‘How?’ I asked, guessing his roof was somehow involved.
‘I fell off the top of the ladder.’
‘I thought you were going to get someone in to sort the roof?’
The only reply was a short grunt of pain.
‘Okay, okay. I’ll come see you. Where are you?’
‘At the bottom of the ladder.’
‘Why haven’t you called an ambulance?’
‘What if it’s not broken? Could just be a really bad sprain. How would that look to folk? Me being carted off to hospital, sirens blaring, with only a sore ankle to show for all the fuss?’
‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I hung up and called an ambulance. Forty-five minutes later I was in the A&E Department at St John’s in Livingston. Three hours later, I was back at my dad’s cottage, and he was hobbling down the garden path on crutches.
‘Are you going to get that door for me or what?’ Many people would put my dad’s crabbitness down to pain and suffering. Those who knew him wouldn’t.
I opened the back door. He fended off my attempts to help him up the step, manoeuvred himself inside and sat down at the kitchen table, swinging another chair around so that he could prop his plastered leg on it. By the time he had thrown the crutches into a corner, I already had the kettle on. He’d been offered a cup of tea at the hospital, but they had only teabags which, according to my dad, contained nothing more than the sweepings off the tea factory floor. I scooped a couple of teaspoons of breakfast tealeaves into his treasured navy-blue enamelled teapot and then realised my mistake. My dad always insisted that the pot first be warmed with boiling water. A swift look over my shoulder suggested that he was too busy trying to scratch his leg with a pen down the side of his plaster cast to notice my faux pas.
‘So where is he? You got him holed up in a safe house somewhere?’ my dad asked.
In our wait at the hospital, we had more or less covered all the latest football rumours, and thus exhausted the favourite topic of conversation between Munro father and son. Somehow we’d moved onto my work, a subject I liked to steer clear off during chats with my dad; however, he’d learned of my acting for Danny Boyd, and word of his brother's murder was all over the local news.
‘Don't be stupid. What would I want to put him in a safe house for?’
He cast the pen aside and ordered me to throw him a wooden spoon out of the drawer. ‘He's your client. All your clients are innocent aren't they? You don't want to see the long arm of the grab him by the scruff of the neck.’
‘I only get paid if he gets caught and ends up in court, Dad,’ I said rising to the bait. ‘I need my clients inside the criminal justice system before I can make any money. Me setting up a safe house for teenage fugitives would be like you, when you were a cop, not arresting a suspect and just short-circuiting matters by—’
‘Giving them a right good thump and telling them to behave next time?’
Okay, it wasn’t that good an analogy. I found a wooden spoon and rapped it off his plaster cast before handing it to him. ‘Anyway, Danny Boyd’s not my client. I was just borrowing him.’
‘So whose is he?’
The kettle had almost boiled. I took down my dad’s enormous cup and saucer from the kitchen cupboard and a mug for myself. ‘He’s Paul Sharp’s.’
‘So why are you acting for him?’
‘Because Paul is, was, acting for his brother. He couldn’t act for Danny as well, in case there was a conflict of interest.’
My dad was really going at it with the wooden spoon. ‘A what?’
‘In case they start blaming each other. What’s a lawyer going to do then? You can’t choose one client over the other, that’s why each accused should be separately represented.’
‘But brothers wouldn't blame each other would they? I mean you wouldn’t rat on Malky if he was in bother would you?’ Interesting how my dad, who generally thought it a citizen’s duty to testify against a police suspect, labelled anyone who gave evidence against his eldest son a rat. ‘It’s all a legal aid dodge if you ask me. Two lawyers being paid instead of one.’
Please, not the legal aid lecture again. All those taxes he’d paid and for what? So that a whole lot of criminals could evade justice. For, as the Government and newspapers had brainwashed the general public into thinking, justice only happened when someone was convicted. A not guilty verdict was someone getting off.
‘Academic is what it is,’ I said. ‘Nathan Boyd’s dead, so there’s only one lawyer being paid now – happy?’ I sloshed some milk into his tea cup and my mug. ‘And it won’t matter if Danny blames his brother for the tomb-raiding, seeing as how Nathan will soon be buried in his own tomb.’
