up a swan and slapped him across the face with it.

  ‘Cash,’ I said.

  Thorn snapped the fingers of his ungloved hand. Oleg marched across and set the briefcase down on the arm of the park bench. Thorn turned the combination dials, clicked the lid open, reached inside and removed four bundles of notes. He didn’t open the lid far, just far enough for me to catch a glimpse of many more similar bundles inside. Was I selling myself short? Was his surprise not at how much I was asking, but at how little? He closed the briefcase again. Without a word Oleg withdrew to the roadside.

  I’d not expected this. I’d thought there’d be a lot more negotiation, more questions, that I’d have time to stall him while he got the money together so that I’d have time to find the very thing he’d come for. Faced with the cash, I wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘I�
�ve not got it,’ I blurted.

  Thorn looked more confused than angry.

  ‘When I say I’ve not got it, I mean not with me. It’s at my office.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We arranged to meet today. You must have known why.’ He looked about anxiously. ‘Is this some kind of set-up?’ He tucked the wads of cash into the inside of his coat and summoned Oleg again. The Russian was by his side in an instant. ‘Search him.’

  Searching me wasn’t easy with a cash-stuffed metal briefcase hanging from one wrist, and I lost a button from the front of my shirt before Oleg returned his verdict. ‘Nada.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Mr Munro,’ Thorn said. ‘I was led to believe that you were in possession of the evidence proving who killed my son.’

  I felt uncomfortable with Oleg this close. The man who’d been so amenable a host during yesterday’s visit to St Edzell Bay, today had a face on him like the Crags beneath Arthur’s Seat.

  ‘Let’s walk,’ I said, taking to the path, followed by Philip Thorn and the gaggle of overly optimistic waterfowl.

  ‘I want to know what’s going on,’ Thorn said, when he caught up with me.

  So I told him. I told him I had the evidence, I just didn’t know where it was. I realised how weak that sounded and so qualified the statement. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I will find it.’

  ‘How long until you do?’

  ‘Not long,’ I said. ‘In fact, very soon.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen it? You don’t know what it consists of or who is responsible for Jeremy’s death?’

  I had to agree I knew none of these things.

  ‘So whatever you have, if indeed you have anything at all, could prove to be nothing? I could be wasting my time and money?’

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty,’ I said, remembering Billy Paris’s high hopes. ‘No, it’s definitely something. But I won’t know what exactly until I find it. That’s going to take a lot of searching, and I’m going to have to drop everything to do it. Christmas is coming up, I’ve got a family and the police are extremely interested. Right now they’re trying to obtain a warrant to ransack my office.’

  Thorn stopped walking. He was smiling now. ‘All right. Forty thousand. You have two days.’ He spun on a heel, took a couple of paces.

  I called him back. ‘I’d like you to sign this agreement.’ I pulled the document Wahid had drafted for me from my pocket and held it out to him. He took it from me, crumpled it in a leather glove and tossed it back. He thrust a hand inside his coat, pulled out the bundles of notes and pushed two of them into my chest. ‘That’s half. If you want the rest, you bring me the evidence before Christmas.’ He stepped closer, frosty breath hitting me in the face. ‘If you don’t, it’ll not be Santa coming down your chimney Christmas Eve. It will be Oleg.’

  45

  It may have been winter on Arthur’s Seat, but in my heart it was spring. Twenty grand tax-free was one of the best remedies I knew for driving out the iciest of cold blasts, and the thought that the same again awaited me only helped stoke the warm feeling that perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a bad New Year after all. Set against that, of course, was the thought that I might not be able to make good on my promise to Philip Thorn. That did send a slight chill down the back of my neck. I didn’t fancy the idea of an irate Russian security guard abseiling into my fireplace on Christmas morning, but I still had time on my side. It was Thursday. Christmas wasn’t until Sunday. Kirkton Perch and his Westminster lackeys would stay away from Munro & Co. for the time being, especially after Cherry Lovell’s show was broadcast that evening. All I need do was rally the troops and give my office the fine-toothed-comb treatment.

  I was reaching for my phone to call Grace-Mary and place her on stand-by when it began to buzz: Joanna.

  ‘Robbie, where are you?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’

  ‘Good. I’d thought you’d forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten?’ I laughed. ‘Me?’

