Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)
Page 11
‘Any luggage?’ asked the girl in the hat, trying hard, but failing to look excited about meeting another member of cattle-class.
I had no luggage, only a book to read on the journey. I took my boarding pass and set off for the departure lounge. Malky fell in beside me, acknowledging the occasional nod or uncertain smile that came his way from those old enough to remember his playing days. When he stopped to sign an autograph I thought I’d managed to lose him, but he caught up again as I waited in line at the security check point.
‘Robbie,’ he said. ‘About Cat…’
My brother could certainly pick his moments for a heart to heart. The guard waved me forward. ‘Get this straight, Malky. I’ll do my best because you’re my client. So far as I’m concerned, this trip is about my protecting a business asset, nothing more.’
He cupped my chin with his hand. ‘It makes me go all warm inside when you say things like that.’
I am not what you’d call an enthusiastic air traveller. Maybe it’s the control freak in me, but there always comes a moment, usually somewhere around thirty thousand feet and over water, when it hits home that I am floating through the air in a metal tube with no say in what is going to happen next and with nothing to cling onto except the hope that the laws of aerodynamics have not been repealed and that the boys from Al Qaeda are taking the day off. A safe landing always comes as a pleasant surprise and it was no different on this occasion when we touched down at Aldergrove from where I embarked on the next stage of my journey, destination Stormont, home of the Northern Irish Assembly; a twenty mile taxi-ride that cost more than my return air-fare.
After I’d been dropped off at the front of the Parliament Building, I took from my top pocket the business card given to me by wig-wearing, chain-smoking Kieran Doyle. Below the name Raymond McMenamin in the centre of the card were the words: Political Adviser – Sinn Fein and a telephone number. I pressed the numbers and had scarcely lifted the phone to my ear when the call was answered.
‘Mr Munro,’ said a high-pitched, cheery voice, ‘you’re early. Stay where you are. I’ll be right with you.’
Before I could say anything, the line went dead. How the voice would know where to find me I couldn’t say, but, doing as I’d been told, I sat down on one of the wooden benches that were situated at regular intervals either side of the wide central driveway. I must have brought the good weather with me from Scotland for it was a warm and sunny day and as I waited I admired the architecture of the great white building. With its ornate façade and six Ionic columns, it looked like the love-child of the Whitehouse and Ayr Sheriff Court.
‘Mr Munro?’
From nowhere appeared a wee old man in a shabby tweed suit and behind him a large young man in a dark suit with creases like scalpel blades. I stood up. The wee man thrust a hand at me. He looked like a friendly old uncle who was liable to break out the toffees at any moment, but anyone who out-ranked Dexy Doyle knew more about Semtex than sweeties. ‘Ray McMenamin,’ he said, and we shook hands. ‘One moment…’ He stepped back to let the big man step forward. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
The big man produced a black wand from inside his jacket and waved it at me. ‘Turn around.’ I did as asked and after he’d finished his wand waving, turned back again. When he tried to pat me down, McMenamin put a hand on his arm. ‘That’s all right Brendan.’ The big man backed off. McMenamin cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, ‘the big lad’s worse than me mother. Let’s walk,’ and, with that, he set off at a brisk pace. ‘I had a call from Kieran Doyle,’ he said, once I’d caught up with him.
‘Then you’ll know I’m here on behalf of my client, Malcolm Munro.’
‘Client?’ he laughed. ‘Is that what he is? And here’s me thinking the two of you were related.’
‘Yes, Malky’s my brother but I also act as his business agent and unlike Elvis Presley he won’t make any money dead.’
‘Are you really trying to tell me this is business and not personal?’
We walked past the statue of Edward Carson, staunch Unionist, founding member of the Ulster Volunteer Force and the man who cross-examined Oscar Wilde in his unsuccessful libel action against the 9th Marquess of Queensbury. He was frozen in time, standing, mid-oration, right arm outstretched in an almost Leninesque pose. In the background, atop Parliament Building, a light wind fluttered the Union Flags on the poles either side of Britannia and her lions.
