Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘I don’t want to keep you out your bed,’ I said. The truth. ‘I had a meeting with counsel tonight.’ The truth. ‘And he wants to see a copy of P45’s share agreement, don’t ask me why.’ Two out of three wasn’t bad.

  I could hear him sigh. I held my breath.

  ‘I've got it somewhere on the system. Give me your email address and I’ll send it over,’ he said.

  I gave him the details.

  ‘And don’t phone me if you have any questions. Save them for the morning.’

  I suppose the thing about being an IT expert is that you can do computery things very quickly. By the time I’d booted-up my own PC, the email from Zack had arrived in my Inbox. Hurriedly, I clicked on the attachment. It opened to reveal the share agreement; all fifteen pages of it. Corporate lawyers never liked to use one word when a dozen would do.

  What I was looking for I found on page nine. As soon as I saw it, I knew for certain that Violet Hepburn’s death had been all about sending Larry Kirkslap to prison.

  In a way I could understand, not the killing of poor Violet, but, Mike’s undoubted belief that he’d been shafted. The agreement had been prepared when the company was young, and, until Marjorie mortgaged her mansion, probably without much in the way of working capital; in reality, no more than Kirkslap's idea and the enthusiasm of a young software designer. Kirkslap and Zack might have founded the business, but it had been Mike who'd put the plan together. With his knowledge of intellectual property rights, he had protected the fledgling company's interests against competitors, negotiated contracts with the mobile phone companies and brought in the big social networking players. What was his reward for all of this? A handsome salary, no doubt, but, stock-wise, he was entitled to only six per cent. Six per cent of a multi-million pound company, it was true, and, yet, Kirkslap owned forty-seven per cent and what did he do for his money? He was a front man. A big, warm-hearted, gregarious ambassador, who, having made his money, was happy to womanise and drink himself into oblivion most nights, to the detriment of the business.

  I read on. In the event of the expulsion of any Director by operation of clause 14, the whole interest and shareholding of such Director shall accresce to the remaining shareholders per capita…

  I turned to clause 14. It stated that expulsion of a Director would follow automatically upon any criminal activity that led to a period of imprisonment exceeding sixty months.

  What it all meant was that, while upon the death of a P45 director his shares would be transferred to his legal heirs and successors, in the event of serious wrong-doing, the offending director’s shareholding would be transferred, not proportionally, but equally, between the remaining shareholders.

  Had Kirkslap and his young American software designer read past page one of the agreement before signing? Did Zack Swarovski even know the difference between per capita and pro rata? Zack's idea of a classical education was probably limited to playing retro-computer games like Space Invaders.

  Whether or not the directors of P45 knew it, if Kirkslap was convicted and sent to prison for life, one half of his shares would be transferred to Mike Summers, boosting his holding from six to twenty-nine and a half per cent. That equated to several millions of pounds and was, I was sure, to Mike’s way of thinking, a more equitable division for the work he’d put in. It was a redistribution of wealth that Larry Kirkslap would pay for by going to prison. Violet Hepburn had already paid for it with her life.

  I printed off a copy of the share agreement and put it with the rest of the case papers. It was a further step in the right direction, but not enough. ‘Mike the murderer’ was a fine theory; nonetheless, still just a theory. Forgetting, for a moment, the procedural difficulties of putting it before a jury, there were clear evidential problems. Crowe was right. Trying to incriminate Mike on the proof available would look like a defence that was clutching at straws.

  So far as I could see, Mike’s plan was airtight. He was safe, and yet obviously he didn't share that view. If he wanted to kill me, he had to think that I had prejudicial information. Information that would give my theory actual substance and put him firmly in the frame for Violet’s murder. What did I have that made the case I’d cobbled together against him a stateable one? What proof did I have? It had to be a witness. It had to be Danny Boyd.

  Chapter 55

  Friday. Day five of Larry Kirkslap’s trial, and Fiona Faye had lined up another batch of witnesses to whiz through. Before the jury was led on, she dropped the bombshell that the Crown expected to close its case on Monday or Tuesday at the latest. By expert pruning and efficient examination-in-chief, she had crammed the prosecution case into six or seven days.

