‘And could I have a cup of tea before you go?’ yelled the voice. Nancy looked again to the clock. ‘You still there Nancy?’
Zoë, who’d been standing behind me, stepped forward with a smile. ‘Men, eh?’ She tapped an imaginary wristwatch. ‘I’ll tell him you’ve left,’ she whispered conspiratorially.
The property manager hesitated for a moment and then grabbed her handbag off the desk. ‘First floor, on the left,’ she said, and we’d only taken a few steps on the wrought-iron staircases when I heard the front door close quietly.
On the top landing there were doors to my left and right and one, promisingly marked W.C., straight ahead.
‘That you Nancy?’ Sure enough, the voice came from our left. We followed it to its source, a room located on the corner of the building with a view up the hill to the Castle from one window and across the River Ness out of the other. The office was small, the floor space mostly taken up by ancient filing cabinets and cheap MDF bookcases. It wasn’t too dissimilar to my own. In the centre of the room sat a man with a bald patch right on the top of his head. It was slightly weird. He had a good head of hair except for right on the crown where there was nothing but pink shiny scalp, like a monk. I got a good look at it as I walked in for he was bent over, studying a photocopy map made up of several A4 size pieces of paper all stuck together by sticky-tape and spread over the entire surface of his desk.
I cleared my throat. The man looked up and when he saw me standing there he sat back, startled. ‘Who are you?’
I went over to him, hand outstretched ready to shake his. ‘Robbie Munro. I’m a solicitor – from Linlithgow. That’s near Edinburgh,’ I said in reply to his blank stare. ‘This is my P.A., Miss Reynolds, and you must be Mr Armstrong.’
‘Liddell,’ he said, emphasising the second syllable of his name. He raised himself a few inches off his chair and took my proffered hand in a firm grip. Formalities over, I gave him the bundle of title deeds. He took them, grunted and sat down again.
‘Fine view you have,’ I said.
He snorted. ‘More than makes up for having to sit here all day buying Council houses at three hundred quid a pop.’ Liddell was clearly a, the glass is half empty and there's floaters in the other half, kind of a guy. ‘Know anything about crofting law?’ he asked.
‘Not as much as you do I’m sure.’
‘I know almost bugger all.’
‘Like I said…’
He folded the map. It wouldn’t lie flat so he weighted it down with the titles deeds. ‘Crofts. I could see them far enough. One wrong move and some poor hayseed can’t graze his sheep and I’m being summoned to Drumsheugh Gardens to get strips torn off me by the Law Society Gestapo. And as for the professional indemnity premiums…’ He stopped mid-flow and nodded towards the titles. ‘The croft. That why you’re here? Got a buyer interested in the place? Bloody quick. I’m still checking the title. It’s hardly been in the window. Why don’t you leave me your details and I’ll sort you out with a set of particulars next week? Well, not me.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be away. But my property manager will do the needful.’
‘Going on holiday?’
‘Wimbledon.’
‘Lucky you,’ I said.
‘Not really.’ Liddell had managed to locate a lead-lining in his silver cloud. ‘Should have had tickets yonks ago. My tennis club raffles a pair every year. The Williams girls were embryos when I first put my name in the hat and this is the first time I’ve been pulled out.’
‘What’s it like - the croft?’ I asked, steering him around to the purpose of my visit. ‘We went for a look but it was boarded-up.’
‘Never been down there myself,’ he said. ‘Probably a dump. According to Nancy it’s in need of,’ he coughed, modernisation. Estate agent speak. Probably means the place was raided by the Redcoats during the Forty-five and nobody’s bothered to tidy-up yet.’ He leaned back in his chair, yawned and stretched. ‘You should have called ahead; we could have had a viewing arranged with one of the local boys.’
‘The owner. Fergus Galbraith. What do you know about him?’
‘Nice enough lad, I suppose. Friend of my son’s otherwise I wouldn’t touch a crofting conveyance. I haven’t seen him in years. We’ve been doing everything by phone.’
‘Good of him to give you the business.’
‘Suppose. Although he’ll be expecting me to sharpen my pencil when it comes to the fee, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Does he keep in touch with your son much?’
