Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘M’Lady…’ Andy stammered.

  Personally, I hated it when I was addressing the court and a client shouted instructions to me from the dock; now I could understand the urge.

  ‘No, I agree with the Crown,’ said the Sheriff before I could attract Andy’s attention. ‘There is only the one charge and how many prosecution witnesses, Mr Fiscal?’

  ‘Four,’ the P.F. said.

  I tried to work out who they’d be: the bar staff from the restaurant to identify me as the person handing over the fifty, D.I. Fleming who’d charged me and an expert from the Bank to verify the note was a fake.

  ‘Then,’ said the Sheriff, ‘There’s no need to delay matters.

  Sheriff Clerk, fix the trial for three weeks hence with an intermediate diet the week before - just in case there is to be a change of plea.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘I heard about you and the funny money.’ My dad didn’t look up from his newspaper crossword. He was sitting on his back step wearing a pair of brown leather sandals over black police socks and an enormous pair of light blue shorts. A tangle of grey chest hair spilled from the plunging neck-line of his white vest.

  ‘A misunderstanding. I’ll have it sorted out in a couple of days.’ He grunted. I changed the subject. ‘Callum Galbraith. The murdered cop…’

  Now he looked up at me, a pen between the fingers of the hand that shielded his eyes from the early afternoon sun. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not really.’ He put the newspaper down, the pen on top, stood, stretched and rubbed the small of his back. ‘He was almost after my time. I may have heard his name mentioned once or twice, you know, during inter-Force relations, social events, that sort of thing.’

  The way my dad used to talk about the rivalry between east and west, I always had the distinct impression inter-Force relations between his former employer, Lothian & Borders, and Callum Galbraith’s, Strathclyde Police, were about as frequent and friendly as inter-Force relations between the State of Israel and Hamas.

  ‘Then why are you so concerned I might blacken his good name?’

  ‘He was a cop. Okay he was with the Weegies - still a cop’s a cop. And anyway, nobody who’s had their head stoved in just for trying to get a bit of shut-eye should have their character slagged-off.'

  I wasn’t buying it. There was more to my dad’s concerns than just the good name of a brother officer. ‘And what do you know about his character that could be slagged?’

  ‘If you don’t know already, I’m saying nothing.’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Leave it alone.’

  ‘I’m your son.’

  My dad sat down again and picked up the crossword and pen. ‘And I’m your father and I said leave it.’

  There was the sound of the loo flushing and then the shower being turned on. A few moments later the back door opened and Malky appeared, a towel tied around his waist. The wound on his arm was healing nicely.

  ‘Oh, you’re here,’ he said when he saw me standing leaning against a clothes pole.

  ‘That you just getting up? It’s gone one. Some of us have done half a shift.’

  ‘Some of us are available for work if their lawyers would do their jobs.’

  ‘You trying to find Malky a job?’ my dad asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  I saw the old man’s quizzical look. He wasn’t finished with me. ‘Staying for lunch?’

  ‘That was the general idea.’

  ‘Good, you can make it. I’m struggling with the crossword and Malky is bound to be hungry.’

  ‘Starving,’ my brother confirmed. ‘By the way, Dad, you’re out of conditioner.’

  My dad looked puzzled.

  Malky clarified. ‘You know, hair conditioner?’

  ‘Ah.’ My dad patted the grey stubble on the top of his head. ‘Not much call for it these days.’

  ‘Really? Then what do you use on that?’ I gave his moustache a tug. ‘It’s so soft and silky.’

  He pulled his head away and whacked my arm with the newspaper. ‘Get in the kitchen, boy, and rustle up some scran.’

  ‘I reached out to Malky and pinched an inch of flesh at his waist-line. ‘You sure you need any lunch?’

  He batted my hand away. ‘You’re one to talk. Laid down some lard recently haven’t you?’

  ‘What do want to eat, Malky?’ asked my dad, adopting a peace-keeping role.