  Fiona’s first witness was the supermarket delivery man who’d left a box of groceries at Violet Hepburn’s door, early evening on 1st November. The second was a neighbour to say that she had not set eyes on Violet since around the same date, which was unusual because Violet used to pop in for coffee every few days. The third was another neighbour who’d once seen Violet get into a black 4x4, though he was hazy on the exact date. And so it went on, the witnesses coming fast and furious. Fiona certainly knew how to show a jury a good time.

  By three o’clock the procession was over. Pushing at something of an open judicial door, Fiona suggested an early finish.

  When the jury had filed out, she advised the court that on the Monday she would be calling her final witnesses. In the morning we were to be presented with those witnesses who had collected various Crown productions: blood samples, mobile phones, credit cards etc. and relayed them for forensic analysis. It was essential to prove a chain of evidence, but routine stuff like that could be agreed by way of a Joint Minute of Admissions - if that’s what Fiona wanted. It wasn’t. Why simply read out the evidence to the jury? Much better to lead a string of police witnesses, each speaking to an important strand of prosecution evidence, in effect, summarising the Crown case in a stream of formal evidence so incontestable that it would be heard quickly and without cross-examination.

  Thereafter, on Monday afternoon, Fiona intended to call Violet’s mother. Her evidence wouldn’t add a great deal to the actual facts of the case; however, it would be an occasion of high emotion and tears. Fiona could have easily brought Mrs Hepburn to the witness box that Friday afternoon, but to do so would have allowed the impact of the woman’s evidence to fade in the jury’s mind over a weekend.

  ‘This case is proceeding like a runaway train,’ Crowe said, throwing his horse-hair wig onto the table in the centre of the advocates’ robing room. ‘Do you realise that if everything goes to plan for Fifi she’s going to wrap things up on Monday and I’ll be expected to lead some kind of defence?’

  Obviously, I did realise that, as I’d been sitting beside him in court when Fiona made her announcement.

  ‘And what have I got?’ Crowe demanded, again rhetorically. ‘A client who knows nothing, can explain nothing—’

  ‘We've got our phone guy...’

  ‘Fantastic. The best we can come up with is a phone expert who might tentatively suggest that the other experts got it wrong on their mobile phone tracking evidence - big deal. Have you read his report? Fiona will tear him limb by limb and feed him to the jury in small pieces.’

  ‘Mike Summers stands to make millions if Kirkslap gets the jail,’ I said.

  Crowe shrugged off his gown and ripped off his white bow-tie. ‘Then I say congratulations to him.’

  ‘No, really, if you look at the evidence, it’s quite possible this whole thing is a set up.’

  ‘By Summers? Please, not this again.’

  From my papers I produced the copy of P45’s share agreement. ‘Take a look at this. Summers stands to make a lot of money out of a conviction.’

  ‘It’s rubbish,’ Crowe said, not even glancing in my direction as he struggled with a brass collar stud.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got. It’s our only chance of a win.’

  Crowe gave up on the collar stud for a moment.
‘Would you please stop? I’m not your pretty little assistant. You don’t have to try and impress me. I told you last night this theory of yours was all a waste of time.’

  ‘That was before this.’ I waggled the agreement. ‘This shows that if Kirkslap is sent to prison for over twelve months, one-half of his shareholding will be automatically transferred to Mike Summers. That leaves him with around a thirty per cent share in the company. Do you know how much money that is?’

  Crowe looked down at me as though I were a form of infectious disease. He raised his chin. ‘Would you?’

  I unfastened the stud. Something about getting my hands close to Crowe’s throat was quite appealing.

  Crowe removed the rear stud himself, and tossed his detachable winged-collar onto the table. ‘I spoke to Summers this morning, told him about your little theory.’

  He hadn’t, had he? He had.

