Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  Sean Kelly stood and walked past us to the door. Frankie put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘Sean, you need someone to help you fight this charge and the best fighter I know is Robbie Munro. Now why don’t you sit down and answer his questions?’

  He pulled away from Frankie. ‘What can he do? What can anyone do?’ The young man pulled up his shirt. The side of his body was covered in thin lacerations, one or two of which were held together by butterfly strips. ‘My first shower in a week. I was that desperate for a wash I never saw the razorblade in the soap. I told the prison doctor what happened and now I’m a grass and everyone wants a piece of me.’ He stared down at his feet.

  ‘Please, Sean,’ Frankie said. ‘Sit down and talk.’

  The prisoner paused for a moment, his hand on the door knob. He was on the verge of tears and I felt something I hadn’t expected: sympathy. What was it about the boy? No matter how hard I tried I still couldn’t picture him with a gun in his hand, far less pulling the trigger.

  ‘Let me be clear,’ I said. ‘I don’t really care what happens to you. Max Abercrombie was my friend and if you murdered him then, frankly, I’d like to cut you up myself.’ I went over and stood face to face with the prisoner. ‘But tell me you’re innocent and I promise to get you out of here.’

  The prisoner turned to Frankie. ‘Thanks for coming, Mr McPhee. Tell my mum I’m doing fine.’ He opened the door and was about to step into the corridor where a prison officer was waiting. At the last moment he turned and looked me straight in the eye. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said and left.

  I watched him go. Was Sean Kelly a chip off the old block? Appearance-wise he didn’t resemble his father and he was intelligent, polite, and well-spoken; attributes one did not readily associate with Kelly senior. I wanted to believe him, but it could have been he’d inherited some of his father’s other characteristics. As I recalled, Chic Kelly had been a thief and an excellent liar.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Word travels fast,’ Grace-Mary said, looking out of my office window.

  Having only just returned from court that Wednesday morning, I was hoping to take a look at a few files and prepare for the following day’s intermediate diets before having to go back to court for the custodies at two.

  I left the desk and joined my secretary at the window from where there was a good view down the length of the High Street. Beyond the Cross Well and up the hill from the direction of the Sheriff Court strode a familiarly large figure. Even at a distance I could see the jutted jaw, lowered brow and imagined a moustache bristling with indignation. My meeting with Sean Kelly had taken place only the night before. The mandate to Lorna Wylie breaking the news that I now had instructions to act for the murder-accused was still in a wire basket waiting to go out with the afternoon post. I’d expected my dad to pay me a visit. I hadn’t expected it to be quite this soon.

  ‘Tell him I’m out,’ I instructed Grace-Mary.

  ‘Tell him yourself,’ she said, leaving the room and taking with her a small stack of invoices that had inconveniently arrived in the morning’s mail. She closed the door behind her. Three minutes later it opened again.

  ‘It’s your dad,’ Grace-Mary said, quite unnecessarily since the old man was already filling the doorway. She ducked out of the room again.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ The old man loomed over me, his face crimson. ‘Not even you could live with yourself if you got that murdering wee slime-ball off the hook.’

  ‘I think Sean Kelly may be innocent,’ I said, trying to convince myself as much as my dad. ‘Max was shot twice in the chest at point blank range. Does that sound like the work of a nineteen-year-old whose only previous conviction is for peeing up a close?’

  My dad straightened and held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Sorry, my fault, I forgot - your clients are always innocent.’

  ‘They are,’ I said, lighting the blue touch paper and refusing to retire to a safe distance. ‘At least until proven otherwise.’

  He gave a loud snort and sat down. ‘Well that shouldn’t take long. Not with Petra Lockhart in charge.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I know of her. Fine cop. D’ye not mind that case with the Edinburgh councillors a few years back?’

  A few years back to my dad could mean anytime during the past decade.

  ‘Remind me,’ I said.

