Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1)

by William H. S. McIntyre

  ‘Our friend?’

  Deek smiled. ‘In the boot.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s…’

  Deek’s smile widened, baring a set of yellow teeth.

  ‘Naw,’ he said. ‘Very much not.’

  ‘And the box of forged-fifties? Why dump them on me?’

  ‘You know what Jake’s like.’

  ‘Spiteful, vindictive, little—’

  ‘I’ll pass on your regards.’ Deek moved me to one side and stepped onto the pavement

  Andy returned at that moment with my coffee. Deek jumped into the motor that was parked nearby, engine running and drove off. Further up the High Street I saw the unmistakable figure of my father, arm in arm with a female companion and holding an umbrella over her head as they walked along. I took the coffee from Andy and holding the plastic lid in place with the palm of my hand, dashed across the road and caught up with my old man and his female companion as they were approaching the Cross, making a bee-line for Sandy’s.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Robbie, I’d like you to meet Doctor Prentice.’

  ‘Diane,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘Your dad’s told me so much about you.’

  He’s kept pretty quiet about you, I thought, taking her hand, but, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ was all I was allowed to say before the old man took over again.

  ‘Diane and I were just going to have a coffee and talk about a charity quiz-night for the friends of St Michael’s.’

  Doctor Prentice was mid-to-late fifties and trim with it. Definitely a lot more fun for my dad to chat to about charity-do’s than Vince the goggle-eyed beer barrel.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Just wanted a word. I’ll not keep you long.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ my dad said, once we’d reached the café and the good doctor had withdrawn discreetly to the little girls’ room.

  ‘I need help.’

  ‘I’ve been saying that for years.’

  He put a hand on my face and pushed my head sideways to get a better look at my split lip and the bump on my temple, supplied by Dexy Doyle and Isla Galbraith respectively. ‘What bother are you in now? One of your misunderstood clients do this to you?’

  I removed his hand from my face. ‘I need you to make a call – to the police.’

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He gave me an evil grin. ‘Grassing on a client. Different story when you’re the victim, eh?’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to be quick? The sooner you do what I ask, the quicker you and the lovely doctor can chat charity quizzes over a vanilla latte.’

  The old man stuck out his lower lip and blew air upwards through his moustache. ‘All right then. Let’s have it.’

  ‘I want you to put out an A.P.B.’

  ‘They only do those on the telly.’

  ‘Well you know what I mean. There’s a green Jag, private number plate, on its way to Glasgow. Have it stopped and searched. ‘

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. And no-one, I mean no-one, is to know where you got the information – understood?’

  ‘This had better be good.’

  A well-known Glasgow face with a shoe-box stuffed with forged notes and a dead body in the boot? I had reason to believe that in police circles that would definitely be described as ‘good’.

  ‘Oh it is,’ I said. ‘Someone’s definitely going to owe you one on the strength of this collar.’

  My dad was interested now. ‘So this Jag? Where is it?’

  ‘As we speak? Heading west on the M9, I’d guess.’

  ‘Then onto the M876 - Central Scotland turf. By the time I make the call and get a unit sent out it will be onto the A80. That’s Strathclyde.’

  ‘The door to the loos opened and out came Dr Diane Prentice, hair brushed, nose powdered, looking fresh and raring to discuss charity events. My dad smiled and waved to her. He looked at me and shook his head.

  ‘I wait ten years for you to rat on one of your scummy clients and when you do I have to hand it to the Weegies.’

  ‘Never mind, Dad,’ I said. ‘Think of it as your contribution to inter-force relations.’

  CHAPTER 60

  It had been quite a week and it was only Wednesday. I decided to go home, rest and try to weave my frayed nerves into some kind of pattern. In fact, as my diary was a desert for the rest of the day, I toyed with the idea of spending the afternoon with my feet up in the company of a middle-aged bottle of Highland Park.

  I finished my coffee and dropped the paper cup into a bin by a bus stop. A whole afternoon off? There was so much to do at the office. The time I’d spent out and about on Isla Galbraith’s case meant that I desperately needed to scale the mountain range of paperwork that was waiting for me. Then again, it would all still be there in the morning. What was one measly afternoon? The wave of adrenalin that had rushed through me during my run-in with Dexy Doyle had ebbed. I felt tired and drained. The brutal demise of Romeo, the memory of my own near death experience had all taken their toll. I needed some time off. I hadn’t had a holiday since I’d opened the doors of Munro & Co. for business more than a year ago. I took a giant step across a puddle and almost made it to the other side. Why stop at a couple of days, I thought as I squelched along the pavement; why not a whole week? France would be nice. Great food, plenty to see and no such thing as a bad cup of coffee. I could ask Zoë to come with me. No pretence of a business trip this time. I had a vision of the two of us strolling hand in hand along the banks of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower stencilled on a Parisian sunset. Paris: the city of love.

