‘Give it a rest will you, Eric?’ Fiona Faye didn’t often manage to sneak up on anyone, but she suddenly appeared by my side wearing an off-the-shoulder number in cream silk, a flimsy lace stole around her shoulders. A single red rose corsage was tied about her wrist on a white ribbon. ‘Good evening … lover-boy,’ she stage-whispered in my ear. Fiona was happily married. In fact she was on her third happy marriage. Her night out with Cameron Crowe, three years before, had taken place somewhere between husbands two and three but Fiona loved to kid me on about our cloakroom experience. ‘I’m trying to keep an eye on this old rogue - keeps sneaking off – I think he’s got a woman stashed away somewhere.’ The old man chortled and took a sip from his glass. Fiona turned to her elderly male companion. ‘Eric Ballantyne…’ and then to me, ‘Robbie Munro.’
Ballantyne was the name of the judge who’d admonished Mags MacGillivray after she’d run her husband through with a kitchen knife. Bereft of the judicial gear he looked completely different: just a wee old man. Of course the whole purpose of the pomp and ceremony of the courtroom: the high ceilings, coats of arms and frock-coated personnel carrying the mace of office, was to put the accused at his unease, make him feel small, powerless and, above all, not think too much about what was really happening, i.e. some old bloke in fancy dress getting set to throw away the key. Start thinking along those lines and some people might decide they weren’t going to let themselves be locked up. Too many people take that view and we were in trouble. The only difference between our present society and anarchy was that the guardians of our present society had a bigger gang and more weapons.
‘Lord Ballantyne?’ I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you…’
‘Without the wig and red silk dressing gown? Bloody hot this time of year, let me tell you.’ He held his glass up to the light and admired it. ‘I love coming here. You wouldn’t believe some of the whiskies they have stored in the basement. The stuff’s practically running out of the taps.’
I knew that the Faculty of Advocates held a number of whisky casks that were bottled from time to time and distributed to valued instructing solicitors, mainly at Christmas. I’d been presented with one or two bottles over the years I’d worked with Caldwell & Clark, but it was the first I’d heard of the W.S. Society having its own secret supply.
‘Robbie’s something of a whisky buff,’ Fiona said.
‘Really?’ The old judge held out his glass to me. ‘What’s your verdict on this?’
I sniffed. No detectable peat or oil; not an Islay then. I held up the glass to the light. ‘May I?’
‘By all means,’ said the judge.
I sipped the delicate, biscuity-sweet taste of a Lowland malt, fresh and dry. It was unusually dark for a Lowland malt, and yet, if it was old and had spent some time in amontillado sherry casks... ‘Glenkinchie,’ I pronounced confidently, not exactly sticking my neck out, given that the Glenkinchie distillery, at the foot of the Lammermuir Hills was only about fifteen miles from where we were standing.
‘I concur,’ said the judge, taking the glass and imbibing deeply. He smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘So how’s she doing, your client…? What was her name?’
‘Mags MacGillivray?’
‘Ah yes, the widow MacGillivray. Thought Fiona did a wonderful job on that one – didn’t you? Talk about a tear-jerker of a plea in mitigation? I was expecting a gypsy violinist to stroll into court at any minute.’
‘Yes, come along, Eric,’ Fiona said, taking the whisky glass from the judge and using it carrot/donkey style to urge him on up the stairs towards the dining room. He took the first step from the landing, missed his footing and would have fallen had he not been able grab hold of Fiona’s arm, accidentally ripping the corsage from her wrist in the process. The whisky tumbler fell from her hand and I reached out and caught it scarcely spilling a drop of the precious liquid.
‘Nice catch,’ Fiona said, politely ignoring the judge’s profuse, if slightly slurred, apologies. I held out the tumbler to her. She didn’t take it.
‘I think you better look after that,’ she said, trying unsuccessfully to tie the corsage onto her wrist and gently but firmly led his lordship back to the dining room.
I had plenty of time to kill and so was still hanging around on the landing, staring up at Lord Hope senior and trying my best to discern the artist’s acute observant character, when Fiona returned minus one slightly tipsy High Court judge.
