Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘How’s the case going?’ I asked. ‘Found a defence yet?’

  ‘Still working on it,’ Paul said, dryly.

  ‘He’s definitely taking it to trial, then?’ I asked. ‘Despite—’

  ‘Despite your client grassing on him? Definitely.’ Paul returned to his notes, flicked over a page.

  I knew he was annoyed at the deal I was about to cut for Mark Starrs, which made winding him up all the more fun. ‘What’s the problem? Dominic pleads guilty, there’s a discount from the punishment part of the life sentence and he ends up doing fifteen years. He’ll be younger than me when he gets out and a lot younger than you.’ I gave Paul a light punch to the upper arm. ‘Plenty of life in the old dog yet, eh?’

  ‘I’m sure those fifteen prison Christmases would simply fly past,’ Paul said, still not looking up from the paperwork.

  ‘Of course they would,’ I said, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘He was a boarder at St Ignatius’ College. After all those years of cold showers, gruel and Hail Marys, he’ll probably think Shotts Prison is some kind of spa resort.’

  Paul stopped reading and glanced sideways at me. ‘Remind me, Robbie. When was the last time you pled someone guilty to murder? Never,’ he said, not waiting for my reply. ‘You can take it from me that Dominic Quirk is going to trial.’

  I couldn’t blame Paul for being annoyed at my client doing the dirty on Quirk to save his own skin, but I did get a certain sense of satisfaction from it. I slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You win some, you lose some. At least you’re not having to lose this one on legal aid. The Quirk family has more money than the Pope. What are you charging it out at?’ I asked, trying to keep the envy from my voice. The legal aid hourly rate, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, was cast in stone and set at a level that would bring a tear to a plumber’s eye.

  ‘I bet I’m charging a lot less than you charged for his road traffic case,’ Paul said, making it sound like it had been a parking offence and not a car crash that had caused the death of a young woman. ‘You’re just jealous.’

  Undoubtedly, but, as people said, though usually didn’t mean, it’s no loss what a friend gets. For Paul, like the rest of us Sheriff Court hacks, the occasional private case was merely an oasis in a legal aid desert. The Scottish Government had put a squeeze on criminal defence lawyers, with a raft of measures to not only cut publicly-funded access to justice, but to erode fundamental principles of Scots law that had for centuries been the envy of judicial systems around the world. The Independence referendum was looming and if your crusade was to run a proper nationalist socialist government, the first people you had to put up against the wall were the defence lawyers.

  Whether it was my having disturbed him or if he was finishing off anyway, Paul squared up his papers and tucked them into his briefcase. ‘Looking forward to married life? You do know that Jill is way too good for you,’ he said, expressing not just his opinion, but my dad’s as well. ‘How are the wedding arrangements coming along?’

  ‘Expensively.’

  ‘Jill going for the full white elephant is she?’

  She wasn’t. She’d been married before, in her twenties, a brief affair marred by domestic violence. We hadn’t actually fixed a date, but Jill thought it could be organised at fairly short notice. It was to be a low-key affair; the main financial concern being Jill’s mum who had emigrated to Canada twenty years earlier, married again and accrued a large number of new brothers and sisters-in-law as well as a battalion of nieces and nephews. Apparently they were all to be invited, and the cost of flying over these hangers-on and putting them up in a hotel was to be done at the expense of the bride and groom, no matter the groom’s stated views on the matter. Add to that the cost of a venue and even what appeared on the face of it to be a simple ceremony, was costing in excess of twenty-thousand pounds. Split equally, that was ten grand I didn’t have immediately to hand.

  ‘No doubt we’ll be scrutinising the fine detail when Jill comes home tonight. We’re going to Edinburgh for a meal and then maybe some house-hunting tomorrow.’

  I couldn’t wait to see Jill. For months now her working week had been spent away from home. Soon, she promised, she’d be transferred permanently to Edinburgh, and I longed for the day when our relationship was no longer just a series of telephone calls, emails and weekends here and there.