  I suddenly realised I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since Malky’s pizza the night before. I still had my dad’s pancake girdle, there was flour and eggs in the cupboard and a block of cheese in the fridge; the culinary possibilities were endless.

  Back home, the first thing I saw was a spider squatting on the hall carpet. The brute was absolutely huge; super-sized, courtesy of global warming and driven indoors by the wet weather. I was going to stand on it when again I had a flash-back to my lecture from Twin-Fish Eddie on how every creature had a reason to exist, a place in la cascade de vie - even truly hideous creatures like Cameron Crowe. Maybe this spider would catch a fly that otherwise would land on my food and make me ill. Were spiders so bad? They were undeniably creepy, but everyone, everything, served a purpose. I stepped over it. If it kept out of my way, I’d keep out of its.

  The next thing I noticed was the phone in the hall lying off the cradle. No wonder I couldn’t get through to Malky. As I replaced the receiver, the mobile phone in my pocket vibrated. It was the office. ‘Zoë?’

  ‘No, it’s me,’ Grace-Mary said. I’m just calling to make sure you’re okay.’

  I took a look at my swollen top lip in the hall mirror. ‘I’m fine. I’m home for lunch. I think I might take the rest of the day off.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Never felt better. Check my diary, would you? Let me know if there’s a quiet week coming up when I can take a holiday. Make sure there’s nothing on in court that Andy can’t handle.’

  ‘Holiday? Why don’t you go for a lie down?’ Grace-Mary sounded concerned.

  I walked into the livingroom and collapsed onto the sofa. Now that Dexy Doyle was gone, would Malky stay in Scotland? I knew what my dad would want - what did I want? I’d hated him for going off with Cathleen and yet it couldn’t have been entirely my brother’s fault; she’d had a say in the matter too. It still surprised me how little I cared about Cathleen’s death. Was it because I’d been mourning her these past three years? Long enough. If I was finally over her, surely, I could find it in myself to forgive Malky. He was my brother. Preferable in small doses it was true, but I was beginning to realise how much I had missed him during his self-imposed exile.

  I heard noises coming from my bedroom. Malky must have gone back to his kip. My kip. If he was planning on staying around there was no need for him to be dossing
at my place any longer. I sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Robbie? Are you still there?’ But I could hardly hear Grace-Mary for the sound of creaking bed-springs and giggling. I lifted myself a fraction and pulled from under me a blouse. A white one. It took me a moment or two to focus on it, to realise what it was and link it to the squeals of delight and frantic fumblings coming from my bedroom.

  ‘Grace-Mary,’ I asked, fearing the answer, ‘is Zoë there?’

  ‘No, she’s not back from lunch yet.’

  My Parisian dream dived off the Pont Neuf and belly-flopped into the murky waters of the Seine.

  I put the phone down. Slowly, I rose to my feet again. The noise from the next room stopped; suddenly. A whisper, then Malky’s voice. ‘Robbie? Is that you?’

  Grace-Mary’s voice, thin and distant, called to me from the arm of the couch. ‘Robbie? Are you there?’

  I cancelled the call. Not sure what to do, I went through to the kitchen. My dad’s cast-iron pancake girdle was sitting on the hob. I was no longer hungry. Malky came rushing in wearing nothing but a pair of his big comfortable Y-fronts, face flushed, hair a mess.

  We all have a temper, Mr Munro. Any one of us can react badly, violently, if sufficiently provoked – even you.

  You bet, Mrs Clegg.

  I lifted the girdle, feeling the weight of it. Malky reached out and tried to touch my swollen lip. I pulled away.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Dexy Doyle.’

  ‘Are you all right? Where is he?’

  ‘I’m fine. And he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Gone.’

  When the police found Dexy Doyle in possession of a stack of snide fifties and a stiff jammed inside the boot of his car, it would be quite some time before he saw the light of day again – if ever. Houdini couldn’t get him out on bail on those kinds of charges.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ Malky opened a kitchen drawer and removed a wad of notes. ‘Guess who stopped by to settle his debt?’

  Jake Turpie - I couldn’t believe it. Given the inconvenient events of the previous night, I’d assumed he’d consider us quits over Malky’s photo-shoot fee.

  Malky flicked through the notes like a deck of cards; twenties, each, so far as I could see, with its very own serial number. He threw the money onto the kitchen worktop by my side and, smiling widely, came forward, arms out to hug me. Then he spied the girdle held loosely by my side and took a step back.

  I marched past him, shoving him out of my way. ‘I’m going back to work.’

  ‘Come on, Robbie,’ he said, flashing me his famous boyish grin. ‘Don’t be like that. I’ll be moving out soon. The girl – it’s only a bit of fun. I’m forever grateful to you, really I am.’

  ‘Then promise me something,’ I said.

  ‘Anything.’

  I flung the pancake girdle clanging and clattering onto the hob. ‘Promise me that when I come back tonight you’ll be long gone.’

