Crime Fiction (Best Defence series Book 5)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘It’s good news for everyone,’ he said. ‘The AD will accept your plea of not guilty to murder and if your client testifies against him, so what? Starrs’ evidence will more or less tie in with what Quirk will have to say: that he had a bit of a tussle with Doreen, put a pillow over her face momentarily to keep the noise down and she died of vagal inhibition. The Crown can’t prove that isn’t how it happened. They can’t show an intention to kill nor any wicked recklessness, because there is absolutely no motive for murder and no other injuries to suggest excessive force—’

  ‘Except Prof Bradley and his finding of petechiae in the eyes,’ I said.

  ‘Which our expert can easily explain away.’ Paul started the engine and we followed Malky’s BMW out of the car park. ‘Dominic will be convicted of culpable homicide. Big Jock Mulholland will do a tragedy, tragedy, plea in mitigation and the judge will sentence accordingly. I’m thinking somewhere around seven years, even taking into account the botched dumping of the body, which was just the panicked reaction of a young man who’d made a terrible mistake.’

  I remembered Dominic Quirk’s other victim; the one he left dying by the roadside. The young man seemed prone to panicked reactions, especially after he’d killed people.

  Paul took a left at each of the next two roundabouts and we were back onto the M9 heading east. It was nine at night, the summer sky clear and not nearly dark enough for headlights. ‘I bet Nic Hart is furious that he’s been ditched,’ he said. ‘Al Quirk was on the phone to me as soon as he heard that Clyve Cree had changed his mind. He told me to get straight on to the expert witness from the States. He knows that we should have always gone with the truth.’

  Yeah, I thought, but only if there were no other options open.

  ‘And you really do think it is the truth?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s as near to it as we’re going to get, no thanks to you,’ Paul said.

  ‘What do you mean no thanks to me?’

  ‘Jock Mulholland tells me the Crown is practically biting your arm off to have Starrs testify against Quirk. You must really have told your client to lay it on thick about what he heard that night.’

  ‘I’ve told my client nothing,’ I said. ‘And before you go any further, just remember it’s me you have to thank for being back in the case. Who do you think got Clyve Cree to change his statement?’

  Paul laughed. ‘What? You did that? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Why do you think he changed his mind? It was because I found out he was working for Al Quirk and was about to blow the case wide open.’

  Paul squinted sideways at me. ‘Robbie, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Clyve Cree. He’s Al Quirk’s chauffeur-come-bodyguard. He was obviously—’

  ‘Al Quirk’s chauffeur is Thomas Bain. He’s a great big fat guy. I’ve met him a few times. He’s worked for the Quirks for quite a while. He drives Al about, takes his missus shopping, he’s practically one of the family.’

  ‘Well he’s not working for them now.’

  ‘Am I dropping you off at your dad’s?’ Paul asked, changing the subject. He obviously thought I was talking rubbish or didn’t really care. Why should he? He was back on the gravy train.

  Malky, who’d refused to give me a lift, was already at my dad’s house. I found him and my dad waiting for me when I entered; a strangely subdued reception party, their smiles, unusual in themselves, strained and as fake as a Turkish Rolex.

  ‘You having a beer?’ Malky asked, his huff having lifted in a new personal best time. ‘I’m having one. How about you, Dad?’ My dad was having one. We all had one; sitting gathered in the livingroom, a cold TV in the corner, a cold beer in our hands, looking at each other, the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional creaking timber providing the only sound in the room.

  I took a slug of beer. Malky and my dad, fixed smiles, looked from me to each other and back to me again. No-one spoke. This was serious. There hadn’t been this long a silence in the Munro household since... There had never been this long a silence. It could only mean one thing: my dad had learned of my break-up with Jill. Typical; I’d managed to keep a lid on things for weeks, and, now, a mere forty-eight hours before I was due to put operation reconciliation into motion, he finds out.

  Eventually, my dad cleared his throat. ‘So, Robbie,’ he said. ‘ Malky said you had a good game tonight.’

  I doubted very much that my brother had said anything of the sort.