Without breaking stride, McMenamin cleared his throat and spat on the plinth where the name, CARSON, was carved into the stone.
‘Do pardon,’ he said. ‘Old habits.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Mr Munro, it’s a fine afternoon for a stroll in the sunshine but I’m a busy man so let me tell you where I stand.’ He stopped suddenly and looked up at me. ‘Kieran Doyle thinks very highly of you. Tells me you helped his daughter out of a scrape the other day.’
‘Doing my job,’ I said.
‘And you did it well, by all accounts.’ He pressed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. ‘I’d like to help, for Kieran’s sake if no-one else’s. He’s a good lad. One for the future. He’s making a name for himself politically and it’s good to have friends in high places… only it’s handy to have them in low places too. Kieran’s not happy with Dechlan.’ I wondered who he was talking about for a minute before I remembered it was Dexy’s Sunday name. ‘I know all about that, he continued, ‘in fact, sometimes I think he’d like him out of the way completely and I can understand that too. It’s the new versus the old. Kieran’s the future. Dechlan’s old school, old brigade. The thing is, you see, Dechlan and me, we go way back. He was a good soldier. The very man to have with you in a tight spot. A man who knows the business, who can take an order, and, yet, this difficulty over his daughter...’
‘Cathleen.’
‘Yes, Cathleen, of course, terrible, terrible.’ He blessed himself with one twitch of his hand. ‘It’s a very sensitive issue. You see, what I’m saying is, Cathleen’s death, and what Dechlan may intend to do about it, it may be business to you but it isn’t business to him - it’s personal. If it was business, I would talk to him and I would expect him to listen. But what a man does in his own personal life… well… it is no concern of mine.’
He glanced at his watch again, a clear signal that my audience with him was nearing its end.
‘There’s got to be something you can do. A man of your undoubted influence.’
He gave me another one of his crinkly smiles, indulging my attempt at flattery.
‘I’ve thought long and hard,’ he said, ‘and here’s what I’m going to do - absolutely nothing.’
‘That’s it?’
‘It’s best for all. If Dechlan Doyle wants to avenge his murdered daughter how can I say no? I’d feel the same myself if it was one of mine.’
‘Cathleen Doyle wasn’t murdered,’ I said. ‘It was an accident.’
The man in the tweed suit stared at his ox-blood brogues. ‘It was nice meeting you Mr Munro.’ He turned to leave. I dragged him back by the shoulder. The big man in the dark suit was at his side in an instant.
I took my hand away. ‘She wasn’t just Dexy Doyle’s daughter. She was Malky’s partner. He killed her, yes, but it was an accident. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?’
‘I can see why Kieran rates you so highly,’ McMenamin said.
‘Kieran said you would help me but it looks like I’ve been wasting my time.’
‘I don’t think you’ve understood me, Mr Munro. I can promise you what I said earlier is true. What Dechlan is doing is personal. It’s no business of mine. I’ll put the word about. Make it clear that he’s on his own with this one. He’ll get no help from me or from anyone else here.’ He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Dechlan Doyle isn’t as young as he used to be.’ He laughed. ‘Who of us is? Your brother, sorry, your client, is a big lad. He could dish it out on the park. You’ll just have to hope he can look after himself off it.’
CHAPTER 26
‘Oh, fantastic,’ Malky said as he drove me back from the airport. His earlier expressions of gratitude had retreated somewhat since I’d brought him the news from across the water. ‘I’ve been given carte blanche to fight Dexy Doyle in a duel to the death – hang on I’ll just unpack my AK forty-seven.’
I hadn’t expected Malky to take it well, even though I had told him not to build his hopes up on my Belfast trip.
‘It’s definite progress,’ I said. ‘Once Dexy knows that he’s got no back up he’ll see reason. After all, there was never any major problem between the two of you was there? While Cathleen was—’
‘Alive? Before I killed her? That what you mean?’
