Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘You didn’t know I’d had the stookie off did you?’

  I hadn’t. Not until that moment.

  ‘Three days that thing's been off and you’ve never even noticed.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Well don’t worry about me. I’ll be out of your hair and back home, middle of next week. Just as soon as Arthur finishes building his latest castle or monument or whatever he’s doing.’

  All of a sudden, into my weary brain, came the picture of me lugging a bucket of grain past a pile of sandstone blocks in the grounds of Addison House. Where was Danny Boyd’s notepad? I went through to the livingroom. Malky was already asleep and snoring, either that or doing an excellent impersonation so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. I shifted his legs, found the notepad and flicked through the various entries until I came to one I’d seen before but that had never properly registered. Addison Tower. A mausoleum. What better place to hide a body?

  Chapter 59

  It was a cold, dreich, Sunday morning in April when we gathered outside the Addison family’s ancestral resting place. It was called a tower, but was no more than fifteen feet high, the statue of a single weeping angel atop a domed roof of slate and lead. The door was solid oak, still in excellent repair, with three, broad, iron-studded hasps securing it to the door post by the same number of heavy-duty padlocks. The locks looked new. Too new for such an ancient edifice.

  That early morning visit was my second trip to the tomb in as many days, for I had been there twenty-four hours earlier with Danny Boyd. The tomb was set back, well away from the big house, and we hadn’t been disturbed by Marjorie Kirkslap or practical-joking Uncle Gordon.

  Danny and Nathan Boyd had come to this mausoleum on 31st October 2012. I’d never had the notion to enter a mausoleum, not while I was still alive anyway, but, if I'd ever been so inclined, I was certain Halloween would be the one night at which I’d draw a line.

  ‘It was Nathan’s idea,’ Danny told me. ‘I was scared. We’d been in quite a few others, just for a look around, but we’d sealed them up again afterwards and never took nothing. We read about them on the internet, and there was this chatroom that had folk from England on it, saying we were lucky and that it was great fun. It was like a competition to see how many you could do.’

  ‘And it was the curse that made you scared?’

  ‘None of the others we done had curses. As soon as I read the history of this one I had a bad feeling about it.’

  That Sunday morning, I read again the words inscribed on the lintel, just as I had the day before.

  He that spares these stones be bleste

  And curst be him who breaks my reste.

  ‘Cheery, here, isn’t it?’ Fiona Faye was wearing a bright red raincoat, flanked by two uniform cops in standard-issue dark waterproofs.

  Hugh Ogilvie hovered in the background, sulking under an umbrella, not amused at being bothered on a Sunday.

  ‘You'd better be right on this one, Munro,’ Cameron Crowe said. ‘If this is some kind of wild goose—’

  ‘It's not,’ I assured him. ‘Michael Summers murdered Violet on thirty-first October. He brought her here to this sealed mausoleum, knowing that it would not be opened again, since the Addisons were busy having another built elsewhere on the estate. He framed Kirkslap, leaving bloodstains at his home, taking his mobile for a spin—’

  ‘I get it,’ Fiona said. I’d had the same discussion with her the previous afternoon. She held out her crooked arm and let one of the cops support her as she tip-toed through the mud to the door of the mausoleum for a closer look at the padlocks.

  Fiona had been highly dubious when I'd presented my theory to her the day before, and I'd been hindered slightly in that I had been unable to tell her everything for fear of being linked to Tam ‘Tuppence’ Christie’s death, which, as yet, was still merely a missing person’s report on the desk of Strathclyde Police. Knowing Tuppence’s relationship with the polis, I didn’t think they’d be looking too hard. It was only after I’d persuaded Fiona to make a phone call that things had really got moving. That call had been to SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. A member of the public or a defence agent could wait months, years, for information from the mobile phone companies. SOCA had the information I’d had Fiona ask for within three hours. Three hours to track the movements of three mobile phones and one iPad.

