Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  I flicked through the toxicology report. The results of the tests on body fluids were unremarkable. Although there were some traces of prescribed medication in the blood the findings were negative for ethanol or any of the usual recreational drugs: cannabinoids, cocaine, opiates, amphetamine or barbiturates.

  I was about to close the binder when something caught my eye. It was a copy of Isla Galbraith’s medical records. What were they doing there? Why would the Crown want to lodge those? Had Cameron Crowe taken on board what I’d said about the records as proof of Callum Galbraith’s violent behaviour towards his wife? Was he opening the door to the compromise of a culpable homicide plea? Was the lure of a silk gown proving too much for him?

  I pushed the bundle of papers to one side and stuck a yellow-sticky on top with a message to Grace-Mary, asking her to prepare an updated brief and arrange a consultation with senior counsel for the following Tuesday. That would be exactly two weeks before Isla Galbraith’s preliminary hearing and also, as it happened, exactly two weeks before my trial.

  ‘Oh, and this boy, Frickleton,’ I said to Andy. ‘Find out where he lives if you can. He could be useful. Put your newly found private detective skills into operation. Fish around some more and see if you can track him down.’

  Andy flashed me a smile. ‘Polmont Young Offenders.’ He breathed on his finger nails and polished them on his shirt front. ‘Anyway. Enough shop talk…’ He gave his hair a few run-throughs with his fingers. It was different, I noticed: shorter, neater than usual. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Haircut?’

  ‘Yeah. I gave my usual guy a miss.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Should be for twenty-five quid. Hope it’s worth it. I want to look my best tonight.’

  The Faculty dinner. I’d almost forgotten. In fact, no almost about it. ‘Where’s Zoë?’

  ‘Here’s Zoë,’ my receptionist said walking into the room. She looked totally stunning in an electric blue satin dress that hugged every inch of her figure.

  ‘You look—’

  ‘Never mind how I look. The taxi’s outside and you two aren’t ready.’

  I stared down at my crumpled suit. Andy whipped off his black funeral tie and quickly replaced it with a silk number; all swirls and splashes of colour.

  ‘Ready,’ he announced, slipping on his jacket.

  ‘My flight was delayed,’ I said, lamely. ‘I’ll need to go home. Won’t be long. It’s eight for eight thirty isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Zoë said. ‘It isn’t.’ She turned on a four-inch stiletto and walked out of the door.

  Andy was about to follow her but I grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him back. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can but do me a favour. When you get there, see if you can get chatting to Cameron Crowe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s the guest speaker. You can’t miss him. If he was chocolate he’d eat himself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He works at Crown Office. He’s dealing with Isla Galbraith’s prosecution but he’s also taken a special interest in my case and I want to try and talk him into dropping it.’

  The taxi tooted its horn.

  ‘Why’s he going to listen to me?’

  ‘Just soften him up until I arrive. Buy him a drink. Make sure he gets the last after-dinner mint—’

  ‘Dark chocolate gives me the skits.’

  ‘Dazzle him with your scintillating conversation and should my name arise in conversation, as you will make sure it does, tell him what a really great guy I am and how much of an injustice it would be if my prosecution were to go any further.’

  ‘He’ll know I’m up to something.’

  ‘No he won’t. He doesn’t know I know he’s taken a special interest in my case. When I turn up I’ll take over. Me and him will have a few drinks and leave the best of pals.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Andy said. ‘Obviously I want to help. I just don’t want to mess things up.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘Yes I will. I’m no good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘When did I last review your salary?’

  ‘You’ve never reviewed my salary,’ Andy replied as he reversed back into the room.

  The taxi tooted again.

  ‘I was thinking three percent.’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘This is for your benefit too,’ I told him. ‘Your traineeship’s on the line along with my practising certificate.’

  Deadpan, he stared at me through the lenses of his black-framed specs. ‘Seven and a half.’

  Andy held out a hand.

  ‘Five percent,’ I said, and shook his hand before he could pull it away.

