‘French Martinis in Edinburgh, French Martinis in London. No, wait, I didn’t have any French Martinis in London and yet...’ Jill delved into her bag and produced a hotel receipt that seemed very readily to hand. She spread it out on the table. ‘Why did the Savannah charge me for all of these? I mean, the single malt whiskies and white wines are easily explainable, but, somehow, Robbie, I’ve never seen you as a vodka, raspberry and pineapple cocktail kind-of-a-guy,’ she said in a get-out-of-that-one kind-of-a-way.
I decided to go with the truth. ‘I met a friend: Suzie Lake. Remember Rupert said he’d bumped into her? She was in London to meet with—’
‘And she bumped into you too, did she? The woman is a human dodgem car, all the bumping she does.’
‘We had a few drinks, talked about old times and I gave her some advice on a new book she was thinking of writing.’
‘Of course,’ said Jill, mistress of irony, ‘it makes perfect sense. Why wouldn’t Suzie, the famous bestselling author, seek literary advice from a man who spends his time filling out legal aid forms and never reads anything but the sports pages?’
‘Not literary advice, legal advice.’ I drank the last of my beer. ‘She was thinking about writing a true crime novel—’
‘That still doesn’t explain why she just happened to stumble across you in the teeming metropolis.’
‘In all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the...’ Humphrey Bogart didn’t help. Time to turn the tables. ‘If you’ll remember, it was the night we were out for dinner at that Italian next to Harrods. It was you who had to leave early. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gone back to the hotel alone and I’d never have bumped into anyone. As it was, Suzie just appeared. What was I supposed to do?’
Jill’s frozen face showed no signs of thawing. The truth was not all it was cracked up to be. Why hadn’t I gone with a line about having developed a sudden craving for girly drinks?
Jill’s voice was now practically a whisper. ‘When I came to the hotel that Saturday morning was she in your room?’
The trouble with the truth is that it can become a habit if you’re not careful. I shrugged the smallest shrug that could be shrugged. ‘Yes, but it’s not what you think. Nothing happened. We had a lot to drink, it was late and Suzie—’
‘Had a sleep-over? Bring her jim-jams did she?’
‘She slept on the bed. I slept in a chair. You saw the state of me when you came to the door. I was fully clothed, I’d just woken—’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’
I wasn’t used to being cross-examined. That was my job. ‘If I had told you, would you have believed me?’
‘Let me put it this way,’ Jill said. ‘Because you didn’t tell me, I don’t believe you. And if I can’t trust you...’ She put both hands on the table between us, removed the engagement ring from the fourth finger of her left hand. ‘I can’t marry you.’ She placed the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand, got up from the table and walked out of the bar and out of my life.
Chapter 31
Saturday morning. My dad was in the garden mixing cement on an enormous sheet of plywood. I didn’t ask why.
‘Not seeing Jill this weekend?’ he asked.
Just the mention of my ex-fiancée tore at my insides.
‘I saw her last night,’ I said. I might be son-of-the-moment, but the procession of special treatment I’d received ever since my accidental gift of a bottle of rare single malt would come screeching to a halt the moment my dad learned that I’d screwed things up with Jill. He had always predicted our relationship would founder on the rocky shore-line of my stupidity. True, on past form, the smart money had always been with him, but of late he had started to come to grips with the idea that I might actually have done something romantically right for once. I had to sort things out with Jill, pronto.
My dad looked up from the pile of sandy mixture he was attacking with a shovel. ‘Is Jill home, then?’
‘She and her boss are in Edinburgh arranging a big do for when her company’s new centre opens.’
He grunted and returned to his mixing. ‘Did you talk about the wedding?’
‘We went over a few things. We still haven’t settled on a firm date yet. Jill’s very—’
‘Do you ever talk about... afterwards?’
‘After what? The wedding? The honeymoon?’
‘Kids.’
We had talked about children. In summary, Jill wasn’t keen.
My dad made a well in the centre of the mixture, wiped his brow with the arm of his sleeve and looked at me expectantly. ‘Well?’ He stood the shovel upright and then let it fall towards me.