‘Don’t think so. They were at Uni together. Fergus did some kind of Mickey Mouse course, logic and metaphysics or something like that. You know the sort of thing: two lectures a week for three years and at the end you get a degree you can hang in the loo if you run out of bog paper.’
Zoë tugged at my arm. ‘Talking of which… it was quite a long drive from Arisaig.’
Liddell took the hint. ‘Out the door and left.’
I smiled apologetically. Liddell sighed. ‘Follow her. The gents’ is just along a bit.
When I returned, Liddell was thumbing through the Scottish Solicitors Law Directory. I sat down opposite him. He looked up.
‘Munro, you said?’
I nodded.
‘And you say you’re a solicitor? Strange because I can’t find any mention of you in the White Book.’
‘Your copy’s three years old,’ I said. ‘Try Glasgow, under Caldwell & Clark.’
‘C & C?’ He whistled softly. ‘Playing with the big boys were you? How come you can’t tell me how to sell a croft? I thought that lot were always buying and selling estates for the landed gentry.’ He leafed through the Directory again. ‘Ah, here you are. So you’ve moved. What’s the state of the housing market like in Lesmahagow?’
‘Linlithgow. And it’s booming, I expect. Usually is. Even with the credit crunch.’
He stared hard at me. ‘You expect?’ He closed the book and laid it to one side. ‘You’re not here about the croft are you? You’re not even a conveyancer.’
He said it as though he’d unmasked one not of the brotherhood.
‘I didn’t say I was. I’m a defence lawyer and I’m looking for information on Fergus Galbraith.’
‘And why might that be?’
‘His brother was murdered and I want to ask him some questions.’
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘No, and I’m not the police. I only want to meet him and get some background information that might give me a better understanding of what is a very strange case.’
‘Sorry. Can’t help you.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘I do.’
‘Can I have it?’
‘No you can’t.’
He stood up: I didn’t.
‘It’s really extremely important,’ I said.
‘I’d like to help,’ he said unconvincingly, ‘however, I’m sure you’ll understand, there are certain professional ethics.’
‘All I want is a forwarding address.’
‘Which, I’m afraid, I’m not at liberty to divulge.’
He put his hand on the back of my chair. I remained seated.
‘Mr Liddell,’ I spoke his name as one syllable, ‘are you refusing to disclose important information in a murder case?’
‘Patently.’
‘I can put you on a witness list.’
‘Stop,’ he scoffed, ‘you’re scaring me.’
‘Cite you to attend court and give a precognition on oath before a Sheriff.’
‘Feel free,’ he said. ‘Me and the wife would enjoy a wee jaunt down south. You’ll have to meet the expenses of course. Train fare, hotel?’ He smiled. ‘Legal Aid is it? Good luck with that.’ He stood and ushered me to the landing where we met Zoë on her way back from the loo. ‘Allow me to show you out,’ Liddell said. ‘Wouldn’t want the door to hit your bum on the way out.’
He led us downstairs, unsnibbed the front door and held it open. ‘Oh, and if you do want a
look at the croft give me a call next week. No. Not me - Nancy.’ He mimed a graceful backhand drive. ‘I’ll be busy.’
At the door, I turned and shook his hand again. ‘Be seeing you, Mr Liddell.’
‘The pleasure will be all mine.’
I ignored his sarcasm. ‘Yes, all going well, I’ll have a citation served tomorrow and see you in court, say, middle of next week. How’s Wednesday sound? Oh wait a minute that’s women’s semi-finals day. Never mind,’ I called to him as Zoë and I walked out to find my car and set off on the long drive back to civilization, ‘there’s a telly in the witness room. You can watch the tennis on that.’
CHAPTER 43
Monday morning’s mail was piled on top of Friday’s mail and Thursday’s was in turn supported by Wednesday’s, Tuesday’s and the previous Monday’s and even some stragglers from the week before. It all needed serious and urgent attention. From the middle of the stack I extracted a new sheaf of papers to do with Isla Galbraith’s case. In the covering letter from the P.F. it stated that this additional material was being supplied in compliance with the disclosure protocol. Following a ruling by the former judicial committee of the Privy Council, now the Supreme Court, the Crown had a duty to disclose all evidential material to the defence to ensure an equality of arms before the trial. Failure to do so could amount to a miscarriage of justice. The downside to that most welcome decision had been the Crown’s tendency to err on the side of caution, or maybe it was just sheer bloody-mindedness, and bombard the defence with a lot of irrelevant bumph.