  ‘Lockhart got a tip-off about dodgy dealings in the planning department and tried for a warrant. The Sheriff said no chance, not on the basis of a source that Lockhart refused to reveal. Despite that, the bold girl breenged ahead, crashed through the door of the chairman of the sub-committee on the eve of a public enquiry and discovered brown envelopes galore. The Crown managed to justify her actions on the grounds of urgent necessity. Three City councillors got four years each and one Sheriff got a free transfer to the Shetlands or somewhere with nothing to judge but sheepdog trials. It was a hell of a gamble and if it hadn’t worked, I’ll tell you, she’d have been drummed right out of the Brownies. Took a lot of courage. I heard she made D.C.I. on the strength of that collar alone.’

  Sounded like the Lockhart I knew. A woman of action who saw what needed doing and got it done.

  ‘Then there was that paedophile ring, just last year – ‘

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘point taken.’ My dad was making it sound like the woman could leap tall buildings at a single bound. ‘I’m happy they’ve put someone good onto Max’s case. I want the killer caught as much as everyone else. I just want to be sure they get the right person.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve got the right person. Have no fears on that score. They’re piecing together quite a nice little case on young master Kelly.’ My dad was warming to his subject. ‘From what I hear, he’s put at the scene by at least two witnesses.’

  I already knew about the witnesses. It had been almost close of business on the Friday evening in question when Max’s receptionist and a paralegal saw someone fitting Sean’s description come into the office. He’d gone into see Max and later, as they were leaving for the night, the two members of staff had heard a commotion. According to their police statements they hadn’t thought much of it at the time. At six foot three, sixteen stones and a former amateur boxer, an obstreperous youth was nothing with which Max couldn't cope.

  ‘And there’s forensics as well.’

  ‘What have they got?’

  ‘DNA. Fingerprints. The full works is what I heard. I have it from a reliable source that they found a fragment of your client’s skin under one of Abercrombie’s fingernails.’ He smirked cruelly. ‘He even had his name in the appointment diary. Dumb or what?’

  I looked at my father. He always liked to be one step ahead.

  ‘I wish you worked for me, Dad. I could do with all the inside information that always seems to come your way.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ He was unable to keep the note of triumph from his voice and, his temper receding, I tried to change the subject. ‘Would you like a wee half?’ I asked. That usually worked.

  He hesitated, ran a finger across his moustache and sat down. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Macallan.’

  ‘Eighteen?’

  ‘Ten-year-old.’

  ‘Suppose it’ll have to do.’

  I fetched the bottle and nipped through to the kitchen, returning with two glasses. By that time my dad’s complexion had taken on a more natural hue. So far, so good. I poured us each a drink and he grudgingly clinked his tumbler with mine. Would it be too obvious if I tried to get his mind off Sean Kelly by steering the discussion around to football, his favourite topic of conversation?

  Grace-Mary popped her head in the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, not looking it. ‘But Mr McPhee phoned again. He was asking about Sean Kelly’s case and to see if you’ve booked a visit with his dad in Glenochil yet.’

  Damage done, my secretary withdrew.

  The old man looked at me. ‘Mr McPh
ee?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said casually, ‘Frankie McPhee.’

  He laughed, saw I wasn’t joining in and gave me the look: the one I’d first seen as a fourteen-year-old, caught sneaking out to the school disco with four tins of his McEwan’s Export up my jumper. That had been the same night I’d drunk a whole bottle of grenadine believing it to be alcoholic, thrown-up and gone crying to him in a panic thinking I was vomiting blood. His eyes narrowed and his moustache turned down at the edges. ‘No. Do not tell me you’ve taken up with Frankie McPhee.’

  ‘Give the man a break, Dad.’

  ‘I’d give him a break all right.’

  ‘He’s got an interest in Sean Kelly’s case and wants to know what’s going on. I don’t actually tell him anything confidential. He’s just concerned.’

  ‘He’s a killer.’

  ‘One who’s served his time.’

