Last Will

by William McIntyre

  I’d been waiting outside Hugh Ogilvie’s favourite coffee shop for less than half an hour when he entered the mall, approaching like a junkie homing in on his first tenner-bag of the day.

  ‘What do you want?’ He wandered over to a refrigerated unit and studied some cakes individually wrapped in cellophane.

  I followed. ‘All I want is a quick word about Derek Pudney’s case.’

  Ogilvie looked around frantically as though I was about to spout state secrets in the middle of Costa Coffee, took me by the lapel and led me outside. ‘This is not the time and it’s definitely not the place.’

  ‘When then? I’m happy to come over to your office right now and we can discuss it over coffee and a bun,’ I said, aware that the last thing the PF would want was me spoiling his mid-afternoon break.

  ‘If this is about your latest defence,’ Ogilvie hissed, ‘don’t bother. Professor Bradley has told me all about it. Apparently, someone else killed Daisy Adams and then your client killed that person while he himself was being attacked. That about sum it up? So, let me see, now that the original alibi has crashed and burned, we’ve moved onto incrimination and self-defence. You do realise that if they don’t work, you’re fast running out of special defences. Only two left: coercion and insanity. Nobody’s ever successfully argued a coercion defence and insanity . . . ? Unfortunately, that doesn’t apply to choice of legal representative.’

  ‘Seeing how you think you know everything,’ I said, freeing his grip on my jacket, ‘how about I tell you something you don’t know?’

  Ogilvie gave me a nailed-on smile behind which I knew was the strong and sudden desire to scream. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like the fact that the man on the kitchen table – the one with a knife sticking out from where it shouldn’t be sticking – was foreign; Polish or Russian or something.’

  ‘Italian, actually.’ The PF made as though to move away.

  I stepped in front of him.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘International police co-operation is quite the thing these days. For the moment at least, it’s all part of our great European community. They’ve got computers and everything.’

  ‘But not co-operation between the prosecution and defence in Scotland because otherwise this information would already have been disclosed to me,’ I said.

  ‘It will be. When I’m ready. More importantly . . . ’ Ogilvie seemed in less of a rush to get way. ‘How did you know he was foreign?’

  It was too early to start revealing dubious pieces of information concerning my client’s latest defence, like the possible existence of a man with fork holes in his back. Even if Jake’s story was true, it was all very well for Deek to defend himself against a knife-wielding Italian, less so to hurl garden forks at folk who were running away and claim self-defence. This wasn’t America or South Africa where the law allowed you to kill and ask questions later. To coin one of my dad’s phrases, when dealing with representatives of the Crown office and Procurator Fiscal Service, the less they knew the more the better.

  ‘All in good time,’ I said. ‘The fact is that you’ve now gone from a dead innocent bystander to a dead Italian who, if Interpol has been helping out, must have a criminal record or at least fingerprints on a police database. It can’t hurt an incrimination defence.’

  ‘What?’ Ogilvie sneered. ‘You’re going to attack his character? With a record like Pudney’s?’

  The PF had a point. Bringing up the dead man’s past crimes in the course of the trial would only open the door for Deek’s record to be placed before the jury. The last time they printed the big man’s previous convictions they had to chop a tree down first.

  ‘What was your Italian doing on a farm in the wilds of West Lothian?’ I asked.

  Ogilvie checked his watch. ‘Apart from being murdered by your client, you mean?’

  I was going to get nothing out of him. I’d hoped that by tipping him off that the dead guy was foreign he might have extended his enquiries, but he already had; he just hadn’t let me know the results and wasn’t going to any time soon. What could I do?

  My hesitation gave Ogilvie the chance to escape and he shimmied off in the direction of a vanilla mocha and a Belgian teacake.

  What was Daisy Adams doing entertaining Italians? It could all have been perfectly innocent, of course. A couple of economic migrants working casual on a farm; nothing unusual about that. Along comes Deek, starts pushing Daisy around and demanding money. The chivalrous Italians weigh in on her behalf and suddenly it’s slaughter at Sunnybrae Farm.

