Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘No, white wine will do,’ I said, and asked him to bring the drinks over to the very same sofa where Suzie and I had canoodled the night before.

  ‘What was that about French Martinis?’ Jill asked, once our drinks had arrived.

  ‘He’s probably on commission and trying to punt fancy cocktails,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t even know what’s in a French Martini. Do you?’ Jill was looking straight at me. I was a firm believer in feminine intuition; my secretary being one of the world’s greatest exponents; but there was no way Jill could be suspicious. Was there?

  ‘I think it’s vodka-based with pineapple juice or something.’ I swigged some shandy. ‘I know it’s a big favourite at the Red Corner Bar. A lot of the jakeys will drink nothing else.’

  Jill smiled unconvincingly and took a sip of wine.

  ‘But you were right,’ I said, in a less than seamless segue. ‘That was a great show.’

  Jill brightened. ‘I told you you’d like it. What was the best part for you?’

  ‘Oh, it was all good,’ I said. ‘You know all the dancing…’ I drank some more shandy, ‘and the singing... and stuff.’

  My theatre review was interrupted by a distant buzzing. By the time Jill had raked around in her handbag and come out with her phone, the buzzing had stopped. ‘Felicity,’ she said, reading the screen.

  ‘Ignore her.’

  Jill’s phone buzzed again.

  ‘Here, give it to me.’ I reached out for the phone, but Jill pulled it away and put it to her ear.

  ‘Hi Felicity… No, we’re back at the Savannah… Yes, we’re in the bar…. Just a shandy… No, no immediate signs of a struggle, but it’s still early.’ There followed a lot more of Jill listening before she finished with an, ‘okay, see you soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ I asked.

  ‘Very. She’s with Rupert.’

  ‘She would be.’

  Jill dropped the phone into her bag. ‘You don’t even know who Rupert is.’

  That he was called Rupert was all I needed to know. I asked anyway. ‘Okay, who is he?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. She’s just met him. Apparently he’s very rich and with loads of contacts. Lots of fingers in lots of corporate pies. You never know, he might be able to find you a proper job.’

  ‘A proper job?’ I asked in a country-yokel accent. ‘You mean like being a proper lawyer doing proper legal work?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And you can stop the Long John Silver impersonation now.’

  I took a gulp of shandy. Far too much lemonade. ‘What I do is a proper job. It’s just not properly paid. What’s more proper than joining the fight for truth and justice?’

  ‘And hoping they lose? I’ve really no idea.’ Jill checked her lippy in a compact mirror. ‘Anyway, Felicity and Rupert are dropping by for a nightcap. So I want you on your best behaviour.’ Jill snapped the mirror shut. ‘That means no courtroom stories about war-torn West Lothian.’

  A loud coo-ee from the doorway and Felicity arrived in a swirl of Gucci and a waft of Coco Chanel. The perfect end to a perfect day. We both stood.

  ‘Rupert?’ Jill asked with a mischievous smile.

  ‘We met this morning, just after I’d left you. I was stepping out of a cab and his car practically ran me over.’

  Better luck next time, I thought a millisecond or two before Jill nipped my leg. Hard.

  Felicity was at full gush. ‘He was out of the car in a flash to see how I was and he gave his chauffeur a terribly hard time. It turns out we have a lot in common. Rupert has a wide range of business interests and tells me a generous donation to Zanetti’s favourite charity at the upcoming gala ball might not be entirely out of the question. Isn’t that right, Rup...?’ She turned the palms of her hands upwards. ‘Where’d he go?’ She looked around her, as though somehow her rich new friend had become detached. She took a couple of backward steps and glanced into the lobby. ‘There he is. I think he’s met someone. What a man. He knows simply everyone.’

  While Jill accepted Felicity’s perfunctory hug, I looked around for some seats; there was barely room for two on the sofa that Jill and I had been sharing, and the place was busy now. Some football pundits were holding court at a table in a corner and their presence had attracted a number of admirers, which meant that there were a few vacant stools around the bar.

  ‘Why don’t you and Felicity sit here,’ I said. ‘I’ll send over some drinks and save a seat for Rupert at the bar?’

