Chapter 25
I called Suzie from the safety of my home phone. She wanted to meet and talk about the Quirk case. There wasn’t much I could tell her that she didn’t know already, and when she suggested we get together that Friday evening, I had to tell her I was committed elsewhere.
That other commitment had been added to my schedule by my brother, Malky, who, having been tipped-off by my Dad that I was a free agent for the weekend, had called me into the squad for his weekly five-a-side game. There was a group of around fifteen, some of them, like Malky, ex-professional players, others, like me, most certainly not, and because of the inevitable call-offs there was often a problem finding ten willing men last-minute on a Friday night. Things must have been really desperate for him to ask me to come and bring along a pal.
So, instead of a quiet evening in the company of the woman of my dreams, I found myself in a breeze-block changing room, struggling into a Boca Juniors strip that had shrunk since its last outing. From bitter experience, I found it always best to wear some kind of neutral playing-kit when five-a-siding with people you didn’t know that well. Unless Malky had invited along a supporter of River Plate, I wouldn’t be singled out for special treatment. My jaw had more or less recovered, but I didn’t fancy it getting another dunt anytime soon.
Paul Sharp, who had also been pressed into action, had decided to come along in a replica of the Celtic strip circa 1967.
‘Did you forget that Malky used to play for Rangers?’ I asked him as he drove me home after the game.
Paul didn’t answer, just grunted in pain as he pressed down on the clutch to change gear.
‘A lot of the people who play on a Friday are Rangers supporters. Not everyone has Malky’s ecumenical outlook on Scottish football and—’
‘I was asking for it, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. Just that if you are playing against a bunch of has-been or wanna-be blue-noses, probably best not to cross yourself when you score a goal.’
The traffic lights ahead changed to amber and Paul let out another involuntary groan as he clutched and braked. ‘Point taken, though, actually, I’m not so sure sectarian influences were at work,’ he said. ‘Some of the Huns had a nibble at me, but it was the fat guy in the Hibs’ top that crocked me.’
I remembered the incident. Paul had been racing down the right and about to cut in on goal when he’d been scythed down by a tackle that wasn’t so much late as early for next week’s game.
We came to a halt at the red light. ‘I thought you were going to do a Dominic Quirk and jump it,’ I said, using the moment to rather clumsily raise the issue of the upcoming trial.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to bring that up.’
‘How long have you known?’ I asked.
‘About what?’
‘Not what - who - Clyve Cree.’
Paul kept looking straight ahead as the amber light came on and he readied to move off again. ‘Look, Robbie, it’s half-nine on a Friday night. I can’t go for a pint because I’m driving, the wife’s got a weekend of DIY lined up for me and my left ankle is throbbing like buggery. I’m not in the mood for guessing games. What... who are you talking about?’
Was he serious? Did he not know about Cree’s evidence? Then again, why should he? The Crown hadn’t disclosed the witness’s statement yet and Paul didn’t have a ready-made precognition agent on hand like I had.
‘Forget it,’ I said. Paul had kindly agreed to take a slightly roundabout route on his way home to Bathgate so I could be dropped off at my dad’s house, where I’d arranged to meet up with Malky. ‘I shouldn’t be talking shop on a Friday night.’ We were approaching the Low Port end of town and I directed him towards the old Edinburgh Road, past the newly rebuilt Star & Garter Hotel.
‘No, I’m happy to talk about it,’ Paul said, striking it lucky with a green light and driving under the railway tunnel.
I watched a couple of raindrops compete for first place to the bottom of the passenger window. What a climate. The amount of rain that had fallen, it was all set to be Scotland’s wettest summer since the last wettest summer.
Up ahead another tunnel and another set of traffic lights at which Paul was less fortunate. ‘Let’s have it,’ he said, bringing the car to another painful halt. ‘Who is this witness... what’s his name?’
‘Cree. Clyve Cree.’
‘And why is he so important?’
‘Who said he was important?’ I asked. But my air of innocence was ignored.
‘Robbie...’
There was no real reason why not to tell Paul what I’d learned. He’d have Cree’s police statement on his desk in the next day or so anyway and he had the funding available to pay a team of precognition agents, or better still himself, to go and precognosce the Crown’s latest witness.