‘I want to be burned.’
‘That can be arranged,’ I said.
He extricated the wooden spoon and set it on the table beside him as he readied himself to receive his cup of tea. ‘Aye, well. Someone’s bad luck is always someone else’s good luck.’
‘You should know,’ I said. ‘You’ve had a bit of both, today. Bad luck falling off the ladder and good luck that you still had my mobile phone on you. Any chance I could get it back?’
He frowned. ‘I was thinking maybe I should be getting one of these,’ he said, delving into a pocket and bringing out my phone. ‘Living away out here. You never know when it might come in handy again.’
My dad had no need of the all-singing-all-dancing model that he was playing with, and which, along with Joanna’s identical phone, was currently on the books as one of Munro & Co.’s few fixed assets. I could buy him a cheap one and he’d never know the difference.
‘I’ll buy you a nice new one for your birthday,’ I said. ‘Seeing how we’ll have to put your surprise birthday party on hold for a while.’
‘No, this one will do fine.’ He shoved my former phone back into his pocket. ‘Speaking of my birthday, Malky was through here the other day. He was showing me his new motor - German – but still it’s very nice. Can go a bit too.’ There wasn’t a car built that couldn’t ‘go a bit’ with my big brother behind the wheel. ‘I talked him into taking me through to Jill’s to water her plants for you and on the way he was saying something about a bottle of eighteen-year-old Springbank. I told him there was no need for expensive whisky if you and him were laying me on a party. I'm sure arrangements are well underway and I wouldn’t want to disappoint everyone by calling it off. Not after all the hard work you will have been putting into it. Now where’s my tea? I’m parched.’
‘On its way,’ I said, teapot poised over his cup.
‘Good. Don’t forget to rinse that pot out with hot water before you start brewing up.’
Chapter 20
Not unusually, Monday afternoon found me at the table in the well of the court, fighting to get my name down on the agents’ sheet. There were thirty odd names on the official court custody list, and the defence lawyers found it more efficient to make up their own so that the cases could be called in batches. If not, those unfortunates who'd spent the weekend in the police cells would be dealt with alphabetically; which meant that if you were acting for a Mr Adams and a Mr Young, you were in for a long wait between clients. Better to get your name down first on the lawyer’s list and be off in search of work that might actually pay; especially if your client was pleading not guilty. The Scottish Legal Aid Board only paid for guilty pleas at a pleading diet. Even then, with fixed fees, there was no point hanging around in court any longer than you had to. Defence agents were in private practice; time was money. The trouble was that the Procurator Fiscal, Sheriff and Clerks all operated on Civil Service time.
‘What do you mean the cases haven’t been linked yet?’ Paul Sharp asked the Clerk, a plump girl with glasses who had a certain do-I-look-like-I-give-a-toss look about her. ‘It’s quarter past two. I’ve been waiting since twelve for this court to start.’
It was unusual to see Paul flustered, and even more unusual to see a defenc
e agent showing annoyance towards a Clerk. The wrong side of the Sheriff Clerk’s office was a dark place to be.
‘Talk to the PF,’ she told Paul. ‘It’s their side of the system that’s down. I’m all set to go this end and so is Sheriff Brechin.’
Not that many years before, in simpler times, the local Procurator Fiscal’s office would type up a complaint in triplicate. The principal was signed and given to the court, the second was served on the accused and a third was kept on the prosecution’s file. Then someone had the great idea of centralising the process and giving computers a greater role. The result was squadrons of defence lawyers who used to be out by lunchtime, now hanging around court until late afternoon and not being paid for it. No wonder Paul was slightly grumpy, but the delay, I felt sure, wasn’t the real cause of his bad mood.
‘Heard anything from you-know-who?’ he asked, after we’d decided to go down to the lobby for something to drink, while the PF's and Sheriff Clerk's computers tried to talk to each other.
‘No, have you?’