  ‘Served his time?’ My dad was on his feet again, once more leaning over the desk at me. ‘He should be serving a dozen life sentences.’

  ‘Then maybe you and the rest of the boys in blue should have caught him more often.’ The words were out before I could catch them. I winced. John Barleycorn was a poor advocate.

  My dad knocked back his drink and slammed down the empty tumbler. ‘And maybe you shouldn’t have pulled every stroke in the book to get him and his gang off.’ I settled back for the onslaught. ‘I’ve never understood you - defending scum like Frankie McPhee.’

  ‘Dad, it’s my job. What you can’t thole is that while your career was spent locking people up, I make my money setting them free.’

  He replenished his glass and threw the drink back down his throat. ‘Taking up with a man like that. The man who killed your own mother.’

  Here we go, I thought.

  My mother had been a school teacher in the small mining town of Bo’ness on the Firth of Forth. There had been a pupil in her class, a bright lad by the name of Francis McPhee. He came from a broken home; most people were of the opinion he’d broken it. He was what my dad used to call ‘a juvenile delinquent’ and set for a life down the pit or, more likely, in prison. Mrs Munro had other ideas. She took an interest in the boy. She tutored him, brought him home after school to study. For a short time he became one of the family.

  I was a baby and sound asleep the night the police called to say that Frankie had been arrested for some minor misdemeanour. He was going to be questioned and they wanted a responsible adult present. His own mum was out, and probably drunk, and so Frankie had asked for his teacher. A car was sent and my mum set off without saying good-bye to her husband, who was in bed after coming off a late shift and whose opinion of Frankie would later be confirmed. At a tight corner on a wet night the driver lost control. Back then there was no ABS, no crumple zones, just a ton of steel doing sixty. The car hit a tree. Walls fall down on impact. Hit a wall and you’re in with a chance. Hit a tree and there’s no give. She died instantly.

  I liked to think I could remember her. I kept their wedding picture on my desk, but in reality that’s all she was: a pretty wee woman standing next to my dad in a black and white photograph. A woman who had died a very long time ago.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault and, anyway, Frankie’s changed,’ I said.

  My dad splashed some more whisky into his glass. ‘Men like that don’t change.’

  ‘Maybe not but I can’t be picky about who my clients are. Not in my line of business.’

  ‘Business?’ He was really letting rip now. ‘A run down Legal Aid bucket shop for junkies and hoors, more like.’ The record was on the turntable and it was getting a good old whirl. ‘You could have been something. When you first qualified they were all after you, all the big firms.’

  I took his glass and poured the contents back into the bottle. ‘I was with a big firm – remember – Caldwell & Clark?’

  ‘Aye, and you threw it all away.’

  ‘They stopped doing Legal Aid work. I understood the reason, I just didn’t agree with it.’

  ‘Legal Aid,’ he scoffed. ‘If you’d stayed where you were you’d be in line for senior partner one day and doing proper legal work for proper people, decent people.’

  Alex Munro was a proud man. I wasn’t about to tell him that his own failing health was one reason I had returned to my home town. My dad had raised me; always busy with his work, never too busy for me or my brother, Malcolm. Malky had moved down south and we rarely saw him. My dad had always been there for me and now I would be there for him. For the sake of both our blood pressures I should have kept quiet, but I didn’t. ‘Decent people? You mean rich people and to hell with the rest.’

  ‘If I find out McPhee’s up to anything I’ll bring the law down on him like a ton of bricks and…’ he jabbed a finger at me, ‘anyone else associated with him.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ I came back at him. ‘You’re not a cop any more so you can stop acting like one. You’re retired. Learn to live with it - I know I’m trying to.’

  He got up out of his chair. ‘Once a cop,’ he said, ‘always a cop.’ He riffled the bristles of his moustache with a finger. ‘Just remember: if you flee with the craws, you get shot with them.’

  Conversation over.

  ‘I’ll phone you a taxi,’ I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Don’t bother, I’ll walk.’

