Although Ogilvie didn’t look up from his file of papers, the corner of his left eye twitched. I was heartened to know my remark had hit home but today I didn’t need to get the PF riled. I wasn’t going to trial. Not with a pig of a case and a soft sentencer like Sheriff Dalrymple on the bench. I’d get things wrapped up quickly, go back to the office and catch up on some work. I might even have time for a haircut, though I’d be giving Jay Deez a body-swerve.
From behind me I heard the sound of clumping boots as Salavejus was brought from the cells to take his seat in the dock. The golden rule of the presumption of innocence never seemed much of an advantage when the law also insisted that the accused sit in the dock between two security officers.
‘Let’s go,’ said the Sheriff Clerk. He waved to the Bar Officer who in turn went off to entice the Sheriff from his chambers.
A murmur of anticipation ran through the rows of unempanelled jurors. I glanced over at them. What a system: tried by people too stupid to dodge jury service. Scots legal procedure no longer permitted the defence to challenge prospective jurors unless there was a good cause. In those fondly remembered not so long ago days, the defence had been allowed three freebies, which meant ditching the teachers and anyone called Reginald. Not anymore. In these enlightened times we had to take what we got and, as the list of assize no longer revealed the occupations of those to be balloted, theoretically an accused could be on trial for bank robbery and have sitting in judgement fifteen tellers from the Bank that likes to say, ‘Guilty.’
‘Next time you’re late I’m having you done for contempt,’ said the PF who had obviously been working on his snappy rejoinders.
‘Shuggy, why don’t you put a sock in it and I’ll have us out of here in ten—’
‘All rise!’ bellowed the Bar Officer glad to be exercising vocal chords that in another life had welcomed new recruits to the parade ground.
The Sheriff came in and everyone stood.
‘Brechin?’ I accused the clerk. ‘Where’s Larry the Lamb?’
The clerk's face wrinkled sympathetically. ‘Sorry. Sheriff Dalrymple phoned in. His grand-daughter’s got a piano recital.’
Sheriff Brechin laid out a big blue notebook and placed his fountain pen on top. The judicial appointment system is a mystery to many but I was entirely familiar with Albert Brechin’s route to the bench. It had started with a spell in the Army, then off to the Bar where he was best known for his availability. A move to the prosecution service looked on at one point when an old chum of his landed the post of Lord Advocate, but the last thing the Crown Office needed was a legal lard head like Bert Brechin solving the prison over-crowding crisis with streams of botched prosecutions. For an Edinburgh Academy F.P. and card carrying New Labourite there had been nowhere to go but up.
The Sheriff opened his notebook. ‘Sheriff Clerk?’
The Clerk put fresh tapes into the machine and switched it on. ‘Call the diet, Her Majesty’s Advocate against Oskaras Vidmantis Salavejus.’ The clerk winked at me and said in a low voice. ‘Been practising that all morning.’ The accused stood up. ‘Are you Oskaras Salavejus?’
Oskaras confirmed that he was.
‘Who appears?’ enquired the Sheriff, vaguely.
I got to my feet. ‘That would be me, M’Lord.’
‘Mr Munro, how does your client plead?’
The words stuck in my throat. I couldn’t plead guilty - not now. Talk about a big hitter? Brechin was the Babe Ruth of sentencing. With him sentencing, a charge of breach of the peace would have been bad enough, but assaulting a police officer – a detective inspector? Brechin would dish out the severest of tonkings for an offence of that nature. I wasn’t playing into his hands. It’s a bad plan that can’t be changed. Who’d said that – Tacitus or Publilius – some guy in a toga and probably not with this particular scenario in mind, but I decided that the man in the dock could take his chances with a jury.
‘Mr Salavejus pleads not guilty,’ I said and resumed my seat.
The accused called out to me from the dock. I heard him but didn’t turn around.
The Sheriff looked down at me. ‘Mr Munro, I think your client would like a word with you.’
‘No, my Lord,’ I said firmly. ‘He wouldn’t.’
