Lies of the Land

by Chris Dolan

“I’ve to find a lawyer with a heart.”

  “Good luck.”

  “How are things at over there? Have they made you a partner yet?”

  “I doubt they will. Not sure they were ever going to.”

  “I thought you were Julian Miller’s golden boy?”

  “Even if I was – which I doubt – that particular game’s a bogey now. Listen, we were very rudely interrupted on Saturday morning. I know you’re spoken for but—”

  “—But that doesn’t usually stop you?”

  “If I had wanted to take advantage I had the perfect opportunity. Isn’t it just possible that a man can take pleasure in the company of a member of the opposite sex and join her for a coffee and chat sometime?”

  “Not when they’re as devastatingly sexy as us… I’d be delighted to join you for coffee. Maybe next week?”

  “Excellent. So you’ll stop blanking my calls?”

  Maddy enjoyed the rest of the walk, over the river which looked energised by the downpour. The whole city felt redeemed, washed of its sins. The dome of the Central Mosque sparkled like the Koh-I-Noor. Dan had once told her, after they’d had a few drinks, that on special occasions it lit up and spun round. She’d believed it for weeks, even told other people. She still thought it a shame it wasn’t true.

  She had her meeting with Max Binnie and told him the bare facts of what she knew about both Bill Crichton and cousin Dante. Except she didn’t say it was her cousin, nor how she had come by the information. Binnie showed no interest, riveted by the Crichton and Miller gossip.

  “Really? Bill and Marion.” She got the impression he knew them better than she’d realised. There was no need to tell him about Crichton’s visit. She wanted this case, and Binnie might use anything he could to keep it from her.

  Back in her office, after agreeing a date for the preliminary hearing of her fatal accident inquiry, opening a new file for a domestic stabbing that had just come in, and requesting a defence statement on the golfing assault, she reread everything she had on the Miller murder. The image of Julian dead in his office haunting her. He’d been a bulky, fleshy man, robust, red-faced, a lump of pulsating life. And then he wasn’t. In an instant. The ruthlessness of his killing. Lucky, perhaps, that it was over so quickly, but there must have been a moment, a nanosecond when he knew the universe was about to collapse on him. Did he have time to see his killer? Did they speak? What of? Or did Death just walk up the stairs and claim him? Was he half expecting it?

  It was how she worked. Go over the same ground again and again. It’s amazing what you can miss first, or even second or third time. But nothing much came to her. Except for two names. In a report Coulter had given her there was mention of an argument between Tom Hughes of Fulton Construction and women by the name of Morag Boyd and Cathy Maguire. The report didn’t say what the dispute was about.

  It took her a few minutes to make the connection. Maddy had been involved in preparing a vastly complex and long-drawn-out criminal negligence claim against Petrus Inc. A multinational corporation, the case had been a nightmare involving laws and lawyers in the States, Saudi and Singapore. Years of work and nothing had come of the process in Scotland, neither in the criminal courts nor the civil. Finally it had seemed, should any real evidence be brought to light, that a civil case was more likely, so Maddy had dropped it, after wasting a lot of time. She searched deeper into her computer files.

  There she was. Morag Boyd, a potential witness in a trial that had never taken place. Was there a connection between Petrus and Fulton? Or was Boyd a campaigner, making her presence felt whenever and wherever she could? Maddy had a vague memory of interviewing her. She didn’t remember her as some kind of obsessive eco-warrior. A nice wee woman, as she recalled. Worried, and doing her civic duty. A few more checks through contacts and there were the details. Morag Archibald Boyd, Robroyston, not far from Belvedere, Fulton’s development site.

  Amy Dalgarno offered Marion Miller a lift home. The woman fascinated her. Playing the pantomime villain, of course, for which she expected – and deserved – a standing ovation. Amy laughed at the idea – an innuendo Marion herself has probably used. But how deep did the act go? The sergeant, having to keep up appearances at all times, at least while she was at work, couldn’t help but like the panache of this particular Wicked Queen. She reminded her a bit of Maddy Shannon, unable to resist the smutty line, the good-time-girl act. If Shannon, as Amy thought, battled her demons of weight and after-hours drinking, what were Mrs Miller’s demons? Shannon was obsessed with work, brilliant if compulsive. There was more to Miller than the Merry Widow act. There must be.