  Candy McKeever’s phone had made a call via the nearest base station to Violet Hepburn’s home on the evening of 31st October. That call had been to Mike Summers. The phone had then travelled, along with Violet’s phone, from Glasgow to Edinburgh the same day. Violet's phone had gone silent and not been reactivated until the following day when the text message had been sent arranging to meet up with Kirkslap. That text had not been sent by Violet. She'd been dead nearly twenty-four hours.

  A data search showed that Mike’s phone had remained in his house on Halloween night, but not his iPad. The tablet was alive, switched on and receiving signals via 3G in the vicinity of Violet’s home on 1st November at the time the text to Kirkslap was sent, but, more importantly, it had been in the vicinity of Addison House shortly before midnight on 31st October.

  Why had Mike taken it with him? It went everywhere. He never knew when it might come in useful. Well, it had now. Very useful. But not to him.

  Candy had set Violet up. Mike had finished the job. Everything had gone according to plan - until he walked out of the mausoleum, out of a door he'd thought would not open again this side of the resurrection. On the other side of that sturdy old, oak door, Mike had expected to stroll into a fortune. Instead he'd stumbled into two teenagers trying to break in and to whom he’d given the fright of their lives.

  It must have been a stressful few months for Mike, not knowing who these potential witnesses were. And then two lads had been arrested for an attempted raid on the nearby Binny Mausoleum. Violation of sepulchres, an unusual occurrence; it had to be the same two boys. If they started blabbing about other escapades and word of Halloween 2012 got out, someone might check the Addison Tower. Larry Kirkslap didn't have an alibi for the 1st November, but he wouldn't need one if it was discovered that Violet had been killed the night before. Could the Boyd boys identify Mike? They had to be got rid of.

  Fiona examined the locks, like me, recognising the newness of them. ‘We’re going to need a warrant to open this thing up.’ She turned to the PF. ‘Mr Ogilvie, better send your police officers round to see one of the local Sheriffs. This is Sheriff Albert Brechin’s jurisdiction isn’t it? Maybe you can rouse him from his bed.’ Delicately, she tip-toed over to me. ‘Unless…’ she whispered in my ear, ‘you can have him grant us one over the phone.’

  Chapter 60

  Violet Hepburn’s body was found wrapped in a tartan travelling rug on the floor of the Addison Tower. The pathologists later concurred that she’d been strangled. One of her wrists was lacerated; enough of a wound for some blood to be collected. If kept moist or airtight, that blood could easily have been transferred elsewhere, such as to the boot of a car or wiped onto a hallway carpet.

  When Larry Kirkslap turned up for day six of his trial on Monday morning, he was given the happy news that, yet again, the case against him was being deserted, this time simpliciter. Mike Summers, who had accompanied him to court, was arrested and charged with the murder of Violet Hepburn. Candy McKeever had been detained and questioned on Sunday afternoon. She had not exercised her right to silence, and had landed iPad Mike right in it. Candy might have been an excellent liar, but, when it came to telling the truth in order to save her own skin, she was good at that too.

  Where did Marjorie Kirkslap fit into all this? Did she fit into it at all? I remembered the black Audi Q7 outside the big house the other night. The death of Violet Hepburn would have been mutually convenient for a jealous wife and a greedy business colleague. It would all make for an interesting trial. Not one in which Fiona Faye, Cameron Crowe or Munro & Co. would be instructed. I understood Nigel St
aedtler Q.C. had declared his availability.

  Tuesday morning: dull, miserable and pouring with rain. Joanna came into my room. It might have seemed like winter outside, but in her heart it was most definitely spring.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ she asked, excitedly.

  I hadn’t.

  She dragged me and pressed my face against the window. One floor below us, the April rain battered against the roof of a brand new Mercedes SLK AMG Sport.

  I was pretty happy about the win-bonus I’d received from Larry Kirkslap too. It was tax-free and could just about be squeezed into the shoe box under my bed. A bed that had recently been returned to its rightful owner.

  Joanna released her hold on the back of my head and gave me a big hug. ‘What a case! I never want to leave here,’ she said.

  I heard my secretary clearing her throat. A familiar enough sound and one that signalled all was not well in the Grace-Mary universe. We turned, my arm still around Joanna’s waist, hers still around mine. They dropped quickly, perhaps too quickly, to our respective sides when we saw Jill standing there.

