Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  I poked my head around the corner to see my client sitting in a large glass-walled room. She was working away at the cross-stitch tapestry stretched over a wooden frame on her lap. Her parents were in the room too. I recognised them from the second of her two brief court appearances and knew they’d been staying with their daughter since her release on bail. Mr Clegg was a likeable man, stout and cheery. He sat next to his daughter, head bowed, eyes closed. His wife, a small woman with a prune of a face, was on her feet. Though the room was sound-proofed, I could clearly see she was going her dinger.

  ‘Mum and Dad are with Isla just now.’ The nurse pointed to some chunky fabric-covered foam chairs. ‘Take a seat and I’ll let you know when she’s ready to see you.’

  ‘And you’re sure she’s going to be okay?’ I asked as the nurse made to walk away.

  ‘Looks like it. She took Disulfiram – a strange choice but enough of them would have done the trick if she hadn’t been caught in time. Thankfully it’s not paracetamol-based so we don’t expect any long term liver damage.’

  I sat and waited. Five minutes later Isla’s mother came through the swing doors.

  ‘Hello Mr Munro,’ she said, in a voice uncannily like that of her daughter. ‘It was good of you to come.’

  ‘How is she?’ I already had the official version from the nurse but I felt it only polite to ask. ‘Isla’s due in court a week today and I was wondering…’

  Mrs Clegg pulled a small embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and gave her nose a gentle blow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This must be a terrible time for you.’

  Mrs Clegg tucked the hanky away and laid a hand on my arm. She gave me a tight little smile. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘things seem better after a cup of tea.’

  Despite my vague mutterings about the need to stay and talk to my client, Mrs Clegg assured me there was nothing I could do for the moment and in doing so gave me the clear impression she was a woman not used to having her commands questioned. ‘Her father is praying over her. It’s all best left in God’s hands,’ she said, leading me across the hospital grounds to a café in the main building. She sat me down at a table and came back with two Styrofoam cups of tea and a packet of shortbread fingers. ‘All things work together for good for those who love the Lord,’ she said, and wet her lips from the foam cup.

  ‘Any sugar?’ I asked.

  Mrs Clegg looked me up and down. ‘Better off without it don’t you think?’ She opened the packet of shortbread. I took a finger and bit into it. A piece went in my mouth, a piece stayed in my hand and another piece fell into my cup splashing tea across the table.

  A young waitress came over and mopped up the spillage with the wipe of a damp cloth. Mrs Clegg pressed some loose change into the girl’s wet hand.

  ‘God bless you, my dear,’ she said.

  Looking slightly embarrassed the waitress pocketed the coins and retreated.

  ‘You believe that, don’t you Mr Munro?’ Mrs Clegg asked. ‘That God’s in control.’

  I smiled and munched shortbread. My opinion on most matters depended on who was paying my fee. I strongly suspected God could afford a better advocate than me; moreover, I had no children, far less a daughter up for murdering her husband and now lying in hospital after trying to kill herself. If faith that God would make everything all right kept Mrs Clegg from going under, my opinion counted for very little.

  ‘The nurse told me Isla should pull through without any lasting ill-effects,’ I said.

  ‘And the court case? Will she pull through that? Don’t tell me,’ she said, before I had the chance to reply. ‘It’s confidential. That’s all I ever get out of Isla. She can’t talk about it because her lawyer won’t let her.’

  I fished out what I could of the soggy shortbread.

  ‘Isla is facing a murder charge,’ I reminded Isla’s mum. ‘Anything she says about the case to anyone other than her legal counsel is evidence and could be used against her. For that reason it is best if she doesn’t talk to anyone, not even her parents.’

  ‘I understand your concerns,’ Mrs Clegg said, ‘but surely so long as she speaks the truth, what harm can there be?’

  In response to her question I drank a mouthful of lumpy tea.

