Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘Okay, yes, I went to see her.’

  ‘Why?’

  As it turned out my jealous wife theory had not been an entirely novel one. Andy had gone with the same idea.

  ‘I pretended that I was looking for an alibi for Kirkslap for the night of the first November. I knew Kirkslap had already told the police he'd been alone at his lodge all night, but I was really trying to find out where his wife had been.’ Andy smiled. ‘Clever, eh?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was in Magdeburg. That's in Germany. She had been over there all that week with St Michael's choir. I don't think she sings, more of a sponsor. Anyway, they were on some kind of tour and singing at the cathedral on All Saints Day. She didn't even return to British airspace until bonfire night.’

  ‘And that fact wasn't deemed worthy of so much as an attendance note on the file?’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Leave a note saying, checked out the wife's alibi - she never done it?’

  My still damp foot, sore ankle and aching bucket-carrying arms weren’t yet prepared to forgive Andy his oversight. I drank some beer, refreshed some brain cells, killed some others. ‘What difference does it make if Marjorie Kirkslap has an alibi? I can't see her personally bumping off Violet and then making the body disappear. She would have paid somebody to do that.’

  Andy had to agree it was possible, except... ‘You can’t just Google hit-men. You need contacts.’

  ‘There are people out there happy to take on the work,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and you know who some of them are because you've been a defence lawyer for yonks. I wouldn't know who to get in touch with - how on earth would someone like Marjorie Kirkslap?’

  He was right, which made me realise that whoever was after me and Danny Boyd must have connections. The only person who could point me in the right direction was Jake Turpie. Suddenly, sitting there in that pub in Glasgow, I felt very vulnerable.

  ‘You okay?’ Andy asked. ‘You look like somebody just walked over your grave.’

  ‘Or through my mausoleum,’ I said. I told Andy about my bumping into the barrel of Deek Pudney’s Desert Eagle, about Danny Boyd and the contract supposed to be out on my client and me.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ Andy said. ‘Who’d want to kill a sixteen year-old boy just because he vandalises ancient tombs for a hobby? And why kill you? What have you done? You’re usually acting for killers. They should want to keep you alive.’ He took another drink of beer. ‘You’ll need to go to the police of course.’

  ‘And say what? That Jake Turpie told me there’s a contract out on me? Do you think he’s going to help the police with their enquiries? No, I’m going to have to work on Jake and get him to tell me who’s behind it or see if he’ll put a stop to it. I’ve already explained that if I’m bumped off he’ll have to whistle for his rent.’

  We’d almost finished our drinks when Andy mentioned the Kirkslap case again. ‘I heard the Crown got off to a flying start. It’s not going to be any easier this time, you know. Not with the new evidence about the threat being made against Violet. I remember you telling me about that. What I didn't know was that they were calling Mike Summers as a witness.’ He smiled. ‘That's not going to help.’

  ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘Just someone I know.’

  ‘A lawyer?’

  ‘Not quite yet. Candice is a paralegal doing the part-time law degree at Strathclyde. She’s—’

  ‘Candice?’

  ‘Candice McKeever.’

  Was Andy referring to brunette, legs that go all the way down to the ground, all-round-gorgeous Candy from Karats Champagne Bar?

  ‘I don’t know. It could be her,’ Andy said. ‘She did say that she sometimes worked in a bar. But a gold-digger...?’

  ‘How long has she been with Caldwell & Craig?’

  Andy thought about that while he shouted us up another round, a pint for him, ginger beer for me. ‘Must have been shortly after I arrived. She was working more or less full-time on the Kirkslap case. She never attended any of the consultations, but she did take a few statements and helped a lot with the admin: photocopying, collating papers, that sort of thing. I thought she was really nice. How do you know her?’

  ‘Because she’s a potential witness.’

  ‘What? In Larry Kirkslap’s case? Don’t think she’ll be able to help much.’

  ‘Not a defence witness. For the prosecution. She was there when Larry Kirkslap went round to Violet’s house and threatened her. She's the girl whose silence was bought with a diamond necklace. I told you about her already.’