  ‘It’s good to get a bit of exercise,’ my dad said. He sounded friendly. Way too friendly. If he had heard about me and Jill, why wasn’t I pinned up against a wall with his hands around my neck?

  ‘Never mind the game,’ I said.

  My dad looked aggrieved.

  ‘Out with it. What’s going on?’

  ‘You left your mobile when you went to play football.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You had a call and... I need to talk to you about Zoë,’ he said.

  Sudden relief. ‘Not this again, Dad. I’ve told you there’s nothing going on between me and Zoë. It’s got to be at least three years since I last spoke to her. She lives—’

  ‘She’s dead, Robbie,’ Malky said.

  Did he say dead? What did he mean dead?

  ‘Her sister phoned. Dad took the call.’

  My dad took over. ‘It was some kind of sudden illness. She went to the doctor with a pain, a month or so ago, and was told she’d not long to live. Just like that. I’m sorry, Robbie. She’d been trying to speak to you. That day when she called the office and I stopped you...’

  I told him it was all right. It was exactly three weeks since she’d first called; the day my dad had come back from taking a statement from Clyve Cree. I’d had plenty of opportunity to call her back since and kept forgetting. ‘Is there a funeral?’

  ‘Monday,’ my dad said. ‘Last Monday. In Australia.’

  My phone buzzed. I went outside to take it. The cool air washed across me. I looked at the indigo sky, closed my eyes and thought about my time with Zoë. So beautiful, such great fun to be with. I’d been devastated when she’d decided to go through with the emigration plans that had been in the pipeline long before she’d started work as a temp with Munro & Co. Now she was dead. What kind of jinx were the Munro men? First my mother dies before I even get to know her. Then Cathleen Doyle runs off with my brother and dies in a car crash. Now Zoë. Maybe Jill was well rid of me.

  The phone stopped buzzing. I checked the screen. Fiona. I waited. It buzzed again and a little icon appeared to say she’d left a message. ‘It’s me. Fiona. Tim asked if he could have Saturday morning pancakes and I felt guilty. I’ve made a couple of calls. There is no link between Al Quirk and Clyve Cree. You must be mistaken. Cree has never worked for Quirk, his chauffeur is someone called Thomas Bain, has been for a few months now. I’ve got his address in case you want to check it out, but I don’t think there’s any point. Let it go. Tell your client to plead and we’ll speak Monday afternoon. Ciao.’

  When I went back inside there was another, more pleasant surprise awaiting me; a carrier bag with a cardboard whisky tube inside. I pulled it half out of the bag, just enough to read the label: Highland Heather Dew.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said. It was a nice gesture, but it would take more than an expensive bottle of whisky to make me feel better.

  Chapter 47

  I rolled over in bed, unable to sleep for the second night in a row. When I’d returned home from my dad’s with a bottle of beer and a couple of whiskies under my belt, I’d crashed out more or less immediately, dreamt of Jill, weddings, Zoë and death, before waking from my troubled sleep. I checked the bedside alarm clock. Four o’clock. I spent the next hour lying awake, thinking about the Mark Starr case. Maybe Fiona was right and I should just let it go. After all, my client was getting away with murder. That was a result in anyone’s book. More to the point, he wanted to take the deal the Crown had offered. He’d resigned himself to spend some time in prison, so
why was I rocking the boat? If he didn’t take the deal, Al Quirk might come up with some other dodgy plan to have his son acquitted and that could only be bad news for my client. No, Mark Starrs would take the deal, do his time and choose his friends more carefully in future.

  Even with that decided, I still couldn’t sleep. Al Quirk’s role I could perfectly understand. But why would Suzie fall in tow with him? I remembered her words at our last meeting in Sandy’s. At the end of the day, everything is all about money, and Eleanor the agent had told me Suzie had money problems, that what she really needed was a sugar daddy. How come? She was a best-selling author. She could afford to give away four grand bottles of whisky as presents. Could she really be so financially desperate as to hook up with Al Quirk in order to fix his son’s trial? If Suzie’s involvement was all down to money, it certainly made things seem a lot simpler.

