by WHS McIntyre
‘And how do you think he would react if you told him I was your lawyer?’ I asked.
‘I don’t care.’
‘You have to care. We’ve only just met. Your grandfather has known me for years. Maybe he’s right about me. A lot of people would agree with him.’
Antonia toe-ended a small boulder. ‘Well I hope he is right about one thing,’ she said, watching the stone skip and bump its way down the track before it dived into a clump of scrub grass at the edge.
‘And what would that be?’ I asked, and then wished I hadn’t.
‘That you’ve made a career out of defending people you knew were guilty.’
‘Well, I don’t know if you are guilty and I don’t want to know.’
‘Too bad, I’m telling you. I am guilty and I just want to plead guilty and get this whole thing over and done with. My career is finished. I know that. I just don’t want to go to prison.’
In criminal defence work, intermittent deafness isn’t a disability, it’s a necessity. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch any of that,’ I said. ‘But there’s no need to repeat it. You can tell it to your lawyer, when you instruct one.’ I walked on further down the track.
The phone in my pocket buzzed again. I didn’t look. It would be Joanna checking up on me. If I didn’t help Antonia she’d want to know why not.
Antonia trotted after me, scuffing the soles of her boots in the dirt. ‘Don’t you even want to know what I’m accused of?’
‘Not really.’
‘Cocaine.’
She was persistent, I’d give her that. ‘How much?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It didn’t look like a lot. It was the first time I’d ever bought drugs. I didn’t even pay for them, they were given to me.’
What should I do? A client was a client. On top of that, I had to take into account how much it would annoy Brechin if I took on his granddaughter’s case. I think that’s what swung it for me.
‘So, you’ve been found in possession of a few flakes of snow. Big deal.’
‘It’s a big deal for me.’
I hadn’t meant to trivialise things, only to try and cheer her up and put things into perspective.
Antonia took a swing at another rock and missed. ‘It’s a big deal for all three of us—’
‘Three of you?’
‘My flatmates are lawyers too. We’ve all been charged and we’re—’
‘Innocent,’ I said, not looking around.
‘No, I’ve just told you—’
‘What you’ve told me,’ I said, turning to come face to face with her, ‘is that there are three of you all charged with possession of cocaine. If you’re going to be my client, you should take my advice.’
‘And that is?’
‘That every snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty.’
8
‘Falkirk? They’re moving me to Falkirk?’
Sunday morning, Tina and my dad were in the back garden building a rabbit hutch. I was in bed with a book. Joanna was pacing the room in her dressing gown, reading yesterday’s mail that had fallen through the letter box and got itself temporarily lost in the confusion of shoes and wellies inside the front porch. ‘I thought they’d just shunt me to Edinburgh out of the way, but Falkirk? It’s not even in the same Sheriffdom.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but it’s a lot closer to here. Fifteen minutes in the car in the morning, door to door. You can park right outside.’
‘I’ve got friends in the Fiscal’s office in Edinburgh. I don’t know anyone in Falkirk.’ Joanna crumpled the letter from COPFS HQ and bounced it off my head as though it were all my fault, which in a way it was. She was only having to move from Livingston because I was marrying her. Justice had to be seen to be done, and the idea of a wife prosecuting a case in which her husband was defending, was not something that could be countenanced by the authorities, even though I was sure it would only have made competition all the fiercer.
‘Falkirk’s a great court,’ I said, ‘and the real bonus is that there’s no Albert Brechin.’
‘What are you talking about, Robbie? I’m a PF again. Bert Brechin is probably the best thing that ever happened to the Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service. Now I’m going to have to actually do some work to get guilty verdicts.’ She picked up the crumpled ball of paper again and tossed it carelessly from hand to hand. ‘Talking of Sheriff Brechin . . .’
I didn’t say anything, just returned to my book.
‘Go on, Robbie. I’ll not say a word to another living soul.’
I flicked to the next page. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s confidential.’