  ‘You have forgotten, haven’t you?’

  A moment’s hesitation on my part was enough for Joanna to accurately assess the situation. ‘Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, get your butt up here to the Lawnmarket. Keith Howie is giving evidence today and his wife is practically suicidal.’

  When had it become part of my duties to molly-coddle a rapist’s wife? No, I had to correct myself, not rapist, alleged rapist — until the jury came back with its verdict, at any rate. Perhaps it was because of Howie’s dislike for me, or maybe it was because I had a daughter of my own and thought that jail was too good for the type of men who took advantage of young women; whichever, I really had very little concern as to the outcome of HMA -v- Howie. If he was guilty, and it had been my daughter, he’d have found jail the safest place to be.

  Sadly, there was no way I could back out. Not having told Joanna I’d help. How churlish would it be if I wasn’t willing to take an hour or so out of my day when she had foregone a ski-holiday? So, resigned to the task ahead and with more urgent and important things to be doing, I set off from the bottom of the Royal Mile to my destination at the top, all set for a morning spent patting Mrs Howie’s hand and telling her everything would be all right, which of course it would be — right up until the verdict was returned.

  It was one brisk fifteen-minute walk later when I poked my head in the door of Courtroom 4 to find a forensic scientist busy explaining to the jury, with the aid of Cameron Crowe, the advocate depute, all about semen, sperm heads, swabs, stained underwear, and the significance of these findings apropos a charge of rape. Unfortunately, the jury seemed to be listening intently.

  Courtroom 4 was situated on the first floor of the High Court. The accused sat in the dock with his back to me, Lady Bothkennar straight ahead, elevated high on the bench with the jury to her right. In the well of the court, opposite the lawyers for the Crown, and to the judge’s left, Joanna sat beside the voluminous presence that was Fiona Faye QC. Joanna looked up from her note-taking and gave me a tight smile. This case meant a lot to her. Every case meant a lot to her. She was a winner. She was just what Munro & Co. needed, now more than ever.

  As I stood in the doorway, a court officer approached. ‘Are you coming in or not?’ she whispered.

  I backed out, beckoning the court officer to follow. ‘Is this the last witness?’

  She nodded. ‘Lady Bothkennar’s been keeping things moving along. She was panicking in case we weren’t finished this week because she wants away early tomorrow and then that’ll be her until the sixth of January. Okay for some, isn’t it? There’s no chance she’s going to let this case spill over into next week.’

  The court officer returned to her duties and I paced up and down the carpeted hallway, waiting for the expert witness to finish. There was no need for me to listen in. The forensic evidence was only being led as a formality to establish the fact that sex had actually occurred. Whether it had been consensual wasn’t an issue. Howie had denied any sexual contact. Even if he hadn’t, and had lodged a defence of consent, it would have made little difference so far as I could see. Once intercourse was proved, the jury would take into account the complainer’s evidence, her distress, as witnessed by the accused’s own wife, the age difference, and the big question: if it was consensual why would she say otherwise? And that was before anyone applied Malky’s football league analogy and the yawning chasm between the accused’s and complainer’s respective divisions. In my book it all pointed to a unanimous guilty verdict.

  After the expert witness had testified, Cameron Crowe formally closed the Crown’s case and there followed the customary break in proceedings to allow the defence a chance to get itself organised. This usually involved some last-minute words of encouragement for the accused and a few tips on how to testify effectively. Every lawyer had their own theory on that.

  ‘Stand up straight, look whoever is asking you questions straight in the eye and speak loudly and clearly,’ Fiona told Howie once the four of us h
ad gathered in the corridor. ‘If you don’t understand a question, say so and ask for it to be repeated. Whatever you do, keep your hands away from your face. Everyone assumes that’s a sign of someone lying.’

  That last piece of advice was commonplace and one I felt sure more likely to make a witness face-fondle than if nothing had been said on the subject.

  Howie blinked a few times and nodded. His complexion matched his tie. His green tie.

  I took the end of it and held it up. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a blue one?’ I asked.

  Joanna and Fiona did some synchronised eye-rolling.

  Howie reclaimed the tie and patted it flat onto his white shirt. ‘I like this one. It’s my favourite.’