I batted my eyelashes. ‘Really, Joanna, I’m practically engaged.’
Not everyone finds my attempts at humour amusing, and most of them are women.
‘Larry Kirkslap has instructed us,’ she said. ‘We've got the case.’
If this was my assistant’s attempt at humour, it wasn’t funny. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘No, really.’ Joanna was beaming. ‘He was served with his indictment—’
‘Yesterday, I know. Sorry, go on.’
‘Kirkslap’s business partner, that guy, Zack, he was at the office this afternoon while you were at court. He brought the indictment with him. When I couldn't get hold of you by phone, I was starting to panic until Grace-Mary stepped in and told him that she would make sure you had the case file in your hands this evening.’ Joanna unzipped the flight-bag. ‘She had Zack sign a mandate and sent me through to Caldwell & Craig’s for the papers. Maggie Sinclair didn’t like it, so I called Zack and he had Mr Kirkslap speak to her directly. After that I had the stuff in no time at all. They even gave me this smart wheelie-case. Do you think they’ll want it back?’
‘Keep it even if they do,’ I said. I could hardly believe it. Had Zack actually been taken in by my summons to the manager’s office at the EICC? Was he really so Gullible? Possibly. He was a twenty-something who still watched Dr Who and would queue up for a shot on Joe 90’s transmogrification device.
‘Great.’ I took the first of the dozen or so folders that came out of the case. It had a label on the front that said: ‘Civilian Statements’ and must have been easily six inches thick. I decided to give one or two of them a shufty before I got creative in the kitchen.
‘Grace-Mary told Zack that you’d have the papers read and be up to speed by noon tomorrow at the latest - even if you had to work around the clock.’ She pulled another folder from the case and balanced it on her knee. ‘If we start now we can have this done by the morning.’
‘But what about my trial in Perth?’
‘Grace-Mary’s phoned the PF and had it adjourned. A local agent will make the motion. The witnesses have been countermanded and the client knows about your sudden illness.’ Joanna opened her equally thick folder marked: ‘Cellphone Analysis’. ‘We’re going to need some paper to make notes as we go along.’
‘And coffee,’ I said.
Joanna agreed. ‘Yeah, lots of coffee.’ She, picked up the socks with two fingers and hurled them into the furthest corner of the room. ‘But no pesto.’
Chapter 22
Murder cases are not usually that complicated. Murders are mostly assaults that go tragically wrong, and the perpetrators, even if they do their best to tidy up after themselves, invariably leave lots of clues lying around for nosey scene of crime officers to find. Larry Kirkslap didn’t appear to have been any different. Around 6 a.m. and with my espresso machine wondering what had hit it, Joanna and I had more or less managed to sketch out the basis of the Crown case.
Kirkslap had first met thirty-six year-old Violet Hepburn when out celebrating P45’s latest app launch with a trip to Karats, a champagne bar in Glasgow City, around Christmas 2011; nearly a year before Violet went missing. Twenty years his junior she’d taken to him right away, and although no-one knew what she saw in the stout, loud-mouthed, fifty-six-year-old millionaire, the couple had dated on and off for several months in a relationship that had met their respective expectations, with foreign shopping trips and stays in five star hotels.
Kirkslap had ended the relationship sometime during the summer of 2012. The witness statements didn’t say exactly why; however, the general consensus was that as sales of P45 Apps increased, so did Larry Kirkslap’s attractiveness to certain factions of the opposite sex, and he simply got tired of Violet and traded her in for a string of newer models. By all accounts, he’d had a showroom full.
Which took us to the last day Violet was seen by anyone. It was Wednesday, 31st October 2012. Records showed that Violet's credit card was used around half-past two in the afternoon and with that information the police had managed to pick her up on the city centre CCTV. After that she hadn't been seen again.
Joanna picked up a thick folder and started to leaf through a bundle of phone records containing details of all calls to and from Violet's and Kirkslap's respective mobile phones, going back to when they'd first met. There were hundreds of pages to sift through and she gave a little whoop of joy when she came across a month by month summary showing only those calls and text messages between the two: those from Kirkslap to Violet highlighted yellow, those from Violet to Kirkslap in red. It was very noticeable that, as 2012 had trundled on, the amount of yellow highlighting diminished as the red increased. The summary sheet for May was a sea of crimson. If Violet had been a man she would have been accused of tele-stalking.