  It was a long drive out to Killearn and Amy knew not to point out her favourite climbs and cycles – the woman was not the outdoors type. So they sat in silence for most of the journey, Miller texting with the speed and dexterity of a teenager. Every now and then she’d laugh out loud at a message, but it felt just a little premeditated.

  “So am I officially a suspect in my husband’s murder?”

  How could she not be? Though DS Dalgarno didn’t believe it for a minute. Her story fitted and, no matter how hard the woman tried, she wasn’t convincing as Cruella de Vil. And Bill Crichton? He didn’t have the balls for murder. The pathetic creature was more terrified of his wife finding out about his bit on the side. What on earth made the colourful Miller plump for a pasty anaemic dud like him?

  “You understand, ma’am, we have to investigate everything and everybody.”

  Miller nodded and went back to her texting. Dalgarno sensed something pessimistic about her, the way she slouched a little when she thought Amy was watching the road. As if she was investing too much energy in a project that might not be worth it in the end.

  They arrived at her house at the same time as Bill Crichton. He wasn’t happy about DS Dalgarno seeing him, like it was still a big secret. There were two marked police cars already there, and a couple of uniformed officers were taking samples of soil from the garden.

  “Good God,” Marion laughed, “do they think I was going to bury him under the fuchsia?”

  As they walked away together, Dalgarno standing by her car, Crichton frowned at her. “It’s not funny, Marion.”

  “Bill, darling, it’s absolutely hilarious.” She put her arm round him which made him even more uncomfortable. “Come on, you need a drink.”

  As they walked away Amy couldn’t hear his reply. She didn’t need to, his body language said he wasn’t coming in – not in full view of several policemen and Sergeant Dalgarno. Marion didn’t feel the need to be so circumspect. “Running back to Clare, are we?” She let her arm drop from his waist and looked out her keys. “She has to find out sometime, Bill.” Crichton stopped and, shoulders slumped, stared at the gravel path. “Don’t be a coward on this one. She’ll survive.” Then opening her door she called over her shoulder. “A box of Kleenex and a phone call to Mummy. Tell her Bill. If you don’t, I will.”

  Maddy and Alan met for a bite to eat at close of play. They used to go out their way, to Café Tibo in the East End, or St Louis in Dumbarton Road, so that they wouldn’t be seen together. In their way they were like Crichton and Miller finding out-of-the-way spots, though so far they hadn’t been reduced to sheltering under clammy trees in parks. And their liaisons were clandestine not for amatory reasons but professional ones. Fiscals and coppers cosying up was seen as bad form by both sets of colleagues. Now that there was a major incident on the go, all the more reason to keep a low profile.

  Recently it had dawned on Maddy that the safest place for them wasn’t far from the Crown Office and just round the corner from police headquarters. Hiding in plain sight, in the CCA. It was an interesting facet of provincial white-collar life that so many professionals wouldn’t go near a place like the Centre for Contemporary Arts. So many of the moneyed middle class would never go to the Edinburgh Festival, or to the theatre. If artists still relied on bourgeois patronage Glasgow’s cultural scene would be in a pitiful state. The g
olf courses and football terraces, however, would still be hoaching.

  Just possibly Izzy, Maddy’s junior, might go to the CCA, but only to see a particular show and, anyway, Izzy was too wrapped up in her own life and work to even bother mentioning if she saw Maddy there with DI Coulter. Until not so long back Dan McKillop frequented the CCA but he seemed to have become ever more professionalised and was now more likely to go to Gamba or the Ubiquitous Chip. Most of Coulter’s colleagues didn’t know the CCA existed.

  Maddy resisted ordering a large Pinot Gris. She’d been good in so many ways. Not a drink or a cigarette since Friday night. There was a beer on tap that was only 2.5 per cent so Alan had a pint and Maddy a half. She’d also been a good girl trying not to get involved too early in the Miller investigation, despite it trying to reel her in. They pretended to talk about other things – Louis, Martha and the kids – but it only lasted until Coulter’s food arrived.