  ‘In some ways I’d rather she was in jail than in that place.’ The old woman gestured at the window through which the peaked roof of the psychiatric ward could be seen in the mid-distance. ‘I’d understand it better. We’ve all a temper, Mr Munro. Any one of us could react badly, violently, if sufficiently provoked – even you.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said, popping the last piece of shortbread into my mouth and wondering if the butter in it would melt.

  ‘But to deliberately attempt to take one’s own God-given life… it’s…’

  ‘Unforgivable?’

  Mrs Clegg lowered her brows at me. ‘No, Mr Munro. To the Lord, nothing is that.’

  She sat back and drank her tea. Occasionally she would nibble at a finger of shortbread. For a while there was little said between us.

  ‘You’ve been trying to contact Callum’s brother,’ Mrs Clegg said, when the conversation had gone from a trickle to a drought. Have you found him?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then give up your search, Mr Munro. Anything that drunkard had to say would be of no interest to anyone. Trust me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Still, I would like to talk to him all the same.’

  The old woman sniffed dryly and looked away. ‘You do know that Isla doesn’t want you to?’

  ‘Isla doesn’t need to know.’

  She faced me again, her wizened face pointing at me accusingly. ‘But she does know. She knows you’ve been making enquiries about Fergus behind her back.’

  Behind her back? True I’d been circumspect, but what did she expect? That I should sit around and do nothing? It was bad enough that Isla’s case was dissolving faster than the shortbread in my tea without her getting fussy about what methods I employed to save her from a life sentence.

  ‘I’m trying to do what’s best for Isla,’ I said. ‘And if inconveniencing her brother-in-law helps save her from a life behind bars then I think it’s worthwhile even if she is a little upset about it.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand.’ Mrs Clegg finished her tea and laid down the foam cup. ‘Isla is more than a little upset. She tried to take her life because you tried to contact Fergus.’

  I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Mrs Clegg. ‘It’s about all we’ve managed to get out of her.’

  I was at a loss for words.

  Mrs Clegg’s facial features softened. She reached out and took one of my hands. ‘I can tell you’re a good person, Mr Munro. Deep down,’ she added, I thought, unnecessarily. ‘And, as you’ve just finished telling me, you want what’s best for Isla.’

  ‘I do. And it’s still my professional opinion that Fergus Galbraith might have some useful information.’

  Mrs Clegg gave her head a little shake. I could understand her exasperation even if she was politely trying to keep it under wraps. Isla’s mother knew nothing of the evidence against her daughter. She was a seeker after the truth. I preferred to inject a little uncertainty into the proceedings. So far as Mrs Clegg was concerned, Fergus Galbraith was an irrelevance to the defence. To me he was my only hope to dilute what was a seriously strong Crown case.

  Mrs Clegg removed her empty cup and, holding it under the edge of the table, swept shortbread crumbs into it using the side of her hand.

  ‘You may be a professional, Mr Munro, but you’re only human and what you think best and what is God’s will are not necessarily one and the same thing.’

  ‘Then you’ll agree that the same applies to what you think is best?’

  ‘I’ve prayed about it. A lot. Ever since the police phoned that night to say my daughter was in custody charged with murder.’ Her wrinkly mouth trembled a little at the memory.

  ‘Then if you’
ve prayed for Isla’s liberty,’ I said, daring to dip my toe into spiritual waters and already way out of my depth, ‘have you ever considered I could be the answer to those prayers?’

  By the look on her face she hadn’t and never would.

  ‘Mr Munro, all I have prayed for is justice.’

  ‘Even if it means life in prison for your daughter?’

  ‘Justice.’

  That was me told.

  ‘Mrs Clegg,’ I said, ‘I only want Fergus to give me some background on his brother. An insight into how things could have ended up the way they did. I want to know what Callum was really like. Why this horrible incident might have happened.’

  ‘No! For the last time. Callum Galbraith was a fine upstanding young man. If you want the truth about him you can ask me or you can ask Isla. Fergus Galbraith is an embarrassment, nothing more.’

  Embarrassment? I liked the sound of that.

  ‘Let that be an end of it,’ Mrs Clegg said sharply. ‘There are matters in the past that should stay there. You’ve got your instructions. Neither Isla nor I want you to bring Fergus into this.’