I caught it. ‘We discussed the miniatures,’ I said, pouring some water from a watering can into the well and starting in at the mixture, glad to be avoiding eye contact. ‘Jill says just to go ahead.’
My dad splashed on some more water as I churned the mess, over and over. ‘Does she have anything particular in mind?’
Whisky was the one subject on which I could safely say Jill had nothing particular in mind and, besides, I was ready to tell him just about anything to keep him sweet so long as he didn’t get a sniff of what had happened the night before. I desperately needed to stall for time while I put mission Win Back Jill into operation. I lifted a dollop of wet mortar, slapped it down again onto the plywood board and chopped at it with the blade of the shovel. ‘She says to leave all that up to you, you’ll know best.’
I kept lifting, slapping and chopping for the next minute or so. When I stopped my dad was standing there, staring into the cloudy sky and muttering to himself.
I pointed the business end of the shovel at the pile of cement. ‘What do you think?’
He rubbed his jaw and stroked his moustache, still gazing heavenwards. ‘Well, a blend is obviously out of the question, which leaves a choice of—’
‘Not about the miniatures.’ I tilted my head at the fresh mortar. ‘How’s that?’
He took the shovel from me, used it to flip the mortar over a couple of times and then propped it against a wall. ‘It’ll do, I suppose. You see, if you go for a Lowland malt, well, some folk think it’s a wee-bit girly.’
‘No they don’t, Dad, only you do. Why don’t you stop mucking around? You know you’re going to choose an Islay malt.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said, trying and failing to sound open-minded. ‘Although, I suppose it might help if we narrowed things down to the one region, right enough.’
‘Dad, you know it’s going to be a toss-up between Ardbeg and Caol Ila.’
‘The bloke I know, his discount card is for Diageo.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So, Caol Ila it is then.’ He went off and came back carrying a tin pail. A pointing trowel rattled around inside it. ‘So long as we stick to the twelve year-old we shouldn’t start getting into silly money.’ He set the pail down, removed the trowel and stuck it, point first into his back pocket. ‘How many? Four dozen?’
‘Better make it six, just to be on the safe side,’ I said. ‘If there’s any leftover I’m sure they’ll not go to waste.’
My dad wasn’t arguing. He filled the pail with mortar, lifted it and, whistling as he went, lugged it down the garden a distance and then stopped. He turned. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Do I have to have a reason for visiting my dad ?’
‘No, but you usually do. What do you want? This bucket’s not getting any lighter and my new barbecue’s not going to build itself.’
‘Remember that witness you precognosced?’
‘What about him?’
‘I want you to follow him.’
My dad set the pail down on the ground. ‘You’re asking me to put a tail on him?’
‘It’s not the movies, Dad. All I want is for you to keep an eye on him for a day or two, see what he does, where he goes, who he talks to.’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘No. You’re right. It’s not the movies and I’m not Sam Spade.’
> ‘Then at least ask some of your old cop pals about him. See what you can find out.’
‘I’ve already met the guy.’ My dad took the trowel from his back pocket and began to clean his nails with the point. ‘He seemed okay to me and if he had a record the PF would have sent you a copy. I don’t understand what the big deal is.’
‘The big deal is that I don’t trust him. He appears from nowhere, two weeks before the trial, and presents Dominic Quirk with a twenty-four carat defence.’
‘So what? I thought you liked it when criminals got away with murder?’
‘Not all criminals.’
‘Just your criminals?’
‘My clients.’
‘I think the real reason you don’t want to see the laddie Quirk get off is because he bumped you and went to a different lawyer.’
‘That’s rubbish, Dad. I’m not happy because Cree, from out of nowhere, gives my client a motive for killing Doreen Anderson.’
My dad put the trowel back in his pocket and hoisted the pail again. ‘Ever thought that might be because he did kill her?’ he said, making his way down the garden again.
‘Or because someone wants it to look like he did, so that Dominic Quirk gets a walk.’ I called after him. ‘Someone who’d happily bribe a person to lie for him.’
He turned. ‘You think Al Quirk is behind it?’