  ‘Not pancakes anyway. That’s all Robbie ever made when I was staying at his place.’

  Him and his big mouth.

  ‘Oh, so that’s where my girdle went to.’ My dad’s treasured pancake girdle had been bequeathed to him by my grandfather, a foundryman, who’d cast it himself. A circle of quarter-inch iron with a handle. It looked like a small frying pan with no sides and was never washed, only wiped with a dry cloth or occasionally boiled with potato peelings to give it what my dad called ‘a skin’. It all sounded faintly disgusting but the plain fact was it produced the best pancakes bar none.

  My dad filled in an answer on the crossword. ‘Malky, you know your brother can only make three things and if we can’t have pancakes and there’s no time to make a pot of soup…’

  ‘Toasted cheese it is,’ I said.

  I went into the kitchen. Malky followed, closing the door so that it was between us and my dad. I opened the fridge and found a small cube of orange rubber.

  ‘Never mind cheese on toast,’ Malky said. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We? I’m going back to work in half an hour. I’d advise you to stay put.’

  ‘I can’t stay here forever.’

  ‘Then go back to Brighton.’

  Malky looked down at his hairy white feet. ‘I feel safer up here. And I’d feel even safer if you could get Dexy Doyle off my back.’

  ‘I’ve not forgotten about him.’ I sat down at the table and lifted the lid off the bread bin. Two slices. Both heels. ‘Be patient. I’m on the case.’

  The door opened and my dad came in. He tossed the newspaper on the table. ‘I’ll need to come back to the crossword. Only two clues left and I’m stuck.’

  ‘Give us a swatch,’ I said.

  He snatched the paper out of my reach. ‘No thanks, I’ll manage - once I’ve got some food inside me. Need a hand?’

  ‘What I need is a miracle. Jesus had five loaves and two fishes, or was it the other way around? Whatever it was, it was a start.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot.’ My old man yanked open the fridge door. ‘There’s eggs and cheese—’

  ‘I meant to say,’ Malky said. ‘Got a bit peckish last night and made myself a wee omelette. Oh, and some toast.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll away and have my shower.’ He backed out of the door.

  My dad watched him go. ‘It’s nice having your brother around but he’s eating me out of house and home.’

  I stood up. ‘Put the kettle on. I’ll nip down to the shop.’ I was about to leave when I found the old man blocking my path.

  ‘What were you two talking about just now?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘What’s all this about him being your client?’

  ‘A joke.’

  My dad put out a hand and held the door shut. He loomed over me, face close to mine, like he was back in the good old days, interrogating a suspect in a time before inconvenient advances in audio-video technology had limited the opportunities for some of the more physical interviewing techniques. ‘Do you really think I believe all that rot about Malky staying here for some peace and quiet? Your brother’s in hiding. He never goes out anywhere. Is he in some kind of bother? I knew it,’ he said, apparently reading my face, though I hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. ‘Out with it. What’s going on?’

  ‘Calm down. Remember your blood-pressure.’ I pushed him away. ‘Finish your crossword. I’ll get some food in.’

  The old boy’s moustache bristled with displeasure. ‘Tell me, Robbie
. I’m your father.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad. I’ve already tried the blood is thicker than water routine. Remember? About Callum Galbraith?’

  I opened the door an inch but he leaned against it so that it closed again. ‘You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

  I thought about it. He’d find out soon enough. Malky wasn’t famed for his discretion. ‘Okay.’ I took a seat at the table. ‘You go first.’

  He sat down opposite me.

  ‘Well, go on,’ I said.

  He released an enormous sigh. ‘It’s like this. You know how me and Vince are friends of St Michael?’

  I nodded. ‘He does all your underwear doesn’t he?’

  ‘The hospital!’