‘Sad, how some men treat women,’ Joanna said.
It might have been sad if we were looking at the end of a love affair. We weren’t. It was simply the unilateral termination of a business relationship. One Violet hadn’t wanted to end.
‘How much red highlighting do you think there would be on that page if Kirkslap had no money?’ I asked.
‘I suppose.’ Joanna extracted a piece of paper from the bundle in her hand. ‘Did you know that Violet had four Highers and a degree in business studies? What was she doing throwing herself at a lecherous old man like Larry Kirkslap?’
She'd left out the word 'rich' from her description. The statement I’d read from a barman at Karats was that Violet had been a regular, always on the lookout for the well-heeled gent. She and the other women who gathered at the city centre champagne bar could spot a fake Rolex a mile off and identify an Armani suit by the smell of the thread.
‘Apart from the morality of it,’ she continued, ‘which is not for us to judge, going off with strange men, even if they can afford to buy you nice things, is an inherently risky business. They're going to want something for their money. That sort of career is always going to have some extremely dodgy moments.’
If by dodgy Joanna meant deadly, then she was right in Violet Hepburn’s case; however, there was a possible line of defence there.
‘If she saw a lot of men, that makes for a lot of possible suspects,’ I said. ‘There could be men she’s ditched when someone richer came along, men whose pride has been hurt, men out for revenge. We can use that. No need to delve into her sexual past, the court won't allow that, but the jury will read between the lines. Jurors love playing Sherlock Holmes. As far as I can see, Kirkslap was the only person in the frame at the last trial. No wonder the defence bombed. If we can fire in an incriminee or two, it’ll give everyone something to think about.’
‘Great idea,’ Joanna said in a tone that suggested the opposite. ‘Except every man that Violet dated since High School has been questioned by the police. That's a complete dead end of a defence. She threw down the sheaf of papers. ‘Ever think you'd have been better off letting Kirkslap go elsewhere for representation? Be careful what you wish for, I say.’
It must have been the fatigue talking. Let a case like this slip though my fingers when I could charge a proper hourly rate? ‘Stop thinking like a PF and being impressed at how wonderful the Crown case is. Find an angle on this, something we can throw at a jury.’
‘Give 'em the ole razzle-dazzle? Well, it’s going to have to be very razzly and incredibly dazzly.’ The sheaf of papers in Joanna’s hand had dwindled to two pages. ‘Take a look at this,’ she said. A text message from Kirkslap mid-September.
- Don’t ever embarrass me or my family in that way again. I mean it -
Not so good. ‘Anything after that?’ I asked.
There was one final summary sheet. Two text messages, one highlighted red: Violet to Kirkslap on the afternoon of 1st November 2012.
- See you at eight xxx -
The other highlighted yellow: Kirkslap’s reply.
- Looking forward -
I took the page from Joanna. It didn’t make sense, and, yet, it w
as those text messages, the last in the logs requisitioned from Violet’s mobile phone company, that encouraged the police to search Kirkslap’s lodge in the country. It was at that address they’d found Violet’s phone as well as traces of blood on the hall carpet and, just to top it all, blood in the boot of Kirkslap’s car.
‘It was only a few smears,’ I said, when Joanna reminded me of the DNA results that estimated the chances of the blood being anyone other than Violet’s at one billion to one. ‘We're not talking about pools of blood.’
‘And of course there’s the speed camera, clocking Kirkslap on his midnight road-trip through the Trossachs. Oh, and no-one has seen Violet since.’
I needed more coffee. And breakfast.
I was in the kitchen when the phone rang. ‘Get that, will you?’ I called through to the living room. Who could it be? Too early for Grace-Mary. The only person I knew who'd be up and about and phoning me at that time of the morning would be my dad. ‘Wait!’ I yelled. I clattered the frying pan down on the gas hob. Last thing I wanted was my dad asking why some strange woman was answering my phone. The main reason my dad disapproved of my relationship with Jill, was that he was sure I'd cock the whole thing up in some way. I darted from the kitchen and made it into the next room just as Joanna was replacing the receiver.