The latest disclosure papers amounted to a full compendium of Callum Galbraith’s medical records dating back to his booster-jabs as a child. I had already seen the important medical information and was satisfied beyond any doubt that the cause of his sudden death was a compressed fracture of the skull in combination with a series of brain-puncturing stab wounds. I really didn’t need to know that he’d had glue ear when he was four and his tonsils out aged twelve.
I was about to shove the copy medical records to the further-most outreaches of my desk when I suddenly wondered why it was they made up such a thick bundle. I’d always understood Callum Galbraith to have been a healthy, active, indeed athletic individual and my mental image was of a ginger-headed highlander striding through the heather on his latest sponsored walk. A brief perusal of the newly-disclosed medical records suggested otherwise and, upon closer examination, I discovered that a good portion of the records related to treatment at the Beatson Oncology Unit. Intrigued, I read on to learn that some years previously Callum Galbraith had undergone treatment for skin cancer. A suspicious-looking mole on the side of his head had been excised and a biopsy confirmed the presence of pre-cancerous cells. He’d been referred to the Beatson for post-surgery treatment but his oncologist, Dr Diane Prentice, my old man’s coffee-mate I noticed, not satisfied that the original excision had removed a border of healthy skin tissue from all around the affected area, sent him back to the originating hospital for more surgery. That was done, though some minor skin-grafting was required as a result. Subsequent follow-up treatment at the Beatson had been a complete success. Another example of the man’s bad luck; beating cancer only to be beaten to death by his wife.
There were a lot more records: charts, graphs, diagrams and squiggly hand-writing, but I couldn’t see any link to the matter that most concerned me; not if but why Callum Galbraith’s wife had murdered him.
‘Robbie!’ yelled Zoë.
I went through to reception.
‘Guess who?’ she said, handing over the receiver. It was Liddell. I looked at the clock. Nine fifteen. I had expected him to call earlier.
One minute later the solicitor from Inverness had salvaged his dreams of strawberries and cream on centre court and I had what I wanted; an address for Fergus Galbraith. Fat lot of good it was to me.
I returned to my room and pressed the yellow-sticky on which I had scribbled Fergus Galbraith’s forwarding address against the screen of my computer. Interesting - if highly inconvenient. Fergus Galbraith had sold up, shipped out and berthed in sunnier climes: The Vendée. If my geographical knowledge of the North of Scotland was hazy, that of mid-west France was a good deal poorer.
Grace-Mary came in and switched on my PC. ‘It works better like that,’ she said, tapping the top of the screen with the court diary. ‘And it has a facility for virtual Post-it notes. You could have little electronic yellow-stickies all over the screen if you wanted.’
What was the point when I had the real thing? But I wasn’t getting into that argument again.
‘So,’ my secretary said, ‘the big date, I mean, trip up north. How did it go?’
‘It was strictly work.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Sadly not.’ I removed the Post-it note from the monitor. The Vendée. Might as well be Venus. I stuck the note to the back of my hand.
Grace-Mary opened the diary. ‘While you were off gallivanting,’ she turned to the previous Friday’s page in the diary and pointed to an entry, ‘Andy had a run in with the Sheriff. From what I can gather things got a bit hairy and you’ll need to lodge an appeal.’ She went over to the cabinet to fetch the file. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you were thinking, leaving the lad to do his first Sheriff Court trial while you’re away off on a wild goose chase.’
‘Everyone’s got to learn,’ I said. ‘Sometimes in at the deep end is the best way to gain experience.’
‘The deep end would have been fine,’ Grace-Mary scolded me, ‘but do a trial with Bert Brechin sitting? That’s more like swimming with the sharks.’
Andy came rushing in, obviously trying to head Grace-Mary off at the pass. ‘You heard?’
