Frankie McPhee is a dangerous man.
I should have called the cops but I hated the very idea. A defence agent can be many things: dishonest, greedy, opportunistic - come to think of it some of those were downright advantageous in my line of work - but not a grass. If word got out that I was a police informer, I might as well forget criminal law, leave town and start selling houses for a living.
After a time Frankie grew fed up hitting the door. I watched him return to the car and even as I saw shadow hands reach up, adjust the rear-view mirror and the vehicle drive slowly off down the street, indicator flashing, I didn’t feel greatly relieved. He knew I was onto him. He might not come back that night but return he would and when I least expected it. There was no way I could allow Frankie to choose his moment, and I definitely wasn’t going to try and catch some sleep with him and Big Jo-Jo anywhere in the close vicinity. Detective Chief Inspector Lockhart, I recalled, had a reputation for not disclosing her sources. It was the choice my dad would have made for me if he’d been there. That is, if he hadn’t gone out and tried to tackle Frankie McPhee himself. Lockhart’s slightly soggy card was in the top pocket of my damp suit jacket. I made the call and five minutes later, in my almost dry clothes, was sneaking out of the back door.
CHAPTER 56
Lockhart was waiting for me in a wynd off the High Street. She drove me to my office where I collected the canvas bag containing the gloves and shirt from my safe, and then to my flat where I added to the bag the pistol and the clip of bullets. From there we went to her place: a cottage along a dirt track off the old Edinburgh Road, not far from the House of the Binns, where Tam Dalyell’s ancestor had played the Devil at cards and won. I only hoped I had his luck.
‘It’s a former canal worker’s cottage,’ Lockhart told me, as we walked up the garden path leading through a manicured front garden and in the front door to the main room. ‘Wasn’t much more than a but and ben before I got my hands on it. Been something of a money pit – but I’m pleased with the finished result.’ She flicked a switch and a dozen spotlights blazed down on the astringent furnishings, spotless walls and floor. Someone had turned housework into an extreme sport. The effect was startlingly clinical and the opposite of homely.
‘It’s all on one level.’ She gestured to an arch leading off the main room and into a hallway. ‘Bedroom, study, loo, down there, and...’ she indicated a stripped pine door a few feet away, ‘kitchen through there.’
From the outside I’d imagined the interior would be something straight out of Country Living: subdued lighting, rugs on the walls, chenille carpeting, perhaps a few chunky knit cushions scattered here and there. The reality was white-washed walls, scrubbed limestone floor and some uncomfortable looking furniture. It was cold and extremely clean and tidy. As Grace-Mary might have said, ‘a place for everything and everything in its place.’
‘What do you think?’ Lockhart asked.
I rounded one of the pieces of sculpture that were dotted at regular intervals and parked myself on a firm but surprisingly ergonomic two-seater sofa to the left of the fireplace. My dad would have called the place ‘trendy’. I was concerned there might be pop-art in the toilet.
‘Very nice, but you’re a bit out of the way aren’t you?’
‘That’s what I like about it.’ She went over to one of the small windows and looked out at the darkness. ‘The Forth and Clyde Canal is practically on the doorstep. Sometimes if I’m feeling athletic I cycle along the towpath to Edinburgh.’ She closed the curtains. ‘I’ve never tried to go for a swim in it though,’ she laughed. I was glad someone found it funny.
My hostess coaxed the coals in the fireplace back to life using a wrought-iron poker and without spilling so much as a thimbleful of soot onto the white-marble hearth. ‘Yes, we saw the place and couldn’t resist it.’
‘We?’ Was that a pang of jealousy I felt?
Lockhart looked at me. I thought I detected a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. ‘Did I say we? Ancient history,’ she said and leaned her back against the mantelpiece. ‘What I’m interested in is the future and I’m glad you‘ve seen sense at last.’ She nodded her head at the canvas bag. ‘So, what have you got? Or, first of all, should I caution you that you have the right to remain silent?’
There was a small glass table to the side of the sofa. I emptied the pistol on to it followed by the plastic bags containing the shirt and scrunched-up leather gloves.