  The chances of me speaking to Fergus now that he’d left for the continent were remote, but I was fired up and not about to have a couple of teuchters tell me how to run a criminal defence. ‘Then you’re both being very foolish,’ I said.

  Mrs Clegg’s face flushed, her eyes narrowed, the wrinkles in her face deepened. She’d told the truth earlier. She knew about people with tempers all right. She saw one every day when she looked in the mirror and right now she was fighting back the urge to stand up and scream at me. I didn’t give her the chance. ‘Your daughter is heading down a one-way street at the end of which is a life sentence. There are no sunny day-rooms in Cornton Vale and the only cross-stitching that gets done is on mail sacks or by the prison doctor. Now, as I’ve already said, the preliminary diet is less than a week away and I feel it my professional duty to explore every possible avenue of defence or mitigation even if it does offend Isla’s sensibilities – or yours.’

  Mrs Clegg took several deep breaths. Her lips formed themselves into a grim little smile. ‘Very well,’ she said, in a voice a pitch higher than normal. ‘I’ll give you all the information you need. I’ll give you an insight into Fergus Galbraith’s background with my daughter. Are you familiar with the seventh commandment Mr Munro?’

  I knew there were ten and that I had previous convictions for most if not all of them. ‘Remind me.’

  Her eyes burned into mine as she reached into her handbag and produced a brown padded envelope from which she emptied onto the table between us the bracelet that I had last seen on Isla Galbraith’s wrist. I counted. There were ten charms on it, each attached by a silver link. One for each commandment. One for every year of Isla’s marriage to Callum. Mrs Clegg thumped a hand on the table scattering any crumbs that she’d missed and making the bracelet jump. A few heads turned in our direction. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’

  CHAPTER 45

  Sandy’s café was like a steam room and the smell of roasted coffee beans had reached an almost spiritual plane.

  Junior counsel cast a worried eye over the little glass cabinet inside which a wasp was merrily buzzing around the remains of Thursday’s cake supplies. ‘That it?’ he said. ‘Two doughnuts and a fly-cemetery?’

  I would have been well shot of Leonard Brophy by now if it hadn’t been all over Parliament House that the Dean had resigned from Isla Galbraith’s defence and no-one with any common sense or hopes of furthering their career was prepared to take up the poisoned chalice. At that precise moment in time, the only thing in wig and gown without either common sense or ambition and sufficiently desperate for work, was Leonard. So, I’d invited him through for a consultation in order that I could butter him up and have him provide me with a Note for Legal Aid purposes.

  The way it worked with the Scottish Legal Aid Board was that if a solicitor wanted to incur unusual expenditure then a formal sanction request had to be made in writing, giving reasons why the additional work was necessary. If I sent in a sanction request stating that I wanted legal aid funding to cover the costs of me travelling to France to interview a witness, it would come bouncing back stained with tears of laughter; however, if I sent in a sanction request accompanied by a supporting Note from counsel, the assessors at SLAB would, hopefully, tug their forelocks and bow to the considered opinion of learned counsel. The fact that I’d forgotten more criminal law than Leonard would ever know was irrelevant. What a difference a wig made.

  Sandy filled two paper cups with coffee and placed them on the countertop. ‘It’s been all go today. You’re lucky there’s anything left. I had a bunch of Fiscals in here this morning after court. Nearly cleaned me out. Must be hungry work all that persecuting.’

  ‘I suppose these’ll have to do,’ Leonard said, waving a podgy hand at the cakes. ‘Put them in a bag will you?’ He turned to me. ‘You didn’t want anything did you?’

  ‘Coffee’s fine,’ I said.

  We left the café and walked up to the Cross Well, past the Burgh Halls and into the rose garden at the rear of St Michael’s church. The good weather refused to relent. Three solid weeks of clear skies and sunshine. The world had gone mad.

  By the time we’d sat down on a bench Leonard had scoffed the doughnuts and was scraping the icing off the top of the fly-cemetery with his teeth.