I relented, turned myself away from the raindrop Olympics and told Paul what I’d learned. We were outside my dad’s cottage when I’d finished. I thought he’d be pleased and ready to declare war on Mark Starr’s defence.
But happy he was not. ‘Bugger!’ Paul slammed the heels of his hands against the steering wheel.
I didn’t understand. Paul wasn’t stupid. He was a terrific defence lawyer, so terrific, in fact, that he’d probably never make Sheriff. He had to see the new picture. A paint-by-numbers job that Quirk’s defence could simply colour in. If Cree was to be believed, Starrs and dead Doreen knew each other. My client was a jealous young man and by all accounts had good reason to be. Quirk and Doreen had slept together, the forensic evidence was clear. The question was: how had Starrs felt when he discovered that? Drunk and angry enough to put a pillow over sleeping Doreen’s face? I could see Dominic Quirk’s defence counsel, Big Jock Mulholland, sell that scenario to a jury inside the average time it took Sheriff Brechin to return a guilty verdict.
Paul battered the steering wheel again. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger—’
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Looks like you haven’t so much found a defence as have a defence find you. There was never any motive attached to Starrs before - well there is now.’
Paul turned to me. ‘Yes it’s a defence, it’s a great defence. But it’s not the defence that Quirk has given me or senior counsel.’
I was intrigued, as much by the idea that, pre-Cree, Quirk had any defence at all, as by the idea that a change of client’s instructions would cause Paul such an ethical dilemma.
‘So you’re just going to ignore it?’ I asked.
Paul shook his head, the fringe of his still damp hair falling across his forehead. ‘Obviously, I’ll have to tell my client about this development and let him know that an alternative line of defence may have opened up for him, a better one, but not one that I or counsel can present, standing our earlier instructions.’
‘And you think he’ll go for it?’ I asked, clinging to the hope that, like his solicitor, Quirk would do the honourable thing and stick to his original defence, whatever that was.
Paul emitted a little sarcastic laugh. ‘His dad is a bookie. Once he learns that there has been a shift on the odds, he’ll be all over this new defence like a Liverpool housewife on the Grand National.’
‘So what was the old defence?’
Paul wasn’t keen to divulge.
‘Come on, Paul. You can trust me...’
Paul glanced unnecessarily, I thought, askew at me. He sighed. ‘I suppose it’s a line of defence that will be history come Monday morning, anyway.’ He switched off the engine. ‘We have an expert coming over from the States. The preliminary hearing was postponed so we could finalise a few matters with him.’
‘An expert in what?’
‘Neurology. He’s going to say that Doreen’s death may very well have been down to vagal inhibition.’
‘You were going for culpable homicide?’
Paul switched off the engine. ‘Quirk’s position to me was that he and Starrs gave Doreen a lift. They went back to his place, everything was fine and a lo
t of drink was taken. Starrs fell asleep on the couch. Doreen went to a spare bedroom and later on Quirk joined her. They had sex, fell asleep and a couple of hours later Doreen woke up crying. Quirk tried to console her, but she started shouting and screaming that she’d been raped. Quirk was in a flap. He didn’t know what to do, and, not wanting Starrs to wake up hearing cries of rape, he put a pillow over Doreen’s face—’
‘And smothered her?’ As I vaguely recalled it, Paul was more or less setting out the drunken opinion I’d provided to Suzie after a few too many Highland malts; a version that suited my client’s defence perfectly.
‘No, not smothered her,’ Paul said. ‘Accidentally applied pressure to the carotid sinus, on the neck, just at the angle of the jaw. The vagus nerve was stimulated, cardiac arrest followed and Doreen was dead in seconds. The expert says that vagal inhibition is more common in women than in men and exacerbated by alcohol.’
‘And Professor Bradley’s post mortem report?’
Paul shrugged.
‘Petechiae in the eyes?’ I reminded him.
‘Not necessarily down to asphyxia. Our expert says that haemorrhaging can occur during bouts of vomiting or even crying during periods of high emotion. Add to that the fact that the lack of trauma to Doreen’s body doesn’t suggest the kind of prolonged struggle you’d expect from someone being suffocated and fighting back and—’
‘What do you think Prof Bradley is going to make of this theory of yours?’