  ‘Still too proud to live at her place?’ Paul asked.

  It wasn’t pride… For one thing, Jill was seldom at home, but, mainly, I just wanted to start off married life on an equal footing; to sell Jill’s house and my flat and buy a new property in joint names. Except I’d have to find the massive shortfall between Jill’s share and mine before we could be equal partners.

  ‘You know what you are?’ Paul said, pinching my cheek. ‘A good old-fashioned, male-chauvinist pig.’

  ‘Because I want to pay my way?’

  ‘No, because you can’t handle the fact that Jill makes more money than you.’

  We walked to the door together and down the corridor towards the stairs that led to the courtyard of Livingston’s Civic Centre with its throng of humans and civil servants. Imagine a scene from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis but without the cheery ambience.

  Outside it was a fine Scottish summer’s day: cloudy with light drizzle.

  ‘Face it, Robbie. We made the wrong career choice. Scots defence lawyers are a dying breed. If you love Jill and she loves you - be thankful for that. Who cares who makes the most money?’

  By this time we had crossed the bridge over the River Almond and reached our cars parked next to Livingston F.C.’s stadium.

  Paul was right. My fiancée was lucky enough to have a transferable skill; one that didn’t tie her to Scotland and in a business that was bucking the recession. People used to say that doctors and criminal lawyers would never be out of business because there would always be sickness and crime. Those people had been right; ill-health and crime abounded. It was just that while sickness was treated, the Government had decided not to prosecute crime unless extremely serious or it met their politically correct agenda. This policy for the non-prosecution of wrongdoers meant less work for me, so it saved public funds and helped dilute the crime statistics. It was a win-win for the Government and an even bigger win for those escaping court proceedings. It was almost inevitable that in our relationship Jill would be the main breadwinner.

  And if Paul was right about another thing: if I truly was a male chauvinist pig – I was one porker ready to do just about anything for money.

  Chapter 3

  ‘So, who are you going to kill this time?’ I asked.

  Until that day, I hadn’t thought about Suzie for ages. There had been a time, most of my late teens and early twenties in fact, when I’d thought of little else. She’d been gorgeous then, she was gorgeous now. Knowing Suzie had made an appointment to see me had been the reason for the earlier reminiscences that had helped get me through the Procurator Fiscal’s tedious examination-in-chief.

  Suzie screwed up her eyes, pursed her lips, wrinkled her nose. Did she know how cute she looked when she did that? I mentally gave myself a slap on the face. You’re meeting Jill in a few hours. Remember? Jill? Your fiancée?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Suzie said at last. ‘My agent says I should set the next book somewhere exciting, exotic, like Hollywood or Shanghai, with actors and triads and stuff. Either that or go more up-market. I was thinking maybe royalty. I can’t keep doing politicians, I’ve bumped-off enough of them already.

  Was it possible to bump-off enough politicians? I wondered aloud.

  Suzie laughed at what she thought was my joke, and I remembered the girl I’d met when, both eighteen year-olds, we’d stood in the matriculation queue at Edinburgh University, me, jumping around, all spots and hair gel, Suzie, even then, calm, pretty and sophisticated like she’d done it all before. Unfortunately, the calmness had been entirely superficial, for it had disappeared under pressure, her bottle crashing during an important exam.<
br />
  ‘I did wonder about making the killer a member of the Royal Family,’ Suzie said. ‘You know? A prince or something. Public servant by day, out slashing the throats of debutantes by night, kicking-off a huge Government cover-up—’

  ‘Later to be uncovered by the intrepid Detective Inspector Debbie Day?’

  ‘Who else?’

  The door to my office opened and Grace-Mary entered. ‘Sorry to disturb,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly five and I’ve the post office to catch. I just wanted to say hello to Miss Lake.’ She turned to Suzie and gushed, ‘Huge fan. I loved Portcullis. Crime fiction really needs strong female characters like Debbie Day.’

