Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  Usually there would be several summary trials set down for the same day. Normal practice would be for the P.F. to call them all first-thing to weed out those that weren’t proceeding for whatever reason: perhaps an accused with cold feet, missing witnesses or a late plea of guilty. Once that was done and only those cases actually going to trial remained, the P.F. would request a short adjournment during which the decision would be made as to the order of business. It also allowed the court staff the chance for a coffee break, and in most courts around Scotland the adjournment following the trial ‘call-over’ was a well-observed tradition. There being only one trial set down for Court Three, however, there was only one case to call-over and therefore no need for an adjournment. Hugh Ogilvie was all set to charge straight ahead with the trial and ready to call his first witness. He rose to his feet, witness list in his hand. Fiona Faye Q.C. flipped open the front cover of my case file. No bundle of papers sewn with pink string and tied with red tape for me. I thought of another Q.C., Ranald Kincaid, champing at the bit to plead my former client guilty and send her off to Cornton Vale for life. I hoped his new solicitor, whoever he or she was, had put the brief in a yellow, plastic envelope with a smiley face on it. Then I remembered another yellow plastic folder; the one I’d taken with me to France.

  ‘I wonder M’Lord,’ I said, jumping to my feet, ‘if I might be permitted a brief adjournment.’

  ‘Miss Faye,’ Sheriff Brechin said, not looking at me. ‘I think your client wishes to communicate with you.’

  Fiona bumped Paul with her shoulder. He got out of his seat and came over to me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need an adjournment.’ Paul tried to protest but I put up a hand. ‘I mean it. Tell Fiona.’

  ‘Robbie,’ Paul said. ‘There’s no chance—’

  ‘Please,’ I said firmly. ‘Do it.’

  Paul went over and whispered in the Q.C.’s ear. She looked over her shoulder, gave me a quick shake of the head and turned her attention once more to the buff folder.

  ‘M’Lord,’ I said, still on my feet. ‘I’d like a very short adjournment. To discuss some matters with my friend across the table.’

  ‘You should have spoken to the Fiscal before now.’ Brechin said. ‘This trial was fixed three weeks ago. Now sit down.’

  ‘I appreciate that, M’Lord,’ I blurted out, ‘but I believe my case may be capable of… resolution.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Andy, from the public benches.

  ‘Silence in court!’ shouted the bar officer.

  Paul looked at me, shocked. Fiona pushed her wig a little further back her head. Sheriff Brechin smiled.

  Capable of resolution was a euphemism employed by defence solicitors to tip the Sheriff the wink that there were plea negotiations on-going that made a plea of guilty highly likely if only a few more minutes were available to allow the necessary legal tweaks to be made.

  ‘Very well.’ The Sheriff looked at the clock. The court had started late and it was almost half past ten. ‘I’ll sit again at eleven. Let’s hope discussions with Mr Ogilvie are fruitful.’

  In so saying, Brechin would fully expect that after a quick cuppa and a swatch at The Herald he’d come back on, sentence me and be home by noon. He rose and I left the dock to be joined immediately by Andy, Zoë and Grace-Mary.

  ‘Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to let you plead,’ my assistant said.

  His naivety was almost refreshing. There was absolutely no danger of me copping a plea and then going quietly into that dark night of estate agency or personnel recruitment or wherever struck-off solicitors went; however, my own predicament wasn’t foremost in my mind at that moment.

  Zoë came forward, worried. ‘Robbie, are you all right?’

  Grace-Mary barged her way between the two of them. ‘Robbie, will you kindly let me know what’s going on? Wait a minute,’ she smiled then straightened her face and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. ‘Not feeling well – that it?’ She winked.

  ‘Just dandy,’ I replied, ‘but I don’t have much time. Andy, go back across the road to the office—’

  ‘No!’

  Zoë glared at my assistant. ‘Shut up and listen to Robbie.’ It seemed to work.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Andy mumbled.

  Go back to the office and somewhere in my room, on the filing cabinet or somewhere, is a yellow plastic folder. I want you to bring it straight here.’

  Andy started to object. ‘Robbie—’

  ‘Go.’ I brushed past him.

