My dad spluttered over his next mouthful of Islay’s finest.
Malky continued. ‘All I had to do was give away a penalty.’
I was about to mention that there was nothing hugely unusual about Malky fouling the opposition in the penalty box or anywhere else, when my dad was on his feet, almost, but not quite, spilling his drink.
‘Why did you not tell me?’ he roared. ‘I’d have been down on him like a ton of bricks.’
‘I didn’t want to involve the law.’ Malky sipped his sweetened tea. ‘Anyway, I turned him down flat, except he wasn’t happy, started threatening me, telling me to watch my back etcetera.’
My dad’s knuckles whitened around the whisky glass.
‘Take it easy, Dad,’ I said. ‘ Malky didn’t cheat and nothing happened to him.’
My dad relaxed a little. ‘What did happen?’
‘I told the team captain.’
‘Back then that would have been Geordie Rafferty,’ my dad said, after a moment’s recollection. ‘Geordie was a hard man, but he was fair.’
Hard but clinically insane was my boyhood recollection; whatever, my dad was certain the battle-hardened mid-fielder wouldn’t have taken any snash off the likes of Al Quirk.
‘What did Geordie do when you told him?’ I asked.
Malky took a sip of hot sweet tea. ‘Clattered their striker inside the first five minutes. They scored from the spot-kick, we went on to win four-one and Geordie was on the bell all night.’
‘Did you know about this?’ my dad asked me.
I’d have been about fourteen at the time. Even then I wasn’t in the habit of listening much to what my big brother had to say; a habit I’d never quite managed to shake; however, I did vaguely recall him saying something once about a bookie asking him to cheat. I think it was years later when we were watching On The Waterfront and Marlon Brando was giving the big, I coulda been a contender speech. Until now I hadn’t realised Malky had been talking about Dominic Quirk’s dad.
Malky clapped his hands together. ‘So, Robbie’s been telling me all about this rare bottle of whisky he gave you.’
My dad beamed. He laid his glass down on the arm of the chair, went over to the wee cupboard stashed full of Malky memorabilia, and took out the Co-op blend cardboard tube. Face flushed with pride, he sat down and, holding it on his knee, popped the lid off the tube.
‘Must have cost you a fortune, Robbie,’ Malky said, the obvious note of irony in his voice evading my dad.
The old man pulled the bubble-wrapped bottle from the tube and stopped, looked up at me. ‘Well? Did you know about this thing between Malky and Quirk?’ he asked.
I shrugged.
‘And you never told me?’
‘Sorry, Dad, I promised Malky I wouldn’t say anything.’ I fixed my brother with a hard stare. ‘And you know us Munro boys always keep our promises.’
Chapter 27
The following day, Saturday, I met Suzie at the Peel, as the grounds of Linlithgow Palace are better known. It was early evening and a grey-suited, jailer of a sky showed signs of permitting an early-evening release to a sun it had held prisoner all day. Suzie had been in Dundee at a literary festival and returned worn-out from book-signing. I took that as good news. She didn’t see it that way.
‘The book they all want signed is Portcullis,’ she said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s my main bread-winner, but every book becomes dated. I’ve tried to freshen things up and yet the next two in the series are nowhere near as successful, no matter how hard I try to plug them.’
I had yet to read the latest books and didn’t want to stray too far in that direction in case I was asked for my views. So, as we walked across the lush, undulating landscape, down the hill from the ancient ruin itself and along the path adjacent to the loch, I explained to Suzie why the denizens of the Royal Burgh were referred to as Black Bitches; recounting the legend of the black greyhound whose master had been sentenced to starve to death on one of the two tiny islands in Linlithgow Loch.
‘The people of the town couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t die,’ I said, pointing to the clumps of earth breaking the surface of the loch, each populated by a few scrawny trees. ‘Some thought it witchcraft, then it was discovered that his faithful greyhound was swimming to the island every night with food.’