  I got up, showered and dressed. Clyve Cree had to be the link. I didn’t care what Paul and Fiona said. I’d seen Cree with my own eyes in the Quirk family home, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and, according to Eleanor, he knew Suzie. What remained a mystery was why it had been necessary for Cree to have met me outside Victor Devlin’s hideaway home and forcefully relieved me of a memory-stick. A memory stick containing information apparently so important to Rupert Smith, so urgently needing to be acquired, that the posh one had never bothered to mention it to me again. Where did the florid-faced one fit in to it all?

  And then there was Victor Devlin. Were we all flies caught up in one of the arch-conman’s intricate webs of deceit?

  I phoned the number Fiona had given me for Thomas Bain, Quirk’s usual chauffeur. It only rang once before a female’s voice answered. ‘Falcon Security, Liz speaking, how may I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for Thomas Bain,’ I said, taken aback that the call would be answered so quickly.

  ‘Who’s calling please?’

  ‘It’s Al Quirk,’ I said, in my gruffest voice.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Quirk, I didn’t recognise your voice. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve got to be at the airport by seven. Where’s Thomas?’

  She laughed. ‘Thomas?’

  I laughed too, as I imagined Al Quirk might: a short rasp. ‘Tommy—’

  ‘Tommy?’ she laughed again.

  ‘I mean… Tam.’

  ‘Tam?’ There was a rustling of paper. ‘Tam is with you, Mr… Hold on,’ Liz’s highly-polished telephone-voice had faded somewhat, ‘you’re not Mr Quirk. Who is this? Is that you, Davie?’ she laughed. She laughed a lot for someone who had to work at half-five in the morning. ‘Got a new mobile number?’ My number must have come up on her display.

  Since the fake Al Quirk voice seemed to be a dead-ringer for Davie-whoever-he was, I stayed with it. ‘Yeah, I had some trouble with the bill,’ I said. ‘They wanted me to pay it.’

  ‘If I’d known it was you, I’d not have answered.’ More laughter. ‘What are you wanting Tam for now? Is this about the stag-night again? If it is, he can’t go, he’s working.’

  ‘No, it’s not the stag-night, it’s something else really important. Will you get him to phone me? I tried to phone him at Al Quirk’s Thursday night and got told he wasn’t working. Now I’ve lost my mobile with his number on it.’

  ‘He must be dodging you, Davie. Tam has been working all week for Quirk. He’s on again today and tomorrow and not off until Monday. I’ll try him for you. If I can’t get him I’ll leave a message.’ We said our good-byes, I made myself a coffee, took it through to the livingroom and waited. And waited. The next thing I remembered was being awakened by a giant bee that turned out to be my cellphone buzzing. I was lying on the sofa, with an empty mug in my lap. I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘All right, Davie? Liz says it’s urgent. Make it quick.’

  ‘It’s not Davie,’ I said.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I want to talk to you about Al Quirk.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘When did Clyve Cree start working for him?’

  A pause; too long to support the denial that followed.‘ I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The line went dead. The number was now on my call log. I pressed redial. Someone answered but kept silent.

  ‘I think you do know what I’m talking about,’ I said. ‘Why did Clyve Cree take your place on Thursday night?’ Still no response. I spoke quickly in case he hung up again. ‘Maybe I’ll phone Falcon Security again and ask them. I found Liz very helpful, I’m sure she could put me onto your boss.’ If he had nothing to hide Bain wouldn’t take that as a threat.

  ‘What’s the big problem?’ Tam’s voice was less aggressive now. ‘I wasn’t feeling well. I gave someone else my shift. So what?’

  ‘Not over the phone,’ I said. ‘Meet me.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Meet me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Red Corner Bar.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Linlithgow. Right on the High Street. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Lithgae?’

  ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

  ‘When does it open?’

  ‘Be there at ten.’

  Tam grunted. ‘Not a word to nobody in the meantime.’

  As soon as he’d gone, I called Falcon Security again. ‘Liz? Hi it’s Davie. I spoke to Tam and he says I’ve to phone Clyve.’

  Liz’s laugh was less spontaneous. ‘Davie, I’ve no time for this. Away and prank call someone else.’

