‘And the girl at the Carnbooth?’
‘A bit of fun. I think I deserve it. You might have handled lots of murder cases, Mr Munro, but you’ve never had to experience one from a seat in the dock. Makes you realise how important your freedom is.’ Kirkslap sampled some more haggis. ‘And as for my upcoming trial, I have some good news for you and some not so good news.’ He drank more wine. ‘Wonderfully crisp isn’t it?’
It should have been at the price. ‘How about you start with the good?’
Kirkslap pointed his knife across the table. ‘I like you and want you to take on my case.’ He put another forkful of haggis into his mouth, set down his fork and sat back, holding his rapidly emptying wine glass. ‘The not so good news, is that, unfortunately, Zack doesn’t.’
‘Like me or want me to take on your case?’
‘Both.’ He wiped the blade of his knife on his napkin and dipped it into my coral sauce. ‘Do you mind?’ He sucked the sauce off the knife. ‘What’s in coral sauce anyway? Can’t actually be coral can it? They probably call it that because of its colour. It’s sort of pink. You get pink coral don’t you? Good, whatever it is –’
The waiter had arrived to pour Kirkslap more wine. ‘Double cream, shallots and the blended coral from the scallop, sir,’ he said.
‘Coral?’
‘The roe, sir.’
I clarified. ‘The wee orange bit. It’s the eggs.’
Kirkslap made a face and glugged some more crisp Chablis. As we finished our starters, he detailed his business partner’s problems with Munro & Co.
‘Zack’s worried. We’re equal partners on P45 Apps. He’s the brains. I haven’t a clue about computers and gadgets. Zack lives and breathes that stuff, but the man’s marketing ability is dire. He’s practically a recluse. I hate to blow my own trumpet,’ he laughed. ‘What am I saying? I blow my trumpet like a colliery bandsman, but that’s my point: I’m a born salesman. I could sell snow to Santa. Zack’s not got a clue. If I go to jail, he’ll be lost. It’s no good making the product if you can’t persuade somebody to buy it.’
‘Then why don’t you sell me to Zack?’
Kirkslap smiled. ‘That’s what I like about you – you’re a trier. No, I‘m sorry to say, Zack is one extremely stubborn individual. Persuading him is entirely down to you. He's based in Glasgow, but he’s coming to Edinburgh this weekend. I’ll arrange for you two to meet - the rest is up to you.’ He popped another bite of haggis into his mouth. ‘You know,’ he said, chewing happily. ‘I could actually get to like this stuff.’
High heels on the wooden floor behind me. Kirkslap stood, napkin still tucked into the neck of his shirt. It was Joanna. I’d dumped the Friday intermediate diets on her, and thought she’d still be in court. Kirkslap pulled her up a chair and ordered another glass.
‘I’m really sorry to interrupt,’ Joanna said, ‘but I need to speak to Robbie about something extremely important.’ She glanced around. ‘I can’t do it in here.’
Kirkslap smiled at her and then at me. ‘If this is part of your sales pitch, it's not necessary.’
It wasn’t.
‘It’s about Nathan Boyd,’ Joanna said, when she’d managed to drag me away from the table and we were standing on the pavement outside the restaurant.
What was so important about Nathan Boyd that could keep me away from Melrose lamb cutlets, on a Skirley tomato and rosemary sauce? Besides, didn’t we act for the other Boyd boy? Nathan was Paul Sharp’s client. ‘Can this not wait? Apart from the fact that I’m trying to secure us part two of the case of the century, my main course is going to arrive any moment.’
‘I’ve had Mrs Boyd on the phone. She wants to speak to you. She’s in a terrible state and I promised I’d get hold of you as soon as I could. I jumped on the first train after court.’
‘She’s a mother. It’s her job to get in a state about her sons. Tell her not to worry. The case is almost guaranteed to plead out as a vandalism. It’ll be fines or deferred sentences all round, and everyone will live happily ever-after.’
‘Nathan Boyd won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s been murdered and Danny’s gone missing.’
Chapter 17
It was a Saturday morning, but, with the events of the day before, I was certain Kaye would be at work. I was right. She was standing at the window of her second floor corner office, looking down the length of Linlithgow High Street, a journalistic bird of prey, sat in her eyrie, all set to swoop down on the next unsuspecting scoop.