  Grace-Mary put out a hand. ‘Robbie …?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I told her, and ran through to the robing room where Fiona was divesting herself of a silk gown. The wig was already returned to its velvet-lined black enamelled box. She laid the gown on the table and carefully folded it long ways twice and then rolled it up.

  I went over to her. ‘Fiona. I’m really grateful to you.’

  ‘Robbie, if you’re pleading guilty I’m having nothing to do with it.’ She lifted a brown leather grip from the floor and slammed it down onto the table.

  ‘Don’t go Fiona, I need you.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Of course I do, but there’s someone else who needs you even more.’

  She placed the tin box and gown in the bag and clipped it shut. ‘Then they must really be in deep do-do.’ She glanced down at her bag and then up at Paul. ‘Sweetie?’

  Paul lifted the brown leather holdall.

  ‘Isla Galbraith,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She murdered her husband.’

  ‘The cop-killer? Not interested.’

  ‘I think you will be. He’s not dead.’

  ‘A living murder victim?’ Her tone was patronising in the extreme. ‘Sounds like you have the makings of a pretty good defence. You will let me know how it goes won’t you?’

  ‘It’s true. I saw him with my own eyes. Three days ago. He’s alive and well and paddling a canoe though the salt marshes of mid-western France.’

  She put a hand on each of my shoulders and looked into my eyes. ‘Robbie. If you’re trying for an insanity defence I can tell you the State Prison is never lovely. Not even at this time of the year.’

  I relieved Paul of the Q.C.’s big leather bag and threw it into a corner of the room. I put an arm around Fiona’s shoulders and despite her protests led her through the security door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as we stepped out onto the top landing.

  I pointed down through the stairwell to the ground floor where Hugh Ogilvie and Cameron Crowe were standing in line waiting to buy a cup of coffee from the charity stall by the front door.

  I saw the door open and Andy come rushing into the downstairs lobby. There was a smir of rain in the air and he was holding the yellow plastic folder over his head as an umbrella.

  ‘You’re not really wanting to talk to the Crown are you?’ Fiona said. ‘You can’t possibly expect any favours from Cameron Crowe. He’s a despicable shit and, trust me, he didn’t come all this way to see you walk away from this.’

  I thought back to a hot afternoon in the Vendée. No matter how great or small, beautiful or ugly, good or bad, we all play our part in la cascade de vie.

  ‘Fiona,’ I asked ‘Have you ever heard of the Twin-Fish?’

  CHAPTER 54

  Oh, it’s you,’ Hugh Ogilvie said, unenthusiastically, when, clutching the yellow plastic folder, I approached him as he waited in line for a cup of the bitter brew the court charity-volunteers dished out. ‘Did you really want to speak to me? I thought it was just an excuse for a coffee break.’

  ‘Yes, I want to talk. But not to you and not here.’ I turned to face Crowe. ‘You ever tried the stuff they serve here? How about a decent cup over the road? I’m buying.’

  Ogilvie checked his watch.

  ‘We’ve got until eleven,’ I told Crowe, ‘and the Sheriff won’t care if we’re late so long as we get something sorted.’

&n
bsp; He stared at me. Cool, impassive, merciless, cat to mouse.

  ‘You want to discuss a plea,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Do it here, not at Alessandro’s.’

  I’d never heard anyone actually call Sandy’s café by its proper name. He would have been pleased.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said to Ogilvie, ‘this is between me and Mr Crowe.’

  ‘And me,’ said Fiona.

  Ogilvie gave us both a look of sheer hatred. ‘Mr Crowe has nothing to talk to either of you about. This is my case—’

  Crowe tugged at the shoulder of Ogilvie’s black court gown. ‘Let’s go.’

  Hugh Ogilvie was a man who could take an order. You didn’t become District P.F. by being a ‘no’ man. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ he said with a horribly artificial laugh, as we pushed our way through the smokers who were milling around outside the main entrance, and, squeezing past the punters he followed the three of us out of the front door.

  At the café we came across Sandy stacking chairs. He’d bought a job lot of them, some tables too, metal ones, and put them out on the pavement so customers could enjoy the good weather and have continental-style elevenses. Judging by the gathering clouds he’d wasted his money.

  ‘Quick as you like, Alessandro,’ I said as the three of us trooped past him into the café. ‘We’ve got to be back in court by eleven.’