‘What have we here?’ Lockhart gently prodded the pistol with her index finger. ‘If I’m not mistaken, one Browning Hi-Power nine millimetre. Standard British Army issue and, incidentally, the late, not so great, Sadaam Hussein’s side-arm of choice.’
‘It’s not loaded,’ I told her. ‘I took the clip out of the gun. It’s in the bag.’
‘So are you going to tell me how you came by all this stuff?’
‘I was attacked in my home a few nights back.’
‘Ah, the old Scots crime of Hamesucken,’ she said as though forgetting I was a lawyer. ‘Used to be a capital offence. Any idea who it was?’
Jo-Jo Johnstone was the name foremost in my mind and yet, deep down, I found it hard to believe. There was his connection with Frankie McPhee, not to mention the injured arm, but could I really have held big Jo-Jo at bay? I might as well have given NATO a square-go.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘but whoever it was left the gun behind. I think it’s the same one that killed Max Abercrombie.’
Lockhart studied the gun with renewed interest. ‘What are the chances of finding fingerprints?’
‘Other than yours? Pretty slim I’d say.’
I trusted Lockhart more than I could bring myself to trust any cop; nonetheless, I’d taken the precaution of thoroughly wiping down the pistol and clip.
She hefted the gun. The thing to remember when disarming one of these is to make sure you haven’t left a round in the breech.’ She slid back the barrel to reveal a brass casing. ‘See what I mean? Can’t be too careful.’ She put the gun on the mantelpiece out of the way and began to pace up and down, her hands steepled, index fingers pressed against her lips. ‘And why was it, do you think, that you were attacked?’
‘Someone thought I had these.’ I gestured to the items in the plastic bags.’
‘And the photographs of Lord Hewitt? The one’s Chic Kelly talks about in his statement…?’
‘I did have them.’
‘Did?’
‘And the blackmail note. What Chic didn’t know was that it wasn’t Frankie who wanted the photos back, it was Gordon Devine. He’d handwritten the blackmail note.’
Lockhart looked at me, admiringly. ‘Really? That was careless of him. Then again, there were rumours of Gordon Devine blackmailing certain judges doing the rounds way back in the late nineties.’
‘And nothing was done?’
‘It was all hearsay, I expect, and no-one would take on a man like Gordon Devine without a steel-reinforced case. Not unless they fancied a career as a traffic warden.’
I told her what I’d gleaned from my chat with Bob Coulsfield, the macer.
‘I can see how it all ties in.’ Lockhart examined the plastic bags on the table. ‘The judge was ready to blow the whistle. Devine had messed up, knew he could be linked to the blackmail attempt and had to get the stuff back.’
I had been slightly sceptical of Chic’s statement at first. Now I was sure there was hard evidence to back it up. ‘I believe Chic. I don’t think he did kill Lord Hewitt.’
Lockhart said nothing.
I picked up the bags containing the gloves and shirt, one in each hand and held them up to her. ‘I think the real killer was wearing these. If I’m right they’ll be spattered with Hewitt’s blood. There’s probably enough of the killer’s DNA inside it to make a pot of soup.
She took the bags from me then let them drop onto the table. ‘Your client, Frankie McPhee, I hear he likes to make soup. Did I not tell you he was a dangerous man?’
I felt stupid at having waited so long to come clean. My old man had been right about Frankie: once scum always scum. He’d gunned down the judge in cold blood and would stop at nothing to destroy the evidence that could put him back inside.
Lockhart returned to the fireplace and rested an elbow on the mantelpiece above which hung a picture in an ornate gold frame. It portrayed a medieval battle with waving banners, armoured knights and axe-wielding infantrymen very much in evidence. Such a violent scene seemed out of place in that sterile little room.
‘It’s by Kossak: The Battle of Grunwald,’ Lockhart said, otherwise I wouldn’t have known. ‘It depicts the Grand Duchy of Lithuania’s victory over the Teutonic knights. It’s a print of course.’ She smiled her beautiful smile. ‘I should take it down. Not really my idea of art.’
‘Ancient history?’ I asked.
She smiled.