‘Looks like you found this week’s headline,’ I said.
She sniffed. ‘I see. You’re always complaining when I drop in to see you. Hitting me with all that solicitor/client confidentiality crap. Then as soon as I have some exciting info, suddenly I'm expected to sing like a linty.’
‘I've brought you coffee,’ I said. ‘And a Danish. Peach.’ I set my food offerings on her desk.
I'd tried to see Kaye the previous evening, but she'd been with the police until late on.
She turned around slowly. ‘I gave the story to all the dailies. It’s good to keep in with the big boys. Reevel what's-his-chops from Reporting Scotland is coming out to do a piece on camera.’
‘Must have been pretty horrific.’
‘Oh, just a little. You know what it's like when you happen to stumble across a massacre in a farmyard.’ Kaye peeled back the lid of the paper cup. ‘Did you remember to put sugar in this?’
I confirmed that I had. Kaye gave the coffee a cautious sip. She was obviously milking the moment. Wanting me to sit up and beg for details.
I sat down and waited. Joanna had already filled me in on the basics on the way back from my aborted lunch with Larry Kirkslap, the day before. Kaye had gone down to the Boyd's small-holding, not that far from my dad's cottage, though set in an even more remote location. She'd wanted to speak to Mrs Boyd for some background information on her sons, no doubt intending to come over all sympathetic, but I suspected it had been a ploy to really ram it to the Boyd boys when they were eventually convicted. It wouldn’t have mattered if the verdict had been vandalism; with liberal doses of journalistic licence, the two boys would have been labelled grave-robbers no matter the precise legal terminology. Things had clearly moved on.
‘I was going to send one of the others,’ Kay said. ‘And then I thought, it was such a nice day, I'd go myself and stop off for lunch at The Park Bistro, down at Philipstoun, on the way. I had grilled tuna steak, couscous and roast vegetables. Lovely. I threw the lot up as soon as I got to the Boyd place and saw Nathan lying at the front door in a pool of blood. His throat had been cut. I mean really cut. I think it was the cat chewing his face that done me in.’
‘What did you do?’
Kaye put a finger to the corner of her mouth and squinted. ‘Hmm, let me see. Oh, yeah, now I remember. I turned around, ran to my car and overtook Jenson effing Button on the way back to Linlithgow!’
She took another sip of coffee, tore a piece off the pastry and popped it into her mouth.
‘Is Mrs Boyd okay? Well, not okay, obviously, but not physically harmed?’
‘She was out when it happened. Luckily the police got to her before she returned home.’
‘And Danny?’
‘Nowhere to be seen.’
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘Prime. Why wouldn’t he be? Given that his brother was murdered and he seems to have scarpered.’ Kaye leapt effortlessly to that particular conclusion with all the skill of a journalistic gymnast.
‘Why would he kill his brother? What possible motive could he have?’
‘They’re a strange family. Boys who get a kick out of cracking open mausoleums must have some serious issues. Don’t worry, they’ll find him soon enough, and, when they do, it will be another nice story for me and a good piece of business for you.’
Or it would be, if Danny Boyd was my client. The Boyd boys belonged to Paul. He'd only cut me in on Danny in case a conf
lict of interest arose. First rule of client cut-ins: never steal the cut-in client, even if the next time he gets in bother he asks for you, no matter how tempting it is, you send him back to his original lawyer. Then again, most cut-in clients didn’t go on to carry out a murder.
‘Did the Police give you any clue where Danny might be?’
Kaye shook her head, mouth full. ‘Can’t have gone far. What do you reckon will happen to the violation of sepulchre case now?’
‘Deserted, I suppose, or tagged onto a murder indictment.’ Which reminded me. Had I been granted legal aid for the tomb case yet? I didn't mind the prosecution being chucked, but it was a fixed-fee job and I didn't want it binned before I was fully-lagged.
Kaye polished off the rest of the Danish pastry, screwed the paper bag into a ball and dropped it in her wicker waste-paper basket. ‘Of course, the big news is you and Jill.’
