Wednesday morning, four days since my trip to Karats, a section 67 notice had been served giving intimation of a new prosecution witness: Mike Summers. The notice had been faxed to my office, still the Crown’s preferred means of communicating urgent messages, and I had arranged an emergency, late-afternoon consultation with Cameron Crowe at The Lord Reid Building on the High Street, Edinburgh. Mike was also present by video-link via his and Crowe’s respective iPads.
‘Mr Summers, I understand the police have been to see you,’ Crowe said, once I’d filled him in on the background.
‘Monday afternoon,’ Mike admitted.
‘And you told them everything?’
‘I couldn't very well lie.’
‘What did you say - exactly?’
‘That I was only there to warn Violet that if she didn't stop bothering Larry, I was instructed to commence court action against her.’
‘What kind of action?’
‘Interdict, non-harassment, something like that. To be honest it was a sabre-rattling exercise. I don't know much about civil litigation. I shouldn’t have let Larry talk me into it, more importantly, I shouldn't have let him come. He was drunk and got completely carried away.’
‘So how do the police know about this?’
I knew the answer to that one. ‘One of Violet's friends from the champagne bar was there as well,’ I said. ‘A girl called Candy.’ I went on to tell all that I'd learned at my Friday night visit to Karats.
Crowe looked at me like I was insane. ‘You knew about all this and never told me? You knew that Kirkslap threatened Violet Hepburn and then covered it up by bribing this Candy woman with a diamond necklace? When were you going to tell me?’
I wasn't. The plan was to keep it as quiet as possible. I didn't see how it could have helped my client's chances of acquittal, and, if Candy could be discreet about it, so could I.
Crowe turned his iPad around to face the other way. ‘This is down to you,’ he hissed. ‘You were supposed to dig up dirt on the victim, not on the client.’ He turned the iPad back to face us. ‘When did he give it to her?’ Crowe asked the computer screen.
Mike looked puzzled.
‘The necklace. Was it before or after Violet went missing?’ Crowe asked him.
‘What's the difference? Oh, wait a minute, I think I see where you're going,’ Mike said.
Crowe was seething. ‘It's not a case of where I'm going. It's a case of where the Crown will go. If Kirkslap tried to silence this woman after Violet went missing, it looks highly suspicious.’
Mike thought about it and then shook his head. ‘I couldn't say. It was definitely after he threatened Violet, but whether it was after Violet went missing I don't know. You've got no idea how Larry throws his money around. He could have given it to her anytime. It's probably not the only gift he's bought her. He's seen Candy a few times. For all I know he's still seeing her.’
‘Not for very much longer,’ Crowe said.
What had I said that had annoyed Candy so much that she'd picked the phone up and called the police? What about her self-proclaimed discretion?
‘What’s our next move?’ Mike asked.
‘You don't have one,’ Crowe told him. ‘You are now officially on the Crown witness list. I’m afraid your involvement in further defence discussions is over.’
iPad Mike looked like he was going to protest. With a rub of his fingers across the screen Crowe made him and any objections disappear.
‘Can I expect any more surprises to result from your defence preparations?’ he asked me.
If pedantic Mike had still been on the screen, he might have pointed out that by their very nature surprises were never expected - unless they were surprise birthday parties for my dad.
We left the consulting rooms and exited onto the cobblestones of the Royal Mile, which was the usual bustle of locals, lawyers and tourists. When I had entered, only half an hour earlier, the weather had been sunny with jumpers. Now it was overcast with overcoats.
‘All I'm asking,’ Crowe said, ‘is something, anything, that might suggest, just for one second, that Larry Kirkslap isn't the guiltiest man alive. Is it too much to ask? At this rate he might as well plead guilty and ask the court to give him a discount on the punishment element of his life sentence. Be better than nothing.’
Perhaps for Kirkslap it would be, but not for the Munro & Co. bank overdraft.