  “I could name you a dozen suspects off the top of my head,” said Alan, picking at his salad – he’d still have to eat his tea when he got home. “The lovely Mrs Miller and her toy boy…”

  “I’d love that, but, nah.”

  “You haven’t been part of the investigation but you’re dismissing two prime suspects out of hand? John Russell would disagree. They can only alibi each other, either one or both of them could easily have been in Miller’s office on Saturday morning. They had the opportunity, and the motive.”

  “Motives,” Maddy scoffed. “Motives for Russell are like prayers were for my nonna. What motives? An insurance policy and inheriting the business? They’re all loaded, they don’t need the money.”

  “Crime of passion. Two lovers get rid of an inconvenient husband.”

  “From the little I know – as you’re so keen to point out – about Marion Miller, she’d just have left him eventually. Or got a divorce. Doubt if old Jules would have cared much. Nah. Doesn’t solve their problem. They’d have to kill Clare Crichton too.” Maddy looked around, impatient for her food to arrive. “Killers are long in the making. Someone somewhere has been building up to this. The opportunity presented itself, but the decision was made a long time ago.”

  “You’re teaching me how to catch a murderer?”

  “Perhaps it didn’t need to be Julian Miller. He just happened to be in the right place at the crucial moment. Maybe any lawyer. Or any man. Or any one.”

  “Thank you for the lesson. Shall we continue considering the cast of characters we do know?” Coulter smiled to cover his annoyance. Shannon could irritate him as much as she could everyone else. Yet he felt drawn to her, professionally as well as personally. “Tom Hughes or someone else at Fulton Construction? Zack Goldie?”

  “The caretaker lad?”

  “Don’t think he’d have the energy to pull a trigger. Clare Crichton?”

  “She’d be more likely to kill her ever-loving husband.”

  “What about your uncle Danny?”

  “Cousin Dante? Long shot. Why talk to me? He’d keep a low profile. Then again he is a very very angry Italian man. You considered Stuart Anderson?”

  “Who?”

  “Husband of JCG Miller’s conveyancing expert, Sam Anderson. They were with me on Friday night. They got a taxi back after midnight, to Bearsden. But Sam told me that Stuart didn’t go to bed as usual, crawling in tired sometime the following morning.”

  “Now you tell me?”

  “Stuart has a habit of slipping my mind. I was with him at the weekend, I’ve met him tons of times, but I can barely remember his face. Ever.”

  “Good face for a killer. I’ll have him looked into. What does he do?”

  “That keeps slipping my mind too. Civil engineer? Wee round fellow. Has he got a beard? Can’t remember. Always pleasant enough, smiley, but then he fades like a ghost.”

  “Does he like gardening?”

  “The earth found on the gun? No idea.”

  “Analysis will take another day or two. Meanwhile we’re collecting soil from the Millers’ and Crichtons’ gardens. And Belvedere building site. See if we can find a match.”

  “Can’t imagine Dante Marzullo being green-fingered, but who knows.”

  The CCA’s borscht was as good as ever, thick as porridge, red as blood, spicy – the culinary equivalent of a tsarist brothel. She divided her attention between it and Alan’s update on financial discoveries. Ownership of JCG going to Crichton, the Millers income and insurance policies.

  “Then there’s this payment that goes in regularly to the Millers’ joint account.” Alan pushed his plate away, half the salad untouched. “Five thousand a month, not a single withdrawal since it started.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Three years? Originates in a company called Abbott which we can’t find anything more about. But Russell saw an empty file of Julian Miller’s labelled Abbott. We’ve sent people round to find out what happened to it, but Deborah Hart – she’s his secretary, or was – claims she’s never heard of a client or associate by the name of Abbott.”

  Maddy kept her eyes on her borscht. “Could be any kind of dodgy dealing. We’re talking lawyers and builders here.” Coulter smiled and finished off his pint. “You know, I wish I hadn’t said that. All these jokes about lawyers. We’ve no reason to think that Julian wasn’t a perfectly decent honourable solicitor.” The image of his shattered skull came back to Maddy, and she pushed the soup away. “The vast majority are. It’s difficult work. Why does everybody hate us?”