  Suzie extended an arm in my direction. ‘Well here’s the man to thank.’

  Grace-Mary glanced around the room as though there might be another male body stashed away somewhere. Satisfied there wasn’t, she looked from Suzie to me and back. ‘Robbie?’

  ‘Yes, he gave me the idea.’

  ‘Robbie?’

  ‘The inspiration that sparked my literary career.’

  ‘Rob—?’

  ‘Are you deaf as well as late for the post office?’ I asked.

  Suzie clarified. ‘I was through here about three or four years ago, and Robbie took me for a coffee—’

  ‘You didn’t take Miss Lake to Sandy’s did you?’ My secretary asked, horrified at the thought of me dragging a literary genius into the greasy domain of West Lothian’s finest exponent of the bacon roll.

  I tapped the face of the watch I wasn’t wearing.

  Grace-Mary ignored me; which was more or less her default setting. ‘Sorry, what were you saying, Miss Lake?’

  Suzie continued. ‘I was working freelance, doing yet another article on Mary Queen of Scots for a history magazine. On my way from the train station up to the Palace, I saw Robbie fixing the Munro & Co. sign at the side of the close and couldn’t believe my eyes. We went for coffee and then the pub and spent just about all day catching up and remembering old times.’

  ‘Old times?’

  ‘We were at Uni together,’ I told Grace-Mary whose gossip antennae had raised along with her right eye-brow.

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’

  Suzie shook her head. ‘At one time I thought I might be. I’ve Robbie to thank for that too.’

  Grace-Mary looked confused. I saw no need to expand.

  ‘Robbie told me about one of his cases and it inspired me.’

  The look of bemusement on my secretary’s face was still in situ. ‘Which case was that then?’

  ‘One about a gangster who killed two other gangsters. He set up a bogus web-site and sent emails to his victims saying they’d won a competition for an off-road driving experience.’

  My client’s name had been Joe Finnegan. He’d driven his victims into the countryside, purportedly to collect some quad-bikes that didn’t exist, and left them there with less brain matter than that with which they’d arrived.

  ‘Grace-Mary, you remember Joe Finnegan’s case don’t you?’ I said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘How could you not? You typed all the precognitions.’

  ‘I try not to pay too much attention to what Robbie dictates,’ Grace-Mary confided to Suzie. She turned to me and frowned. ‘Anyway, that sounds nothing like the plot for Portcullis.’

  ‘True, I did have to adapt the plot a little,’ Suzie said. ‘I changed the gangster to a transvestite MP, his victims from a couple of neds to his rivals in the Cabinet, moved the whole thing from Glasgow to London—’

  ‘And,’ Grace-Mary finished for her, ‘lured the victims to a seedy massage parlour and used medieval torture devices to kill them. Definitely a lot more interesting than just shooting them like Robbie’s client did.’

  Suzie rounded off her tale. ‘After I met Robbie that day, I forgot all about Mary Queen of Scots and her chopped-off head, went straight home and started writing what turned out to be Portcullis. My first bestseller.’

  My role in Suzie’s literary career fully explained and with the promise of a signed copy of her next book, I eventually managed to dispatch my secretary in the direction of Friday’s last post.

  After Grace-Mary had left, Suzie and I chatted on for a while. She was single. Those kids she’d once hoped would grow up to be just like me remained unborn. If she noticed the picture of Jill that I kept on my desk, usually obscured by piles of case files, she didn’t mention it. For some reason, neither did I.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ she asked.

  ‘Hasn’t quite managed to drink himself to death,’ I said.