I checked the speedo. We were doing ninety-five. My mobile came to the rescue, vibrating madly. The office. At seven o’clock on a Friday night? I answered and got Andy. ‘You still at the ranch?’
You told me to call if anything happened with Isla Galbraith’s case. Well, the indictment was served this morning and the preliminary hearing is in two weeks’ time.’
I hadn’t expected the prosecution to move so quickly with a case where the accused was on bail; then again, HMA versus Galbraith would be child’s play to prosecute. How had Cameron Crowe decided to proceed?
‘Murder or culp hom?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t say anything on it about culpable homicide.’
‘It never does – read it out.’
‘Isla Jane Galbraith you are indicted at the instance of Her Majesty’s Advocate –’
‘Cut to it will you?’
‘All right, all right. Let me see. You did on—’
‘Just the charge, please.’
‘Assault Callum Galbraith, and did strike him on the head with—’
‘You do know you’re calling a mobile from the office phone don’t you? Does it say murder or kill?’
That was the difference between the wording of a murder and a culpable homicide charge; one word that meant the difference between life imprisonment and the chance of a sentence far less severe for my client.
‘Murder,’ Andy said. ‘And did murder him.’
‘Stay there. I want a word. I’ll be two minutes. We’re turning off the M90 right now.’
I hung up.
‘You can’t go to the office,’ Malky said. ‘We need to talk about Dexy.’
‘And we will,’ I said. ‘Later. Right now I’ve got a murder indictment burning a hole in my desk.’
It wasn’t until I saw Andy in his suit, white shirt and black tie that I remembered he’d been at Callum Galbraith’s funeral.
‘How was it?’ I asked.
‘Mobbed. I’ll tell you one thing: the cops know how to give a right good send off. It was standing room only in the Church and they could have sold tickets for the graveside.’
‘What did you dig up?’ Perhaps not a great choice of words.
‘Nothing very helpful. No-one had a bad thing to say.’
I hadn’t expected there to be anyone bad-mouthing the deceased at his funeral but there had always been the chance of a few minor indiscretions ‘I take it no-one knew who you were?’
‘I got a few sideways looks, that’s all.’
‘Find out anything?’
‘He was very into sport. Highly competitive. I heard a couple of cops talking about a fight he once had with another cop, playing football or rugby or something.’
‘Go on.’
‘He got into trouble over it. The cops who were reminiscing thought it was great, him going radge. But, basically, they all seemed to think he was a good guy and the sort of bloke you’d rather have on your team than play against.’
I remembered Crowe’s mention of a fight at a football match. It wasn’t much, but it was more evidence of Callum Galbraith’s temper.
‘Oh, and wait until you hear this,’ Andy said. ‘The night he was murdered, Callum Galbraith shouldn’t even have been at home. He was supposed to be on a boys’ weekend away. Apparently, every year him and some mates, who passed out of Tulliallan together, used to meet up for a weekend golf-outing, slash, bevy-session. Eight of them booked in at the Lundin Links Hotel the night he died. They played a round of golf Friday afternoon, had dinner and a few scoops, then suddenly Callum said he was going home. His pals didn’t want him to drive because he’d been drinking, but unfortunately there was no stopping him and off he went. If he’d stayed with the lads he’d have had a sore head in the morning but it wouldn’t have been full of holes. Talk about lucky white heather?’
‘Anything said about him injuring a boy? An assault or something?’
‘One of his police pals did mention it. Said it was a disgrace that he’d been disciplined for it.’
‘Don’t suppose you got a name?’
‘Jamie Frickleton.’
‘You missed your vocation. You should have been a P.I.’
‘Wasn’t that hard,’ said Andy, modestly. ‘Apparently this Frickleton guy’s a right wee ned. Legal Aid gold mine. Quite a few of the cops there seemed to know him. One of them said Galbraith should have been given a commendation not a suspension.’
‘Any family members there?’
‘None that I could see. The front row was strictly scrambled egg, deputy Chief Constable and other top brass.’
‘What about his brother?’