  ‘Summers told me that if it helped free Kirkslap, he’d allow his name to be dragged through the mud. He would deny everything, of course, but if we wanted to use him as a smoke screen, he’d be willing. Sound like a guilty man to you?’

  ‘He’s bluffing.’

  ‘Whatever, I’m not using him. Where’s his motive?’

  Clearly, to Cameron Crowe I was of less import than a stubborn collar-stud. ‘Have you even been listening to me?’

  ‘What good is a shareholding in the company when the main man is in jail? Thirty per cent of zilch is still zilch.’

  ‘But he won’t be the main man for much longer. Kirkslap’s a booze-bag. He’s made his dosh. All he’s interested in now is booze, birds and blasting the Trossachs wildlife. P45 will have to bring a new frontman in sooner or later. I think Mike wants to be that person.’

  Crowe snorted. ‘You really are pathetic, you know that?’ He took off his starched white shirt and sprayed under his arms with a can of deodorant from his locker. ‘You’d be happy to incriminate a fellow lawyer just to make yourself some extra cash, and to hang with justice and that man’s reputation.’

  Was it too late to sack him? Could I persuade Kirkslap and, I supposed Zack, to let me bring in another counsel who might have the guts to incriminate Summers? Supposing the client were amenable, who could I get to argue the extremely late lodging of a notice of incrimination and the recalling of a witness who’d already been excused, all in the face of stern opposition from Fiona Faye? Even if successful, it would all seem just too desperate.

  ‘You’re not denying it then?’ Crowe said, slipping into a more casual white shirt and wrapping a black tie around the collar. ‘I heard you’d managed to talk the client into agreeing a nice little win bonus, and now you’re prepared to do anything to get your grubby little hands on it.’

  ‘I’m sure the generous offer will extend to counsel. Why don’t you try and earn it?’

  Crowe smiled like a serpent, sliding the knot in his tie up to the collar. ‘I intend to. You see, I have a cunning plan of my own.’

  I'd thought that, for all his bluster, Crowe had been looking even smugger than usual. ‘And that is?’

  ‘Simple. We get Kirkslap to say he killed her.’

  I clapped my hands together. ‘Well done! Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘But,’ Crowe continued, ‘we say it was all a terrible mistake.’

  I couldn't help but be intrigued. ‘In what way?’

  He stood to attention as though in the witness box and put his right hand up to God. ‘She came to the house that night.’ Crowe dabbed an imaginary tear from his eye. ‘We’d both been drinking. We argued. She was leaving. I tried to stop her. She slapped me. I pushed her. She fell. Banged her head...’ he paused for a moment, stopped staring at the imaginary jury and turned to me. ‘That would explain the blood on the hall carpet.’ He took up his witness pose again. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I put her in the boot of the car and buried her somewhere in the countryside. If I’d planned the whole thing, invited her to my lodge to murder her, do you think I would have been so stupid as to be caught on speed camera, twice, or to take my mobile phone with me?’

  ‘So where’s the body?’ I asked.

  Crowe relaxed. ‘Who cares? It’s out there in the wilds somewhere. Kirkslap will have been too upset to know exactly where he dug the grave - if he did dig a grave. He might have just left the body above ground. Yes, that would be better. There’s a lot of wild animals up there. Violet will be long gone.’

  I pointed out the obvious. ‘It’s not really that good a defence. Is it?’

  ‘No, but it’s not murder. It’s culpable homicide.’

  ‘And attempting to defeat the ends of justice by concealing a body.’

  ‘It’s not life imprisonment. It’s eight years, ten at the most.’

  ‘It’s not the truth.’ Was that really me speaking?

  ‘Who’s to say? Just because a body goes missing, why should it automatically be murder? Why not culpable homicide? Or even accident? Kirkslap accidentally kills his girlfriend. What’s he to do? His reputation, his standing in the community, his career, all ruined. So he panics. Perfectly credible. Kirkslap boasts what a great salesman he is. Let’s see him sell that story to the jury.’