‘They say there’s no glass ceiling but when one of the old farts goes AWOL it’s always a female member of Faculty who’s sent out to round him up and bring him home. So anyway, how’s tricks? Haven’t exactly been killed by an avalanche of briefs from you recently.’
‘Not much High Court work coming in at the moment,’ I said avoiding mention of Isla Galbraith’s case and hoping she hadn’t heard that I’d by-passed her in favour of the Dean. For sure Ranald Kincaid wouldn’t be broadcasting his foray into the world of crime. ‘Linlithgow’s not exactly a hotbed of serious criminal activity and with the Sheriff Court able to deal out five year sentences, nowadays it’s pretty much got to be rape or murder to get the length of the boys in the red jerseys.’
‘Which will come as a relief to you,’ Fiona said, a cheeky smile on her face. ‘Eric might be an old sweetie with a whisky in his mitt but a lawyer spending counterfeit money? He wouldn’t like it.’
‘You heard?’
‘Gossip – every girl needs a hobby. You worried?’
‘It’ll never prove. Just the local Fiscal on the wind-up. I’m expecting Crown Office to tell him to ditch it.’ I noticed how difficult it was to sound confident about the outcome of proceedings when you were the accused.
‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ Fiona said. ‘Not now that a certain mutual friend of ours has taken a special interest.’
‘Cameron Crowe?’
She raised her eyebrows in confirmation. The corsage fell off her wrist again and I bent, picked it up and handed it to her.
‘I was speaking to him yesterday,’ I’d said before I’d realised. I didn’t want Fiona enquiring into the reason for my talks with Crowe. ‘Didn’t say anything to me.’
‘Too sleekit for that. But believe me, the man’s got it in for you big time. Cameron Crowe holds a grudge like my Beamer’s Pirelli’s hold the road. My advice? You need to patch things up with him… you know… about—’
‘Us? Why, have you?’
‘No…’ Fiona admitted. ‘But then my career’s not at stake.’
‘Would you – if it was?’
Fiona smiled thinly and crushed the corsage like it was Cameron Crowe’s nuts. She made to walk away, expecting me to follow. When I didn’t she turned and looked over her shoulder. ‘You not coming?’
‘Not invited. I’m just waiting on my brother.’
‘Of course,’ she put on a deep voice, ‘big Malky Munro. Some of the chaps in my stable have been quite excited at meeting him. Others, it has to be said, don’t appear quite so enamoured. You know Mike Mulholland? Wouldn’t come. Point of principle he said. Can I take it Big Malky doesn’t kick with his left foot?’
Good old Scotland. Even such an august body as the Faculty of Advocates had a blue/green divide.
CHAPTER 23
A sunny Saturday afternoon. My dad and his wee pal, Vince, were sitting on the back green in deckchairs, Malky pacing up and down in front of them, swigging from a bottle of beer and cracking jokes.
Vince chuckled away merrily, big thick glasses bouncing up and down on a cherry tomato nose, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Stop. I’m in pain.’
‘I’m here all week,’ Malky said, taking a bow.
I walked up the path towards them, picking my way through the minefield of empty beer bottles that littered what my dad laughingly referred to as the lawn. There were more divot holes in it from him practising chip shots than clumps of grass.
‘Oh, it’s yourself, Robbie,’ Vince said, wiping the corners of his eyes with the end of
his shirt. ‘Your brother’s been giving us a replay of his act. Tells us he knocked them dead last night.’
‘Apparently so.’ It was hard to believe but Malky had gone down a storm. I knew from bitter experience just how tough an audience Judges could be. I’d made some laugh before but usually when asking for a not guilty verdict.
‘It’s good to be back,’ my brother said, beaming a big beery smile.
I should have been pleased. The sports dinner a success, Ranald Kincaid would be happy, and yet it irked. Cathleen had only been buried a few days ago and here was my brother, her former partner, her killer, doing what he did best: showing off, as though nothing had happened. Hypocritical of me given that I’d set up the gig, all the same I found it hard to even look at him.