  The café wasn’t as busy as usual, probably due to the lack of summary trials on at the Sheriff Court which meant there were fewer witnesses and lawyers taking advantage of the break in proceedings. D.I. Dougie Fleming and a young Detective Constable, no doubt learning at the feet of the master, were already ensconced at a corner table along with the expert witness from the Bank. Ogilvie entered giving Fleming a wave. The only other person I recognised was the old guy sitting at his usual place by the window, staring over the rim of a mug of milky tea. He fixed his sights on Fiona and nipped her bottom as she walked in. She yelped.

  Sandy smiled. ‘What a character, eh?’ He pulled out some chairs from an empty table in the centre of the room. ‘You’ll have to excuse him.’ He pointed a finger at his head and twirled it meaningfully. Fiona gave her assailant a glare but, unperturbed, the old guy returned a pair of rubbery lips to his mug of tea, slurped and turned his attention once more to the world outside the window.

  Sandy produced a notepad and took an order for four coffees. Presumably on the basis of my earlier promise to pay, Ogilvie requested an Empire biscuit to go with his.

  ‘I hope you don’t think that a little chat over a coffee is going to save you,’ Crowe said as we waited for our drinks to arrive. He pinged the screwed-up remains of an empty sugar sachet across the table at Fiona. ‘Or that she is.’

  Crowe had a face that I could never tire of hitting. Few things would have given me as much pleasure as to drag him from his chair, take him outside and give him a tanking but I had to remain calm, collected and remember that everyone and everything – no matter how evil - served a purpose. Crowe was about to serve his - he just didn’t know it yet.

  Sandy came over with our order. According to the brushed aluminium clock on the wall above the door it was twenty to eleven. Time to make my move.

  ‘I should be flattered,’ I said to Crowe, burning my lip on a scalding-hot Caffé Americano, ‘that you should come through to Linlithgow especially for my case when you have a murder calling in Glasgow.’

  ‘Your client, that is your ex-client, is pleading guilty. I’m letting young Miss Meadows do the necessary. Even though there’s only one sentencing option open to the court once the plea has been recorded, they’ll still have to put the case off for a few weeks for background reports. Don’t worry,’ he sneered, ‘I’ll be in there at the end – for the kill. Meanwhile, I thought I’d like to be in at the death of your career.’ He drank some coffee. ‘So if you’ve any begging to do let’s get it out of the way.’

  I paid no heed to the grin that Ogilvie was failing to hide behind his iced-biscuit. ‘I’ve not come to beg. I’ve come to negotiate. You see although I need your help, you don’t know it yet, but you need mine.’

  Fiona gave me an I-hope-you-know-what-you’re-doing look.

  ‘And for what reason would I possibly need your help?’ Crowe was enjoying himself.

  ‘To stop you playing a lead role in possibly the biggest ever blunder in the Scottish justice system and - let’s be quite frank – there have been some real stonkers.’

  Crowe snorted in disbelief. I hadn’t had time to fill Fiona in on the details. She didn’t know where I was going or what evidence I had, but she stepped up to the mark like a champ.

  ‘Cameron. I really think you should listen to what Robbie has to say. For your own good if no-one else’s,’ she said, her earnest face and solemn tone of voice just perfect. Sincerity – once you can fake that you’ve got it made in criminal defence.

  Suddenly, Crowe didn’t appear so smug.

  ‘Isla Galbraith is going to plead guilty to a murder she didn’t commit,’ I told him.

  The smile restored itself to Crowe cadaverous features. ‘Then pray tell me – who did kill her husband?’

  ‘No-one,’ I said. ‘He’s not dead.’

  Crowe pushed his half-finished coffee cup away and stood up, glaring down at Ogilvie. ‘Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.’

  ‘And I can prove it,’ I said.

  I removed the prized-possession from inside my jacket and laid it down on the table between us like it was a tablet of stone and not a yellow plastic folder. Crowe reached for it but I slammed my hand down on top, knocking the table and spilling some of Ogilvie’s coffee into the saucer where he’d rested his biscuit.