‘Don't even mention that option to the client at our next consultation,’ I said. ‘There's no way he'd plead guilty and we'd be booted into touch and replaced by a new defence team in two seconds flat. Do you know how difficult it was for me to secure this gig? Kirkslap thinks I'm a real trier, a winner. He says I remind him of himself.’
‘Why, who have you killed recently?’ Crowe said.
It was his little joke. One that brought back bad memories for me.
‘When do you want to consult with the client?’ I asked, changing the subject.
‘Is there any point? He never tells us anything.’
It started to rain. We were both heading for the train station. Crowe had a meeting in Glasgow, and the next train to Queen Street stopped at Linlithgow. Neither of us had raincoats. We scurried across the High Street, through Jackson's Close, over Cockburn Street and commenced the descent of the steps at Fleshmarket Close. We didn't talk. All the way to Waverley Station I tried to think of something to say, some new plan of attack.
When we entered the concourse, the train was waiting to leave and I knew we would part company once aboard. Counsel always travelled first class. It was one of their conventions, like wigs, brass collar studs and opening the door for colleagues who had called at the Bar before them. It was also a good way of shaking off annoying clients and instructing agents.
We walked through the ticket barrier. ‘The trial is on Monday,’ Crowe said, as though I needed reminding that the trial of the millennium, my millennium at any rate, was just a few days away. ‘I have a lot of work to do before the trial starts. I don’t think I need see you or the client before then.’
‘Is there anything you want me to do?’ I asked.
Crowe put a finger to his lips and pretended to think hard. ‘Yes, seeing as how, so far, all you have managed to do is provide the Crown with their missing motive - try not to do any more serious damage before Monday. Do you think you could manage that?’
At that moment I could also have managed to push him under the wheels of the train now arriving at platform 13.
On-board, I eventually found a seat that wasn’t occupied by someone or their shopping. I had a twenty-five minute journey; ample time to run through the Crown case as I expected it to unfold in the weeks ahead.
Violet Hepburn had been in a relationship with the accused; of that there was no doubt. The Crown had lodged Kirkslap’s credit card statements, hotel bills, jeweller’s invoices, there was even CCTV evidence from Karats where’d they’d originally met and frequented on numerous occasions thereafter.
On 31st October 2012, Violet went shopping in Glasgow city centre. On 1st November, she exchanged text messages with Kirkslap, arranging to meet him later that day. She left bloodstains on Kirkslap’s hall carpet and in the boot of his car and was never seen again. In the early hours of the morning of 2nd November, Larry Kirkslap had gone for a drive into the heart of the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park; hundreds of square miles of unspoilt countryside; excellent terrain for those looking to make a body disappear. On both legs of his journey a mobile traffic camera had clocked his car speeding.
When interviewed by the police, Kirkslap had been unable to keep his mouth shut and, to summarise, his explanations for these choice cuts of evidence were: ‘I don’t know why Violet arranged to meet me or why her blood is in my house and in my car, and I didn’t go for a late night drive.’ Not surprisingly, that defence strategy had failed to raise a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury. This time around, thanks to me, there was even more evidence in the form of a threat by Kirks
lap to kill Violet and possibly an attempt to cover that up by bribing a potential witness.
The upcoming retrial offered some limited scope for a change in the line of defence. This time Kirkslap would go into the witness box and use his oily charms on the jury; trouble was, he wouldn’t have much to say. According to him, that first of November he’d stayed in alone all evening watching TV. He hadn’t gone out until around eight o’clock the following morning. He didn’t have any ingenious alibi defences or explanations why he went sightseeing in the wee small hours of the night, but at least he could look a jury in the eye and tell them he was innocent. That had to be worth something.
Deep down I knew it wouldn’t be enough. There was one question a jury would need answered satisfactorily if it was to acquit. If Kirkslap didn’t do it, who did?’
If my client could even cast a reasonable aspersion, he might be in with a chance.