‘Didn’t trap. A few people mentioned it. The brother’s a bit strange according to what I could make out. A recluse. Lives up in the wilds on the west coast. Still you’d have thought he would have come.’
‘And the widow?’
‘Came to the Church with her parents. Arrived after the coffin and sat at the back. She had a policewoman with her and left during the last hymn.’
It was all very interesting but not a great deal of help to Isla’s defence. Still, Andy had obviously tried his best and I told him so. ‘On Monday morning I want a detailed file note from you about the funeral, with times and mileage. Set it out in such a way that we might actually get SLAB to pay for it.’ The Scottish Legal Aid Board was unlikely to stump up for Andy attending a funeral without some fancy wording on the account. ‘Call it a fact finding mission or something. So,’ I clapped my hands together, ‘where’s the indictment?’
Andy left the room and came back with a sheaf of papers. I removed the thick rubber band that was holding them together. The indictment with the murder charge, lists of witnesses and productions was on top, then there were copies of the witness statements taken by the police, most of which I’d seen already. Also there were four A5 books of photos, bound in bright blue covers with black plastic spiral binders. The first contained views of the Galbraith’s house, inside and out. The second showed the bedroom from a number of different angles with the dead body lying on the bed, the head and face horribly mutilated, blood everywhere. The third book contained pics of Callum Galbraith’s broken tomahawk and a long, thin, blood-stained screw driver with a measuring tape alongside each of them to give an idea of scale. The photos in number four, the thickest of the four books, had been taken at the Crown’s post-mortem examination. Most of those showed the deceased’s naked body lying face up on the dissecting slab during various stages of the autopsy. There was nothing like a few messy post-mortem snaps to get the jury on the side of the prosecution.
I thumbed through until I came to the head shots. There was a shaved area on the scalp approximately ten centimetres square, showing the horrific wound. Elsewhere the ginger hair was caked with blood, black and thick as tar in patches. I stopped at a close-up of the deceased’s face. I had only seen it after the flesh had been peeled back from the bone. The pre-dissection photograph showed the facial
features hideously deformed and lop-sided, the right side swollen and a deep-purple colour due to haemostasis, the eyelid hugely fat. On the left side there was a concentrated mass of dark-blue puncture holes from the top of the cheek bone to the hair-line.
I put the photos to one side. ‘Any more pinks?’ I asked.
Andy pointed to a ring binder that contained additional documentary productions from the Crown. I opened it and took a glance at the contents which included Callum Galbraith’s hospital records along with the final versions of the Crown autopsy and toxicology reports. I’d have to check them thoroughly later, but I didn’t expect any of the findings to be inconsistent with those of Professor Bradley. I turned to the part of the autopsy report headed: Time of Death. Based on body temperature, rigor and livor mortis, it was stated as sometime between 22:00 hours and 01:00; earlier than I had expected, given that Isla hadn’t dialled 999 until after six in the morning; however, there was no evidence of the body having been moved. A horrible picture came to mind of Isla sitting by her murdered husband, shocked and traumatised, unable to comprehend the terrible thing she had done.
I went straight to the meat of the report. Under the heading, Blunt Force Injuries to head, it read:
The scalp is shaved post-mortem for visualization. On the left posterior parietal region there is a straight lesion six centimetres in length, which has sharp regular borders and shows full depth penetration into the scalp with associated deep scalp haemorrhage. The apex of the wound penetrates the skull, fracturing the bone and extends deeply into the brain tissue. When the skin of the calvarium was removed, fractures of the bones on the vault of the skull were found. The fragments extended deep in the brain cavity. Clearly the wounds were inflicted by an axe or similar instrument… blah, blah, blah. Opinion: This is a perimortem, potentially fatal injury.
Part two went on in similar detail to set out the screwdriver inflicted wounds in a fashion identical to that given to me by Professor Bradley, with mention of damage to the brain and the left sphenoid bone, which, anywhere other than in an autopsy report would have been called the left temple. It concluded that these wounds could have been peri or post mortem but if the former, were, unsurprisingly, potentially fatal injuries.