  CHAPTER 27

  I could tell something was wrong the moment I arrived home. The kitchen window was wide open and next-door’s cat was asleep on the table. I ran through to the livingroom. Everything seemed fine. My bedroom looked the same untidy mess as usual; no sign of a break-in.

  Puzzled, but satisfied that nothing was missing, I had commenced my search for a less wrinkled suit when, in the wardrobe mirror, a glimpse of bright blue caught my eye; a piece of cloth rolled up and lying on my bed. I partially unfolded it. A Glasgow Rangers’ jersey. One from years ago. An old sponsor’s logo on the front. Different beer: same toxic fizz-water. It was the type of strip Malky used to play in during his short spell at the club, before his injury. I picked it up. Let it unfurl. A bullet fell onto the bed.

  Dexy Doyle. It had to be.

  My first thought was to phone the police, but what would they do? Make me miss the Faculty dinner for a kick-off. Then they’d dust the cartridge for prints and, unless I was very surprised, find nothing and go away again with warnings to be vigilant. After that they’d probably want to take a statement from Malky, which would only serve to fuel his anxiety and make him even more paranoid, but, worse, it would involve my dad whose blood-pressure couldn’t take that kind of excitement. I was already regretting having told him about my brother’s predicament.

  No need for the police. Despite my lack of success in Belfast, I was still of the opinion that the solution to the problem was to approach Dexy via his brother. Kieran was the sensible one. He owed me. If I piled on the pressure, using his gun-running daughter as a lever, he’d surely talk his brother around.

  After half an hour, phoning various contacts, I managed to acquire Kieran Doyle’s mobile number. I caught him as he was leaving a planning sub-committee meeting. It was the back of nine on a Friday night. He was on his way home and sounded irritable.

  ‘I’ve been in meetings all day, I’m tired, I’m hungry and I’m not talking about this now and certainly not on the phone,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll come and see you then.’

  ‘Waste of time. There’s nothing more I can do.’

  He hung up. I called again - answering service. I didn’t leave a message, just kept phoning until he took the call.

  ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about,’ he said, ‘now, stop phoning me or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I should do,’ I said. ‘Call the police and tell them how your crazy brother broke into my house and left a live round on my bed.’

  ‘I’m sure Dechlan can account for his movements today.’ I had little doubt on that score. Dexy Doyle had people to do his dirty work for him. ‘However, if you feel that a crime has been committed, Mr Munro, then I would strongly recommend that you report it to the proper authorities.’

  A man in Kieran Doyle’s position couldn’t be too careful about what he said on the phone, and yet I thought I deserved better than his patronising remarks and curt, ‘good-bye.’

  I went back through to my bedroom divesting myself of my clothes as I went. A quick shower, jump into a fresh or, at least, a fresher suit, and I might make the biscuits and cheese at the faculty dinner.

  I sat down on the bed and pulled off my shoes and socks. It had been a long day. I lay back on the bed and rubbed my s
tubbly jaw. My early start meant it had been a while since my last shave. I thought of Zoë in that dress, closed my eyes for a moment and woke up two hours later.

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘Where have you been?’Andy asked, when I pulled up a seat beside him at one of several large round tables that had been relocated to the edges of the function suite to reveal an area of polished wood floor. It was the end of the night and the DJ was playing a series of romantic numbers for couples slow-dancing. ‘I thought you were only changing your suit?’

  ‘Fell asleep. Don’t tell Zoë.’ I snagged a passing waiter and ordered an Ardbeg for me and another bottle of designer lager for Andy. ‘Where is the object of my affection?’

  ‘Here she is,’ said a voice behind me in an unaffectionate sort of a way. I stood to give my receptionist a seat. She remained standing, hands on hips, creasing the smooth outline of her blue satin cocktail dress. ‘So, just to recap - while I’m trapped at a table with a bunch of conveyancers, chuntering on about standardised missives, whatever they might be, you’re at home sound asleep?’