  It was clever. So clever that I was sure with a little persuasion Kirkslap would jump at it, put on a show and quite possibly escape a life sentence. Culpable homicide. It wasn't murder, but it wasn't an acquittal. Juries loved a compromise.

  Crowe gestured to the door. I was leaving.

  ‘So Kirkslap goes to jail and the world is Mike Summers' proverbial oyster, is that it?’

  ‘That's about the size of it,’ Crowe said. ‘Who knows? If the jury comes back with culp hom you might get half your win bonus.’ He ushered me out of the door. ‘Oh, and as Mr Summers would be sure to advise you, there are no proverbial oysters, only allegorical ones.’

  Chapter 56

  It was half-five by the time I returned from the High Court. Joanna was waiting for an update. I told her of Crowe’s plan and she agreed that there was something to admire in its simplicity, and in the fact that it could very well be true - almost.

  When she left at the back of six, I remembered what day it was: the day of the big party. I phoned home. No answer. My dad must have left to go tidy his cottage. He and Malky had probably been slaving away for hours. I could picture his face if I arrived on the scene late and in my suit and tie.

  There was a note on the telephone table when I got home: Phone Malky.

  A quick shower, a change of clothes, I could be at the cottage around seven, help blow up a few balloons and be ready for the party starting at eight.

  I was all set to leave and just going to phone Malky, as the note instructed, when there was a knock at the door. It was Candy. She slipped inside before I had the chance to ask her why she was there.

  ‘You’ve got to help me,’ she said.

  Why she thought I would feel under any obligation, when I was fairly certain she’d set me up to be killed by Tuppence Christie, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘He’s going to kill me,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mike Summers. Because of Violet.’

  This was more like it. I invited Candy into the livingroom. She sat down in an armchair.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I'm here to tell you the truth. Mike made me tell you that Larry threatened Violet and that I was there. He had me phone in an anonymous tip-off to the police. Mike wanted to give evidence against Larry, but at the same time to make it look like he was a reluctant witness.’

  I sat down on the couch where my dad normally sat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He wants Larry convicted of the murder. It’s all a fit up.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I overheard him speaking with the owner of Karats.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Tam Christie. You saw him that night you were there.’

  Was she telling the truth? Could it
be she hadn’t set me up with Tuppence and his doorman?

  ‘Why did you not meet me as planned on Wednesday night. In the lay-by?’

  ‘I got lost.’

  I didn't believe her.

  She could obviously tell. ‘I was scared. All right? Tam Christie's a gangster.’ Candy rubbed her brow. ‘Mike’s been spending a lot of time with him. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to end up like Violet.’

  Candy was shaping up to be the missing piece of evidence I needed to add to my Mike Summer’s theory - if she was telling the truth.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ I asked.

  ‘Mike asked me. He gave me this, not Larry.’ She put a hand to the diamond pendant at her neck. ‘I thought, who cares? I didn't know Violet that well, but she didn't deserve to die. I liked Mike and he said Larry was guilty. Everyone thought Larry was guilty. He said and did a lot of stupid things when he was drunk. Mike thought it was important evidence that the court should hear, but he couldn't come forward voluntarily. I was just trying to help. Then I heard him talking to Mr Christie about how he was fitting Larry up. I knew I’d made a mistake and could be in trouble. Now Mike wants me to come forward and speak to the Crown. Give evidence on oath that I heard the threats. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’re a law student. Did you not think about all that before you lied to the defence solicitor in a murder trial?’

  Candy looked up at me. Her mascara was holding up well, despite the tears running down her face. Quality cosmetics. Girls who worked at Karats were worth it.

  ‘You worked with Andy Imray at Caldwell & Craig. How did that come about?’

  She looked surprised that I knew. ‘Mike arranged it. They were looking for a paralegal and he gave me an excellent reference.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Earlier this year.’

  ‘When in relation to Kirkslap’s first trial?’

  ‘Right at the beginning.’ She didn’t wait for my next question. ‘He did it to help me out and he wanted to know how strong the prosecution case was. I thought he was just being nice to me and concerned for his friend.’