‘You could be right.’
‘Then there is the man himself. I have met your accountant on a number of occasions and he is not the kind of fellow who instils confidence, nor can I imagine him charming a jury. Baxter is a rude, arrogant, bigoted, singularly unattractive man. I found him dirty, vulgar and sleazy and he sweats a great deal. Frankly, he looks like a child killer, or a jury’s idea of one, and that’s how they are likely to regard him. But that’s just my opinion and none of that matters too much when set against the big, clinching factor.’
‘The DNA?’
‘The DNA,’ she agreed, ‘most people only have to hear there is DNA evidence linking someone to the scene or the victim and that’s it; the prosecution gets their conviction. Most jury members won’t have the faintest clue about the science. They don’t know and they don’t want to know. If there’s a professor on the stand with some letters after his name, telling them the mathematical odds against DNA evidence being incorrect are immense, you can almost see them nodding in agreement.’
‘And the odds are?’
‘Hundreds of millions to one,’ she assured me.
‘So how do you challenge that kind of evidence?’
‘You don’t. As far as I’m aware, you can’t, and I wouldn’t be willing to try. This is a no-win case if ever I saw one.’
‘So what’s the good news?’
She shrugged, ‘Accountants are ten a penny.’
‘Like lawyers?’
She gave me a humourless smile, ‘And gangsters.’
‘This one is special,’ I told her and she gave me a quizzical look. ‘Not the man. Baxter is vile and deserves everything he gets but the information he holds is… valuable to me. I want it back. I need it back, in fact. Without it my entire organisation is in considerable jeopardy.’
‘I see.’ She seemed taken aback.
‘I hope you do,’ I assured her.
‘Then you are going to need a very good lawyer indeed.’
‘One of those dispassionate, messianic types with the super-keen intellect who believes the system owes every man the right to a fair trial,’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘all that and a monstrous ego.’
Things had been strained with Sarah since she had asked me to tell her about her father’s last moments. She had actually apologised for springing that on me but, if I thought I’d heard the last of her questions about Bobby, I was sadly mistaken. She tried raising the matter with me again, more than once. She explained that it was important for her to know exactly what had happened to her dad. She drew parallels with my own search for the truth about my missing father, which I didn’t thank her for.
‘I want to know if my father is still alive Sarah, that’s all,’ I retorted. ‘I just want to understand why he walked out on us all those years ago, so I know how to answer Emma’s questions when she gets older. You want to hear details I’m not comfortable discussing with anyone, let alone you.’
I managed to avoid the subject or curtail the conversation each time she raised it with me until it began to drive a wedge between us. Eventually it became a real source of friction, until one day it erupted into a full-blown row.
‘I don’t understand why you won’t even talk to me about it. I have a right to know.’
‘And I have a right to choose not to relive the worst day of my life,’ I countered.
‘I don’t need you to paint me a picture Davey, I just want you to fill in the gaps.’
‘What gaps?’
‘I don’t know!’ she shouted at me. ‘That’s the fucking point!’
‘I’m not discussing it with you anymore and that’s it!’
‘What? The conversation’s over because you decide it is?’
At that point, Sarah looked like she was about to explode and I was spoiling for a fight as well. It was the sound of Emma crying upstairs which brought us back to reality. I think we both thought we’d woken her at first and we stopped shouting and listened for a second.
‘Nightmare,’ I said and she got to her feet. ‘I’ll go,’ I told her, ‘you’ve had her all day.’ When I reached Emma’s room she was tearful and sitting up in bed. As soon as she saw me, she opened her arms wide, as if only a hug from her daddy could banish the monsters from her world.
‘Come here, sweetie,’ I told her. She looked exhausted, so I picked her up and carried her into our room.
‘You lie in mummy and daddy’s bed for a while.’ I put her under the covers and tucked her in. She fell asleep almost instantly. I lay down next to her and closed my eyes for a moment.
When I opened them again I realised I’d dozed off. I checked my watch and found I’d slept for nearly three hours. Emma was still asleep in the bed beside me. Sarah must have given up on us both and gone off to sleep in the spare room.
I still wasn’t sleeping well and I woke as soon as it was light outside. I got up and left early, careful not to wake Emma. A couple of hours later I was sitting in my office at the Cauldron when Susan Fitch called me.
‘You remember we talked about the type of man you need; the dispassionate messiah with the monstrous ego?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I may have found him.’
Julian Aimes was an arrogant, overgrown public school boy with an overriding belief in the unending power of his abilities. He was very tall, which meant that he literally looked down on people for much of the time, and frowned when he asked questions, which made him appear challenging even when he wasn’t trying to be. Baxter would have liked him.
His chambers were in Durham, but we met him in the coffee house on the Cathedral Square, so I didn’t have to go to his office. I kept my voice low, so the tourists couldn’t hear us discussing a child’s murder while they sipped tea and ate walnut cake. With the help of Susan Fitch, I outlined the key points of the case to him, we described the challenging character of his potential new client, the circumstantial nature of the supporting evidence, which included the proximity of Baxter’s home to the girl’s and the fact that he had served prison time in the interim for unrelated charges, which we hoped would be kept from the jury. Then, as if we were consciously saving the worst till last, we told him about the DNA evidence.