Chapter 33
‘Motive is everything.’ My dad was in the kitchen stuffing clothes into the washing machine when I returned from Edinburgh. I didn’t normally discuss my cases with him, then again, he didn’t normally do my laundry.
‘That’s the problem, Dad. The only person with a motive is Kirkslap. He was being pestered by Violet Hepburn, stalked even, and had already threatened to kill her if she didn’t leave him alone.’
‘And did she?’
I wasn’t sure. I should have asked Candy. Should I try to contact her again? So far, she wasn’t on the Crown witness list, which meant that she had tipped off the authorities anonymously. If, because of me, she ended up for the prosecution, Crowe would go crazy. As things stood, I just knew he was going to stick me with the blame when the guilty verdict duly arrived. There had been plenty prosecution evidence at the last trial, now I’d gone and added an extra piece.
‘There must be lots of reasons why a girl like Violet could have come to a sticky end,’ I said, ‘and yet we don’t even have a potential suspect, far less a motive to pin on someone.’
‘Don’t start with the suspect. Start with the motive.’ My dad pulled a pair of jeans out of the wash basket and held them up. ‘How long have you been wearing these for? Is that blood or pizza?’
‘Is that how you did it when you were a cop?’ I asked, not really wanting to discuss my soiled clothing.
‘No, cops always take the easy route first, mainly because it’s usually the best. When a woman gets killed you start with the nearest and dearest. If you work your way out from there you’ll never need to go much further than the husband or boyfriend. Sometimes it’s a son. It’s almost always a relationship issue and that relationship issue is usually to do with sex.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Not necessarily in the case of mother and son, but you get the idea. Basically, with women it’s all to do with relationships.’
‘Kirkslap was in a relationship with Violet Hepburn, or had been.’
‘There you go, then.’
‘I was sort of presuming my client to be innocent, Dad.’
He shoved my dirty jeans into the washing machine. ‘Then you'd better find someone else she was in a relationship with.’
Easier said than done. ‘And if I can't?’
‘Find a different motive.’
‘Like?’
‘Money. If sex isn’t the motive, it’s money. At the end of the day murder comes down to either sex or money.’
Given that my dad had been a uniformed police sergeant, and that Linlithgow was not exactly a murder capital, I often wondered if his detective expertise came more from reading Ian Rankin than from actual experience; just as his own inability to swim had never stopped him from teaching me and Malky. I could still remember my brother and I lying across kitchen chairs, doing the front crawl with my dad, who couldn't swim the length of himself, telling us not to worry, and that it would be a lot easier when we were in the water.
‘What about drink? That can lead to murder.’ I said.
‘Yeah, all right. Drink too.’
‘Jealousy?’
‘That’s usually to do with sex.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Again, that’s about money.’
‘Racism, bigotry?’
‘All right, all right. I’m just saying, that when it comes to murder the big two are sex and money. If you don’t think Kirkslap did it, follow the money.’
From the wash basket he pulled my best shirt, the black one I’d worn to Karats the previous Friday. He gave it a flap. ‘I wish you’d stop pulling your shirts over your head when you take them off.’ He held it up. ‘Have you even worn this? Doesn’t look like it needs washed.’ He unfastened the buttons and must have noticed the label – Armani – a fashion house even he’d heard of. ‘What are you doing with a good shirt like this?’
‘What’s the matter? Am I not allowed expensive clothes? What am I supposed to put on when I’m going somewhere nice?’
‘Where do you ever go that’s nice?’
‘It was a present from Jill.’
He put the shirt to his nose, sniffed. ‘Is that Jill’s perfume on it too?’
The CID never knew what they’d missed.
‘It’s a long story. I was on business.’
‘Doing the business, you mean.’ He chucked the shirt at me.
‘It’s not what you—’
‘If I ever find out that you’ve been two-timing that lassie, you’ll be defending me for murder, after I’ve killed you.’