Chapter 25
According to the two charges on the indictment, a breach of the peace and an allegedly unprovoked attack on Detective Inspector Dougie Fleming had taken place a few weeks before, within the Bombay Balti restaurant on Linlithgow High Street, handily placed not far from the police station.
On the first day of the trial the Crown had set the scene by calling a waiter and a couple who had been sitting at a nearby table. My attempts at cross-examination had scarcely made a dent in the Crown case thus far. Now we were into day two and the PF was delving into the meat of things. Books of photographs were produced showing Fleming’s injuries: the cut over his left eye, which the Crown maintained amounted to permanent disfigurement - though in my opinion any alteration to Fleming’s facial features could only be an improvement - a fat lip and some tenderised ribs. It was nothing controversial and I’d agreed all the medical evidence in advance. Better to let the clerk read out a joint minute of admissions than have a police surgeon go into graphic detail in the witness box.
The alleged victim was to be the prosecution’s final witness. It was always best to end on a high note and Hugh Ogilvie knew that this witness could be relied on to make a rammy sound like Ragnarok.
Detective Inspector Douglas Fleming entered the witness box, raised his right hand and took the oath in a loud solemn voice. He bowed to the Sheriff, nodded to the PF, smiled at the jury and was led through his evidence, spouting his version of events in a well-rehearsed manner.
‘I leapt to my feet advising the accused that he was under arrest,’ he said, when at last Ogilvie had brought him to the relevant part of the incident.
‘And do you see that person in court?’ asked the P.F.
‘Yes, sir, that’s him there.’ Fleming pointed straight at Salavejus.
‘Are you pointing to the man in the dock?’ asked Ogilvie, as though clarification were required.
‘Yes, sir, the man seated between the two officers.’
The two Reliance officers, either side of the accused, stiffened and sat up straight as the eyes of the jury turned in their direction.
‘Thank-you inspector, please go on.’
‘In my haste to apprehend the accused, my foot caught the leg of the chair, causing me to stumble. The accused took advantage of this. He proceeded to seize me, head-butt me and punch me about the body.’
‘Seize me, head-butt me, punch me about the body,’ the Sheriff repeated loudly in case the jury were hard of hearings. With great care he jotted down this important piece of evidence. When he’d finished he looked up and smiled at the witness. ‘And your assailant, you say he is the man in the dock?’
Fleming pointed once more directly at the accused. ‘That’s him, M’Lord.’
‘And you were in uniform, Inspector?’ the PF asked.
‘That’s correct, sir. I’d been giving a lecture at Tulliallan on interview techniques.’
I’d bet he had. Teaching the new recruits how to note down statements in pencil and have them signed in ink. Fleming was one of the few local cops who'd refused to go with the new electronic notebooks.
‘So there would have been no doubt in anyone’s mind that you were a police officer.’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Thank you, I have no more questions, Inspector,’ said the deeply gratified PF.
‘Yes, thank you Detective Inspector Fleming,’ the Sheriff chimed. ‘I’m sure the ladies and gentlemen will find that evidence most helpful when it comes time for their deliberations.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Do you have any questions for this witness Mr Munro?’
The Crown was ready to close its case and I’d not yet had so much as a sniff of a defence. There was nothing for it; I’d have t
o go fishing. I’d also have to be very careful. One wrong question and either Fleming or the Sheriff would be straight in with their size twelves causing even more damage to my client's already battered prospects of an acquittal.
I rose to my feet. ‘Yes, M’Lord. I’d like to clarify one or two points for the jury.’
‘Very well, but it all seems perfectly clear to me,’ said the Sheriff.
I began. ‘Inspector Fleming - you enjoy Indian food?’
True to form Fleming wasn’t giving an inch. ‘I enjoy a range of cuisine, Mr Munro.’
‘On this culinary occasion you dined at the Bombay Balti. Tell me, were you dining alone?’
‘No, I was accompanied by my wife who at the time of the incident was elsewhere.’
‘Indisposed, Inspector?’ prompted the Sheriff.