I didn’t know what to think, but I intended to find out.
Chapter 32
‘A meeting with my client’s father is completely out of the question.’
Paul Sharp had been one hundred per cent correct. The arrival on the scene of Clyve Cree and, with him, the opening up of a new avenue of defence, had seen the Quirk family dispense with Paul’s services and the instruction of someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions why.
Nic Hart was smarmy, a know-it-all and president of his own fan club, and those weren’t the only reasons I didn’t like Quirk’s new lawyer. He had a pony tail. Seriously. The man was fifty-five. He didn’t even have that much hair. By my way of thinking pony tails were for schoolgirls and, maybe, female roller-skaters in sawn-off denims and halter-neck tops. Them and ponies. Hart was, however, a very quick walker because I was having some trouble keeping up with him as we climbed the steep flight of steps leading from the reception area of Edinburgh High Court. At the top I had to break into an unseemly trot as he marched across the mezzanine and only managed to catch up with him at a set of doors. I resisted the temptation to yank him back by his daft, greying ponytail and instead darted around the side and stood in front of the double doors.
‘I’m not asking you for a favour,’ I said. ‘I am going to speak to your client’s father. I’m just letting you know that, out of professional courtesy. You can either set up the meeting or I’ll slap him on a witness list and seek an order for a precognition on oath and Al Quirk can talk to me in front of the Sheriff with his right hand up to God.’ Hart tried to push past, but I stood firm.
‘Al Quirk has no role in this case other than as an anxious father,’ he said.
‘You tell him I want to see him.’ I stepped to the side and pulled one of the doors open for him. ‘I’ll decide what his role is.’
I let Hart go on his way and had only made it out of the building and the few hundred yards to where my car was parked when my mobile went off.
‘What you wanting?’
I’d met Al Quirk several times during the prosecution of his son on the road traffic matter and would have recognised his gruff voice anywhere.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘About your son’s trial, and I don’t want to do it over the phone.’
‘And if I say no?’
I explained what would happen. If I was forced to cite him to attend court it was bound to attract a lot of publicity and the questions I had to ask were ones I didn’t think he’d like publicised.
Al wasn’t happy. He was even less happy when I pitched up thirty minutes later at St Mary’s on Broughton Street. It was raining. Monday’s twelve forty-five mass had finished and celebrants were leaving, coming down the stone steps, hoisting umbrellas and pulling up the collars of their raincoats.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ Al said, walking down from the cathedral, dismissing his chauffeur with a wave of the hand.
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Quirk,’ I said. ‘My brother, Malky, was asking after you.’
He stared at me for a moment as though wondering where I was going with that remark. I went no further. Did he even remember his attempt at bribing Malky?
‘Good player,’ he said at last. ‘He just played for the wrong team. Shame what happened to him.’
I didn’t have a coat. I looked skywards. ‘Any chance we could talk inside? Your car maybe? I’m getting soaked.’
Al Quirk looked to where his apple-green Bentley Flying Spur was parked between two orange traffic cones and decided that the calfskin leather interior could do without the unwelcome attentions of a slightly-damp lawyer. He crooked a finger. ‘Come with me.’
I followed him up the wide stone steps to the Cathedral. ‘It’s the Cathedral’s bi-centennial this year,’ he said, when we reached the top. ‘They’re arranging a celebration, building a special display for the relics of St Andrew.’
‘What? The actual St Andrew?’
‘Brother of Peter, patron saint of Scotland. The cathedral is home to a large part of one of his shoulders and a piece of his skull.’
‘Why—?’
‘I don’t know why or what they intend to do. They’ve just asked for my input and when organisations ask someone like me for their input they mean one thing: money. Anyway, I’m happy enough to assist.’
‘And the Church isn’t fussy where the money comes from?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Gambling.’
‘There’s nothing in the Bible about not gambling,’ Al said. ‘If you ever read it you’ll find even the Apostles drew lots. What’s that but a raffle?’
We stepped through the arched portico.
‘Hail, Mary full of grace, be a doll and deal us an ace?’ I laughed. He didn’t.