Paul shook his head. ‘Robbie,’ he said after a short pause. ‘You know how I cut you in on Danny Boyd? And, of course, he remains your client…’
I could see where the conversation was headed. ‘Paul, there’s absolutely no problem. He’s your client. If Danny gets huckled for his brother’s murder, as far as I’m concerned it’s over to you.’
I could sense his relief. ‘It’s not the money. A murder case is more trouble than it’s worth. All that hassle for legal aid rates, and you just know that if you get a guilty, some other lawyer is going to go through your file at a later date looking for mistakes for an Anderson appeal. It’s just that a murder is... I don’t know... interesting. A change from all the usual run of the mill crap that keeps us hanging about in this dump for hours every day, waiting on that bunch of numpties in there getting to grips with technology.’
‘He didn’t really have to explain. Murder was where it was at. No point studying for a medical degree and spending your career fixing sticking-plasters. As a law student, I’d always seen myself as a criminal lawyer, defending wall to wall murders, even though once in practice you realised that the client that made you money was not the occasional murder-accused, but the jaikie who was constantly in bother; the dripping roast. And the more lenient the country’s sentencing policies became, the more often that roast dripped.
I knew we were in for a really long wait when I saw Hugh Ogilvie, the Procurator Fiscal, come down the stairs from the court and into the cafe. Paul and I had been careless enough to leave an empty chair at our table. On his way back from the serving counter, Ogilvie must have taken it as some kind of invitation to join us. He came over carrying a tray on which there was a small stainless steel teapot, a white cup and saucer and a tiny jug of milk.
‘Ah, the life of a defence lawyer,’ he said, pouring his tea; some out the side of the lid, hitting the table, some out of the spout, hitting the bottom of the cup. ‘Sitting on your backside all day, milking the Legal Aid Board dry. Thought you might have been out looking for your client,’ he said to me, mopping up a small lake of tea with a series of paper napkins.
‘If you’re talking about Danny Boyd he’s Paul’s client,’ I said.
‘Oh, jumped ship has he?’ Ogilvie squidged the sodden napkins into a ball and placed it in the centre of the table next to the small vase with a plastic flower in it. ‘If he’s in touch, you can tell him the police would be very interested in having a chat.’ He poured some milk from the jug and looked about for something to stir his tea with. Eventually he took a pen from his top pocket and used it. ‘If he does, I’ll say no more about the violation of sepulchre charge. It’ll be...’ He put his fingertips together and then drew them apart dramatically in an imaginary firework display. ‘Gone.’
‘He could be innocent, you know,’ I said. ‘Frightened and scared. Hiding out somewhere.’
‘Very possibly.’ Ogilvie was in full patronising mode. ‘Probably all some terrible misunderstanding. Thought he was gutting a rabbit, but, no, it was his brother’s throat.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Easy mistake to make.’
Paul nodded. ‘Or he could have witnessed the whole thing and done a runner.’
‘Or been abducted by whoever killed his brother,’ I suggested. ‘Or he’s dead in the bushes and his body's not been found yet.’
All excellent defences,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Especially the one about him being dead. Even I wouldn’t prosecute a dead man, probably. I can see why you’re both defence lawyers.’ He just so needed a hard slap. ‘However...’ he finished the tea in one further draught. ‘If it turns out that he’s had a wee turn to himself, lost his temper and slit his brother’s throat, then the sooner we have him locked up for life or packed away to the State Hospital in a strait-jacket, the better. Anyway, can’t be sitting around here all day. Some of us have work to do.’
‘Well could you try to do it a bit faster?’ Paul said. ‘We’re not all killing time until our Government final-salary pension kicks in.’
‘Ooh, Touchy.’ Ogilvie pushed his crockery aside and climbed to his feet. ‘By the way, Robbie, I heard about your former colleague’s little triumph in the Larry Kirkslap case.’ He picked up the blob of wet tissue and plopped it into his empty cup. ‘Hope he enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame, because I understand Mr Kirkslap had a little visit from the police to brighten up his Sunday afternoon.’ Ogilvie shoved his chair under the table. ‘I think we can safely say that his next jury will be well and truly sworn in...’ He started to walk away, then turned around with that smile I’d always wanted to wipe from his face with the aid of a baseball bat. ‘And that no jurors are going out for a smoke before the guilty verdict.’