  Only four people knew the truth. Two were dead. One was in prison. Where was the other?

  ‘He’s still in hospital,’ Joanna told me when I phoned the office on the way to my car. ‘I’m just back from there.’

  ‘Did you get a name?’

  ‘Lorenc Bizi. He has a punctured kidney. The injury wasn’t all that bad until it became infected. It was touch-and-go for a while. The doctor I spoke to made it sound like our man’s spent the last few weeks peeing into a bag and being pumped full of antibiotics.’

  I didn’t bother to ask how Joanna had managed to glean this information. I could imagine her cornering a young male registrar and him putting up all the resistance of aspirin to a dose of Dengue fever.

  ‘They expect him to get out early next week,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to do anything else or can it keep until Monday?’

  I told her to leave things for now. She’d played her part. If Mr Bizi had anything to hide and knew that someone had been asking questions about him, he’d discharge himself early and disappear. Anyone who could suffer a punctured kidney for a few days before seeking treatment, wasn’t going to hang around hospital a minute longer than he had to if he thought the authorities were onto him.

  I phoned Jake with the news and he sent one of his men over to the hospital to keep an eye on things.

  I drove back to Linlithgow, washed the few clothes Tina had left behind and hung them over the drying rack, each wee T-shirt or pair of tiny dungarees, a sad reminder of my loss and my own stupidity. After lunch I called Mrs Reynolds. Tina couldn’t come to the phone. She was taking a nap. I’d tried that once. We’d crashed out on the couch one afternoon after a prolonged duck-feeding expedition and slept for four hours. When I woke up I had a stiff neck and a headache. Tina had been as bright as a button and stayed that way until two in the morning.

  ‘I’ll call later,’ I said.

  ‘We’re going out later,’ Mrs Reynolds replied. ‘There’s a children’s show on in the town hall and we’ll probably go for tea afterwards. Tina’s bound to be tired by the time we get back.’

  ‘Tomorrow then.’

  ‘I’m not sure what we’re doing tomorrow. Tina needs some new clothes.’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday’s Molly’s party, and—’

  Enough. I hung up and called Barry Munn’s office. His secretary told me he was engaged with a client and couldn’t be interrupted. I tried his mobile and got his answering machine. I wondered about paying him a visit, except that would have involved more attempts by Barry to talk me out of what I had wanted to do all along. Tina was my daughter. So what, it was by chance that I’d learned of her existence? I didn’t know why her mother had never told me about her. Perhaps she would have one day. You heard of people who discover some distant relative from overseas has died and left them a fortune. Well, Zoë had left me a daughter, and, now that I’d learned of my inheritance, I wasn’t about to squander it. I needed to send Barry a message. One that was clear and simple. One that he’d understand, even through a Thursday afternoon Rioja-mist. I took my mobile and entered his number again. Seven characters one space. That’s all it took to signal my intent. It was all or nothing. It was: Option 3.

  43

  Thursday evening. I hadn’t seen or heard from my dad since Wednesday afternoon. Like the Italian with the punctured kidney, the longer I put things off, the longer the wound would fester. I rol
led up outside his cottage around seven o’clock to find he already had a visitor.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said, as I walked into the living room to find him and Vikki pinning cut-out pictures of pumpkins, witches and bats all around the room.

  ‘For the party,’ Vikki said, by way of explanation.

  ‘You’re having a Halloween party?’

  My dad ignored the question. He was holding a paper silhouette of a black cat and staring at it. Tina’s name was printed along the cat’s tail in silver pen. I went over and tried to take it from him. He wouldn’t let go. I gave up.

  ‘More tea, Vikki?’ he asked, after the cat was duly stuck to the wall with a dod of Blu-Tack.

  Vikki shook her head and pointed to a mug on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Well, I’m making another,’ my dad said, without any offer to me.

  I intercepted him at the kitchen door. ‘I’ll make the tea. You keep going with the decorations.’

  ‘I’ll make my own tea, thanks.’ He pushed past and shut the kitchen door firmly behind him.