‘Powdering her nose, M’Lord.’
I interrupted the friendly banter between Sheriff and witness. ‘What did you have to eat?’ I was feeling my way gently, searching for an opening.
He thought about it. ‘Chicken tikka madras with fried rice, as I recall, Sir.’
The Sheriff shuffled his papers impatiently.
‘And it was while you dined on those succulent chunks of barbecued chicken that you noticed my client?’
‘It was impossible not to.’ Fleming looked to the jury and made his position clear. ‘He came in roaring and singing.’
‘Joining in with the piped music, you mean?’
‘No I don’t. I mean roaring and singing.’
‘You’re not a music lover?’
‘I can assure you, Mr Munro, your client is not Frank Sinatra. Not even Robbie Williams.’
One or two of the jurors smirked and for a moment I thought the PF was going to roll in the aisle. Even the normally mirthless Sheriff Brechin threatened to crack a smile. ‘What’s wrong Mr Munro?’ he enquired. ‘The Inspector not singing from your hymn sheet?’ Only the Sheriff found the remark funny. He cleared his throat. ‘Is this line of questioning leading anywhere?’
I hoped so and ploughed on. ‘Surely, Inspector, you are not a man to be annoyed by some singing.’
‘I wouldn’t call it singing. I’d call it shouting and disturbing the peace.’
The cardinal rule of cross-examination, so they say, is never to ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer; however, the people who dole out such pearls of wisdom spend a lot of time writing books and not much in court speiring awkward witnesses. In practice, those actually carrying out cross-examination have frequently to take a gamble, especially when the defence case is not so much weak as it is helpless.
‘Shouting what exactly?’ I was opening the door for Fleming in the hope that he’d play up the breach of the peace and take the spotlight off the more serious charge of assault. Juries love to reach a compromise; it gets them home sooner. I’d be more than happy if they thought the whole thing was nothing but a drunken stramash, came back with a guilty on the breach and let the assault slide into the hazy realm of not proven.
Fleming sighed. ‘I don’t recall exactly. It was just shouting.’
‘Is it not your job to remember what people shout - so you can tell us all about it afterwards in court?’
Fleming looked at the ceiling
‘Inspector?’ the Sheriff asked, when the witness showed no sign of answering. ‘Answer Mr Munro’s questions and maybe he’ll stop asking them.’
‘He was shouting at me. I don't know what, something about… about me and his girlfriend. As I think I’ve said - he was very drunk.’
‘And do you know the accused’s girlfriend?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t know who the accused was, how would I know his girlfriend?’
‘And I take it the accused’s behaviour, the singing, the shouting, the public disturbance, it caused you concern, Inspector,’ the Sheriff intervened. ‘No doubt you and any reasonable person would have been alarmed by his actions?’
I was about to object when Fleming latched on seamlessly to the Sheriff’s outrageous leading.
‘Indeed I was alarmed, M’Lord. I nearly choked.’
And there it was. That adminicle of evidence that comes along in every trial. Occasionally it erupts onto the scene like a rampaging bull. More often than not it creeps in on tip-toes and if unnoticed tip-toes right out again. It was my job to notice it. I moved closer and leaned both hands on the witness box.
‘And so, Detective Inspector, it’s at this point that you leap up and shout - in the middle of this busy restaurant?’
‘I’d had enough of his behaviour and advised the accused to get out or be arrested.’
I laid it on thick. ‘You stood up and shouted at him over the heads of the other diners?’
Fleming sensed the change in my questioning, though as yet he didn’t know where I was going. I only had a rough idea myself.
‘He was only a few feet away.’
I slapped on some more. ‘Your mouth, full of chicken tikka and basmati rice?’
‘I...told you... I was eating... at the time.’
‘You were annoyed?’
‘Annoyed? Yes, for the other diners more than anything else.’
‘Angry?’
‘Well...’
‘At being disturbed? At being alarmed by this man?’
‘I…’
‘Clearly distressed?’