‘That wasn't my dad was it?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said.
That was a relief.
‘I think it was Jill.’ Joanna fashioned a sickly smile.
I cleared my throat. ‘What did she want?’
‘I don't know.’ The pallor of my assistant's complexion was not, I was sure, entirely down to sleep deprivation. ‘After I told her who I was she hung up.’
Chapter 23
I distinctly remembered Jill telling me who her new employers were. Unfortunately, I may not have been giving her my full attention at the time. That it was a pharmaceutical company with headquarters in Switzerland and she was going off to work in Berne for a month and a half, had been as much information as I thought necessary or, indeed, could absorb, given that Jill had thought the best time to impart this important information was during the live transmission of a major football match.
I would have phoned her, but her number, along with that of just about every other person I knew, was on the SIM card in my suit pocket and I couldn't find my old mobile anywhere.
‘You can have mine. I can do without for a day or so. Just don’t respond to any texts from someone called Mark,’ Joanna said.
I think she felt a little guilty, even though it wasn't her fault that Jill had called or that my girlfriend may have misread the situation.
I took it anyway and shoved in my SIM card. It was the back of seven and we'd eaten breakfast and drunk more coffee while talking over Larry Kirkslap's upcoming murder trial.
‘I'll leave you to it,’ Joanna said, collecting her things. I told her to go home for a few hours’ sleep. We'd meet up at the office around lunchtime and organise a consultation with Kirkslap either later that afternoon or in the evening. ‘I'm sure Jill will understand,’ Joanna said, as I showed her to the door, ‘and if there is anything I can say to her that you think will help...’
I said there wasn't and played the whole thing down.
After she'd gone I tried to phone Jill. No reply. Then I remembered I was phoning her old mobile phone, the one she’d forgotten to take with her. I left a message anyway. It showed a degree of willingness and I didn't want to say more in case, when she did hear it, she thought it suspicious that I was denying an affair I hadn’t actually been accused of.
I was tired, but there was no way I could sleep. It might have been the caffeine or the evidence in the Kirkslap case buzzing about my head, or, most likely, the worry that Jill might think that I was two-timing her; whatever, I was awake and that wasn't going to change for a while.
After a shower, a shave and a fresh shirt I was off to Auld Reekie, hoping I was far enough from Perth so that no-one from that court would see the allegedly ailing Mr Munro bounding up the one hundred and eighteen stone steps of Advocates Close, two at a time. On my way through on the train, I had phoned Cameron Crowe's clerk to be told he had a deferred sentence calling that morning, and the best place to catch him was at the Lawnmarket, first thing. And so, my initial bounding having reduced to a stagger, I emerged from the Close entrance onto the High Street, heart pumping, breathing like a dirty phone call and fixed my gaze further up The Royal Mile.
Inside the Lawnmarket building, I didn't bother to check the courtrooms. It was just after nine and nothing happened very early or quickly in the High Court of Justiciary. Instead, I clambered a further two flights of stairs to the Advocates' robing room. Trips to the High Court were always aerobic occasions.
‘What do you want?’ said an unmistakable voice from behind The Herald newspaper, at the far end of a huge mahogany table. The hands either side of the broadsheet gave the pages a flick of annoyance. The only other occupants of the room, two other junior counsel at a long sideboard helping themselves to coffee, looked towards the newspaper and then at me and grimaced in sympathy.
‘I'm here to see you,’ I said. ‘With instructions.’
Crowe turned down a corner of the paper. ‘Speak to my clerk,’ he said over the top of it.
‘Why? We're both here now.’
An immense sigh escaped from behind the headlines. ‘Because that's how the system works. You speak to my clerk, she'll check my diary and if I'm available she'll ask you to forward the bundle and then, perhaps, we can consult. It's worked very well for hundreds of years. I'm told Walter Scott used it to great effect.’
I had to keep reminding myself that with Fiona Faye unable to act, Cameron Crowe was Kirkslap's next best chance of an acquittal.