‘It’s a better story than Greyfriars Bobby,’ Suzie said. ‘Is there a happy ending?’
‘Only if Disney remakes it. When the town folk found out, they chained the bitch to a tree on the other island and master and hound both died.’
‘That was a bit rough.’
‘You mean ruff-ruff?’ I barked. Even I didn’t find me funny.
‘She was only being loyal, after all.’
‘True, but there was no SSPCA back then and you couldn’t have people, not even dogs, or, rather, bitches, attempting to defeat the ends of justice,’ I said.
Which remark brought us neatly around to the reason why Suzie had asked to see me.
‘I thought I should let you know that I’m not going to write the book: the one about Dominic Quirk,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll stick to what I know and what I know is how to make stuff up, not how to make real murder sound interesting.’
That was the trouble with real life killings: lots of head-stamping, stabbing, strangling and shooting: not much in the way of transvestite, serial-killing Parliamentarians abducting rivals and wreaking revenge with mediaeval instruments of torture.
Suzie grinned apologetically. ‘Sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’
‘You haven’t,’ I said. ‘And if in the future I have an interesting case I think you can adapt, I’ll let you know. We can meet up.’
We walked side by side, down from the Palace to the small marina.
‘How is Mark Starrs’ case coming along?’ Suzie asked, stopping to watch blue-hulled rowing boats bobbing on the choppy surface of the loch. ‘Did you manage to secure him a better deal?’
I explained that all deals were off the table. ‘It looks as though we could be in for a real cut-throat trial; each accused blaming the other.’
‘Why would Quirk want to blame your client all of a sudden?’
‘Let’s just say that up until now he may have been exploring a different line of defence, playing the odds.’ Without mentioning my conversation with Paul Sharp the night before, I explained how the arrival on the scene of Clyve-with-a-Y had shifted the balance of power between Quirk and Starrs. ‘It’s not essential in a murder case to prove motive; however, it’s what the jury will be looking for. Why was Doreen Anderson killed? It’s now open to Dominic Quirk’s defence to say it was all down to his friend’s jealousy. Every man and woman on the jury will be able to identify with that emotion.’
‘You think Quirk might change his story and lie?’
‘Don’t go confusing me with someone who knows what the truth is. And don’t confuse the truth with guilt or innocence,’ I said. ‘The truth is what the jury say it is. Ask yourself - would you believe that story?’
Suzie pondered aloud. ‘Rich boy steals poor boy’s girl. Poor boy is so overcome by jealous rage that he does something stupid? A crime of passion. Not exactly a ground-breaking plot-line, but all the more believable for that. Yes, I could sell a plot like that to my readers.’
We had reached the east-most edge of the Peel. Before its boundary with the bird sanctuary there was a small play park. Suzie went over to the swings and sat down on one of them. ‘Come on. What are you waiting for?’
I went behind and gave her a push.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What have you come up with? How is the famous Robbie Munro going to get his client out of this mess?’
I wished I knew. I gave Suzie another push and stepped back. Soon she was on her way, higher and higher, leaning back, legs outstretched, feet pointed at the dark water and the hills beyond.
‘All I have is the fact that Starrs got in first with his explanation,’ I called to her.
Suzie
put her feet down and skidded to a halt. ‘I’m getting dizzy. It’s a long time since I beamed-up on a swing.’ She stood, tottered and grabbed hold of me for support. For a moment I thought we were going to kiss. Suzie drew her face away, stepped back. She took my left hand, gripped the fourth finger and shook it. ‘Are you forgetting something? Or someone?’ She let go and walked on. I followed feeling foolish, disloyal and not a little disappointed.
‘What were you saying?’ she said, once I’d caught up with her.
‘I’m saying I can’t think of another case where more depended on the accused’s own evidence. In a way it’s good that he didn’t exercise his right to silence. Quirk’s decision to say nothing to the police might go against him, because we can accentuate the fact that Mark Starrs cooperated fully with the police and that his statement, given a very short time after the alleged offence, bears the hallmark of truth.’
