Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘When will they think it wasn’t me?’ Danny pulled over one of the carrier bags, rummaged inside and produced a box of matches. He screwed up the greaseproof paper that the pork pie had come wrapped in and stacked some of twigs around it inside the stone circle.

  ‘I have no idea what evidence they have. They will definitely want to speak to you. The fact that you’ve done a runner doesn’t look good, and if there is any more evidence pointing to you then they can put you on a murder petition. They don’t need much evidence to do that.’

  ‘Will I go to jail?’

  ‘Bail is difficult, not impossible. The trouble is you're on bail already, and only from a couple of weeks ago. The chances are that you'll be remanded.’

  Danny sparked a match and put it to a corner of the greaseproof paper. It took light quickly. He fed it from a little pile of wood he had gathered. ‘I’m not handing myself in if I’m going to jail,’ he said, once he had a good blaze going.

  ‘Well you can’t stay here forever,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not. I’m going to move up to the woods at the back of Beecraigs reservoir.’

  Some criminals fled to Brazil. Danny’s idea of doing a runner was to camp out in a country park about three miles from his house.

  ‘And how long do you think you can live rough for? The rest of your life? It’s not like the cops are going to forget about you after a few weeks and then you can go home again.’

  He sniffed, stared at his grubby hands.

  ‘And I’m not a grocery delivery service. I can’t keep bringing you supplies,’ I said, sounding more like his dad than his lawyer.

  ‘Do what you like. I never asked you to come back.’

  ‘Actually, you did.’

  Danny bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s good of you to bring me all this stuff. I’ve had no food or matches for two days now. It’s been freezing up here at night.’

  The food I'd brought him, if rationed properly, could have lasted three or four days, but he was a sixteen year old with nothing to do all day. I estimated the whole lot would be scoffed in half that time.

  ‘I'll come back and see you at the weekend,’ I said. ‘Think it over. Even if the police do detain you, you’ll have a lawyer at the interview, and if they have no evidence they'll have to let you go.’ I looked around at the dank walls, the window spaces through which a twisted mass of bramble briars climbed and at the cobweb-strewn ceiling that gave me the creeps. Give me a cell in Polmont Young Offenders', Playstation, SKY TV and three square, any day of the week.

  I was leaving when I saw a light in the field. In the dark it was difficult to make out how far away it was. My first thought was the police. I ducked back inside the building and told Danny.

  ‘Could be the farmer,’ he said.

  ‘What farmer?’

  ‘There's a farm up the road a bit.’

  ‘Has he been down this way before?’

  He hadn't. Apart from me, Danny had seen no-one for nearly two weeks. I wasn't taking any chances of being caught harbouring a fugitive. ‘Get your stuff, we're leaving.’

  Danny picked up the two carrier bags in one hand and the holdall in another. He asked me to gather up his sleeping bag. I lifted it with two fingers. It was damp and stinking. I threw it into the corner again, took the carrier bags from him and we set off in the dark, taking a route across the fields towards the road, perpendicular to that of the approaching light. After we’d traversed less than fifty bumpy yards, I nudged Danny and whispered to him to halt. The terrain underfoot was rough. We couldn’t see our own feet. The light was gaining and we were making far too much noise. I set down the carrier bags and the two of us crouched behind a crop of gorse bushes that sprouted from a section of collapsed dry-stane dyke. Together we strained our eyes to see who it was approaching the ruins of the walled garden. There was only one source of light, a torch, and by its faint beam it was just possible to discern a shadowy figure. Ten yards or so from the outbuilding, the light stopped moving. It went out. We waited, scared to make the slightest sound. A creak of hinges. Faint light from the remains of the fire framed the shape of a man in the doorway. We crouched lower, holding our breath, faces in the wet grass covering the rutted earth. I knocked over a carrier bag. Bottles clinked. In the still of the night I might as well have rung a bell. The torch switched on again, beam shining straight at us, not powerful enough to pick us out, I hoped. In my reclined position, I reached into one of the bags, pulled out a bottle of lemonade. Back-handed, I hurled it as far as I could to my right. It smashed a distance away. It was a diversion tactic that might have worked in the movies: not in real life. There was a moment of hope when the torch beam flicked in the direction of the noise, but it was soon shining in our direction once more, a disc of light on a black background, growing larger with every step the man took. Whoever it was couldn’t see us yet, all the same he’d be on us in no time.