‘I don’t… probably…yes.’
‘Red in the face?’
‘Perhaps, slightly.’ said the inspector, his face ablaze.
‘And staggering about?’
‘As I’ve already said, I stumbled over the leg of my chair…’
‘And that's the moment my client seized hold of you?’
‘Yes. And he head-butted me.’
‘An accidental clash of heads surely?’
‘Not at all.’
‘And he punched you I think, Inspector,’ said the Sheriff, checking his notes.
‘Yes,’ said Fleming.
I stepped in again.
‘In summary then, you nearly choked, you were on your feet, red in the face and Mr Salavejus came over and seized you.’
‘He butted me. He punched—’
‘Yes, thank you for clearing that up for us Inspector.’ I returned to my seat, hoping I’d done enough. It wasn’t going to get any better.
‘Clearing what up, Mr Munro?’ exclaimed the Sheriff, playing to the crowd. ‘I’m afraid, I’m none the wiser!’
I couldn’t resist. ‘Perhaps not M’Lord, but, one hopes, better informed.’
Chapter 26
There was no way I was going to let Oskaras Salavejus go anywhere near the witness box. Hugh Ogilvie’s style of cross-examination might have been more bludgeon than rapier, still I wasn’t having my client mess up what little progress had been made. The Crown case finished early afternoon and it being Friday the court adjourned for the day. The jury was released with the usual admonition not to discuss the case with anyone and to return fresh on Monday morning for closing speeches.
I went back to the office to check how things were going only to be informed by Andy that Grace-Mary had dislodged a filling on a piece of treacle toffee and had left early to go to the dentist. I realised he had his coat on.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I asked.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, taking off his coat. ‘I’ve been. To Abercrombie & Co’s – remember you asked me to go?’
It was true. I’d seen copies of statements the police had taken from the staff there but wanted to know more about the last few days of Max’s life and any unusual goings on. ‘Find out anything useful?’
‘Nothing new I’m afraid. The Law Society has sent someone in to wind up the business and he doesn’t know anything. The conveyancing paralegal is still off work with shock or nervous debility or something and Mr Abercrombie didn’t have a secretary as such; everything there is computerised, voice recognition, the lot. But I did get this from the receptionist.’
He handed me a thick sheaf of A4 stapled in the corner. ‘It’s a print-out of his diary. I don’t know if it will be of any interest.’
I took the papers through to my room where Grace-Mary had left some urgent mail on the desk. There was a batch of Crown productions for the Kelly case including a forensic report. I scanned it quickly. The marks and biological material found on Max were consistent with him having been in recent physical contact with Sean and vice versa. My dad had told me as much weeks ago. Now I had the evidence in black and white before me.
‘While I was there Mr Abercrombie’s receptionist told me that they’d been up at Livingston police station for the VIPER two a while back,’ Robbie said.
It must have been during Lorna Wylie's short-lived involvement in the case. I’d yet to receive the identification parade report. ‘And?’
‘Her and the paralegal watched the DVD and were both confident that they’d picked out the person who they say was Mr Abercrombie last appointment the day he was killed.’
Eye witnesses, now forensics as well. It was time for me to clarify a few details with my client. His defence of ‘it wisnae me’ just wasn’t going to cut it.
Chapter 27
I took a form from the reception desk and filled it in with the: prisoner's name and number as well as my own details. Visits to Polmont Young Offender’s Institution finished at four-fifteen prompt and the screws started getting twitchy at a quarter to. By four o’clock on a Friday there was more chance of getting on a 747 with a bump in your hijab. ‘You’re too late,’ said a prison officer. He had short ginger hair and the strain on the trouser button that sat about a foot below the tip of his black clip-on tie suggested a man who knew how to unwrap a pie supper. He was standing a few yards away leaning an arm against the frame of the walk-through metal detector in such a way as to show off the damp patch under his oxter.
I glanced up at the clock: five past four. I slid the form across the counter to the female receptionist who looked at the piece of paper in silent disbelief.
Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2) Page 9