‘You haven't spoken to her have you?’ I didn't trust Kaye to keep her big trap shut, then again, did I really want her to? Maybe she could give me a clue which way the wind was blowing.
‘Not a word have I uttered. You're on your own with this one.’ She turned to look out of the window again. ‘Where do you think he is? Where do you go if you're sixteen, with no money, no car and have just brutally murdered your brother?’
It wouldn't be long before I found out.
Chapter 18
Kirkslap had arranged for me to bump into his business partner at a Sci-Fi Exhibition taking place at the Edinburgh International Convention Centre. I wasn't keen on the venue; not the best place to meet and discuss an upcoming murder trial I thought, but, as time was of the essence, I couldn’t be choosy.
So, Saturday afternoon, I shouldered my way through crowds of fancy-dressed youths and older men in T-shirts and ponytails, past exciting displays of long-lost, but, apparently, not forgotten, TV shows, in search of a tall, blonde Californian. How hard could that be? I'd thought. In my experience you tended to hear Americans before you saw them; however, the Centre was so busy and so noisy with various theme tunes blaring out, that it took quite a while before I traced my mark to a Dr Who presentation that was set up in one corner of the arena. I wasn't a Sci-Fi fan. I particularly loathed Dr Who. Even as a child, watching a guy in Edwardian gear being chased about quarries by some blokes in rubber monster-suits had never appealed to me.
As it turned out, Zack with the even stranger second name was that most rare of creatures: a quiet American. Though he was against the idea of Kirkslap instructing Munro & Co. in the upcoming trial, he was perfectly charming. ‘Dr Who, it's just the best sci-fi series ever, isn't it?’ he said, taking my hand in a limp and disturbingly moist grip.
‘Big fan,’ I said. ‘Who isn't?’
‘How do you think the new Doctor compares with his predecessors?’ He gazed up at a row of wax-work Doctors that stood in front of a host of assorted baddies and props from the long-running series.
Not so easy to answer. I was aware that the Time Lord shed his outward appearance every now and again, as a steady stream of actors became too big for their BBC contracts or decided, invariably too late, that they didn't wish to become type-cast, but, to the best of my, admittedly limited, knowledge, the metamorphosis always left behind the same smug, self-satisfied git.
‘I think the new guy's great,’ I said, hoping the line-up of past Doctors was chronological. I flapped a hand at the figure furthest away from the Doctor with the long white hair, who I was pretty sure was first off the assembly line. ‘He’s so…’
‘Quirky?’
‘Yeah. Very.’
‘I think so too. They’re all so very different aren’t they? Each with his own idiosyncrasies. You know, I envy you. Must have been great to see those early episodes first time around. I had to make do with DVD box-sets as a kid. I've watched them over and over.’
Early episodes? How old did he think I was? How old was he? Beach blonde hair, freckles peeking from beneath a sun tan as faded as his jeans. When I'd first met Zack at Larry Kirkslap's secluded hotel, I'd assumed he was just a typical, rich, West-Coast, Yank; pumped full of lamb stem-cells; half-man, half-Botox. The closer I looked, the more I could see that he was a kid. He could only be twenty-five, twenty-six at a push. It made sense. When Kirkslap had his idea for an app, he was just a recently redundant door-to-door salesman. He wouldn't have had the money to go to a high-flying software design company. Much more likely that he’d plucked some promising student straight out of college.
Zack looked about the huge room. ‘This is a top class venue isn’t it? P45 has held the launch of a few of our new apps here. The management team is terrific, the kind of folk I like to deal with – professionals. No fly-by-nights.’ Which brought him seamlessly to the subject of yours truly. ‘Larry told me you were coming,’ he said. ‘I know you're here to put the strong arm on me about letting you take on Larry's case.’
There was a queue to see Joe 90’s Rat Trap. Zack joined it. I followed.
‘I’ve nothing against you, personally,’ he said. ‘Well, apart from the trick you played with Mike’s iPad. You’ve no idea how attached he is to that thing. I had to drive halfway across town to positively identify him to the authorities. But, actually, it's not that. Well, not just that. I guess I'm a great believer that you get what you pay for.’
I was prepared to up my hourly rate to match Caldwell & Craig's if it made him feel any better.