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Run!’ I yelled at Danny. I didn’t need to tell him twice. The torch began to swing wildly from side to side as the man picked up speed. I started to run after Danny, and with my first stride turned my ankle. I staggered, fell onto my knees. The pain in my ankle coursed up my leg, causing me to cry out. There was no way I was outpacing torch-man now. My only option was to dive into the bushes, lie still and hope that he would run past me in the dark. As for Danny, he was on his own. He was young with a good head start. I turned, hobbled towards the gorse, ready to plunge into the foliage when my good foot stood on something hard. A carrier bag full of groceries. The light stopped. The torch light dipped. I glimpsed another dimmer source of light in the darkness; the reflection from the broad blade of a knife. A very big knife. The man was close, no more than thirty yards. I could hear him breathing hard. There were only a few fronds of broom concealing me from him. I bent over, snatched the other bottle of lemonade from the carrier bag and threw it at the light. It missed by a fraction, veering off to the left of my target. The man moved closer. In an instant I had a tin of beans in each hand. The first hit him, I didn’t know where. The second elicited a curse. Encouraged, I fired a salvo of cola cans, following up with a carton of milk and some apples, more hitting home than not and yet inflicting no real damage. It was the tins of tuna that saved me. Although I could see only the yellow glow of the torchlight and a blurry figure behind, a yelp of pain told me I’d been right on the mark with the first. I rummaged in a carrier bag. There was definitely a second tin somewhere; they’d been two-for-one.

  The light was really shifting now, as the man charged through the undergrowth. He'd be on me in seconds. I found the tin, kissed it and sent it off into the darkness. Like the shot at goal that you just know is going to hit the back of the net the split second it leaves your foot, the tin flew from my hand. The resulting clunk had to be metal meeting skull. The light fell and went out. Something heavy hit the ground and began to groan. David –v- Goliath: the young shepherd boy had finished off the job by beheading the giant with his own sword. I wasn’t quite up for that. My ankle had stiffened and the pain eased slightly. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I limped away.

  Chapter 35

  ‘It’s not broken.’ My dad the non-doctor seemed fairly certain of his diagnosis. ‘Just a sprain.’ He’d found a bag of frozen peas in the depths of the freezer compartment of my fridge and strapped it onto my ankle with a tea towel.

  I’d been through the ‘how did it happen?’ interrogation session with him and come up with a believable enough story that also explained my muddy shoes and grass-stained trousers. In my parallel universe I had been down at his cottage, checking that Arthur had left the place secure, and had tripped when shifting some scaffolding poles that had been left lying on the back green.

  The beauty of it was that it was almost true. From the wilds of West Lothian I’d found Danny waiting for me by the roadside and he’d helped me back to my car. I’d agreed that even if my expert was right and there wasn’t a curse, there was definitely s
omeone out to get him. Why? Neither of us could say, but lack of motive didn’t make the danger any less.

  It was downhill all the way to Linlithgow. Painfully, I engaged the clutch, put the car in third gear and, using only my uninjured right leg on the accelerator and brake, drove to my Dad’s cottage.

  ‘Will he not mind?’ Danny asked, looking up at the scaffolding, erected against the front elevation of the building and the tarpaulins that covered the roof, each sheet held down by batons of wood, lashed to the rafters.

  ‘He won’t find out,’ I replied. ‘You can stay here over the weekend, but on Monday...’ No, Monday wasn’t any good. It was the first day of Larry Kirkslap’s retrial. I couldn’t be elsewhere, even if it was to advise a murder suspect. I’d have to cover at least the first couple of days before I could slip away and let Joanna stand in for me at the High Court. ‘On Wednesday I want you to hand yourself in to the police.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to jail.’