  ‘That,’ I said to Vikki, jerking a thumb after my dad, ‘I expected. You being here, I didn’t.’ I went over to the black paper cat on the wall. ‘You see this? The nursery cut cat-silhouettes out for all the kids. They were supposed to adapt them, draw faces and whiskers, collars and what have you. The nursery pinned them by the door for the parents to see. When I went to collect Tina, one of the assistants told me that Tina hadn’t been joining in. She wanted to paint a cat. She didn’t want to make a ‘silly-wet’ and was dead stubborn about it. There had even been a short trip to the naughty corner. I asked Tina why she hadn’t given her cat a face or decorated it like the ones the other boys and girls had done. I was all set to give her a lecture about not always getting her own way and doing what she was told.’ I had to pause. Even now, weeks later, despite everything that had happened, it still made me laugh. ‘I was expecting an argument, but Tina just looked up at me all sweetness and light and said, “Dad, you can’t see my cat’s face ‘cos she’s got her back to us.” And that was that.’ I pressed the cat cut-out more firmly to the wall. ‘My dad loves that story.’

  ‘She’s a smart girl,’ Vikki said.

  ‘Good on her feet.’

  ‘Like her dad.’

  It was a nice attempt to butter me up, but Vikki must have expected what was coming next.

  ‘What do I have to do to keep her?’

  ‘Robbie . . . ’

  There were some noises from the kitchen, but nothing to indicate that my dad was returning soon. Was he giving me time to work on Vikki?

  ‘If an ex-drug user like Daisy can adopt someone else’s child, why can’t I get to keep mine?’

  Vikki put a hand on my arm. ‘Because you never had her to start with, Robbie. You didn’t even know you had a daughter until Tina’s mum died. Daisy Adams knew Molly practically from birth, but more importantly La-La wanted Daisy to be Molly’s guardian if anything happened to her.

  ‘Zoë wanted me to have Tina. Ask her sister.’

  ‘But Zoë never left a will. ‘Without La-La’s will, Daisy wouldn’t have stood a chance of adopting Molly. Not even with me on her side.’

  ‘My lawyer gave me three options, forget about Tina, go for contact or try for full residence,’ I said.

  ‘And which option did your lawyer recommend?’

  ‘Option two.’

  Vikki shrugged. ‘I’d be happy to go along with that recommendation in my report.’

  ‘I’m going for option three.’

  Vikki sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. ‘Think with your head, not your heart,’ she said, when I’d joined her on the sofa. ‘Are you sure you’re not like a little boy who wants a puppy for Christmas? By Easter his mum’s having to feed it and his dad’s taking it for walks.’

  ‘I know what I want and I think I know what is best for Tina,’ I said.

  ‘Good, because that’s what it all boils down to: the best interests of the child. Let’s look at the negatives. You’re a single man with a business to run. You don’t keep regular hours, you—’

  ‘We’ve been through all my negatives before. What about Tina’s gran? What age is she? Can she go running after her? Play football with her?’ I added in case my dad was eavesdropping. ‘What happens if Mrs Reynolds gets sick?’

  ‘Anyone can get sick, Robbie. Think of Tina’s mum – a young woman.’

  ‘What has Vera got that I haven’t got? She’s female. Is that what really counts?’

  ‘No, it’s not. What really counts is that she’s a female with nothing to do all day but care for her grandchild. A female who can give Tina all the attention she deserves. A female who’ll always be there for her and who won’t forget to collect her from nursery because she’s too busy with a client. A female with a lovely big house who can give Tina her own room and a garden to play in.’ Vikki stood. ‘Look, I’m sorry to have to say these things, but there’s no point in me sugar-coating it. All other things being equal, you being Tina’s father, there would be no problem with you having custody. But all things aren’t equal. Face it, Robbie. Looking after a child takes careful planning and . . . well, from what I hear, you have enough difficulty planning your own life without a four-year-old daughter tagging along.’