‘Larry Kirkslap,’ I said.
The paper shook slightly. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s been re-indicted,’ said one of the two juniors, dropping coins into the ceramic sugar bowl that collected the coffee money.
‘And is looking for counsel,’ I said.
The junior counsel who had avoided paying for his coffee laughed. ‘Doubt it. Nigel Staedtler's got his mighty talons well and truly wrapped around that brief. Instructed by some corporate clowns who didn't know any better, and he's using Lucy Locke for a junior. Nice bit of eye-candy for the Judge.’
‘Those corporate clowns were Caldwell & Craig,’ I said to the front and back pages of the still wide open Herald. ‘They don't have the case anymore. Guess who's the ringmaster now?’ The newspaper stiffened. I continued. ‘Staedtler's out and I'm thinking of instructing a senior junior. Someone who knows how to tear into an expert witness.’
Crowe gently closed the newspaper, folded it once, twice and laid it on the table in front of him. He looked at me expressionless.
‘Let's go for a walk,’ I said. Crowe's deferred sentence was calling at ten, so we had a good half hour.
‘What’s the catch?’ he asked, as we crossed the cobbled street and stepped over the black link chain into Parliament Square. ‘No catch,’ I said.
‘Then, why me?’ He stopped in the centre of the square next to a group of bored pigeons. ‘If you think this is going to get you Brownie points next time I’m prosecuting one of your malodorous clients, you can—’
‘Okay, I get it.’ I kept walking, scattering the birds. ‘You don't trust me.’
‘Or like you,’ he said, catching me up.
By now he should have noticed the lack of Valentine cards he'd received from Munro & Co. the previous month. The fact remained: I’d brought him the brief of his life on a silver platter and we both knew he was going to accept it. ‘Well we're both just going to have to try and get along,’ I said. ‘If nothing else for the sake of the client whose instructions I have worked extremely hard to secure. Okay?’
‘I don’t buy it, ‘Crowe said. ‘Obviously, I agree, Nigel Staedtler’s an oaf who couldn't cross-examine a puppy in a pile of poo, but there are pl
enty of highly competent seniors who’d bite your arm off for the case.’
‘Are you trying to talk me out of this? Because, if you are, I won't need much persuasion.’
Crowe was silent. We'd worked together at Caldwell & Craig in my early days, when he'd been in charge of my training. Crowe, the doesn't-suffer-fools-gladly senior court associate, and me, the know-it-all legal trainee, had never really hit it off. Then, of course, there had been the infamous incident when he discovered me in a drunken embrace with his then girlfriend, Fiona Faye, and later when my then ex-girlfriend, Zoe had signalled her rejection of Crowe's amorous advances with a knee to the chuckies. He didn't like me and the feeling was mutual. No wonder he thought there had to be a catch, but there wasn't; however, Crowe was quite correct about one thing: I did have plenty vastly more experienced counsel to choose from. Ones who, like Fiona, could cross-examine victims without alienating jurors, sweet-talk police officers, charm judges and present a stonking jury speech at the end of it all. Strangely, none of that really mattered in Kirkslap's case. The victim was missing, presumed dead, there was little dispute on the evidence of any of the civilian or police witnesses and what eventually went to the jury depended on one thing: how good a job the defence made of demolishing the Crown's forensic evidence. Cameron Crowe was obnoxious, but he was smart. He could take apart an expert witness like a schoolboy pulling the legs off a spider. I'd witnessed him on many a previous occasion make a thoroughly prepared forensic report look like a failed third-grade science project.
‘I’ll ask you again,’ Crowe said. ‘Why me? Has Fiona fallen out of favour? I thought you and she were the dream-team?’
‘We are,’ I said. ‘But Fiona’s not available.’
Crowe looked at me.
I held his gaze for a while. ‘I take it you are?’
He almost smiled. ‘If I'm not I will be.’
We walked on into Parliament House to check Crowe's diary. His clerk flicked over to the following week. ‘I'll need to shift a few things around,’ she said. ‘If the preliminary hearing is Friday, when do you expect the trial to start?’
Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4) Page 10