‘Our expert is coming from the John Hopkins in Baltimore. He’s the head of teaching in the hospital voted number one in America for neurology and neurosurgery, number two in cardiology. Prof Bradley will probably ask for his autograph.’
I had to admit it sounded good: for Quirk as well as my client. Mark Starrs’ evidence was to the effect that he had only heard Doreen shouting. Were they the cries of an hysterical girl who’d had too much to drink and woken up to find herself in a situation her sober self would never have allowed? Quirk’s impulsive action with the pillow was rash and clumsy, but understandable and without murderous intent. It was a reasonable defence for Quirk; more importantly it vindicated my client completely.
‘But it’s not a complete defence,’ Paul said. ‘It’s culpable homicide. Along with disposing of the body, it would still add up to a fair amount of jail time. I’ll need to give Jock Mulholland a call.’
‘Paul,’ I said. ‘I think Jock already knows.’ I told him about my discussion with Minty the day before.
‘If he knows and hasn’t mentioned it to me...’
‘It’s because he thinks you’ll do the decent thing, and if you cease acting for ethical reasons, then Jock will feel obliged to bale out too.’
Paul could see where this was going. ‘But if he gets Quirk to ditch me before I do, Jock can just keep on going and have a different solicitor prepare the new defence for him. This new evidence... think where it could lead in the right hands.’
Maybe he should have said, in the wrong hands.
Chapter 26
After Paul had finished his story, I went inside to find my dad in his usual armchair by the fire. Malky, who had raced away early from the game to watch the final part of a US cop drama he had been following all week, was slouched on the couch. I flopped down beside him. It looked good. Plenty of shooting, running around and screeching of tyres.
‘Never saw that coming,’ Malky said, eyes fixed on the action. ‘Looks like the District Attorney was the murderer all the time. Used his position to cover up the crimes – clever. I did think it was an inside job, mind you, but my money would have been on the Captain.’
‘Not that clever,’ said my dad, the TV critic, from behind his newspaper. ‘And it was never going to be the Captain.’
‘You say that now, but I was sure it was either going to be him or that other detective, you know, Johnny?’
My dad lowered the newspaper, shaking his head at his elder son’s naiveté. ‘The Captain is black. The senior cop is always black and always dead grumpy, but he’s never bad. He’s the one who’s forced to take the hero’s badge and gun off him in the first episode and then gives it back to him at the end so he can go solve the crime. Rich white Americans make these TV programmes. If they start making a black cop the baddy, everyone will know they’re racist. They have to make the arrogant, posh, white guy the baddy. Then everyone is happy when he gets killed at the end. Common sense really.’ He raised the newspaper and then lowered it again. ‘Oh and if Johnny is the hero’s buddy, you’ll find he’s blotted his copy-book in the past, but will redeem himself in the end.’ He turned a page. ‘Shortly before he gets bumped off.’
My father was a man of many opinions and few doubts.
‘Have you seen this before, Dad?’ I’d seen some of the trailers and thought they’d been promoting a brand new series.
‘No, but Yank telly is all the same, they just shuffle the actors about.’
Malky’s snort of disdain was drowned by an on-screen shot ringing-out and loud cries of, ‘officer down!’
A bullet-holed cop made a few last remarks and with a final gasp died, head cradled in the arms of the hero, whom I recognised as a bit actor from other US shows and who’d obviously been promoted to a lead role.
‘Johnny?’ I asked.
Malky made a growling sound in his throat, pointed the remote at the TV and pulled the trigger. ‘I need a drink.’
My dad folded his newspaper and stuffed it down the side of his chair. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea - you’re driving. And remember you’ve to drop Robbie off on the way.’ He levered himself up into a standing position. ‘Fancy a beer, Robbie? I’ve got a couple of bottles of your favourite in the back fridge.’ And upon my confirmation that I’d love a beer, he sauntered through to the kitchen.