  Felicity seemed happy enough at that suggestion. Apparently, it was only a flying visit and Rupert could slum it on a stool for five minutes.

  Jill had a worried look. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’ll keep Rupert amused with some of my courtroom tales. You know how interesting they can be.’ My fiancée fixed a smile like she was fixing a bayonet. I downed the rest of my shandy and turned to Felicity. ‘It’s the way I tell them.’

  Felicity looked from me to Jill as though something was lost in translation. I left Jill to explain and was trying to attract the barman’s attention when a hand clamped down on my left shoulder.

  ‘Well, well. Robbie Munro. Fancy meeting you here.’

  I recognised the voice even before I spun around to stare into the smiling, florid face of Mr Posh. My head was spinning, an effect not brought on by a pint of weak shandy.

  ‘Don’t say anything you might later regret,’ Posh said. An order I obeyed easily because I was totally gob-smacked. After a moment or two I noticed that there was a man at his side, white shirt, black bow-tie, a towel draped over a forearm. He smiled and, white-gloved hand extended, gestured gracefully in the direction of a table that had mysteriously appeared and at which, beneath the drooping fronds of a potted palm, Jill and Felicity were already seated. Posh and I had no sooner joined them than another waiter arrived with four flute glasses and a bottle of champagne.

  After the waiter had poured and made himself scarce, Mr Posh, or Rupert, raised a glass to Jill and Felicity. ‘To the two most beautiful women in pharmaceuticals,’ he said. The women giggled politely and we all sipped from our glasses. Champagne was not my drink of choice, and, yet, I was familiar enough with the sparkling wine to realise that whatever it was I’d been imbibing previously, under the guise of champagne, had in fact been some inferior fizzy drink that bore little resemblance to the splendid liquid that now sashayed its way across my tastebuds.

  ‘Two thousand and two, a great vintage, don’t you think?’ Rupert held his glass aloft, tilting and swirling it so that the light caught shoals of tiny golden bubbles swimming to the foaming surface. He took another drink then stopped, almost choking, smiling. ‘Got a good one for you,’ he said. ‘Julius Caesar walks into a bar and orders a French Martinus. The barman says, don’t you mean a French Martini?’ By now Rupert was grinning so much he seemed unable to deliver the punchline. ‘No, says the bold Julius,’ Rupert emitted an involuntary snigger. ‘If I’d wanted a double I’d have asked for it.’

  The sound of Rupert’s laughter was matched in volume only by Felicity’s shrieks of merriment. I smiled politely. Jill hid her confusion behind a sip of champagne. Amidst the hilarity, Rupert excused himself. I wasn’t sure where he’d gone. Maybe he’d found his joke so funny there had been an under-pant accident and he’d gone to the toilet.

  Felicity gave Jill a nudge with her elbow. ‘Martinus. Told you. Rich and funny and with a classical education.’

  The two women chatted and I drank more champagne until Rupert returned. When he did, Felicity said, ‘forgive me, Robbie, you and Rupert haven’t been properly introduced. Robbie Munro meet—’

  ‘Robbie Munro?’ Rupert exclaimed. He extended a hand and took one of mine in a firm grip. ‘I’ve heard that name before. In fact I met someone only today who knows you. Suzie Lake. The author,’ he said to Felicity, who seemed to be the only one in need of clarification.

  ‘You know Suzie Lake?’ Jill asked me.

  I could feel the colour drain from my face. ‘We we
re at Uni together.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘Didn’t I? It was a long time ago. She left after the first year. Went on to great things.’

  ‘Do you two keep in touch?’ Rupert asked, way too innocently.

  ‘As a matter of fact I met her quite recently,’ I said. There was no good trying to conceal the meeting at my office. It could easily come up during one of the frequent sessions Grace-Mary and Jill had to discuss my numerous professional and personal deficiencies. ‘She dropped into the office a week or so ago.’

  ‘Suzie Lake was in your office?’ Jill asked incredulously.

  ‘Would I have read anything of hers?’ Clearly, Felicity was feeling out of things.

  Jill ignored her. ‘Why would Suzie Lake come to see you?’