  Call it male intuition, I could tell she wasn’t happy. ‘Hello Jill—’

  ‘Do not hello Jill me.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Grace-Mary said, performing a tactical retreat.

  Jill took up position in the centre of the room. ‘Why do you never answer your phone?’

  ‘I’ve lost —’

  ‘Did you not get the message that I was coming back two days early? I told your dad to tell you to phone me. I left hundreds of messages on your answering service over the weekend. You were supposed to pick me up at the airport.’

  ‘I’m sorry Jill, I—’

  ‘If you even had a web-site or something I could have emailed you. I've stood in the rain for an hour. I had to get a taxi.’

  ‘Is it outside? Where’s all your luggage?’

  ‘Where do you think? At home.’

  Oh, oh.

  ‘My home which has burst balloons everywhere and a recycle bin full of empty beer bottles. And what on earth happened to my ivory pineapple? Oh, and I found this on my dressing table.’ From her hand bag she removed a plastic bag with a half-eaten sausage roll inside. ‘Explain.’

  ‘There was a small family get together for my dad's birthday,’ I said.

  ‘At my house?’

  ‘It’s a really long story. I’ll explain everything later. Come here.’ I went over to her, arms wide open.

  Jill let me hug her, but did not reciprocate. I tried to give her a kiss and was presented with a cheek, no lips. After a brief coming together she broke free. ‘I can’t believe that I’m away for six weeks and come home to find those plants that are not dying of thirst have been squashed, bakery products on my make-up box and now this.’ Jill pointed at Joanna. ‘My boyfriend canoodling with the staff.’

  ‘We were celebrating,’ I said. ‘We’ve just won a big case. Come over here and see what Joanna’s got.’ I took Jill by the wrist and tried to pull her over to the window.

  ‘No thanks,’ Jill said. ‘I can see what Joanna’s got from here, thanks.’

  I‘d had enough. Time to go on the attack. ‘Josh! What about Josh?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I paced up and down, waving a hand. All I needed was a jury. ‘It’s all right for you to go off on skiing trips and late-night fondue parties with your work colleague, but I can’t even give mine a celebratory hug after we’ve won the biggest case of our lives?’

  Jill placed her hands on her hips. Five-foot two of righteous indignation. ‘Josh is very nice and probably the gayest man in all Switzerland if it’s any business of yours.’

  I didn’t get to where I was by not being quick on my feet. ‘There you are then. A misunderstanding on my part, for which I apologise. Now, if you’d care to do the same, we can put this behind us and—’

  ‘Oh, I’ll put this behind us all right. In fact I’ll put you right behind me!’

  Jill turned on a heel.

  ‘Wait!’ Joanna yelled. ‘No, really, wait,’ she called again when Jill showed no sign of halting her march to the door.

  Jill had to stop as Grace-Mary appeared in the doorway carrying a tray of steaming mugs.

  Joanna went to my desk, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a small velvet box. ‘Here!’ she chucked it at Jill who just managed to catch it as she turned around.

  Jill opened the box. ‘What's this?’ she asked, not looking up.

  ‘It’s a ring,’ I said. ‘That's a diamond. One carat. Nearly. Do you like it?’

  Jill stared at the engagement ring for an age. ‘Yes... I do...’ She tore her eyes from the ring and glanced, confused, from me to Joanna to Grace-Mary.

  ‘Robbie wants to marry you, dear.’ Grace-Mary gently prised the box from Jill’s hand and replaced it with a mug of tea.

  It wasn’t exactly how I’d planned it, but everyone else knew - why not Jill too?

  ‘What do you say?’ I asked. ‘Will you marry me, Jill?’

  The look of anger had gone. Jill smiled. Nippy to sweetie in a personal best time. She took a slow sip of tea. ‘Oh, probably.’

  * * * * *

  Author’s Note:

  I am sometimes asked where I get my ideas from. One of the benefits of being a criminal lawyer, and these days there are few, is the wealth of material that comes one’s way.