At the foot of the picture, embedded in the mount, was a medal: a cross, about one and a half inches wide, an enamel crown on a gold wreath of laurel in the centre. It was suspended from a ribbon, white with blue edges with a red middle stripe. I recalled my client. The one who’d attacked Dougie Fleming in the curry house. He had a medal. Hadn’t the drunken soldier been of Lithuanian descent?
I gazed around at that soulless operating theatre of a room, up at the medal again and down at the pistol. It hit me – like I’d stood on the end of a rake. The gun that had killed Max: not the gun of a professional assassin but the gun of a professional soldier.
‘Oskaras Salavejus.’ His name tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it.
The smile decayed on Lockhart’s lips.
Salavejus had lived here. He was the we, the ancient history. He was the reason Lockhart had taken an interest in the case. Time to leave. I picked up the canvas bag and was ready to fill it again. Lockhart pushed me with surprising power, the flat of her hand on my breast bone. I fell back onto the sofa, the bag in my lap. ‘It’s not like that,’ she said.
I jumped up from the couch. ‘No? What is it like?’ My mouth was a desert, my tongue a piece of stick.
‘Let me explain.’ Lockhart kneaded her brow with her fingertips. ‘I hadn’t heard Chic Kelly’s name mentioned for years, then some newspaper man phoned HQ asking questions about him and photographs of Lord Hewitt. He was extremely persistent and was eventually referred onto me as I’d worked on the Hewitt murder. Next thing I knew Kelly himself was on the phone from prison asking about reward money for the true identity of the judge’s killer. I went to see him. He gave me the statement and told me he’d been in touch with a journalist and was sending all the evidence to you.’
‘And you didn’t come and see me?’
‘Why? Would you have given it to me?’
I took that as a rhetorical question. I’d hand nothing a client had given me over to the police without a warrant. Lockhart obviously knew that.
‘I couldn’t ask for a warrant unless I had grounds to believe a crime was or had been committed. The murder case of Lord Hewitt was long solved and, as far as the authorities were concerned, the culprit was in prison. There were no grounds for a warrant, so I tried to intercept the delivery. I knew Chic wouldn’t trust just anyone to deliver it and he certainly wouldn’t want Frankie McPhee getting his hands on the stuff. I went to see his wife and son but they said they knew nothing about any package and so I staked-out your place for a few days. Nothing happened. I’d almost given up when who comes wandering up Linlithgow High Street but young Sean carrying a bag. He’d lied to me. When I saw him going through the front door of Abercrombie’s office I was confused. All I knew was that if Chic’s story was true and made public, it would end my career. I’d extracted an admission from an innocent man - the real killer was still at large. I wanted to put things right and I needed what was in the bag.’
‘So you went to see Max?’
‘I called him. He refused to talk about it over the phone so I said I’d come to his office. He wasn’t keen and said he’d get back to me.’
Max had called me that same day. To warn me? Ask my advice? If I’d taken that call could it have saved his life?’
Lockhart kicked the stone lip of the hearth. ‘I thought I’d lost my chance. I didn’t know how much he knew, who he’d told. I went home and let Oskaras know everything. He insisted on going and getting the stuff for me, by force if necessary. I wasn’t happy, but he said if there were any problems I could have it all brushed under the carpet. He told me later he’d taken the gun to frighten him, how a female had jumped him from behind. He managed to throw her aside. By that time Abercrombie was feet away and closing.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Mr Abercrombie was a big powerful man… It was an accident more than anything else... I’m sure.’
‘And when he killed Jacqui Dillon - was that an accident as well?’
Lockhart sat down in a chair at the fireplace opposite the sofa and put her head in her hands for a moment. ‘She was screaming. Hysterical.’
The mist in my mind was slowly clearing but there were still wisps of uncertainty. Why had Salavejus assaulted Dougie Fleming on the night of the murder? To create a nice little alibi - locked up in the cells on an unrelated police assault before Max’s murder had even been reported?
‘It’s all very interesting,’ I told her, ‘but I’m calling the police.’ I reached into my pocket for my mobile. It was dead. Either the battery had run out or the phone had finally drowned.
‘I am the police,’ Lockhart said. ‘Can you not leave this to me to sort out?’