‘I’m not inexpensive Mr Blake,’ was all he offered when I was done.
‘I’m not unaware of that, Mr Aimes,’ I replied.
‘Good,’ he answered, ‘I find it practical to get the vulgar subject of money out of the way early. It saves my time and the client’s embarrassment,’ he brought his fingertips together in front of his face, then stared at me thoughtfully, ‘ but have you told me everything I need to know?’
‘There’s one thing you haven’t asked me,’ I said, unsure if I was impressed by his bluntness or not.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Whether Baxter is guilty or not?’
His eyebrows knotted together quizzically and he stared at me in puzzlement.
‘Oh, I see. You know do you or, should I say, you think that you do? Mr Blake, were you there when the girl was murdered?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘So you didn’t witness the act being perpetrated?’
‘I think I just answered that question.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘then we must both acknowledge at least a modicum of doubt as to Mr Baxter’s guilt. From what you tell me, there were no witnesses to the actual killing?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Therefore, whether you view the man as innocent or guilty is entirely irrelevant.’
I was beginning to feel like a school pupil being chastised by a master.
‘If you believe him to be innocent that is of no practical use to me whatsoever. The judge and jury will see you as wholly biased, your assertion being based, as it is, around your professional relationship. Frankly, there isn’t a man convicted of murder who has not had at least one friend, partner, colleague or mother who was willing to swear they never could have done such a th
ing and it counted not a jot in their favour in the end.’
I was about to reply to this, but he continued, ‘conversely, if you believe him to be guilty, then this can only be based on your, again, wholly biased view of his character while he has been in your employ. The only other alternative is that the accused man has confessed to this heinous act but has chosen not to repeat said confession to the relevant authorities and, officially at least, resolutely maintains his innocence. I must also therefore continue to assert it. Also, he may not have been of entirely sound mind when he uttered this purely hypothetical confession, of which I wish to know nothing. Is that understood?’
‘Entirely. I only asked so I could be sure you had no qualms about representing someone accused of raping and murdering a child because, if you do, now is the time to mention it.’
He gave me the schoolteacher look again. ‘Whether I have personal feelings, either now or at any time in the future, about the victim of this crime, they are of no consequence when compared to the greater imperative of upholding the judicial system of this country and its first principle; that every man, no matter how wretched, be given the opportunity of a fair trial with the best defence he is able to procure. Without this, we may as well simply present the facts to a judge, allow no reasoned argument as to a man’s guilt or innocence, then let said judge pronounce a verdict without the complication of a jury.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘then you will take the case?’
‘I will accommodate you,’ he answered, as if he was being extremely gracious. ‘For now you will have to excuse me,’ he added, ‘I am late for a meeting at my chambers. We will talk again in due course.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘you’ll need to discuss the case further with Mrs Fitch…’ but I was already talking to his back. I watched him walk from the coffee house and stride purposefully away across the quadrant.
‘Told you he was messianic,’ said Susan Fitch when he was gone.
‘And has a monstrous ego.’ I reminded her.
After the meeting with Aimes I went straight down to the prison where Henry Baxter was waiting for me. It was time for another cosy chat in the visiting room.
‘The prison chaplain loaned me a Bible,’ Baxter explained, ‘nice chap, someone you can have a conversation with. Not like everybody else in here. So, if you could place your hand on it, we can begin.’
‘I’m not remotely religious, Baxter.’
‘Humour me,’ he replied.
‘Why?’
‘Because I suspect that even an irreligious cut-throat like you might baulk at placing his hand on a Holy Bible, then swearing on the life of his infant daughter and going back on his oath. I think even you would be a little superstitious about that.’
He was right. I was. Baxter may have been a child-murdering sicko but he’d read me correctly. No way was I going to tempt fate with my little girl’s life by breaking an oath stacked against it, whether a Bible was involved or not.
‘Do you swear that you will do everything in your power to get me out of here in return for access to your money?’
I put my hand on the bible, ‘I swear.’
‘Do you further swear that, having secured my release, you will neither kill me nor order my death at the hands of anyone in your organisation, and I include contract killers in that equation obviously, or anyone else you might choose to hire.’
‘I swear.’
‘And do you also swear not to harm me nor allow anyone else in your organisation to torture or injure me in any way.’
I sighed, ‘I swear.’
‘Don’t take this lightly Blake,’ there was a flash of anger. ‘I’m not.’
‘Neither am I Baxter, believe me.’
‘And do you finally swear to release me within twenty-four hours of my acquittal, which as you know will be more than ample time to transfer the funds back to you?’
‘I swear.’
‘And do you swear all of this on the life of your infant daughter, Emma Blake?’
‘I do.’
‘Say it then.’
‘I swear all of it on the life of my infant daughter, Emma Blake.’
Baxter scrutinised me for a second, as if he feared I’d somehow fooled him, then he nodded.
‘Good,’ he concluded, ‘then we are back in business.’