  Enter my dad, stage left, not bearing a cup of tea, but a claw hammer and a face that should have carried a Government health warning. ‘Let’s get these decorations finished and you can get away, Vikki.’ He took some panel pins from his pocket and, using the hammer, began to tack a string of crescent moon bunting to the wall.

  ‘What’s all this in favour of, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Apart, obviously, from the fact that it’s Halloween on Saturday.’

  My dad busied himself trying to find the end of a roll of sticky tape.

  ‘Molly’s birthday,’ Vikki said.

  ‘I thought she was having it at Vera’s lovely big house?’

  ‘That was the idea until I realised that taking Molly all the way to Oban was a long way to go,’ Vikki said, not rising to my sarcasm. ‘She’s still very vulnerable and I wasn’t sure if I should take her out of the local authority’s jurisdiction.’ Vikki set out a row of cheap ceramic pumpkin-lantern tea light holders, spacing them along the mantelpiece. ‘After all the promises I’d made to Molly about having a birthday party with Tina, I didn’t want to call it off, so Mrs Reynolds phoned your dad and he volunteered. She said she’d tried to mention it to you when you called, but . . . ’

  ‘I hung up on her?’

  Vikki nodded. ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours. Vera’s a good woman. You think you know what’s best for Tina – so does she.’

  My dad taped the last string of black and orange bunting to the wall and dusted his hands off. ‘That’s that then.’

  ‘Great,’ Vikki said. She collected her handbag and waited for my dad to bring her jacket. ‘How about I bring Molly along, say, four o’clock Saturday afternoon and maybe stay until around seven? The Home don’t like it if I keep her out late.’

  ‘That’d be fine,’ my dad said. ‘It’s good of you to do this. I’m sure there’s plenty other things you could be doing with your time on a Saturday evening.’

  Vikki dismissed his words of appreciation with a wave of her hand. ‘Now is there anything else you’re going to need to get this party started? What about food and drink?’

  ‘I’ve got everything bought in already,’ my dad said. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll throw the wee lassie a birthday party she won’t forget.’ He walked Vikki to the door and opened it for her. After the final farewells had been made I noticed that the door remained open, my dad gripping the handle and staring at the floor.

  ‘Dad . . . ’

  His stare swept from floor to ceiling, never for an instant landing on me. Well, if he wanted to stay in the huff we’d see how long that lasted. I walked past him. He caught my arm as I reached the threshold. ‘I don’t think you should come on S
aturday,’ he said.

  I turned. ‘She’s my daughter.’

  He moved his bulk closer, his face in my face. ‘You should have realised that before you let them take her away.’

  There would be no talking to him. Not tonight. I caught up with Vikki as she was opening the door of her car and laying her handbag on the passenger seat. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know your dad hadn’t told you about the change of venue. It was all very last minute.’

  ‘You don’t have to stick up for him.’

  ‘He’s upset about Tina.’

  ‘And blaming me.’

  ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘Which? Being upset or blaming me?’

  Vikki put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Tina’s going to stay the night at your dad’s. Vera’s coming too and booking into a hotel. She’ll take Tina home sometime on Sunday afternoon. There will be plenty of time for you to see her.’ She forced a laugh. ‘You can even come to the party and dook for apples.’

  ‘About that,’ I said. ‘Halloween? I know it’s Molly’s birthday, but considering that her own mum is dead and her adopted mum was murdered . . . do you think it’s appropriate, ghosts and witches and all that?’

  Vikki hesitated.

  ‘My dad?’ I said.

  ‘It was his idea. He went out and bought all the stuff as soon as I told him. What could I say? He means well.’

  ‘Hopeless, but means well. Like father like son?’

  Vikki’s tight smile made my question rhetorical. She walked around the other side of the car.

  ‘I’m not giving up, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But sometimes it doesn’t do any harm to take advice. Even if it comes from Barry Munn.’

  ‘Barry’s all right,’ I said. ‘If you can keep him away from the grape juice.’ I formed the distinct impression that Vikki didn’t agree. ‘You’ve not forgiven him, then? Whatever it was you were so angry with him about. It still rankles, doesn’t it?’