  There was no use arguing. I followed him to the door. ‘Okay if I come by and see you tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll be busy the morn.’

  There was no talking to the big bear. He’d be fine tomorrow. He was like that. Heat up, cool down. No wonder the doctors despaired. By the time we’d gone down the stairs, through the close and onto the pavement his temper was already on the ebb.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I told him. ‘But take it easy when you get home. Remember you’ve had your whisky ration for today.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said, taking a hold of my arm as I turned to leave him. ‘If Frankie McPhee’s got his hooks in, it’s you who’d better be bloody careful.’ And, with that parting word of advice, ex-police sergeant Alex Munro set off down the High Street like he was back pounding the beat.

  Chapter 24

  The weeks rolled by. I owed Jake Turpie another month’s rent, still didn’t have the money to pay him and was surprised that I hadn’t heard further on that score: my landlord being something of a stickler when it came to credit control.

  On this particular Thursday morning, however, as I awaited admittance to the cells at the Sheriff Court, my main concern was not my landlord but rather the fate of my client Oskaras Vidmantis Salavejus. I still wasn’t sure about him. Yes, he was an alky, yes, he seemed to like causing public disturbances and yes he was not averse to a spot of rough and tumble with officers of the law. The question was: did he have the potential to be one of my dripping roasts - a regular source of income in an uncertain world? I wasn’t going to find the answer to that with him lying in jail. I needed Salavejus out and about, getting drunk, getting into more bother and getting caught - legal aid certificates didn’t grow on trees.

  Unfortunately for both of us, Salavejus was of no fixed abode and so ineligible for bail. Apparently, he was no longer welcome at his previous address and the social work had drawn a blank at finding him a place to stay: hard enough to find accommodation for a single male, far less one with a funny name and a drink problem.

  The turn-key dragged himself away from the mental rigors of the Sun crossword and unlocked the door to my client’s cell. I walked in to meet four walls coated in yellow gloss paint, smeared with stains of uncertain provenance and covered in graffiti. According to the legend scraped deep into the wall, ‘Young Skid fae Bo’ness’ had been there, as had others less skilled in stone masonry.

  I sat down beside Salavejus on the only piece of furniture: a wooden bench pocked with cigarette burns. The prisoner had scrubbed up nicely. By the looks of things his time on remand in Saughton Prison had
been well spent for he was a whole lot cleaner, better fed and sober.

  ‘I want to plead guilty,’ he said.

  I wasn’t about to disagree, especially now that I’d been informed who’d be presiding. It paid to know your local Bench and the important thing to know about Sheriff Lawrence Dalrymple was that he liked to finish the day’s business as quickly as possible. The chance of a lunch-time finish at Nuremberg and Larry Dalrymple would have given Hermann Göring probation.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ I said. ‘You cop a plea. I say how sorry you are, the Sheriff goes home early and next week some old dear has her garden dug by the latest recruit to the community service team. Everyone’s a winner.’

  Upstairs in courtroom one the Procurator Fiscal, Hugh Ogilvie, leafed through his case file. The very sight of Ogilvie in a court room was a rare occurrence. Generally speaking he preferred to let his army of deputes fight it out in the trenches while he stayed in the office, engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the paperwork and massaging the conviction statistics. By his presence across the table from me I knew he could smell an easy victory. I took a seat on the opposite side of the table from him.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  I loved it when he fed me one-liners. ‘And you’re a tube - but I’ll try and be early tomorrow.’

  Apart from being fun, winding up the PF was all part of the job. Sometimes it knocked them off their stride, helped even up the scales. After all the prosecutor came to court with a thoroughly prepared, no-expense-spared case. Not only that but most Crown witnesses were cops, whose feats of memory were envied by elephants and who attended courses at Tulliallan to learn how to handle smart Alec lawyers. With odds like that the average legal aid, fixed-fee defence needed every little bit of help it could get.