‘Ooh,’ Suzie fluttered her eyelashes, ‘the hallmark of truth. I bet you say that to all your juries.’
‘If things go the way I think they will, it’s all we have left. We put Starrs in the witness box and let him have his say. Why would he admit to helping dispose of a body if the rest of his story wasn’t true? His defence paints the picture of a young man with nothing to hide, a man who told the police the truth right from the outset and his version hasn’t changed one iota since.’
The sun’s sentence had been recalled and it was once more firmly incarcerated behind clouds of steel. The wind had picked up and carried with it a smir of rain and spray from the loch. We turned our back to the stiffening breeze, following the path to the Burgh Halls’ rose garden and the shelter of its walls.
‘And when will it all happen?’
‘There is final preliminary hearing in just over a week. I can’t see the judge put off fixing a trial any longer. With Dominic Quirk on remand it has to start within a hundred and forty days of his full committal, and the time-bar is fast approaching.’
I waited for the question that every remanded accused client always asked me. Suzie didn’t disappoint. ‘What happens if they can’t?’
‘If the Crown isn’t ready and needs to extend the time-bar, it can hardly object to Quirk’s release on bail if he’s not to blame for the delay,’ I said.
The shower of rain remained a threat. We strolled through the rose garden, now in full bloom and a cascade of bright rose petals. Past The Green Man, a statue of John Hope, former Marquess of Linlithgow and first Governor General of Australia, we went, through the small archway outside the Masonic Hall and onto the cobble stones of Linlithgow Cross.
‘You mean he’d get out? What would happen then?’ Suzie asked.
‘He’d be in the same position as Mark Starrs. The Crown have a year to start a trial against an accused who’s on bail.’
To complete the circuit and end up back at Suzie’s car we commenced the ascent of the Kirkgate, a steep, narrow brae leading back to the Palace, where along the wall to our right, blue enamel plaques set out the royal line of succession from James V to Elizabeth, first of Scotland, second of England.
Suzie took my arm. ‘Do you think your client can do it? He’s so young to have to go into a witness box and testify on a matter so important to him.’
I didn’t know. All I could say was that Mark Starrs was a drama student and, if he was lying, he’d have to put on the best performance of his life or end up doing life.
We stopped beneath the stone archway leading to the Palace grounds. Dating from the fifteen hundreds, the gateway featured four carved and painted panels representing the orders of knighthood borne by James V, who like his more famous daughter, Mary of the head-chopped-off, was born in the Palace. Suzie looked up at me with those eyes of hers. I knew we only had a few more minutes together.
‘And if he’s telling the truth - what then?’ she asked.
‘If he’s telling the truth, he won’t need to act. Sometimes you find the truth can take care of itself.’
We had reached Suzie’s car. She took a set of keys from her handbag. ‘What about justice? Can it take care of itself? Or don’t you think it sometimes needs a helping hand?’
‘You mean bend the law a little?’
‘Or even break it, in the name of justice.’
‘Didn’t you used to believe that the law and justice were the same thing?’ I asked.
Chuck in a pint of heavy, a French Martini and a packet of scampi fries and we could have been finishing a pub discussion we’d started nearly twenty years before.
Suzie leaned forward and kissed my cheek. ‘I used to believe a lot of things.’
Chapter 28
Mark Starrs was worried. ‘I knew we should have taken the deal,’ he said, politely enough to suggest that he had been in some way responsible for my rash decision to reject the Crown’s earlier offer.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘The Crown only put the deal out there as a carrot when they thought the case unlikely to prove.’
‘And now?’
And now, with the arrival of Clyve Cree, it was a lot easier to prove; especially against the young man sitting across the desk from me that overcast Wednesday afternoon, one week before his next court appearance.