  ‘If you do, it will not be for long and you’ll be safer in there until we find out what’s going on.’ He didn’t answer. I let him in the back door. Everything inside was covered in sheets and the floor was carpeted with old newspapers or rolls of plastic. I gave him a carton of milk and a loaf of bread from the groceries I’d bought for myself. ‘There are plenty of tins in the cupboards. If you’re cooking, keep it simple. Just heat something up in a pot and wash up after yourself. Don’t make a mess. Use the spare room. There’s a wee telly in there you can use, but make sure the curtains are closed and turn the volume low. Keep the door locked, don’t answer the phone and keep out of sight during the day. I don’t think anyone will come by except maybe the postman. He’ll know that my dad’s away just now and get suspicious if he notices anything.’

  Having given Danny his instructions I left him to it. I really hoped I could trust the boy. I knew I should have driven him to the police, but he’d begged me not to and it would make my life a lot easier if I could keep him on ice for a day or two. I’d have to speak to Paul Sharp about who was to represent the boy and I had a busy few days coming up as Kirkslap’s trial neared.

  ‘So everything looks okay at my place?’ My dad was limping around the kitchen, storing the groceries, occasionally pausing to critically examine my purchases. I was pretty sure that the putting away of foodstuffs would come screeching to a halt the moment he came across the bottle of Bowmore I’d bought and hidden in a carrier bag below a pack of toilet rolls.

  I assured him that everything was fine, removing the bag of frozen peas before frost-bite set in.

  The phone rang while my dad was questioning my choice of breakfast cereal. It was the Scottish Legal Aid Board’s call centre. Up until the recent past, if a suspect wanted a lawyer notified of his arrest or detention he’d tell the police who were duty bound to contact the solicitor in question. For the Scottish Government that had been far too simple a procedure. Now all such calls were relayed via SLAB, even where the suspect wasn’t eligible for legal aid. By the introduction of civil service efficiency measures, what had once been a single phone call had now been increased to four. The police phoned SLAB, SLAB phoned the lawyer, the lawyer phoned the police who by that time were usually busy processing some other detainee and arranged to call back the lawyer later – often much later, which led to many a restless night as lawyers waited for the phone to ring. Usually it didn't, until the moment they’d dropped off to sleep again.

  I took the details, phoned the police and was put through to the custody sergeant at Stewart Street Police Station, Glasgow.

  ‘Mr Kirkslap wants to see you before we interview him,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘What’s the charge?’ I wanted to know, still scarcely able to believe it.

  It was a breach of the peace allegation. Kirkslap had paid a visit to a Miss Candice McKeever that evening, better known to me as Candy from Karats, and there had been much shouting and banging on her front door. Obviously, Kirkslap had been made aware of the latest evidence in his High Court case. I just hoped he wouldn’t follow the tracks back to me. This new matter would be classified as a domestic incident and as such zero-tolerance. The prisoner would be going nowhere except court tomorrow, even if, as I would advise him, he made no comment when interviewed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t drive with my ankle. My dad was getting ready for bed. I was going to ask him to drive me and then I caught sight of his crutches in a corner of the room and remembered his own injured leg.

  ‘You've got to be kidding me,’ Joanna said.

  I wasn't. ‘Kirkslap's been lifted for a domestic. I've injured my leg and I can't drive.’ I knew I sounded pathetic. ‘Do you think you could nip down there and tell him to keep his mouth shut? They'll keep him in. You'll have to break the news to him that bail is going to be very difficult tomorrow.’ I couldn't think of any Sheriff who, when faced with a man already on bail for allegedly killing one woman, would grant bail for a threatening visit to the door of another.

  Joanna agreed to go. She lived to the west, and midnight trips to police stations were part of defence agent’s job.

  My dad had found the whisky. ‘Bowmore? You’re a good lad.’ He favoured me with a smile. The mere sight of an Islay malt could have that kind of drastic effect on him. He opened the bottle. ‘I'll just have a wee half before I go to bed. It'll ease the pain in my leg and help me sleep.’ He poured himself a generous measure and swirled the glass.

  The phone rang again. Joanna, I presumed. It wasn't: it was Jill.

  ‘You were expecting someone else?’ she asked.

  ‘Jill,’ I managed to gulp, ‘How are you? I thought you might be—’

  ‘Joanna?’