  Many of the scenes, characters and events in the Best Defence series are based on fact, some so weird that I can’t use them because they would simply not be believed. One example being the time I was sitting in my car in the centre of Edinburgh, with a dud battery in my phone, wondering how I could contact Edgar Prais Q.C. with whom I was supposed to be consulting in Glasgow in about ten minutes time.

  As I pondered how I’d get word of my delay to senior counsel, another vehicle collided with the rear of my car. Swapping details, I noticed the lady driver’s unusual name and discovered that she was none other than the charming Mrs Prais, who not only had her husband’s phone number, but allowed me to use her phone to call him (there was no damage done to either car, or, if there was, it sort of blended in with the other assorted dents and scrapes on each).

  Such a coincidence just can’t be used in fiction. While it’s true – it’s unbelievable. Which brings me to the point of this note: the procedural blunders referred to in the above chapters, namely, the ‘smoking jury’ and the jury that was not sworn in.

  The smoking jury incident took place at Falkirk Sheriff Court in January 2012; the accused, not represented by myself, but, by my friends and fellow defence agents, Gordon Addison and Kevin Douglas.

  Although the Crown conceded the point at the trial, it later disputed the smoking jury decision and, in fine style, the Appeal Court decided that when the 1995 Act said, 'shall acquit' it actually meant something else, and, having dug up some 16th Century authority, ordered the Sheriff not to acquit but instead to desert the case pro loco et tempore, thus, theoretically at any rate, allowing the Crown a second bite at the cherry. An opportunity of which it decided not to avail itself. HMA -v- Paterson XC83/12

  The jury that was not sworn, sat in 1997 at the trial of my client Peter Arthur George Schroder who was charged with the murder of a teenage girl in Bonnybridge. The mistake was noticed shortly before lunchtime by Dorothy Bain, now Q.C., then recently called to the Bar and watching from the public benches. Whether the error was noticed by the defence team shall go unrecorded; however, once the problem had been brought to the court’s attention by the eagle-eyed Ms Bain, the trial had to be recommenced with two witnesses being recalled to repeat their evidence to a now duly sworn-in jury. What would have happened if the error had gone unnoticed until after the trial, I don’t know. I suspect that nowadays the appeal court might overlook such an error in correct procedure; however, due process seemed to be viewed a lot more stringently in those far off days. Mr Schroder was represented by Derek Ogg Q.C. who had not at that time taken
silk.

  WHSM

  2014

  THE BEST DEFENCE SERIES

  #1 RELATIVELY GUILTY

  Follow the trials of Scots criminal lawyer Robbie Munro as he joins battle in the fight for truth and justice - hoping truth and justice don't win too often because it's terribly bad for business.

  A policeman with a caved-in skull, his young wife found clutching the blood-stained murder weapon; it all looks pretty open and shut until Robbie detects the faint whiff of a defence and closes in on a witness who might cast a precious doubt on proceedings.

  So why is it, the nearer he gets to the truth and a possible acquittal, that Robbie's murder client becomes more and more eager to opt for a life sentence?

  Short-Listed for the Dundee International Book Prize

  #2 DUTY MAN

  Justice is blind - which is handy because sometimes you need to pull a fast one.

  Continuing the trials of Scots defence lawyer, Robbie Munro.

  Local lawyer Max Abercrombie is gunned down in cold blood, and the historic town of Linlithgow is rocked by its first assassination in five hundred years. Robbie, Max's childhood friend, is duty-bound to act in the accused's defence, and when investigations reveal a link between his friend's murder and that of a High Court judge many years before, he wonders if his client might actually be an innocent man.

  The more Robbie digs into the past, the closer he gets to the truth and the more the bodies pile up.

  #3 SHARP PRACTICE

  A good criminal lawyer seeks after the truth.

  A great criminal lawyer makes sure the jury doesn’t hear it.

  Scotland's favourite criminal defence lawyer, Robbie Munro, is back and under pressure to find a missing child, defend a murdering drug-dealer and save the career of a child-pornography-possessing local doctor.