  He was talking about the local hospice that provided care to elderly cancer patients. My dad and his pal, Vince, organised fund-raising events, most of which seemed to involve a good deal of drinking: race nights, quizzes, snooker evenings, in fact any type of event that could be easily accommodated within licensed premises.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There’s a new consultant up at St Michael’s. Dr Prentice. She knew Callum Galbraith from her last job at the Beatson in Glasgow. Apparently he was a great guy. Their top fund-raiser. Been up and down the West Highland Way like a yo-yo and brought in thousands. Lost their best charity-worker the day your client killed him.’

  ‘The West Highland Way? I did that once,’ I said, recalling a painful, mud-splattered trek one Saturday afternoon several years previously from which I’d returned all chapped lips and blisters.

  ‘No, son,’ he said. ‘You walked one section of the Way: Tyndrum to Bridge of Orchy. Seven miles of the flattest terrain in the Highlands. I should really organise another trip. We made a right few bob on that walk. Sponsors like to know you’re suffering to earn their hard-earned. ‘Course I couldn’t go. Not with my gout.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘What about Callum Galbraith?’

  ‘Well, Diane… that is, Dr Prentice,’ he said, quickly, ‘was having coffee with me the other day and happened to say she wouldn’t like to see Galbraith’s character blackened, not after all his good works.’

  ‘Oh wouldn’t she?’ Now I was getting nearer the truth.

  ‘So, I told her I’d have a word with you.’

  I thought I detected a hint of a blush on my old man’s face. ‘Well, tell Diane, I mean, Dr Prentice, she can dream on. I don’t care if Callum Galbraith could fill a sponsor sheet. Now dish the dirt on him. I’ve got to be somewhere else in twenty minutes.’

  My dad scowled. ‘A few years ago there was this lad – a vandal - doing graffiti.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, Callum Galbraith arrested him and in the process there was a struggle. The boy’s arm was broken. Turned out he was only twelve or thirteen. Galbraith was charged with assault, though it was later dropped. He was disciplined, suspended without pay. Strathclyde had to fork out compensation to the boy.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s what I’m supposed to blacken his character with? Let me get this straight. Super Callum, the charity-worker, catches some wee ned writing ‘Chungy ya bass’ on a wall and twists his arm? Oh yes, that’s really going to upset the jury – no wonder his wife clubbed him to death.’

  ‘It shows he had a bit of a temper,’ my dad said, defensively. ‘But if it’s of no use to you, then good.’

  I took a grip of the door handle.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

  ‘No time for lunch now. I’m going back to work. We’re not all retired.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘I want to know what’s going on between you and Malky.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’d need something much more character-blackening on Callum Galbraith before I could even contemplate divulging confidential information on one of my clients.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  I pinched his grizzly cheek. ‘As you never stopped telling me when I was a boy: life seldom is.

  CHAPTER 15

  After my non-lunch I decided it was time to launch the mission to abort my prosecution. Step one was to seek out Maurice McNaughton, a disillusioned, middle-aged Fiscal-depute who should have listened to his mother and been an accountant. Mo was a diamond. Old school, polite, highly reasonable and without a vindictive bone in his body. He’d been in the Fiscal service forever, never been promoted and, unless he stopped accepting outrageously soft pleas and succumbing to reasonable doubts, never would.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Hugh Ogilvie, Procurator Fiscal, stood behind the reception counter signing off on a stack of summary complaints and giving me his extremely divided attention.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since about two months ago. Very sudden. His heart or a stroke or something.’

  It was true; I hadn’t seen so much of Mo in court lately, but I’d just assumed they’d put him on office duties out of the way.

  ‘Why did you want to see him? As if I couldn’t guess.’

  ‘Hugh, this Monopoly money case—’

  ‘Save your breath. It’s going to trial,’ he said, not looking at me, eyes fixed on his paperwork.

  ‘So what, I may have accidentally presented a dodgy note—?’

  ‘No may have about it.’

  ‘I could have picked it up anywhere.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, unconvincingly, ‘no can do.’