  “Us? I always thought you saw a big difference between you and private-practice defence lawyers?”

  “I’m wobbling on that. I’m forever trying to put people behind bars. Miller and Crichton and Mason and the rest, they’re trying to find reasons, trying to understand what makes people go wrong. Maybe they’re about forgiveness, and I’m about retribution. Do you think I’m about retribution, Alan?”

  “I’m not getting into one of your long theoretical discussions. Half the time they’re just sticks for you to beat yourself up with. I’m not giving you handers.”

  Maddy had popped by her mother’s flat before going home, forgetting it was her bridge night. Mr and Mrs Sweeney from the parish versus Rosa di Rio and some guy called Tam she’d met at the Western Baths. Maddy was pleased to get away so quickly but she was also pleased at how well her mum was doing. The woman whose life once had been shovelling fish and chips and giving the late-night Girvan drunks as good as they gave her. Up to her oxters in grease and trying to cope with her husband’s drinking and high jinks. “That man’s gas is never at a peep,” she used to say about Packie Shannon. Giving up the shop, her divorce and finally, worst of all, losing her beloved Papa a couple of years back, Maddy worried that her mum wouldn’t survive. Everything she knew and lived for was in that trinity – the shop, Packie, and Nonno. All gone. But there she was, in her own wee flat in Glasgow, playing card games and socialising. Maddy just hoped that this Tam fellow wasn’t going to turn out another Packie Shannon.

  Dialling Louis’ Skype she remembered that she still hadn’t responded to her dad’s Facebook request. When Louis didn’t answer she checked the page. He now had the grand total of seven friends. But it looked as if he himself hadn’t been back online. No doubt he’d come back from the pub, probably with someone who knew how to work Facebook, and had forgotten all about it ever since. So it was safe for Maddy to put in a friend request. The daft aul’ eejit would never even see it.

  It occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned Morag Boyd to Alan Coulter. She’d meant to. Did she forget on purpose? Why would she?

  Louis messaged her just as she was about to close down the laptop.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Saw you were on online. Sorry, can’t Skype. I’m in the office.”

  “Still forget about the time difference. So. What’s crackin?”

  “Crackin???”

  “You know, whassup?”

  “You’ve been here, Maddy.
You know nobody speaks like that.”

  “Lots of people do. Fo shizzle.”

  “Dear God.”

  The badinage again, hiding behind jokes and words, pretending they weren’t miles apart and maybe drifting further.

  “So you coming over to see me or what?”

  “Yes. Yes I am. But the only time I can get away is in a week or so, way before Easter.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a couple of days off. Even if I can’t…?”

  “Then I’ll have your dinner ready when you get home. Might be nice, though, to get a day or so out of the city?”

  “It’ll be early March. Rain, hail, sleet. Freeze your New York bawbag off you.”

  “I think I get the gist. I’m counting on you to keep vital parts of me intact.”

  “Fo shizzle, blood.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “One half-pint of low-alcohol beer. Is that okay sir?”

  “For a school night.”

  They thought of a few ideas – Arran, the Borders. Izzy’s sister had a nice house overlooking Loch Craignish. Anywhere but Loch Lomond – he’d done that twice already. Louis suggested Girvan but Maddy mentally dismissed it. She wasn’t sure if she could ever go back to her home town. And since all the tourists had opted for the Med and Ayia Napa the place was in existential crisis. The man would run for the hills. It would be a glimpse of her soul: Girvan in March.

  He got called away. But Maddy was pleased. Louis Casci still thought it worth crossing the Atlantic to spend a couple of days with her in the Scottish spring. Scottish spring – more mythical than Brigadoon. She was also worried. They had developed a way of communicating from either side of the world’s biggest ocean. Each time they had been together bodily – either there or here – they had to reinvent their relationship, start from scratch. One of these times it mightn’t take.

  She checked one last thing before turning her laptop off. Morag Boyd’s address. Of course she wouldn’t actually go see her. But she might. For the Petrus case, that’s all.