Chapter 21
West Lothian's Civic Centre in Livingston was described as ‘stunning’ on its own web-site. Other, more accurate, descriptions that didn’t feature were: cold, depressing and soulless. The biggest public sector partnership of its kind in the UK, it housed the Divisional Police Headquarters, the Sheriff and Justice of the Peace Court complex, Council Headquarters, the Procurator Fiscal’s office, the Scottish Children’s Reporter, Lothian and Borders Fire and Rescue Service and the West Lothian Community Health and Care Partnership. That meant a lot of employees, a lot of official visitors and lots of parking spaces for everyone; everyone except defence agents who, if they intended to stay more than forty-five minutes, and didn’t want to defend themselves on a parking charge, had to abandon their car somewhere else.
By the time I had put through my final custody, marked up bail appeals for those deemed unsuitable for release by Bert Brechin, which was most of them, and posted those appeal forms under the, now very closed, door of the Sheriff Clerk’s office, it was nearly six o’clock. And it was raining. I walked, collar up, head down, out of the building, through the grounds of the Civic Centre, across the bridge over the River Almond and into the car park of Livingston F.C. which was the nearest available parking facility for second class citizens such as myself.
Wet and tired, I drove back to Linlithgow, amazed at how knackering it was to sit about all afternoon with only the occasional interlude during which you required to spout a lot of nonsense to a man in a wig, in the hope that another man could go home and not have to spend his next few weeks in a cell with only a stainless steel loo, a kettle and psychotic roommate to keep him company.
I had my immediate future all mapped out. I was going home, I was going to have something to eat, quite possibly something alcoholic to drink, and then crash out. In the morning, I’d lie in until eight, then make my way to Perth Sheriff Court, and the trial of a dangerous driver. All I needed was to make a small detour via my office to collect the case file and I could head straight for The Fair City, first thing.
Back at Munro & Co.’s headquarters, I was pleased to see that Grace-Mary had predicted my intentions and the Section 2 file was waiting for me on my chair, a yellow-sticky adhered to the front cover. My secretary’s scribble
d order, under the heading in capital letters: URGENT, was that I should give Joanna a call. I had her number on my mobile. I reached into my pocket, but, of course, the phone was in my dad’s pocket, not my own. All I had was my SIM card. Having been unable to wrest my ultra-hi-tech phone from my dad, I’d taken the SIM with a view to buying another phone for myself. I’d given him a pay-as-you-go SIM with a ten pound top-up. I reckoned it would last him a year. I could phone my dad on his landline and try and talk him through how to find Joanna's number on the mobile. There lay madness. Taking the file for the next day's trial, I headed for home to seek out my old coal-fired cell-phone. If I could find it and pop in my SIM, then I could give Joanna a phone while I boiled some pasta in a pot. It seemed like a plan until I arrived at my flat to find Joanna parked outside.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, as I led her through the front door and into my sitting room. A pizza box lay open on the floor beside a couple of crushed beer and a pair of socks that had not yet made their way to the wash basket.
Joanna looked around. ‘And I thought your office was untidy.’ She moved a set of Playstation 3 controllers from the cushion to the arm of the sofa and sat down. She had with her one of those flight-cases with the long handle and wheels. I hadn’t asked her why yet. She wrinkled her nose. ‘What on earth is that smell?’
‘Homemade pesto,’ I said, with a degree of pride. ‘Jamie Oliver was making it on telly the other night and I suddenly realised I had most of the ingredients. Jill gave me this basil plant that I keep in the kitchen, I’ve got olive oil and garlic and...’
‘Pine nuts?’
‘Peanuts. Same sort of thing.’
‘Parmesan?’
‘Yes. Well... cheddar.’
‘What’s it taste like?’
‘Do you want to find out? I’ve got a big bag of spaghetti somewhere.’
‘Another time, perhaps. Right now there are more important things to do than eat.’
Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4) Page 9