  I’m not sure if my remark jogged Suzie’s memory of our student days or not, but she reached down to a voluminous designer handbag and from its depths extracted an object wrapped in a brown paper bag. She placed it on the desk between us. ‘Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I never properly thanked you. Sorry about the packaging. I couldn’t find anything suitable.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A thank you,’ she said. ‘For changing my life.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. I told you about one interesting case. It was you who turned it into an international bestseller.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She made to put the parcel back into her bag and then laughed and set it down in front of me. ‘Honestly, Robbie, I saw this, remembered that you liked whisky and thought it would be a nice gift. I always felt guilty about not even giving you an acknowledgement.’

  ‘We’re quits then?’ I said.

  ‘The constitutional law exam?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Not entirely. I was wound way too tightly back in those days. Debbie Day wouldn’t have been the least bit fazed.’

  Constitutional law. Probably the most boring topic in all of law and that was saying something. With three hours of essay writing ahead of me, on a subject I knew very little about, I’d needed all the help I could get. It was time to turn up the pressure. Half an hour in, I’d put up my hand and asked for more paper. I’d hardly made a start on the sheets I already had, but, as hoped for, my request caused a ripple of panic amongst my fellow students: Robbie Munro, who’d scarcely attended a lecture, was tearing through first year law’s toughest exam like it was The Sun crossword. It was squeaky-bottom time for many and just too much for the tightly-wound Suzie. I’d always felt to blame for her ditching a career in law. Even though her departure in tears from the examination hall turned out to be the best move she’d ever made.

  She put the parcel onto the desk. I peeled back the brown paper to reveal a cardboard tube. Highland Heather Dew, allegedly the Co-op’s finest blend.

  ‘I remembered you liked whisky. It’s supposed to be quite a good one,’ she added defensively. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  With some mumbled words of thanks, I put the bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk beside a bundle of legal aid forms and my notary stamp.

  ‘Robbie,’ Suzie said. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  Here it came. Bestselling authors didn’t just happen to pop in on the spur of the moment bearing gifts of whisky, even cheap, blended whisky.

  ‘I’m in trouble,’ she said.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The worst kind – writer’s block.’

  ‘You’ve not murdered anyone then?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to. I just don’t have the plot and I was wondering…’

  ‘If I could give you inspiration? Be your muse?’

  Suzie winced. Possibly she was imagining me in something diaphanous. ‘Portcullis was such a tremendous hit that I was given a deal for a further three books. The second in the series just about wiped its face, the third has more or less sunk without trace and I haven’t written a scintilla of the fourth. My publisher is making noises about a return of some of the advance, which... Well let’s just say that might be difficult.’

  ‘I thought the third book was really good,’ I said.

  ‘That’s because you did
n’t read it – did you?’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ I asked.

  ‘Give me something. Any interesting case you’ve had that you think I could extrapolate a story line from.’

  It was my turn to wince. I had plenty run-of-the-mill assaults, drug-dealings, drink-drivers, housebreakings and one dangerous-dog on the go, but I couldn’t see any of them taking the New York Times bestsellers list by storm.

  ‘I don’t expect you to come up with something right away.’ Suzie picked up her now much lighter handbag and stood. She wrote her telephone number on a pad of yellow-stickies, came around the desk to meet me and gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. ‘Think it over and if you come up with anything, anything at all, be sure and give me a call.’

  I walked her to the door. ‘Enjoy your whisky,’ she said, making a face. ‘Personally, I don’t know how anyone can drink the stuff.’

  Fortunately, I did - and Father’s Day was just around the corner.

  Chapter 4

  The train I was supposed to catch left without me, and so I was half an hour late as I jogged up the Royal Mile and along George IV Bridge at the back of seven that evening. Although the start of the Festival fringe was still several weeks away, Edinburgh was hoaching with tourists and Friday-night revelers getting a head start on the weekend.

  Jill was waiting for me in the Barn Door, a well-hidden, basement bistro across the road from the statue of Greyfriars Bobby. There were two glasses and a bottle of white wine in a cooler on the table. Her sour expression suggested the wine might be corked.

  ‘Why can’t you ever be on time?’ she asked, as the waitress showed me to the table.