‘I know why you want to see me,’ he said. ‘You want to know why I didn’t instruct you in Dominic’s case after the fine job you did the last time.’
‘That’s not why I want to speak to you. I assumed that you’d chosen Paul Sharp because of his... religious leanings.’
‘Paul’s a Catholic. So what?’
‘I thought maybe you’d realised who my brother is.’
‘I’ve always known who your brother is. Don’t tell me you think that because he played for Rangers, I ditched you for a nice Celtic-supporting lawyer?’ There was a long table, draped with a cloth of burgundy velvet and gold trim and upon which sat a wooden plate for donations and a scattering of various religious leaflets. Al leaned his back against it. ‘I’m from Linlithgow and so are you. We’re too far east to get bogged-down in all that West of Scotland bigoted shite. Yes my father was Irish, but my wife’s from Malta. Ever been there?’ I hadn’t. ‘The place is full of magnificent Roman Catholic cathedrals.’ He waved a hand about. ‘Some twice the size of this place. More silver and old bones than you could shake a stick at. It’s also littered with Union Flags and pictures of the Queen. The Maltese are devout Catholics who love Britain and the Royal Family. Send your average Glaswegian, Roman Catholic of Irish descent over there and his head will explode. No, Mr Munro, I’m a businessman. I choose the right person for the job no matter their religious beliefs. Believe me, choosing a different solicitor was nothing personal - happy?’
Not really. ‘So what made me wrong on this occasion if I was the right man last time?’ I asked, conscious of being diverted from the real purpose of my visit, but curious.
‘I’m a businessman and my business is gambling. You’re a lawyer, I am too, except the only law I deal in is the law of averages. You got Domini
c out of a tight jam once. I didn’t fancy the odds of you doing the double.’
Did that even make sense? I’d been given five minutes. I was lucky if there was thirty seconds left. Time to move on. ‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. The odds on Dominic’s road traffic case, the one I acted in. You didn’t happen to do anything to shorten them, did you?’
Al looked from his feet, to his watch, to me.
‘Sophie Pratt,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘The eye witness. She changed her story. I was wondering why.’
Al squinted. ‘Sorry, are you accusing me of something?’
There were more subtle ways of answering his question, I just couldn’t think of any. ‘Yes, I’m accusing you of bribing Sophie Pratt, like you tried to bribe my brother to throw a match twenty years ago and like I think you’ve done with Clyve Cree in Dominic’s murder trial.’
Al Quirk stared at me expressionless. Suddenly he reached out and took the collar of my jacket. ‘Come with me.’ Maintaining his grip, he tugged me along like a naughty schoolboy being dragged by an ear to the headmaster’s office. Through the West Door we went, past a font of holy water and into the nave, where amongst the rows of seats, one or two of the congregation were sitting or kneeling in prayer. He let go of my collar. ‘I’m not a devoutly religious man, Mr Munro, but I’m not going to lie to you here of all places.’ He shrugged. ‘Okay, what can I say? Many years ago I asked your brother to give away a penalty in a nothing game that his team were always going to win by a distance. So what?’ Some of those praying looked across at us. Al was oblivious. ‘When Dominic was in trouble last year I had a visit from a young woman. She was carrying a child. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old. Caused quite a stir in the household at the time. A woman turfing up at my door with a kid. I can tell you Mrs Quirk wasn’t best pleased.’
A priest had noticed the disturbance and walked up the aisle towards us.
Al took no notice and continued. ‘The young woman’s name was Sophie Pratt. At the time I didn’t realise that she was a witness in Dominic’s case. Of course, I knew there was a female eye-witness - you’d told Dominic and he’d told me - I just didn’t make the connection.’ The priest homed in on us. When he was only a few steps away he must have recognised Al, because he smiled and turned his attention to those few women who, still kneeling, were now looking over at us, not best pleased themselves. ‘Looking back on it, she must have thought I’d twig. She told me that she was in debt. She’d gambled everything on AKQ on-line fruit machines and bingo. She wanted the best for her child and asked if I could do something for her.’
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