  ‘How about brushing it under the table with a wee warning letter? We take a dim view, but in all the circumstances…blah, blah, blah. You know the sort of thing. Just to mark my card. Remind me to be more careful in the future?’

  ‘No, and if you don’t mind, I’ve papers to mark.’

  ‘A Fiscal fine, then? I pay a fixed penalty but it doesn’t go down on my record as a conviction – everyone’s a winner.’

  Ogilvie shook his head. He still hadn’t made eye contact.

  ‘Tell you what, Hugh. You drop the charge against me and the very next case I get I’ll plead it out. Even if the accused says he’s innocent, I’ll talk him into a plea. Don’t’ care what it is, who it is – it will be guilty as libelled, M’Lord. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

  The P.F. threw his papers onto the countertop. ‘Will you just stop it? It’s not funny… passing counterfeit money, currency of the realm... It’s serious. It’s… it’s... disrespectful to the Queen.’

  I tapped a finger against the bullet proof glass that separated us. ‘Come on Shug. If you don’t tell the Queen I promise I’ll not say a word.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Not until you chuck the case.’

  Ogilvie glared at me through the glass. ‘You must know you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing I can do even if I wanted to. The whole thing – it’s out of my hands.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re the District P.F. Who have you got to clear it with? Your mum?’

  Ogilvie tidied his papers into a neat pile and tucked them under an arm. ‘As you very well know, or should do, any proposed prosecution of a solicitor has to be run past the boys and girls at Crown Office. Can’t have Jock Public thinking that it’s an old boys’ network and we’re ditching a case just because the accused is a fellow lawyer.’

  Fat chance of that.

  He sighed. ‘Time to call in all those favours I’m sure you’ve dished out to the prosecution over the years.’

  None sprang immediately to mind.

  Ogilvie smirked. ‘A man of your wide experience must have contacts at Crown Office - friends in high places.’

  Me attempt to talk someone at Castle Grey Skull into dropping a prosecution in which I, a defence agent, was the accused? It was an option that I mulled over for about as long as it took me to turn around and head for the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  Another Monday morning. I was in my office,
reading through Isla Galbraith’s file and finding it impossible to believe that my timid client could have so ferociously attacked and killed her husband. Even with the history of domestic violence a culpable homicide deal was by no means a certainty. There was much work to be done. Andy entered showing signs of clinical depression, a concerned Grace-Mary close behind. She put a woolly-cardiganed arm around his shoulders.

  Andy shrugged her off, pulled over a chair and dropped onto it like a sack of spuds.

  ‘Who died?’ I asked

  Grace-Mary set down a sheaf of papers. It was only a few pages thick and stapled in one corner. On the front was a standard covering letter bearing the heading: P.F. Linlithgow –v- Robert Munro.

  Already? I’d never had disclosure that fast before. It was usually hurled across the table at me by a PF depute on the morning of the intermediate diet.

  ‘I met Agnes from the PF’s office at Sainsbury’s Friday night,’ Grace-Mary advised me. ‘She did me a favour and put the stuff on a pen-drive first thing. I had Andy nip along and pick it up and printed the statements off for you.’ She patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’ve sent Zoë down to Sandy’s for coffees. She’ll not be long.’

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I picked up the papers and scanned them, mentally summarising the case against me. I order drinks, pay with a fifty pound note, the bar staff run it under the U.V. light and the police are called. Down at the police station I’m interviewed by D.I. Dougie Fleming who takes down my reply – reply? I’d said nothing. Under Scots law the right to remain silent was still sacrosanct. None of the: you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on in Court, nonsense, that they had in England. Keep stoom in Scotland and no negative inference could be drawn from your refusal to speak.

  ‘You’ve read them?’ I asked Andy. My assistant slumped further in the chair. It was obvious he had and that the significance of the words that appeared in the disclosure statements under the sub-header: Reply to Caution and Charge, had not escaped him.