‘I’m going to be your wife.’
‘And Antonia Brechin already is my client.’
‘I don’t see why you have to be so mysterious. You know I’ll find out. A couple of phone calls tomorrow morning is all it will take.’
‘Then don’t be so impatient.’
‘Maybe I can help.’
‘And maybe you can stop trying to have me disclose confidential information to a member of Her Majesty’s prosecution service.’
‘Oh, I see. So that’s how it is. You don’t trust me.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with trust, and everything to do with professionalism,’ I said.
Joanna sighed. ‘Oh, well, that’s that then. With Tina and your dad away nailing lumps of wood together, I was thinking about coming back to bed . . .’ She followed the sigh with a yawn, and the yawn with a stretch that somehow caused the dressing gown to slip from her shoulders and onto the floor in a puddle of silk. She stood there for a moment, naked, then turned and opened the door of the wardrobe. ‘Now, what shall I put on?’
It was true. We had the cottage to ourselves and had to be looking at around ten minutes’ complete peace until my dad came in with a DIY wound or Tina needed refuelling. I tossed the book aside. ‘Then again, we are both professional people . . .’
Joanna came over to the bed and pulled back the corner of the duvet. ‘And?’
‘And I suppose there would be no harm approaching things on a hypothetical basis.’
‘If you did, then, hypothetically, we could have sex.’
I patted the mattress. She didn’t move.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘hypothetically, there was this girl—’
‘Did she hypothetically happen to be Scots Legal Trainee of the Year, whose hypothetical grandfather was a sheriff, and who, having been hypothetically arrested at an awards dinner, is hypothetically now on police bail?’
‘That’s her.’
‘Get on with it then.’
‘Drugs,’ I said.
‘Really?’ Joanna climbed into bed beside me. ‘I thought it would be something white-collar, like corporate fraud or insider trading. What kind of drugs and how much are we talking about?’
‘Just a few grams of coke, hypothetically.’
‘You can stop saying hypothetically now.’
‘Okay, this girl, whoever she may be, and her two flatmates, were all lawyers in the running for the Trainee of the Year award, and agreed between themselves that the winner would celebrate by bringing Charlie with them to a party at the weekend. Someone we know was tipped off that she’d won and invited Chico well in advance.’
‘So why the big show of force by the police at the awards ceremony, then?’
‘Same reason the cops arrest celebrities at six in the morning with a TV camera crew, I suppose: maximum embarrassment.’
‘Stupid of her. If she’s convicted that’ll be her career over, don’t you think?’
‘It’s hypothetically possible.’
Joanna squirmed a little closer, put her arms around me. ‘I hope she gets off.’
‘Can I remind you that you are a prosecutor? You’re not supposed to hope accused people get off. That’s my job.’
‘But she’s such a nice person. Just how strong is the evidence against her?’
‘Just how hypothetical is this sex?’
The bedroom door crashed open and Tina leapt onto the bed. She’d been attacked by nettles and my dad was busy hunting the garden for dock leaves to rub the stings with.
Joanna gave me a peck on the cheek and sat up, the duvet wrapped tightly about her. ‘Extremely.’
9
May Monday might have been a holiday everywhere else, but there were no slackers at the home of Turpie (International) Salvage Ltd, where even the rats wore boiler suits. Forklifts and low-loaders rumbled about the yard, and everywhere the crunch of glass and metal as car after car met the jaws of the crusher. Now that he was no longer my landlord, I saw very little of Jake Turpie - which was fine by me. Occasionally I’d be called into action when one of his boys was lifted, but, other than that I was happy if contact between us was kept to a minimum.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, prowling the perimeter of a six-year-old Mazda hatchback, kicking its tyres.