Malky tossed the TV Remote onto the now empty armchair. ‘Got him wrapped right around your pinky, haven’t you?’ That was rich coming from Golden Boy. ‘Where did you get the money to buy a four grand bottle of whisky? I thought I was going crazy buying him a bottle of Ardbeg unpronounceable. Do you how much that stuff costs? North of fifty quid. It’s a lot of money to pay for some water and barley. And then you stroll in with a, ‘here Dad, have a bottle of some whisky so rare Indiana Jones couldn’t find it with a map’. You must really—’
‘It was an accident.’ I immediately regretted my words. I’d just wanted to halt Malky’s rant, not let slip such sensitive information.
Malky perked up. ‘Accident? What do you mean?’
I’d done it now. I’d have to tell him. Malky had a mouth the size of Grangemouth and my only hope was to swear him to secrecy, a vow he took rather too easily I thought.
‘Someone gave me the bottle as a present. I didn’t know the value of it and, well, Fathers’ Day was coming up so—’
‘You idiot. Sorry, I’m not laughing.’ Malky was still laughing when my dad returned with my bottle of Innes & Gunn and a chilled glass.
‘What’s all the hilarity?’ my dad asked, before disappearing once more into the kitchen.
‘Robbie just told me a great joke,’ Malky said, when, moments later, my dad re-appeared, this time with Malky’s mug of tea and a whisky for himself.
My dad looked at me enquiringly, as yet no hint of suspicion on his face.
From somewhere I dredged up a one-liner from a past Edinburgh Fringe stand-up. ‘I was telling Malky I’d phoned to book tickets for Deep Sea World.’
‘So?’
‘They said my call might be recorded for training porpoises.’
In the comedy world eons passed, tectonic plates shifted. It was probably five seconds in all before my dad let loose an almighty guffaw. ‘Porpoises. Brilliant, Robbie.’ He raised his whisky glass. ‘Here’s to you.’ The tumbler was almost at his lips, before he stopped and raised it again. ‘Oh, and to you too, Malky.’
‘Is that the whisky I bought you for Fathers’ Day?’ Malky asked.
My dad looked at the glass. ‘Aye, the Uig
eadail. Not a bad drop,’ he said of the single malt that he’d once declared his favourite.
‘I thought it might be the one Robbie got you.’
I sensed a note of mischief in my brother’s voice and felt sure he was all set to break his earlier promise. Time to derail this particular topic of conversation.
‘Thanks again for taking that precognition for me today,’ I said.
My dad closed his eyes and waved a hand across his face. ‘If you can’t depend on your old man, who can you?’
‘Robbie dragging you out of retirement, then?’ Malky asked. ‘How did he manage that?’
‘It’s an important case. I needed someone who knew what they were doing and they don’t come more experienced at taking statements than a cop with thirty-five years’ service,’ I said.
My dad smiled modestly.
‘What did you do, Dad? Take him into a wee room and punch a confession out of him?’ Malky sipped his tea and made a face. ‘Did you not put sugar in this?’
‘Sugar in your tea? What are you - a big wean?’
I couldn’t believe it. A front row seat to the desanctification of St Malky of Munro.
Unused to criticism from his father and not sure what to do, Malky took his mug through to the kitchen. ‘What important case have you got?’ he asked me, upon his return. ‘One of your junkie clients in bother again?’
My dad was immediately there in my defence. ‘Robbie’s involved in a big murder case with the laddie Quirk. You know, the boy who killed that woman last year? Well, he’s murdered someone else now.’
The upcoming trial had been mentioned in all the papers, but, if it wasn’t on the sports’ pages, it wasn’t news so far as Malky was concerned. ‘Any relation to Al Quirk, the bookie?’ he asked.
‘His son,’ I confirmed.
Malky scowled. ‘He’ll be a crook, then. Just like his old man.’
My dad’s disregard for the presumption of innocence was well documented, but what had Quirk senior ever done to Malky for him to make such a sweeping statement?
He enlightened us. ‘Remember my first year with The Rose when we got to the cup final? We were unbeaten that year, best defence in the league by a mile. Training night before the semi-final, Al Quirk meets me in the car park. He’s driving a Merc, I’m seventeen, just passed my test and driving shoe leather. He asks if I’d like some money to buy myself a car.’
Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5) Page 12