  I apologised. ‘It’s been a long day. Let me buy you a drink.’ Without waiting for an answer I drifted over to the bar and returned a few minutes later with a glass of champagne, but there was no sign of Zoë.

  ‘Moon-dancing,’ Andy said. I didn’t think anyone still called it that. When had I last moon-danced? It was with Cat at a friend’s wedding. At the time we’d joked, half-seriously, about what song we’d dance to for our first waltz. It made me feel sick to think about it.

  My assistant nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor where Zoë, in the arms of a dinner-suited gent, was swaying gently to a Commodores track. Whoever he was, he was tall. With his back to me all I could see of Zoë were her hands resting on each of his shoulders, her head bobbing into sight now and again and the occasional glimpse of blue satin. The couple turned around in time to the music. Cameron Crowe. He was staring right at me over the top of Zoë’s head.

  ‘Seems quite smitten by Zoë,’ Andy said. ‘That’s the third time he’s asked her up to dance. Better dancer than after-dinner speaker, though. Forty-five minutes, no jokes. I’ve still got the marks on my wrists where I tried to saw them with a teaspoon.’

  His eyes still fixed on me, Crowe grinned and lowered his hands so that they rested on my receptionist’s buttocks. Zoë wriggled and reached back to slap them off. I set the flute glass on the table. My assistant must have sensed my intentions. He grabbed the sleeve of my jacket. I wrenched free and strode across the polished floor.

  ‘Mind if I cut in?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Crowe, answering what he must have known was a rhetorical question. He spun Zoë around and manoeuvred her away from me towards the centre of the small dance floor. I followed, aware that my actions were attracting attention. I gently lifted one of Zoë’s hands and rapped my knuckles on the shoulder of Crowe’s dinner jacket. ‘I’m cutting in,’ I said.

  He twisted his head to the side. ‘Piss off.’

  Zoë tried to peel away but Crowe caught her around the waist and pulled her tight against him.

  ‘Robbie…’ Zoë said through gritted teeth. ‘Go away.’

  I couldn’t have heard her correctly. Even if I had, it was too late for I’d already seized hold of Crowe’s trapezium in the sort of grip used to great effect by Mr Spock in some of the earlier Star Trek episodes. He released Zoë and spun around to face me, knocking my hand away, at the same time catching hold of my shirt front, yanking me forward. Crowe was a tall man; two or three inches taller than me. His nose presented a perfect target for my forehead. One or two more Islay malts and I might have been facing an assault charge as well as a counterfeiting rap. By this time the music had stopped and the lights were raised. People were gathering around about us. I tried to step away but couldn’t because Crowe still had a bunch of my shirt in his clenched fist.

  ‘Don’t ever—’ he started, but before he could say anymore, Zoë was between us, pushing us apart. Shirt buttons spilled across the wooden floor.

  ‘Stop it!’ she yelled. I raised my hands in mock surrender and took a couple of paces back. ‘You - go and sit down,’ Zoë ordered me and glared around at the crowd of onlookers until it gradually began to disperse. The lights dimmed and Lionel Ritchie started to sing again. Crowe watched my retreat, flashing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth in a sickening smile of victory. Zoë waited until I had left the dance floor and made my way over to where Andy was standing apparently frozen, his bottle of lager poised at his lips.

  I wasn’t sure if Zoë would resume her dance. I hoped not. Crowe apparently assumed that she would. Still grinning at me, he tugged her to him by the sleeve of her dress and roughly clamped her against himself, hands restored to my receptionist’s buttocks. Zoë lowered her hands to the hem-line of her dress and hitched it higher. I was surprised, but not as surprised as Cameron Crowe was when she rammed a knee in his chuckies.

  ‘You’re once… twice… three times… a lady,’ Lionel crooned.

  Zoë planted her four-inch spikes and with an almighty shove sent Crowe sprawling across the dance floor, scattering moon-dancers.

  Andy tilted the beer bottle, downed the contents and set it on the table in front of me. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

  ‘Right,’ he said, slapping a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ll get the jackets.’

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘You can’t still be hung-over from Friday night.’