  ‘You never said anything about it being Candice. Are you sure we're talking about the same person?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I downed the glass of ginger beer in a oner. ‘But I’m going to find out.’

  It wasn’t that far to Karats, even with a wet foot and a limp. When I got to the steps leading up to the entrance, it was the back of seven and the street lights were coming on. The doorman came down them to meet me. He was wearing a turquoise baseball cap with a monogrammed gold 'K' on the front and mirrored sunglasses.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t think so? Do you know who I am?’ I thought the old, do you know who I am? Might be worth a try. It wasn't.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, jerking his head at the CCTV cameras on the wall, ‘and I’ve been told not to let you in.’ He tapped a Bluetooth earphone. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, will you find out if Candy McKeever is in there and ask her to come out?’

  He wouldn’t. He seemed quite certain about that.

  ‘Do you have a number for her?’

  The doorman had returned to the small landing at the top of the steps and was now looking, side to side, up and down the street, anywhere apart from at me.

  There was no point arguing. The doorman didn't look like the kind of guy who'd be likely to indulge in reasoned debate, and, in any event, it was a Monday night. I didn’t know if Candy would be there or not. She might have been at home, curled up in front of the TV or out zimmer-shopping with her latest sugar-daddy.

  I’d have to try and contact her via Caldwell & Craig tomorrow. Time was fast running out, and I would like to have known what she was playing at before Kirkslap's trial progressed much further. If she was the same Candy McKeever who’d accused me of lying to her, why had she hidden from me the fact that she too had been working on Larry Kirkslap’s case?

  The smoked-glass doors opened and out strolled Tuppence Christie.

  He looked down at me. ‘Problem?’ he asked the doorman, who assured him there was none. ‘Good,’ he said, and, with a young lady on either arm, came down the steps and into a Merc that had appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Tuppence come here often?’ I asked the doorman, as the limousine pulled away.

  ‘Mr Christie is the proprietor,’ he growled.

  ‘Taking some work home with him tonight is he?’

  ‘You’re a funny guy.’

  I was getting nowhere in my search for Candy. Tuppence Christie’s connection with the champagne bar was interesting, though. If he was the proprietor, there had to be a lot of nutters coming and going. Acquaintances of his with plenty of drug money. A rich nutter was a nutter nonetheless. If we’d had weeks or months to prepare for the retrial instead of a few days, it might have been possible to make something of that information, but I doubted there was much that could be done at this late stage.

  I started to walk away.

  ‘Be seeing you,’ the doorman said.

  I doubted it. But I was to be proved wrong.

  Chapter 45

  ‘Tell me, were you asked to examine any other samples of blood from Mr Kirkslap’s lodge?’

  Tuesday morning and Cameron Crowe’s cross-examination of the Crown forensic expert was underway.

  ‘Yes, we were given several samples to test.’

  ‘How many?’

  The forensic sci
entist referred to the document in front of him: Crown Production fifteen, a laboratory report compiled by him and a colleague. ‘Nine in all.’

  Fiona had only led evidence of two blood samples the previous day. Some of the jurors shifted, interested.

  ‘Nine?’ Crowe turned his head to the jury box and looked at them when he asked his next question. ‘And how many of those nine samples do you say belonged to Miss Hepburn?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Crowe said, as though it was a minor matter he’d almost forgotten about. He picked up his copy of the report, donned a pair of tortoiseshell-framed spectacles and read, ‘on the hall carpet and in the boot of the car.’ He whisked off his glasses again. ‘What about those seven others?’

  ‘Three belonged to the accused. The other four samples were found not to be relevant. One of them turned out to be a drop of rabbit blood on the kitchen floor.’

  The expert smiled. Cameron Crowe didn’t. In a few more questions, Crowe elicited that the three samples belonging to Kirkslap were all found on a towel in the bathroom next to the sink and were consistent with him having dabbed his face after shaving.