  ‘No, really. I need the number for Clyve . It’s about the stag-night. You must have it somewhere.’

  ‘Clyve? Clyve who?’

  ‘Clyve Cree?’

  No laughter, just a disdainful snort. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of joke name like Hugh Jarse? If it is, I don’t get it. Sorry, Davie, I’ve got to go.’

  Laughing Liz hung up. When she next spoke to the real Davie, whoever he was, it would make for an interesting conversation.

  Meantime, I had an even more interesting conversation awaiting me at the Red Corner Bar.

  Chapter 48

  Ten to ten on a Saturday morning and Brendan Patterson, Linlithgow’s very own Commonwealth-gold-winning fly-weight turned publican, was washing the wooden floor of the Royal Burgh’s dingiest pub.

  ‘What are you wanting?’ he asked.

  I tip-toed my way over damp sections of wood until I found a dry patch at the far end of the bar.

  ‘I’m meeting someone here at ten o’clock,’ I said.

  ‘Too bad, I’m not open until half past.’ Brendan dipped the head of his mop into a tin pail on wheels and sloshed it around, striking bar stools and table legs that had too many dents already to care.

  ‘That’s why I’m meeting him at ten o’clock,’ I said.

  ‘Here?’ Brendan shot the mop head across the floor, dragging it along the foot of the counter, making me step back to avoid having my shoes covered in white foam. ‘Why don’t you see him at your office, it’s two minutes up the road?’

  ‘Because you’re not there.’ I put an arm around his shoulders, rubbed the top of his head. ‘You’re here. And I feel safer when you’re around.’

  ‘Get away.’ He shrugged me off. ‘Away and fight your own battles.’

  ‘It’s not necessarily going to be a battle. It’s just that I’m meeting someone. Someone big, who...’

  ‘Doesn’t want to meet you?’

  The wee man was perceptive for someone with a head that had been punched so many times as his.

  ‘Just watch my back,’ I said. ‘Remember all those times I stuck up for you in primary school.’

  Brendan had started boxing early. He’d been small for his age. He still was and he was lateish thirties now. Back then his hobby had made him a target for bullies and I’d had to help out a few times. I normally did this by telling Malky, who was highly protective of me. No-one was thumping his wee brother. That was his job. So, on request, he’d
usually be kind enough to thump whoever it was who was bothering me or my pals and only occasionally did Brendan and I have to battle it out ourselves.

  I rolled up the sleeve of my shirt and showed him the scar on my elbow. ‘Preston Road swing park. The Gallagher twins wanted to batter you. Did I run away?’

  ‘Naw, you fell off the roundabout and landed on broken glass. I think the big twin threw up at the sight of all the blood.’

  ‘Point is, I covered your back.’ A shadow fell under the door and onto the wet floor. ‘That’ll be him.’

  I walked across the bar to the front door, expecting to meet Al Quirk’s chauffeur who had inexplicably been replaced in his duties by Clyve Cree the night before last.

  ‘Tam Bain?’ I said, pulling the door open.

  ‘No, Mr Munro. Not Tam Bain.’

  The voice registered even before I took in the livery complexion of Rupert Smith.

  ‘Mr Bain asked if I’d come and meet you instead.’ Rupert paused for a moment, glanced around at the deserted surroundings, marched over to a table and sat down. ‘I’ll have whatever Mr Munro is having,’ he called to Brendan, not looking in his direction. ‘So long as it’s a Glenlivet, double, straight-up.’

  Brendan pushed the mop into the foamy water and then jammed it under a cigarette machine that was no longer allowed to hold cigarettes and served as a place for dart-players to balance their pints between throws. ‘Then, just like him, you’ll need to wait. I don’t open for another half hour.’

  Smith removed a snakeskin wallet from his jacket and extracted two fifty pound notes. He placed them down on the table. Queen Elizabeth and her twin had scarcely had a chance to study the nicotine stains on the false ceiling, than the handle of the mop clattered on the floor and Brendan was pouring golden shots from the long neck of a green bottle. He brought them over with a couple of beer mats and set the drinks on the table. Smith picked up the fifties and tilted the notes towards Brendan who took hold in an instant.