  ‘So,’ he said, seconds later, as he licked the last sugary raisin from his finger. ‘How goes the Isla Galbraith case? Still in the nut-house is she?’ An expression of concern flitted across his fat features for a second. ‘I’ll still get paid for this consultation?’ he said. ‘I mean, even if the client isn’t present?’

  I reassured him on that point and cut to the chase.

  ‘The case is going to bed in a bucket,’ I said. ‘I’m clutching at straws and I want to precognosce Callum Galbraith’s brother.’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  ‘Because he’s living in France.’

  ‘What’s so important about him?’

  ‘Isla and Fergus Galbraith went out together when they were younger,’ I said. ‘He gave her a silver bracelet as a wedding gift. According to her mother, every year he sends her another charm for it. It’s become something of a tradition.’

  ‘Nice of him. Either that or a bit creepy.’

  ‘It gets worse. Five years ago Callum was diagnosed with skin cancer. He was hospitalised for a while. Fergus came down to lend support and ended up jumping into bed with Isla.’

  Leonard smiled in admiration. ‘She shagged her brother-in-law? While hubby was in hospital? The little minx.’ It wasn’t quite how Mrs Clegg had explained it to me but learned counsel had indeed grasped the nub of the matter. ‘Interesting if true, interesting even if not true,’ Leonard said, quoting Twain or it might have been Wilde; for classy quips it was usually one or t’other. ‘Who’d have thought it? Wee Free Isla part of a love triangle - the newspapers will devour it.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘And that’s why Isla’s mum doesn’t want word of it getting out. So far as she’s concerned it’s ancient history and any blame lies squarely with Fergus who, in her eyes, is nothing but a seducer, an adulterer and not half the man his brother was.’

  ‘You raise an interesting legal point,’ Leonard said, making a tent of his fingers and tapping his pursed lips. ‘He may have seduced Island Isla, but surely adultery is restricted to married persons.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘The important thing is—’

  ‘For instance, I am single.’ Something that had never totally surprised me. ‘If I were to have sex with a married woman she would be committing adultery, but would I?’

  ‘No, Leonard,’ I said. ‘You would be dreaming. Now belt up and try to keep on track will you?’

  I opened my briefcase and took out a typewritten sheet and a pen. I wanted Leonard to tell the Legal Aid Board that my French trip was necessary to protect the interests of jus
tice and had taken the liberty of writing his opinion for him.

  ‘Sign at the bottom,’ I said, but he was determined to read it first like a real lawyer.

  He scanned the page. ‘Still can’t see what the big deal is with this guy.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ I said. ‘Up until I spoke with Isla’s mum, I saw Fergus purely as a potential source of mud for slinging purposes. Now I think there may be more to it and, even if there’s not, with a bit of work and some nudge, nudge, wink, wink, we could even have the makings of a reasonable doubt.’

  ‘You mean, plead not guilty?’

  ‘Possibly. For one thing I’d like to know where exactly Fergus Galbraith was on the night of the murder.’

  ‘If he was in France – that’s a pretty good alibi.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that he was. He seems to have left the country at pretty short notice. The slightest uncertainty about his whereabouts and we could impeach him.’

  Leonard’s eyes lit up. In the distance I’m sure he could hear the ching-ching of a cash register. ‘The trial could last weeks. Think of the publicity.’

  I had. ‘That’s why I have to go see Fergus Galbraith. If I chat him up, put him at ease, I might get something useful. Anything remotely iffy and, whammo, he’s on a witness list incriminated as his brother’s killer.’

  ‘Superb!’ Leonard dashed off his signature. ‘Do you really think he might have had anything to do with it?’ He handed me back the sheet of paper.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I said. That was the beauty of our system. I didn’t have to prove a thing, only raise a reasonable doubt, and, if the Crown wasn’t going to offer a culp hom, there was no way I was letting a client of mine plead guilty to murder.

  CHAPTER 46

  ‘I didn’t even know there was a junkie pen,’ Andy complained.