‘It’s been left to you for weeks now and as far as I can see all you’ve done is attempt to defeat the ends of justice by covering over your boyfriend’s tracks.’
There was a telephone on the wall by the archway leading to the bedroom. I got up from my seat and marched over to it. I could no longer trust Lockhart. Max’s killer was her former partner. Salavejus had to be found and the sooner the better.
I should have been more careful what I wished for. As I reached for the receiver, through the arch and into the room right beside me, strode the tall figure of Oskaras Salavejus. He bore the fading remains of two black eyes and a cut on the bridge of his nose where I’d planted my forehead. From beneath one of the partially rolled-up sleeves of his green flannel shirt I noticed a cream-coloured crepe bandage peeking out. I stepped back, looking around for a means of escape. Lockhart was on her feet, blocking the way to the front door. I eyed the wrought iron poker in the fireplace. It wasn’t an oak bed-post but it would do. I lunged for it but only managed to knock the poker off the stand and clattering into the hearth before Salavejus was on me, a hand around my throat. He shoved me backwards onto the sofa. My neck jerked and my head cracked off the metal framework.
Salavejus towered over me.
Lockhart sat down again as though nothing had happened. ‘For completeness sake I’d like the photos and the note. Where are they?’
I swallowed hard.
‘Where are they?’ her voice was raised now.
‘I don’t have them.’
Salavejus lifted the poker. ‘WHERE ARE THEY?’
Before I could reply, there was a loud bang as the lock and associated woodwork on the back door disintegrated. The kitchen door burst open and Frankie McPhee materialised in the doorway looking along the stubby barrel of a sawn-off shotgun. It was the only the second time in my life I’d had a firearm pointed in my general direction. The first time I’d been scared. This time I was hugely relieved. Frankie hadn’t killed Max. He’d told me the truth earlier that day in my office.
The merest glance from Lockhart and Salavejus had his forearm across my throat again, wrenching me to my feet and skilfully manoeuvring me between himself and the shotgun.
Holding the sawn-off with one hand, I supposed over the years practice had made perfect, Frankie reached inside his jacket, took out the by now familiar faded blue folder and tossed it at us. Photographs fluttered out and floated down to the floor by the hearth, two or three landing fac
e up on the bleached flagstones.
‘Let him go,’ Frankie said. ‘You’ve got everything you want.’
Salavejus’s throttle hold on me weakened. ‘Put down the gun,’ he said.
Frankie lowered his weapon.
‘On the floor.’
Again Frankie did as he was told. Salavejus looked to Lockhart who gave him a curt little nod of confirmation and a push in the back sent me staggering towards Frankie. I was free to go, and why not? Even supposing I went to the cops, they’d make sure the pistol, gloves, shirt, photos and note were all long gone and who in their right mind would take the word of a bucket shop legal aid lawyer and his criminal client over that of Lothian & Borders’ great white hope and the winner of a war medal for gallantry?
Frankie nudged me. ‘Let’s go.’
I wanted nothing more than to leave. There was only one problem. ‘What about Max?’
‘He’s dead,’ Frankie said. ‘Nothing’s going to bring him back.’
‘Then what about Sean?’
Frankie didn’t answer. He took my arm and pulled me towards the kitchen door.
‘He’s your son,’ I reminded him.
‘And you’re Robbie Munro. You’ll get the boy off somehow, now come on.’
I made to leave, then stopped. I couldn’t go. I wouldn’t go. I dipped and picked up the shotgun. Even with cut-down barrels it was heavier than I’d imagined. The stock had also been shortened making the weapon poorly balanced and difficult to hold. Side-stepping away from Frankie, I did my best to point it at Lockhart.
‘I’m taking all the stuff with me,’ I said. ‘Including the pistol.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lockhart said, quite casually. She picked up the plastic bag containing the white shirt from the small side-table and chucked it on the fire.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Destroying the evidence,’ Frankie said. ‘The evidence implicating Lord Hewitt’s killer.’
Now I was really confused.
Frankie enlightened me. ‘Miss Lockhart did me a favour many years ago. It stopped me going to jail, temporarily at any rate.’
Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2) Page 22