‘And it’s good to be making a few quid again,’ he said. ‘Hopefully my agent will get me more bookings like last night’s. Isn’t that right Robbie?’ I hadn’t mentioned money to Malky because there was none to mention. ‘How much did we charge them? Whatever it was you should double it.’
I made my way to the back door. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my dad’s facial expression change and the ends of his moustache turn down. I was leaning over the kitchen table, reading Friday’s newspaper when he walked in.
‘Malky’s in fine form,’ he said. ‘It’s good what you’ve done for him. A man needs gainful employment, even if it is cracking a few jokes for some big wigs – get it? Big wigs?’
‘I’ll inform the London Palladium of your immediate availability.’
‘I’m just pleased for him.’ My dad was serious now. ‘Glad that your brother’s getting back on his feet. I know what it’s like to lose someone. When your mother died I had the two of you to bring up. That helped to keep me going. Malky’s got no-one. Only us.’
‘He seems to be coming through the grieving process unscathed,’ I said and turned the page. There were a number of ‘Phew What a Scorcher’ type articles in it with pictures of babes in bikinis and children eating ice-cream on Portobello beach.
‘You two are getting on all right aren’t you?’ my dad enquired.
I flipped the newspaper over to the back page. The crossword was only partially completed. ‘You ever finish one of these?’
‘Look, here.’ My dad came over to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I know you’ve a right to be unhappy. That business between you and your brother was… was unfortunate, but it’s not like you were married to the girl. Malky’s back home now. Can you not let it be like old times?’
I laughed. ‘Get a grip will you? The man ran off with my fiancée and then killed her with his crazy driving and you want me to pretend nothing happened?’ I turned a few more pages in rapid succession, not reading the content.
He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Robbie, the girl’s dead. Malky’s your own flesh and blood. We’re family. Everyone else out there is just a stranger. Malky knows that and that’s why he’s come home. He must have known how difficult it would be to see you again. At least he’s trying to build bridges. Can you not meet him half way?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Anyway,’ my dad continued, ‘things can’t be that bad between the two of you if you’re finding him work.’
‘He’s not getting paid for last night. It was a favour for someone.’
‘A favour for you?’
‘I think he’s due me one.’
‘Does he know? About this favour? Did you tell him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So you’ve screwed him out of a fee? He put in a lot of work for that performance last night.’
‘I’ll take it into account when I send him my bill,’ I said, and walked to the door.
A hand slammed against the door preventing me from opening it. My old man had abandoned the softly, softly approach. ‘Don’t you dare turn your back on me!’ He was red in the face. A blue worm writhed down the centre of his forehead. ‘You’re my son and you’ll tell me right now what’s going on.’
I turned and leaned against the door. ‘Okay. You want to know what’s happening? Why the prodigal’s really returned? It’s because his crazy, pseudo-father-in-law, Dexy Doyle is all set to give him a one way hurl to a landfill and he thought his wee brother might be able to talk Dexy out of it.’
‘Dexy who? What are you talking about?’
‘Cathleen’s father. You know who he is, right?’ Apparently he didn’t. ‘Dechlan Doyle. Of the Falls Road Doyles?’
‘Never heard of him.’
I eased him aside and opened the door. ‘Then ask your pals in Strathclyde Polis about him. The ones you have all those inter-force relations with. They’ll soon fill you in.’ I made to leave but stopped in the doorway. ‘And while you’re at it, see what more dirt you can find out about Callum Galbraith. I’m going to need it.’
CHAPTER 24
‘You still here?’ Grace-Mary asked. ‘Court started five minutes ago.’ The week had flown by in a flurry of trials, awkward clients and mountains of legal aid forms. It was Thursday already; remand court day. The day the convicted learned of their fate after the preparation of social enquiry reports and community service assessments. It was a slow process. Lots of lengthy pleas in mitigation, as defence agents tried to save their jail-bound clients, meant the court normally dragged on until well into the afternoon. I was in no particular hurry.