There was no talking to him and I had other things to do that evening. I tossed the shirt back into the wash-basket, went to the fridge. There was nothing there but an egg, some cheese that had gone penicillin and a carton of full-fat milk, the only kind my dad would use in his tea. ‘I’ll explain it all to you later.’
‘What’s wrong with right now?’
‘I’m too busy right now.’ I grabbed my coat.
‘Going somewhere nice?’ he asked.
‘The supermarket. I’ll not be late. Will you be here when I get back?’ I thought I’d throw that little dig in. A reminder that he was my guest. I snatched my car keys from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table.
‘Robbie, there’s something I should tell you,’ he said, suddenly on the defensive. ‘About my roof. Arthur’s going on holiday.’
‘When?’
He looked at his watch. ‘About an hour ago.’
‘You book a roofer, and before he’s so much as dressed a slate he’s jetting off to the sun? You didn’t pay him in advance did you?’
‘Don’t be daft. His brother’s had a heart attack.’
‘His brother lives in Linlithgow Bridge. It doesn’t have an airport.’
‘Very funny, no, his brother’s got a timeshare week in Salou he can’t use. Arthur didn’t like to see it going to waste.’
That meant I‘d have my lodger for at least the next seven days, and that was just while we waited for sun-worshipping Arthur to get back on the tools. After that it would be the same again or longer before my dad’s cottage had a lid on it. I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference, and his revelation had got us off the subject of Jill and the lingering scent molecules of Candy’s perfume that a bloodhound wouldn't have noticed.
We looked at one another, each assessing the situation. Was the whole perfume scandal something my dad had used to take the heat out of the news that he’d be staying on a further fortnight? I wasn’t taking the chance. ‘You’re welcome to stay however long you want, Dad, you know that.’
He grunted. ‘Thanks son.’
I walked to the back door.
‘By the way, did you know you were running a wee bit low on whisky?’ he said.
I didn’t. I had a couple of good bottles at various stages of consumption - or I did have the week before, when my dad came to stay.
‘How low?’ I asked.
‘About as low as you can get and even lower by the time you get back from the shop.’
Chapter 34
Car boot full of groceries, I took
the back road to Bathgate, parked at the edge of the woods and walked down to the derelict outhouse where I found Danny Boyd, sitting in a corner wrapped in his sleeping bag. It had been exactly a week since my first visit to his make-shift camp site. The circle of stones held nothing but some blackened twigs and a pile of empty tin cans nestled in the ashes.
I set down two carrier bags. From one I took out a six-pack of cola. I tore open the cardboard case, removed a can and gave it to the boy. He ripped open the ring-pull and drank the contents in one go.
‘Where have you been?’ he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of a grubby hand. The whole place stank of smoke and rancid teenager. I should have brought a bar of soap and told Danny to take it for a swim in the nearby reservoir from time to time.
‘I’ve been working, Danny. I’m in the middle of a big murder trial.’
‘What about the curse?’
‘I’ve talked to an expert. He says that Scottish tombs don’t have curses.’
‘They do. I know they do. What else have you got in the bags?’ he asked.
‘Milk, bread, cheese, various tins and some other stuff.’ I threw him a pork pie and he set about it immediately. ‘Some tombs in Scotland might have curses, but according to my expert it’s just the Egyptian curses you have to watch out for. He reckons you’ll be fine.’
‘Did you tell him what happened to Nathan?’
‘I did, and he said it can't have had anything to do with an ancient curse. Did Nathan have any enemies?’ I remembered what my dad had said about murder motives. ‘Did he owe anybody money?’
Danny shook his head, took another bite of pork pie.
‘There’s matches in there too.’ I gave one of the bags a prod with my toe.
‘What happens if I go home?’ He ate the last morsel of pie and rubbed his hands on the sleeping bag.
‘You’ll be questioned by the police about Nathan’s murder.’
‘They still think it was me?’
‘The police always take the easy route,’ I said, quoting my dad. ‘They’ll start with you and once they’re satisfied you didn’t do it they’ll move on.’
Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4) Page 15