  ‘Leaving the rabbit to one side for the moment,’ Crowe sneered, ‘tell us about the other three samples. Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen of the jury would like to decide for themselves how irrelevant they are.’

  It was a minor dig, but a good jury point nonetheless. No witness, however well qualified, should tell a jury what is or is not pertinent. It didn’t do the defence any harm to align itself with the jurors, give them their place, remind them how important they were. The subtext was that the defence lawyers were there on the side of justice and wouldn’t let the Crown decide what the jury should or shouldn’t hear. The defence would make sure the masters of the facts heard all the evidence; not just the edited highlights.

  ‘Well? Did you find out who the other samples belonged to?’ Crowe asked. ‘The irrelevant ones?’

  Crowe was really milking it. Whatever information now came out would seem to the jury like details the Crown had tried to hide.

  ‘The other samples came from a Mr Eric Spalding.’

  ‘And where were they found?’

  The expert again checked his report. ‘The police label on the samples given to us stated, ‘carpet beneath window sill in bedroom one’.’

  ‘And do you know this Mr Spalding?’

  ‘No, I don’t’

  ‘But you know what he does for a living?’

  ‘I believe he’s a joiner.’

  ‘And do you know how his blood came to be there?’

  ‘The police told me—’

  ‘One moment please,’ the judge interrupted. ‘Mr Crowe, it sounds very much as though you are attempting to lead hearsay evidence.’

  It not only sounded like it, he definitely was.

  ‘My friend hasn’t objected.’ Crowe looked across the table at Fiona.

  Fiona couldn’t object. If she did it would look like she was trying to conceal something else from the jury and, when the evidence eventually did come out, it would seem all the more important because of it. She smiled at the judge and shook her head. ‘No objection, M’Lord.’

  Crowe didn’t wait for the go ahead from the bench. ‘The police told you that Mr Spalding was a joiner and that he’d recently fitted a new bedroom window at Mr Kirkslap’s lodge - is that correct?’

  The expert agreed that was the information he’d received.

  ‘And it is generally accepted that his blood is on the carpet because he injured himself with a chisel or similar instrument, is it not?’

  The judge looked impatiently down at the Crown side of the table, expecting an objection, but Fiona stared stalwartly ahead.

  ‘So what you are saying is that there would appear to be an innocent explanation for the blood on Mr Kirkslap’s shaving towel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there appears to be an innocent explanation for Mr Spalding’s blood on the bedroom floor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for all you know there may be an innocent explanation for those bloodstains you have attributed to Miss Violet Hepburn?’

  The expert didn’t answer, but the slight shrug of his shoulders would have been enough for the jury.

  ‘For the tape, please,’ Crowe said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the expert.

  ‘Just as well Mr Spalding hasn't gone missing too or this would be a double-murder trial,’ he said, flashing a wry expression at the jury.

  ‘Are you quite finished, Mr Crowe?’ the judge asked.

  He wasn’t. ‘Your expert analysis…’ Crowe held the report up to the witness and looked at it as though it were a filthy rag, ‘doesn’t even tell us if the rabbit was murdered. Does it?’

  The expert gave him a don’t-be-ridiculous look.

  Crowe threw the report onto the table and walked over to the witness box. ‘Well, does it?’

  He held the expert’s stare until the latter said, ‘no,’ and then about-turned, strode back to his seat and sat down with a flap of his gown.

  The judge looked down at Fiona Faye, who was doing an excellent job of trying not to appear fazed. ‘Lunch?’

  Joanna met one of her old friends from the Fiscal Service and went off for a sandwich. Crowe disappeared, probably to hang upside down in a cupboard for a while, following his prolonged exposure to daylight. Mike, now a Crown witness, was not supposed to communicate with the defence before giving his evidence. That left just myself, my client and Zack. The previous day we had adjourned to Gordon’s Trattoria, an Italian restaurant only a hundred yards or so from the court, further down the Royal Mile, and I was looking forward to a re-run of the Penne Tre Figlie; however, I noticed that Kirkslap was hanging back, pacing the lobby at the top of the stairs.