  ‘Just looking for a spot of legal advice.’ I tapped my nose. ‘Confidential. You know how it is.’ I took the champagne bottle by the scruff of its neck and studied the label. ‘Good stuff this.’ I took another swig of vintage champagne, frantically thinking of something I could say to change the subject. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. Felicity removed a mobile phone from her sparkly clutch and studied the little glowing screen. ‘It’s a text from Hercule. Something’s cropped up. He’s flying in from Bern tonight and wants to meet us first thing. Which means we’ll need to go over a few pointers tonight.’

  Jill shrugged and pushed her glass away. ‘Then, let’s go.’

  Rupert knocked back his champagne and stood up. ‘I’ll have my car brought around.’ He put an arm around my fiancée’s shoulder, while looking at me. ‘Anyone ever tell you how lucky you are, Robbie?’ He gave Jill a little squeeze, his eyes flashing me a warning. When he spoke, his previously smooth tone had an edge to it, like sand in the gearbox of his limo. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let her get away.’

  Chapter 16

  Jill left with the others, leaving behind one puzzled fiancé and a barely touched glass of champagne. The former drank the latter while simultaneously trying to phone Suzie Lake. No answer. I left a voicemail message.

  Should I be worried? My wife-to-be off in a limo with the right hand man of a notorious fraudster. A man who seemed to know far too much about me and a certain best-selling author.

  When I checked out of the Savannah first thing next morning, my bill had already been settled. I called Jill from Kings Cross. No reply. What was the point of mobile phones? No-one ever seemed to answer them. I left a message thanking her or her Zanetti expense account for covering my stay and saying that I was returning to Scotland and would give her a call later.

  I arrived home around noon to find my dad in the kitchen, stirring something in a big pot.

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself,’ he said, measuring some salt out into his hand, tipping it in and stirring some more. ‘Back early are you not?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Thought I’d come round and make you something nice for your tea.’

  ‘Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘No problem. I knew you’d be tired and hungry after your long journey.’

  I went over and took a look in the pot. Mince.

  ‘I was going to make some of that spaghetti Bolognese, but they’d run out of spaghetti and I didn’t know what else to use. How many kinds of pasta do the Wops need? Got to over-complicate everything. It’s just flour and water, what difference does it make if it’s long and thin or short with holes in it?’

  He went on at some length about Italians, touching momentarily on the war, but what I took from his rant was that he’d decided not to encourage Italian frippery and so we were having plain mince and tatties.

  ‘I’ve put some peas in it. I know you like it that way,’ he said, before shooing me off. ‘Away and put your feet up. I’ll put some spuds on to boil and we can have an early tea.’

  I dipped a teaspoon into the pot and tasted it. Not bad. There were really only two possibilities. Either I had stumbled through some kind of rip in the time/space continuum into a parallel universe or it was all to do with a certain expensive whisky gift. That and the fact my dad was still feeling guilty about having bumped me on Fathers’ Day. Might as well milk it. ‘Nice mince. Pity, though. It’s never the same is it?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Mince. Without doughballs.’

  I thought I saw an eyebrow twitch and the ends of his moustaches lower.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got suet?’ he said.

  He might as well have asked if I had a half dozen fresh Dodo eggs in the fridge.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll nip down to the shop. Keep your eye on the pot and give it a wee stir now and again.’

  While he was gone Suzie returned my call.

  ‘We need to talk,’ I said.

  ‘About the book?’

  ‘About Rupert.’

  ‘Rupert who?’

  ‘Rupert who knows you and who I met in London?’

  Someone at the front door.

  ‘When can we meet,’ I asked. My dad came in holding a carrier bag. ‘Call you tomorrow.’ I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket.

  ‘Call who tomorrow?’ my dad asked.

  ‘Just a client.’

  ‘Phoning you on a Sunday afternoon?’ He walked past me, through the livingroom and into the kitchen.

  ‘Criminal defence,’ I said. ‘It’s twenty-four, seven. Not like you cops and all your days-off-in-lieu if you have to work five minutes over the end of a shift.’

  He had his back to me. It stiffened, but he said nothing, just dug into the carrier bag and produced a box of suet. First mince and doughballs, now I could slag off the cops without any come-back. The loss of a four thousand pound bottle of whisky was almost worth it.