  ‘Well... yes, she's—’

  My dad took the phone from me. ‘Hello, Jill. How’s Switzerland?’

  The two of them chatted for a while, mainly about my dad’s leg, Jill’s plants and the weather in Berne. Eventually they came around to the subject of me.

  ‘He’s fine,’ my dad said. ‘Well, not fine, he’s hurt his leg too. No, nothing serious. Not a break or anything; just twisted it. You can ask him yourself.’ I waited to be passed the receiver. It never came. ‘Yes,’ my dad continued, ‘Robbie’s was on the phone to his assistant about some crook. Robbie can’t drive because of his sore,’ with two fingers on the hand not holding the phone, he made quotation marks in the air, ‘leg. No, he’s not been up to much. Living quiet. Missing you of course.’ I should have bought my dad whisky more often. ‘I’m staying here while my roof’s being sorted, so I can keep an eye on him. Came for a rest and ended up being a home help, washing, ironing... I know I shouldn't, but Robbie's hopeless and I wasn’t about to let him anywhere near that nice shirt you got him with a hot iron... the Armani one... that's right, the black one... I think he had it on last Friday night... I don't know where... Glasgow... I think... business...’ My dad was beginning to flounder. He'd be no match for Jill if she really started to cross-examine and he knew it. He looked at me, out of his depth; Luke Skywalker about to take on Darth Vadar and realising that he hadn't charged his light-sabre.

  I seized the phone. ‘Hi Jill... Yes, I know the shirt was for my birthday, but I had this do to go to and nothing nice to wear—’

  ‘I haven't told her about the perfume,’ my dad said in too loud a voice.

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece and told my dad to back away slowly and drink his whisky. Had Jill heard my dad's dismally awful sotto voce remark about the perfume? I needed to think fast. Then again, why should I? Jill was the woman I was going to ask to marry me. I didn't usually lie to her, or, if I did, she always found out anyway. Most importantly, I'd done absolutely nothing wrong.

  ‘What do were you at?’ Jill asked. One false word and she’d gut me like a herring.

  ‘It wasn't a do as such. I was working. Do you remember that big murder case that Andy had?’ she did. ‘Well I've got it now.’

  Jill was hugely unimpressed. ‘And where does your Armani shirt come into it? Yo
u've had big cases before. I don't remember you wearing anything smarter than your usual creased suit and an M&S shirt.’

  ‘I had to interview a witness.’ I cleared my throat. ‘In a champagne bar. It's for rich people and I didn't think they'd let me in wearing my usual work clobber.’

  ‘A champagne bar? Who were you interviewing in a champagne bar?’

  ‘Just a witness.’

  ‘A female witness?’

  I had to agree.

  ‘Does she work in this champagne bar?’

  ‘Sort of... not exactly.’ Cross-examining was a lot easier than being cross-examined. ‘Look Jill, I’d like to tell you everything, but it’s to do with a murder trial starting on Monday and—’

  ‘What was Alex saying about perfume?’

  ‘I can’t really talk about it. Everything’s very hush-hush, need to know, privileged communings...’ I was running out of clichés. Time to go on the attack. ‘How’s things your end? I saw the postcard you sent to Kaye with you and Hans—’

  ‘Josh.’

  ‘On the piste. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘I’d love to tell you, Robbie, but you know what the world of international pharmaceuticals is like. Everything is terribly hush-hush.’

  I was never so pleased to hear my doorbell ring. I made my excuses to Jill and handed the phone back to my dad despite his frantically shaking head.

  At the door I was met by two ludicrously young PC’s. One male. One female. I immediately thought of Danny Boyd, hiding out at my Dad’s place.

  The policewoman did the talking. ‘Robert Munro?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’d like you to come with us.’

  Chapter 36

  DI Dougie Fleming looked like he’d got out of bed especially for the interview. Not that it mattered; no amount of beauty sleep was going to make any difference to that face. Upon my arrival at the charge bar, I’d been advised that I was there under suspicion, along with Andy, of having wasted the time of the police by making a false report about a stolen computer tablet. Whether Fleming had disturbed his slumber, or if he was working nightshift anyway and had just let me stew for an hour or two, he was intent on wasting even more police time by asking me questions.