Jake had made his money from scrap and unlicensed money-lending. Not that you’d have noticed his wealth from the oil-stained boiler suit that was his chosen form of everyday wear, or by the dented white Transit van his muscle-bound business associate, Deek Pudney, chauffeured him around in. A few years back Jake had added another division to the company, a new venture called JT Motors Ltd. Selling second-hand cars had been a clean start for Jake. So clean, even the profits were laundered.
The business model was simple, but ingenious. When someone came to Jake for a loan, instead of the usual handshake and associated death threat, he signed them up for the sale of a car. The car was usually only worth scrap value, but whether it could actually be driven wasn’t really the point. The point was that Jake then had the person signed up on a valid car purchase contract for an amount that included his ridiculous interest rates. If the instalments weren’t paid, the customer received a visit from Deek. If the customer complained to the law that Jake was a loan shark, then, on the face of it, all the authorities could see was a perfectly sound car purchase agreement that someone was trying to weasel out of.
Obviously, I couldn’t come right out and say that I was there because Ellen Fletcher wanted me to find a way to resolve the differences between Jake and her husband. If the missing conman was indeed alive, Jake’s idea of a satisfactory resolution would probably have involved an industrial wood-chipper and Freddy’s amputated body parts. Nor did I want to give Jake grounds to suspect that I knew where Freddy was. He had ways of making people talk - usually after they’d finished screaming.
‘I’m looking for a new car,’ I said, knowing that Jake did keep one or two reasonable motors around, although they were mostly for show. ‘Something a bit bigger with four doors, now that I’m going to be a family man.’
Jake gave one of the tyres a final tap with the heavy end of a steel toecap boot and looked up at me. He probably thought he was smiling. ‘Oh, aye. I forgot. You’re marrying your wee understudy.’
‘She’s not my understudy, Jake. And she’s not working with me anymore. She’s gone back to being a Fiscal.’
‘Has she now?’ He winked. ‘Smart move. Someone on the inside. Bound to come in handy.’ Jake made the holy bonds of matrimony sound like the acquisition of a business asset.
‘What have you got for sale around the two-grand mark that won’t break down at the first set of lights?’ I asked.
Jake thought about it. ‘I’ve an oh-six Beamer, two-litre, automatic. I could let you have it for three if you trade in that heap you’re driving the now.’
I made a face.
‘It’s a nice motor. One owner. A man of the cloth.’
I didn’t doubt it. He probably wore the cloth over his head when he was robbing banks. ‘How many miles has it done?’
‘How many do you want it to have done?’
‘Colour?’
‘Green.’
I pursed my lips and sucked in.
‘What’s wrong with green?’
‘Hard to resell.’
‘You’ve not bought it yet, and a lot of folk think green’s a lucky colour.’
It wasn’t much of an opening, but I shoved a crowbar in and wiggled it about. ‘Didn’t Freddy what’s-his-name drive a green BMW?’ Freddy Fletcher could have driven a coach and horses for all I knew.
‘Freddy who?’
‘Fletcher. He used to drive a green Beamer, didn’t he? Or was it a Jag? Or a Ford?’
Jake looked at me as though I’d just spat on his mother’s grave. Not that I knew if his mother was dead. Or if he’d had one. ‘What’s Freddy Fletcher got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. Just that you said green cars were lucky and . . . well . . . Freddy’s wasn’t lucky for him, was it?’
Jake eyed me suspiciously.
‘I was just thinking about him because I happened to bump into his wife the other day,’ I said casually.
‘You saw Ellen?’ Just for a moment I thought I saw a spark of humanity flare in Jakes eyes, and then, just as quickly, it was gone. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you want to see this motor or not?’
‘What was the big problem between you and Freddy, anyway?’ I asked, as he marched off, me following. ‘You ever hear from him these days?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Just wondering.’
Jake led me to the far side of the compound where a recently polished, racing-green BMW stood, chrome trim glinting in the morning sunshine. Whoever’d done the detailing had been meticulous but, then, I imagined Jake had his own employee incentive scheme. One on each foot. He buffed up a wing mirror unnecessarily with the sleeve of his boiler suit. ‘You another one that thinks I done him in?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ I said, feeling obliged to kick a tyre as I did.