  I left him to it while I went for a shower and changed from one shirt and a pair of jeans into another, cleaner shirt and a different pair of jeans. By the time I had returned to the kitchen he was pounding a pot of spuds like he hated Walter Raleigh.

  ‘Ever heard of a Victor Devlin?’ I asked.

  My dad’s mental database of Scotland’s known felons whirred into action. ‘Big time fraudster.’ He gave the pot of potatoes a final pummelling. ‘Carried out a scam all to do with mobile phones and one of you lot got him off.’

  ‘What about an associate of his, Rupert someone?’

  He wiped his brow with a sleeve and set down the masher after piling heaps of potato onto two plates. ‘Rupert who?’ he said, turning his attention to the pot of mince.

  ‘I don’t know his second name. I think—’

  ‘Och, never mind all that. Take a break from your work for five seconds, I have some important news.’ He eased out big dollops of mince and fluffy-white doughballs with a wooden spoon and carried the heaped plates over to the table, where he set them down beside a bottle of HP sauce. He took a seat and patted the chair next to him. ‘I’ve made a decision.’

  I joined him at the table.

  ‘The Black Bowmore. I’m going to open it. No point dying and letting you and Malky inherit. You’d probably sell it.’

  No probably about it. I had just one question. ‘When?’ If I was going to lose out financially, I wasn’t going to lose out gourmetically.

  ‘I don’t know the exact date. Yet.’

  ‘Come on. What’s the big occasion? Wait a minute - are you taking about my wedding day?’

  My dad poked a gravy-soaked doughball into his face and shook his head. He chewed for a moment. ‘No, there will be plenty enough whisky around that day, once you hurry up and speak to Jill about the miniatures.’

  ‘Then when?’ I asked. ‘I know you. You’ll have your golfing buddies round one night, and I’ll not get so much as a sniff at the cork.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He mashed some mince and potatoes together, added a splodge of HP sauce and balanced the lot on the end of his fork. ‘You’ll get a taste, but there’s only one occasion special enough to merit a dram of the Black Bowmore.’ He pushed t
he whole lot in and spoke with his mouthful. ‘You, me and Malky will wet the head of your first born with it. It’s about time we had a few more Munros about the place.’

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t so sure that was a sentiment with which Jill or, for that matter, the rest of the humanity agreed.

  Chapter 17

  I woke Monday morning after another bad night’s sleep. Rupert: who was he and what did he want? If ex-police sergeant Alex Munro hadn’t heard of him, Mr Posh couldn’t have much in the way of form, that was for sure; however, if my dad had been of no help, other than by dishing up a fine plate of mince and tatties, he had given me a line of investigation with his remark about Victor Devlin: ‘one of you lot got him off.’

  While I was at court that morning I asked around and discovered that in connection with his VAT difficulties, Victor Devlin had been represented by Gail Paton, a lawyer and ever present at Glasgow Sheriff Court who I’d come to know well from my time working in the wild west. Gail had been a defence agent so long that she could probably remember the last time the legal aid fee went up. I made a point of accidentally bumping into her early the next morning in the agents’ room of Europe’s busiest court building. She was standing in the queue at the snack bar when I sidled up to her.

  ‘Not seen or heard from Devlin in yonks,’ she said in reply to my casual question and after we’d shared the usual moans about the lack of prosecutions, legal aid and a Scottish justice secretary intent on creating an English justice system north of the border.

  ‘What was the last case you had for him? VAT fraud or something?’ I asked, pretending I hadn’t spent the night before checking up everything I could find about Devlin on the internet.

  Gail confirmed that Devlin had been shipping mobile phones to the continent and claiming back VAT. ‘Been at it for years. Must have made millions. Nothing wrong with doing it, of course, providing the phones actually leave the warehouse. Not always that easy if they’ve never existed in the first place.’

  According to Gail, there had been a lengthy and thorough Customs & Excise investigation and a report submitted to the prosecuting authorities. That’s where matters had ended. The case gathered dust on the floor of an over-worked, Crown-depute’s floor for a few years until someone had decided it was all just too old, too complicated and too expensive to see the light of a courtroom day.