23
I knew Joe Kinane would go loopy at the prospect of helping a nonce, and I wasn’t wrong about that, but I felt trapped by Henry Baxter’s blackmail and couldn’t see any way out of it.
‘I don’t understand!’ Kinane bellowed. ‘How are you somehow beholden to an oath you’ve made to a child killer? If he’s done this thing, and it sounds like he has, then get him off the charges, get your money back then kill the sick twat.’
‘I don’t understand either,’ admitted Palmer.
‘You’re not a father,’ I told him, and that shut him up, ‘and you are,’ I reminded Joe, ‘so let’s hear you take an oath on your sons’ lives and see how lightly you take it.’
Any further discussion was cut off by Fallon’s arrival. He’d called a meeting and I was hoping it wasn’t trouble — but that was exactly what I got.
‘Someone put one of my guys in the hospital yesterday.’
He was pacing the office floor in the Cauldron, looking like he wanted to rip somebody’s arms off. Fallon was one of those old-school Glasgow enforcers who looks like he came out of his mother’s womb fully formed, clutching an iron bar. We were allies these days, thankfully. We bankrolled Fallon in Glasgow when he took control of the city from the Gladwells and we shared responsibility for the Edinburgh drug trade jointly, taking over when there was a power vacuum after Dougie Reid was sent down for life.
‘Which guy?’ I asked.
‘Tommy Law.’
I knew Tommy, or I should say knew of him. Whoever gave him a beating must have been rock hard or mob handed, possibly both.
‘I fought the law and the law won,’ I offered, ‘but not this time.’
He didn’t look amused.
‘Was this about territory?’ I asked, because Tommy Law oversaw a good chunk of our Edinburgh operation.
‘Aye, he was warned off,’ confirmed Fallon, ‘while they were breaking both his arms and legs and smashing his jaw in.’
‘Jesus, who did it? Do we know that much at least?’ I couldn’t imagine who would have the sheer brass balls to come up to Fallon’s patch and beat the shit out of Tommy Law like that.
‘According to Tommy, they’re Eastern Europeans.’
‘Eastern Europeans? Could he not narrow it down a bit?’
‘Oh aye,’ he told me, flaring, ‘it was easy to narrow it down because Tommy speaks fluent Serbo-Croat and, from their accents alone, he could tell exactly where they were from. They’re either Russian, Polish, Czech, Serbian, Croatian, Ukrainian or Albanian. Basically, from what he was able to mumble through his broken jaw, I’m fairly certain they are from some place east of Newcastle, get my meaning?’
‘Alright, alright, I hear you,’ I replied, ‘it was a stupid question. The only thing we should really be discussing here is our response.’
‘Agreed,’ he said, ‘but I want to hang fire a wee while on that.’
I was impressed by this uncharacteristic restraint. ‘That’s unlike you Fallon.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘Which are?’
‘McGlenn’s disappeared.’
‘Oh.’
‘So has his stash and all of the money.’
McGlenn was a dealer who worked for Tommy Law, ‘and you think it’s the same guys but you’re not sure yet. You’re wondering if McGlenn is involved and put them up to it?’
‘I’ve not known McGlenn as long as my Glasgow crew. He’s an Edinburgh lad. Maybe he got greedy and stupid and flew off to Ibiza with it all. If he has then we’ll find him and deal with it separately.’
It didn’t much matter for McGlenn whether he had been killed by the Eastern Europ
eans, or cut a deal with them to take down Tommy Law, then done a runner with Fallon’s money. You didn’t steal from Fallon. Either way, McGlenn was a dead man. It mattered to Fallon though. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to his dealer, because he was wondering if we were already in an all-out war. Me? I couldn’t believe it. Things had been quiet for so long and now, all of a sudden, everything was erupting around me.
‘Keep me informed.’ I said. I needed Fallon to handle this one on his own. I had enough shit to juggle.
‘Of course.’
While Fallon was briefing me, Palmer had walked away to the window, his lack of attention irritating me.
‘What is it Palmer?’
‘It might be nothing,’ he said it so quietly I could barely hear him, ‘just a guy I’ve seen a couple of times now. He walked by the Mitre the other day when we were coming out and he went past here too as we were walking in.’
‘Can you remember everyone who walks by one of our places?’ This seemed barely credible.
‘Not everyone,’ he admitted, ‘but I remembered this one.’ His tone made me take him seriously.
‘What was he like?’
‘Tall, stocky, middle-aged, dark brown hair, dressed in one of those old green Army jackets that were popular years ago.’
‘So, apart from the crap fashion sense, what offended you about his presence? Seeing him twice in two days?’
‘It’s a big city,’ he told me. He meant the odds were pretty long on that happening.
‘A professional?’
‘Didn’t look like a pro but maybe that’s cos…’
‘He’s a pro?’
‘Exactly.’
Kinane couldn’t deal with a conversation as opaque as this one.
‘You’re saying he looks like a pro,’ he challenged, ‘because he doesn’t look like a pro?’
Palmer snorted at the absurdity of his own argument. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
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