Cree was the worst kind of prosecution witness: one with no axe to grind. There was a clear inference to be drawn from his statement that my client had known the murder victim, that she’d cheated on him with Quirk before, and that Starrs had warned her what would happen if she did it again. Well, according to the forensic evidence, it was a billion-to-one certainty that she had. The question for the jury was: had Starrs followed through with his threat? Had he murdered Doreen out of jealousy? Suzie called it a believable plot-line; one she could sell her readers. I’d bet Jock Mulholland Q.C. could sell it to a jury.
No need to send my client into a fit of depression, though. There would be plenty of time for that later. ‘This is a criminal trial, Mark. A murder trial. There are always new developments as the big day approaches. The ground is constantly shifting. The trick is to keep calm, keep your balance and have a game plan.’
He looked over at me. The clouds of despair in his eyes threatened to clear and reveal outbreaks of hope. ‘Do we have one?’
I laughed at the absurdity of his question.
‘Do we?’ Apparently Starrs hadn’t intended his question to be rhetorical and wanted more than just my laughter in response. I rummaged around in a desk drawer, while I rummaged around in my brain for an answer.
‘Okay,’ I said, producing a legal notepad and setting it down on the desk in front of me. ‘What do we have? Well we’re stuck with what you told the police.’ I’d seen the DVD of the interview. The police had repeatedly asked Starrs if he wanted to consult with a lawyer and provided him with cups of tea throughout. That more or less took care of any suggestion of unfair police tactics; unless we took exception to the absence of chocolate digestives.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I told the police the truth.’
Why did clients think that the truth was going to help in a criminal trial?
‘Then we have truth on our side,’ I said, wishing I believed what I was saying, ‘and in the fight for justice that’s half the battle.’
Starrs seemed to take heart. I continued. ‘We know what our position is with regard to Dominic. What we need to do now is decide how we deal with the new witness.’
‘Easy,’ said my client. ‘This guy, Cree, must be mistaken.’ I had never set eyes on Doreen before that night. Me and Dominic were out for a drive—’
‘Looking for girls?’
‘Yes, but not how the police make it sound. We were taking a shortcut up one of the side streets and saw this girl crossing the road. Dominic said he recognised her from a café he went to sometimes. We pulled up alongside and asked if she wanted a lift. I never even left the car. It was Dominic who spoke to her through the passenger window. She got in and as we were driving her home she agreed to come back to Dom’s for a drink. H
e said he’d pay for a taxi to take her home again.’
‘So why is Cree saying otherwise?’ I asked.
‘Like I’ve already told you, he’s got to be confused.’
‘I had an ex-cop precognosce him on Friday.’ I looked again at the statement hot off Grace-Mary’s printer. ‘He doesn’t sound confused to me. He says he heard a person threaten the girl by saying he’d kill her if she went near Dominic again.’
‘So?’
‘So, he says that person had ginger hair.’
‘I’m not the only person in St Andrews with auburn hair.’ Starrs slouched lower in his chair. The clouds of despair that had temporarily cleared, rolled in again. ‘Can I ask my dad to come in?’
I told him I’d rather he didn’t. What was said between us was confidential. Theoretically, anything he said in the presence of his father could be used in evidence. Not that it was at all likely that Mr Starrs would go running to the Crown, but it was a good enough reason to stop his perpetually angry dad sticking his oar in. There was enough confusion already.
‘We need to stop and look at this logically,’ I said.
He stared blankly at me.
‘You know like Mr Spock on Star—’
‘I’m twenty-one, not twelve. I know what logically means.’
‘Then let’s look at your suggestion that Cree is mistaken. Logically, if you are telling the truth, he must be talking about another ginge... auburn-headed young man who’s driving a different brand new M3 convertible with a custom paint-job and talking to a different girl about some other person called Dominic.’
‘It’s possible,’ he sulked.
And he was right. In an infinite number of parallel universes there was an infinite number of possibilities. I kind of hoped I was living in the universe where our meeting was interrupted by a bikini clad model bursting into the room with a case of champagne and news of my lottery win. I waited. It wasn’t.
Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5) Page 13