  I locked my eyes on Crowe’s. ‘I’m giving you two options. Option one: you tell me to go away, we return to court for my trial and Isla Galbraith pleads guilty to murder. Tomorrow, I may or may not still be practising law, but I will be witness to the fact that I have seen Callum Galbraith alive and as recently as last Friday afternoon, proof of which I will give to the Scottish Criminal Case Review Commission with my detailed affidavit as to how I tried to tell you of the terrible mistake you were about to make and how you refused to listen.’ I caught my breath and took another sip of coffee. ‘Once the newspapers and media have finished with you, you won’t be able to get his job.’ I jerked a thumb at Ogilvie.

  ‘What do you mean by that? I’m a District P.F.,’ Ogilvie spluttered, spraying the table with crumbs.

  I ignored him. ‘Option two: you send Ogilvie back across the road to desert my case simpliciter and this stuff,’ I lifted my hand from the plastic folder, ‘is all yours and you ride to the rescue of Isla Galbraith and more importantly for you, your own career ambitions.’ I looked at the clock. It was ten to eleven. ‘My trial is due to start in ten minutes. Isla Galbraith will be tendering her guilty plea at noon. It’s not too late.’

  Ogilvie raised himself to his feet and stood beside Crowe, a good head and shoulders shorter. He looked up at him. ‘Don’t listen. It’s a trick.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Crowe snorted, but his eyes flicked down at the yellow plastic folder.

  I opened it and pulled out the various documents with the exception of the newspaper: The Scotsman that Callum Galbraith had been carrying.

  ‘It’s Friday’s newspaper,’ I said, in answer to his unasked question. ‘Have Forensics dip that in a bucket of DFO and you’ll find Callum Galbraith’s fingerprints all over it. Trust me. He was a cop. His dabs will be on record. The Scottish Criminal Records Office will have a whale of a time. Remember the Shirley McKie farce? If the SCRO can find a cop’s fingerprints when they aren’t there, they’ll surely be able to find them when they are.’

  CHAPTER 55

  Fiona Faye could have shown my brother a thing or two about fast-driving. In her bright red BMW M3 convertible, complete with matching leather trim, we made it in less than half an hour from the car park of Linlithgow Sheriff Court to the Saltmarket, Glasgow, where Cameron Crowe and I were
dropped off in the turning circle outside the entrance to the High Court of Justiciary. Some photographers and a TV crew had gathered in front of the big glass revolving door, no doubt, tipped-off well in advance that my ex-client would be pleading guilty. The law against reporting pre-trial proceedings was strict but once a guilty plea had been entered it was open season for the press. The tabloids had dubbed my last husband-killer, Mags MacGillivray, ‘The Scotch-Broth Killer’. What nickname they’d dreamt up for Isla, no-one would ever know.

  Inside the building I let Crowe sprint ahead of me, the yellow plastic folder filed safely in his briefcase. I had no fear he’d destroy the evidence. He might be a spiteful git but Crowe’s only concern was his career. With a little work he would turn the botched murder investigation into his own personal victory. Heads would undoubtedly roll - but not his.

  I remained in the foyer at the foot of the marble staircase and didn’t have to wait long. First person through the double doors at the top leading from the North and South courts was a solicitor from the Public Defenders Solicitors Office. It was the same solicitor Isla had been given when she had initially appeared from custody. He was closely followed by Ranald Kincaid Q.C., a tearful Isla Galbraith and her stunned parents. As he reached the foot of the stairs, the Public Defender straightened his tie readying himself to face the gentlemen of the press. Look, the PDSO don’t always plead guilty, they sometimes get people off. He turned to find Isla but she had already noticed me and come over to where I was standing. The PDSO lawyer glanced to the throng of pressmen at the front door, to Isla and back again, not sure what to do. He looked around for senior counsel but Kincaid who had spied me moments before had about turned midway down the stairs and was already making the climb back to the top.

  ‘It was you wasn’t it?’ Isla said. ‘What does it mean – deserted pro loco …?’

  ‘Pro loco et tempore,’ I said. ‘Literally, the case has been deserted in this place and at this time.’

  It was the best deal I could wring out of Cameron Crowe. He wouldn’t drop the charge completely, not until he’d had the newspaper examined for fingerprints. If he wanted any more there was a small house in the Vendée that was full of them.