He smiled at the suggestion. ‘I have to say that I was shocked when Mike told me there might be a retrial. After court that day when Larry was freed, it was never mentioned. We just celebrated like crazy. Now it’s all going to kick off again, right when we're trying to introduce some Disney characters to the P45 apps. There’s no way Disney is going to touch a company that has a hooker-killing CEO on the Board.’
Hooker was a bit harsh. Depending on which newspaper you took, Violet Hepburn was either a female escort or a gold-digger. Still, I could see how Disney might be sticky about things.
Someone sat in the Rat Trap, and the skeletal steel cage began to spin accompanied by a psychedelic light show.
‘All you have to do is say the word and I’ll be right on the case,’ I said, above the Joe 90 theme tune.
‘I know you will. Maybe I’m being picky. Larry likes you. Apparently you remind him of himself. A scrapper he says. He liked the iPad stunt. Thought it hilarious.’ Zack fixed me with his baby blues. ‘I didn’t so much.’ The Rat Trap stopped spinning and there was a merciful break in the soundtrack. ‘I notice you haven’t denied it.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘you’ve noticed I haven’t admitted it.’ The queue shuffled forward. ‘So, if you don't select Munro & co., who will you instruct?’ I asked, as though there wasn't a hundred firms to choose from.
‘Caldwell & Craig again, or we could always give an Edinburgh outfit a try. Maybe an Edinburgh law firm would have more insight into an Edinburgh jury. In the States we have jury selection. It can go on for days. Here they pull names out of a goldfish bowl, and you’re stuck with whoever you get. What kind of system is that?’
‘A cheap one,’ I said. The light-show switched on again, the music started and the Rat Trap began to turn, picking up speed. ‘Choosing a local lawyer might be a good idea in the Sheriff Court. Never mind Doctor Who, the Sheriffs I know don’t have idiosyncrasies: they have personality disorders. Knowing how they’re likely to behave is an advantage. A jury is different. Like you say, you don’t know who you’re getting or how they're going to view things.’
‘How many lawyers are in your firm?’ Zack asked. ‘Two? I want a firm that’s got twelve, twenty, hell, two hundred lawyers, all working on the case around the clock.’
‘And if you need a heart transplant who do you want? Two hundred doctors getting in the way of each other or one or two expert surgeons who know what they’re doing?’
He laughed. ‘Who are you? What are you? You’re a small town lawyer. I need, Larry needs, the company needs, a big city firm with
a marquee defence attorney—’
‘Who’s America’s most famous ever lawyer?’ I asked. ‘Atticus Finch. A lawyer from the sticks.’ Even I knew how stupid I was starting to sound.
‘I don’t know this Mr Finch,’ Zack said. Perhaps if they ever made To Kill a Mockingbird into a video game he would. ‘But we’re in Scotland not the U.S.A. I want someone high-profile, someone important to head up a shit-hot defence team. Yeah, we may have instructed the wrong firm last time. We’ll get it right this turn around. I’m sorry, but I’m looking for a big name. A go-to guy. Someone people rely on in times of emergency.’
What happened next could not have been better stage-managed had Gerry Anderson, creator of Supermarionation, been pulling the strings himself. The Joe 90 theme tune cut out mid-bar, as did the special effects from the various other demonstrations. Above the bemused chattering of the crowd, the loudspeaker system boomed. ‘Attention. Would Mr Robbie Munro, that’s Mr Robbie Munro, the lawyer, please attend the manager’s office on level one as a matter of urgency.’
The announcement was repeated before the music and other sound effects were cranked-up again.
‘What a place,’ I said, followed by my best sardonic laugh. ‘I wonder what bother they’ve got themselves into now. Still, duty calls.’ I patted Zack on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy Joe 90. And if Larry still wants me to act, and you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible. I’ll try and keep myself available,’ I smiled wryly and jerked my head in the direction of where I assumed the manager’s office to be. ‘Although you never know when something really important is going to crop up.’
And with that I set off for the manager’s office, wondering what trouble I was in this time.
Chapter 19
A security guard was holding a phone out to me as I walked into the manager’s office. The management team at the EICC was not in urgent need of criminal legal advice. The emergency was my dad.
‘I think I’ve broken my ankle,’ he said.
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