Grace-Mary set down, front and centre on my desk, a stack of mail that she had opened and date-stamped.
‘What is this doing here?’ I asked.
‘What is what doing where?’ she replied.
I picked out the offending item. ‘This ticket to the Faculty Dinner - I told you I wasn’t going.’
‘As I recall, you never actually came to a decision.’
‘And so you went ahead and bought me a ticket anyway?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I ordered one for Andy. Just because you’re a social Sahara doesn’t mean everyone else has to be. Still, it’s not too late to go. Could be your last chance,’ my secretary added, under her breath.
‘What was that?’ I asked, pretending not to have heard.
‘It would be a good excuse for you and Zoë to go out for an evening together. With a bit of luck you might make it to the soup course without being carted off by the fuzz.’
A night out with Zoë was certainly an attractive proposition; however, I didn’t think dinner with a bunch of lawyers would be my receptionist’s idea of a fun Friday night. It certainly wasn’t mine.
‘There’s a disco this year,’ enthused Grace-Mary, only making the event seem less appealing, were that possible.
I played with the ticket while I thought it over.
‘And speeches, of course,’ Grace-Mary continued her marketing campaign on behalf of the local Faculty.
I glanced down at the square of embossed cardboard in my hand. Speaker: Cameron Crowe, advocate. They had to be joking. The man was haunting me. I wasn’t big on formal occasions involving other lawyers. The local Faculty dinner: an opportunity to dine with all those other solicitors I’d spent the last year trying to avoid. A dull meal followed by even duller speeches. The threatened presence at such a function of Cameron Crowe would normally have put a clincher on my decision to stay home, and yet maybe this was a chance for me to meet with Crowe and finally patch up our differences. After all, what had happened had happened. The cloakroom affair might have ended his relationship with Fiona Faye but it hadn’t been much of a relationship anyway. Only his pride had been hurt.
‘Zoë!’ I yelled though to reception and in a moment she had crossed the corridor and into my room. I ushered Grace-Mary out, came around the desk and pulled out a chair for Zoë to sit down on. ‘You doing anything Friday night?’
‘As in tomorrow?’
I nodded.
Zoë thought for a moment. ‘I’ve nothing special planned. Why?’
I slid a ticket across the desk to her.
‘The Faculty dinner?’
‘It’s
a function for local solicitors.’
‘And…?’
‘And I wondered if you’d like to go.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes. With me.’
She lifted the ticket and looked at it and then gave me a smile and an encouraging bat of her eyelashes. ‘Just me and you?’
‘And a hundred or so lawyers.’
Zoë laughed.
‘Andy will be going too,’ I said and wished I hadn’t.
The smile faded fast. ‘So it’s more of an office outing?’
‘Sort of but—’
Zoë let the ticket drop onto the desk. She stood. ‘I’ll think about it.’
She left the room and met Grace-Mary on the way in, bringing with her my files for the day.
‘How’d it go?’ my secretary asked.
‘She’s thinking about it.’
‘You’re hopeless. Am I ordering more tickets or not?’
‘Get another two. Just in case.’
‘You sure? They are forty-five pounds each and it’s not like you’ll be able to sell them on eBay if you decide not to go.’
‘What is this? You’ve been trying to get me to go and now, when I say okay, you’re arguing about it.’
‘Oh dear, you have got it bad,’ Grace-Mary said stuffing the files into my briefcase and holding it out to me.
I took it, collected my gown and threw it over my shoulder. ‘Just get me the tickets.’
CHAPTER 25
‘I really, really appreciate this,’ Malky said as, early Friday morning, I checked in for the Belfast flight. He’d been thanking me every few minutes since we’d left on the fifteen minute drive to Edinburgh airport. Fifteen minutes with Malky at the wheel. Twenty-five for anyone else.
‘You don’t have to keep saying that,’ I told him. ‘Firstly, I haven’t done anything yet and, secondly, I’m treating this purely as a business trip.’
I handed over my passport and booking print-out to a girl wearing a ridiculous amount of make-up and a rather strange hat.
Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1) Page 10