‘You lost?’
‘Shocking decision,’ he said, taking the file from my secretary. ‘Absolute disgrace. Brechin didn’t believe a word of the post-drinking driving defence.’
Grace-Mary gave me a disapproving look. I should never have left Andy to deal with my cases when I was away. It hadn’t been fair on him or the clients.
‘What about the defence forensics?’ I asked.
Andy handed me the file and I searched for Prof. Bradley’s report. I’d had him do a back-calculation based on the accused’s alcohol consumption after he’d driven. His findings clearly showed that my client’s alcohol level at the actual time of driving would have been well below the prescribed limit. I found the report and pulled it out of the file.
‘Flawed,’ Andy said.
‘Prof Bradley - flawed?’
‘Not his fault. According to the Sheriff, Prof. Bradley had to use unreliable information provided by the accused and his lying witnesses. Drawing from a poisoned well was how he put it.’
Sounded like Brechin. Always ready to find ways to body-swerve a reasonable doubt. I found the court minutes. ‘Three months? His reading was only fifty eight and he got three moons?’
‘The reading was eighty-five,’ Andy said, tersely. ‘More than double the limit. You’ll get him out on interim lib, won’t you?’
‘You mean you haven’t already?’
‘It was last thing Friday. The clerks were out of their blocks before I had the chance and Brechin would just have knocked it back anyway.’
It was a strange system that allowed the sentencing Sheriff to decide if an accused should be released on bail pending an appeal against the very sentence he’d just imposed.
‘The good news is that Brechin’s on holiday now,’ Andy said. ‘Gone bird-watching on Arran. You’ll have a much better chance in front of Sheriff Dalrymple or a floater.’
So, Bert Brechin was on holiday? Suddenly my own chances of an acquittal had increased significantly.
Grace-Mary took the file back again and placed it on a to-do pile that was threatening to avalanche. She unpeeled the yellow-sticky from the back of my hand and read again the forwarding address I’d been given for Fergus Galbraith’s details.
‘You want him to dish out the dirt
on his brother?’ she said. ‘What do you expect him to tell you? If he hadn’t spoken to his brother for years how can he help the case? He’ll either hate him so much that he’ll be hugely biased and therefore unbelievable, or he won’t have anything bad to say at all because he won’t have seen his brother in years.’
‘Ever thought of taking a degree in logic?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Grace-Mary answered. ‘But I could give lectures on it.’
‘How about metaphysics?’
‘Metaphysics?’
‘You know,’ I said. ‘Like how can Andy be here and down at Sandy’s getting me a coffee at the same time?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Grace-Mary said. ‘He can’t.’
Andy rolled his eyes. ‘On my way.’
‘Robbie!’ Zoë called to me from across the corridor.
‘What colour is the blouse today?’ I whispered to Grace-Mary.
‘White,’ she whispered back.
‘Who is it?’ I yelled through to reception.
‘The hospital!’ Zoë yelled back. ‘And it’s not white – it’s ivory!’
My dad’s blood-pressure. Malky’s kneecaps. I rushed through to reception and snatched the receiver from Zoë.
‘Robbie Munro?’ said a polite female voice on the other end.
‘Speaking.’
‘The police thought I should let you know.’ My insides tightened. ‘Your client, Isla Galbraith. She was admitted last night. Attempted suicide.’
CHAPTER 44
‘How is she?’ I asked the nurse who let me into the psychiatric ward; a new brick-built structure with a high-pitched roof set in the grounds of Stirling Royal Infirmary.
‘Stable. She’s in the day-room. We’ve had her sectioned for seventy-two hours and the consultant is going to review things later today.’
There were only twenty-four beds in the ward and always enough patients with acute mental health problems to fill them. If Isla’s suicide bid was merely a cry for help she’d be prescribed some anti-depressants, a follow-up session with a shrink and shown the door in short order.
The nurse took me into a brightly lit atrium where some patients padded about in dressing gowns and slippers. ‘We like to get the para-suicides out of bed and moving around as quickly as possible. It helps if we can find them something to take their mind off things.’
Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1) Page 18