  Grace-Mary’s remarks were directed at Andy who, Monday morning, was sitting, head in his hands, studying the wood-effect surface of his self-assembled desk. ‘Don’t,’ he muttered, ‘Just don’t.’

  I’d already tipped-off my secretary that the Faculty dinner had not been an unalloyed success, but she wanted the full SP. We adjourned to my room, with Andy tagging along.

  ‘Well, let’s have it,’ Grace-Mary said. ‘It can’t have been that bad.’

  Zoë joined us on the pretext of doing a spot of filing. She was carrying a wire tray full of letters and wearing an ultra-tight black satin blouse.

  ‘I’m really sorry about Friday night,’ I said to her. ‘If I’d been there earlier maybe things wouldn’t have become quite so… complicated.’

  The phone rang in reception. Zoë laid the wire-basket on top of the filing cabinet and left my room to answer it.

  ‘Is someone going to tell me what happened?’ Grace-Mary, demanded. ‘The Faculty Dinner, how did it go?’

  ‘Let me see,’ Andy said, looking up at the ceiling, tapping his chin with a finger. ‘On a scale of one to ten where ten is Robbie continuing to practice law and one is me stacking shelves at Tesco, I’d say Friday night’s efforts come in at around a big fat zero.’

  Grace-Mary cocked her head at him. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘I’m on about that pair!’ Andy exploded. ‘Robbie and Zoë.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Zoë said, returning sooner than expected. ‘Don’t try and pin the blame on me. Have you told Grace-Mary about your great idea? About your cunning plan that I should chat up that Cameron Crowe person and see if he’d drop the case against Robbie?’

  Sounded like Andy had been doing a spot of delegating.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Zoë said, wrenching open a drawer in the filing cabinet and removing some folders. ‘Don’t know why I agreed. It was such a stupid idea, but…’ she sighed like a martyr, ‘I let that horrible man buy me a drink—’

  ‘I bought him one too,’ Andy interjected. ‘I’ve got the receipt for that, by the way, Robbie.’

  Zoë continued. ‘Then after the meal we talked, danced, I told him all about you, how you were a super boss and a generally great guy and how unfair it would be if you got done...’ She stopped for a breath and plonked a stack of files on top of my desk. ‘I’m not sure if I was getting through to him but we’ll never know because that’s when you arrived, Robbie, and, as we know, the rest is history.’ She studied the fingers
on one hand. ‘I broke one of my best nails.’

  ‘Well…’ I wasn’t really sure what to say. ‘Thanks for trying.’

  But Zoë hadn’t quite finished with Andy. ‘So if anyone’s to blame it’s you.’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Don’t know why I listened to you. We all want Robbie to get off, but asking me to throw myself at that man. Only an idiot would think up something like that.’

  I wasn’t greatly amused about Andy propelling Zoë into the moon-dancing clutches of Cameron Crowe but I couldn’t help thinking my assistant had shown some initiative and, after all, he might have been thinking about me and not just his traineeship. I thought I’d spare him further grief. While Zoë was taking a breath I shoved the stack of files on my desk in his direction.

  ‘Andy,’ I said. ‘Take a look at these will you? I’d like you to nip along to the Court this afternoon and cover for me. I’ve got to be somewhere else.’

  He took the files and glanced at them suspiciously. ‘These are for the Sheriff Court. Me? Really? The Sheriff Court?’

  I had never intended to let my assistant loose in the Sheriff Court this early in his career. Still, it was only a few DTTO reviews, and since the hearings for drug treatment and testing orders were held in private and the clients usually out of their faces on methadone, hopefully, no-one who mattered would know if Andy made a hash of things.

  ‘So what are you going to do about your case?’ Grace-Mary enquired of me. ‘Unless of course Andy has a plan B.’

  Andy wasn’t listening. He was eagerly flicking through the DTTO files.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ I told my secretary. ‘I think I may have to tell the truth. But before I do there’s someone I have to speak to.’

  CHAPTER 30