  Zack came over to me. ‘Larry’s not happy,’ he said. ‘No, better upgrade that to furious.’

  I couldn’t understand it. Cameron Crowe had made a great start to the defence case. He’d taken a serious bite out of the first chunk of circumstantial evidence. If Kirkslap was to be acquitted the defence would have to take each piece of incriminatory evidence and hang a reasonable doubt from it. Crowe had done that extremely well with the bloodstains; one of the Crown’s most important strands of evidence; Fiona Faye’s opening gambit.

  ‘No, he’s very pleased with Mr Crowe. He’s not pleased with you going to visit Marjorie.’

  Word travelled fast within open marriages.

  ‘I had a good reason.’

  ‘You had a hunch,’ Zack said. ‘Like Andy did. It was made very clear to him that Marjorie was strictly out of bounds. No meetings, no interviews, no publicity.’

  ‘I’m trying to do my job,’ I said.

  ‘Do it. Just don’t include Marjorie Kirkslap in it.’

  Who was this twenty-something to tell me how to do my job? What did he know? He made stupid games for a living; ones that stupid people bought and lost their money playing. I walked past him to where Kirkslap was gazing up at the abstract tapestries on the wall outside Court 3.

  ‘After court today we’re having a meeting,’ I told him. ‘No Zack, no Mike, no counsel, just you and me.’

  He was going to say something, but my phone buzzed and I turned away to take the call.

  Malky.

  ‘I forgot to book the West Port for dad’s birthday,’ he said.

  ‘Well book it now.’

  ‘I can’t. Someone’s got it for a twenty-first. What are we going to do? The party's supposed to be Friday night.’

  Chapter 46

  The Scotsman Hotel on South Bridge is the former headquarters of the Scotsman newspaper, before its move to Barclay House on Holyrood Road. Kirkslap had taken a junior suite, situated high on the north-west corner of the building. A plaque beside the door told me the immense, wood-panelled room had once been an editor’s office.

  We sat in chairs at a tall window with a fine view over Waverley Station, across Princes Street Gard
ens to the Scott Monument.

  ‘Drink?’ Kirkslap set a glass on the bureau desk beside me, along with a selection of single-malt miniatures from the mini-bar. Judging by his own glass and the number of tiny dead soldiers, he’d started early. It wasn’t five o’clock. Court had finished for the day less than an hour ago.

  I helped myself to an Ardbeg.

  ‘Islay?’ Kirkslap said. ‘Never really got a taste for it. They say it’s peaty. Tastes more like TCP to me.’ He raised his own glass of vodka. ‘Here’s to Cameron Crowe.’

  ‘I think he’d rather be toasted with blood,’ I said.

  Kirkslap laughed. ‘He is a cold bastard right enough? Doesn’t smile much and when he does, never hits his eyes, does it?’ He took a drink. ‘Still, better on our side than theirs, eh?’

  There was no point going around the houses. I was there to find out what Kirkslap’s big problem was with me going to see his wife. I still had to go back to the office and make sure that the day to day business of Munro & Co. wasn’t too neglected, and then there was my extreme concern over the contract out on Danny Boyd and myself, not to mention my dad’s surprise birthday party. The surprise being that it didn’t look like there was going to be one.

  ‘I went to see your wife yesterday and you’re not pleased about it,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did you go? This whole affair has nothing to do with Marjorie. She’s a very private person, a very proud person. This business with me, all the publicity, it’s really getting to her.’

  I could understand that. Marjorie Kirkslap was a throwback. From our brief meeting I had the impression of a woman determined to continue her family’s small place in history; the Baronetcy of the Addison’s, West Lothian’s second most-titled family. But there was more to it than that, I was sure of it.

  I opened the miniature and poured it into my glass. ‘You didn’t give evidence in your last trial, why not?’

  ‘Mr Staedtler advised against it.’

  ‘Well, you’re giving evidence in this one.’ There was a plastic bottle of spring water on the desk. I opened it and added a thimbleful to my malt.

  ‘That’s my decision to make,’ he said.