Jake opened the driver’s door and allowed me to look inside. By the time I’d re-emerged he was already at the rear of the vehicle opening the boot.
‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘What were you saying about Freddy?’
Jake slammed the boot shut. ‘What’s this about? What’s it to you what happened to Fletcher?’
‘I told you. I just happened to bump into Ellen and it got me thinking.’
Jake opened the passenger door. ‘Let’s go for a test drive.’
I’d never driven an automatic before. It was easy. I took it gently down the rough track leading from Jake’s yard and onto a minor road that wound its way east. After we’d gone a mile or so I was wondering why they even bothered to make cars with manual transmissions. It couldn’t be just so that your left foot didn’t get bored.
‘Take a next left,’ Jake said.
I did, and after another mile he told me to stop alongside a ragged hawthorn hedge that stretched off into the distance. We got out and each rested a foot on a dilapidated five-bar wooden gate, looking into a field that was a thick carpet of wild grass and bramble tangles, speckled by the vivid yellow blooms on tall stalks of ragwort. In the distance was a small cottage, its grey slate roof sagging slightly in the centre.
‘All this is mine,’ Jake said. ‘Freddy Fletcher told me I should buy it and develop it.’
‘Must be at least an acre.’
‘One and a half if you count that row of trees at the far end,’ Jake said.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Last year.’
I had a slight inkling as to where this might be going. With Linlithgow three miles to the west, Bo’ness the same to the south and Edinburgh twenty minutes east by motorway, the land was perfect for a spot of property developing, apart from one thing. ‘It’s all green belt round here, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought when Freddy told me to buy it. Said he’d checked it out with the head of the planning department. She told him the land had once been set aside for a travellers’ site. Something to do with making sure the Pikeys had somewhere to live, but not close enough to town so that they could nick the washing off folks’ lines. They were going to install water and electricity and it was taken off the green bel
t register and given permission for residential use. After that there was too many complaints and the site was closed. There’s not been a single Pikey on here, but no-one ever thought to change it back. At least that’s what Freddy told me.’
If Freddy Fletcher had told me there were fillings in my back teeth, I’d have asked for a mirror and a magnet.
Jake opened the gate and we walked into the field. It was a teardrop-shaped piece of ground and we were standing at the fat end. Looking to our left, the ground rose in the centre and then tapered off to a copse of spindly birch trees on the far side that straggled its way past the cottage to the road.
‘So, anyway,’ Jake continued, ‘Freddy got talking to the owner, an old guy who lived in the cottage over there. He didn’t know what the land was worth. Even if he did, he never had the money to develop it.’
‘Why didn’t Freddy buy it?’
‘He was skint an’ all.’
‘It’s a good chunk of land,’ I said. ‘You could probably build five—’
‘Six, big detached houses with gardens.’ Jake had obviously given the matter much thought. ‘Build them for a hundred grand each, sell them for three times that, easy. I was looking at –’
‘One point two million profit.’
‘Not as much,’ he said. ‘I’d have needed to put in an access road, then there’s all the services, drainage, footpaths, communal ground, lawyers and everything. But I had to be looking at the thick end of three-quarters, maybe a million clear.’
‘So what went wrong?’ I asked, fairly certain that something had indeed gone wrong, since I was standing on a bunch of weeds and not in someone’s front garden.
‘The owner got wind that I was going to develop the land. He wanted half a million for it. It put me off. Freddy said he knew a way I could get it for half that.’
‘But you did know that Freddy was a conman?’
‘That’s why I believed him when he said he knew a way to con the owner.’
That and the fact that only someone with a death wish would try and con Jake Turpie out of money.
‘Freddy told me to put in an offer for the full half million and make it subject to planning permission. Freddy said the woman from the planning department would knock back the application and say the place was green belt.’