  And with that, I left him standing there, wearing his big stupid grin and his big stupid underpants, walked along the hall to the front door, crushing a big stupid spider on the way.

  On the pavement I stopped to gather my thoughts, take a few deep breaths. The heavens had opened and it was chucking it down.

  ‘Robbie!’ Zoë’s voice, from across the road. She looked both ways and came over to where I was standing. Beneath her raincoat, I could just make out a strip of pink satin.

  ‘Zoë?’ I just about managed to croak.

  ‘I just got back from lunch and Grace-Mary asked me to come check on you. She said you were sounding funny on the phone.’

  Behind me the front door to my flat opened and onto the pavement came the waitress from the Rose Club, official bearer of Malky’s mackerel salad, struggling into an official Linlithgow Rose maroon anorak. She smoothed out the creases in her cotton, not satin, blouse and zipped up.

  ‘But I see you’re doing fine.’ Zoë turned, ready to walk away.

  I caught her by the arm.

  The waitress walked by with barely a glance at me, an unrepentant smirk on her lipstick-smudged mouth.

  Malky appeared at the door, shirt open, belt on his trousers unbuckled, bare feet. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Veronica,’ he called after her.

  The waitress gave him a farewell wave and set off at a trot down the High Street.

  I put an arm around Zoë.

  ‘Robbie… are you okay?’

  ‘Zoë,’ I said. ‘I was wondering…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why don’t we go out sometime?’

  ‘Just the two of us? No Andy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Work-related?’

  I shook my head. ‘A date.’

  ‘When.’

  ‘Are you busy tonight? We could go for meal.’

  She laughed. ‘Only if you promise not to get arrested.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Where will we go?’ she asked, as we walked back to the office.

  ‘Anywhere you like,’ I said. ‘You choose.’

  ‘Anywhere?’

  I patted the wad of cash I had slipped from the kitchen unit into my trouser pocket, looked Zoë in the eye and smiled. ‘No, not anywhere: somewhere expensive.’

  * * * * *

  MORE IN THE BEST DEFENCE SERIES

  #2 DUTY MAN

  Justice is blind - which is handy because sometimes you need to pull a fast one.

  Continuing the trials of Scots defence lawyer, Robbie Munro.

  Local lawyer Max Abercrombie is gunned down in cold blood, and the historic town of Linlithgow is rocked by its first assassination in five hundred years. Robbie, Max's childhood friend, is duty-bound to act in the accused's defence, and when investigations reveal a link between his friend's murder and that of a High Court judge many years before, he wonders if his client might actually be an innocent man.

  The more Robbie digs into the past, the closer he gets to the truth and the more the bodies pile up.

  #3 SHARP PRACTICE

  A good criminal lawyer seeks after the truth.

  A great criminal lawyer makes sure the jury doesn’t hear it.

  Scotland's favourite criminal defence lawyer, Robbie Munro, is back and under pressure to find a missing child, defend a murdering drug-dealer and save the career of a child-pornography-possessing local doctor.

  Add to that the antics of his badly-behaving ex-cop dad, the re-kindling of an old flame and a run-in with Scotland's Justice Secretary and you'll discover why it is that, sometimes, a lawyer has to resort to Sharp Practice.

  #4 KILLER CONTRACT

  It’s 99% of lawyers that give the other 1% a bad name.

  It’s the trial of the millennium: Larry Kirkslap, Scotland’s most flamboyant entrepreneur, charged with the murder of good-time gal Violet Hepburn. He needs a lawyer and there’s only one man for the job – unfortunately it’s not Robbie Munro. That’s about to change; however, more pressing is the contract out on the lives of Robbie and his client, Danny Boyd, who is awaiting trial for violating a sepulchre.

  Who would anyone want to kill Robbie and his teenage client?

  While Robbie tries to work things out, there are a couple of domestic issues that also need his urgent attention, like his father’s surprise birthday party and the small matter of a marriage proposal.

  #5 CRIME FICTION

  There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn’t true!

  Desperate for cash, Robbie finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit spun by master conman Victor Devlin. What is Devlin’s connection with the case of two St Andrew’s students charged with the murder of a local waitress?

  Enter Suzie Lake, a former-university chum of Robbie, now bestselling crime fiction author, who regards Robbie as her muse. Lois has writer’s block and turns to Robbie for inspiration. She’s especially interested in the St Andrew’s murder and wants some inside information. How can Robbie refuse the advances of t
he gorgeous Suzie, even if they threaten to scupper his pending nuptials? And yet, the more Robbie reveals to her, the more he finds himself in a murky world of bribery, corruption and crime fiction publishing.

  #6 LAST WILL

  Blood is thicker than water - but it's not as hard as cash.

  The trial of Robbie Munro's life; one month to prove he's fit to be a father.

  No problem.

  Apart, that is, from the small matter of a double-murder in which Robbie's landlord, Jake Turpie, is implicated. Psycho-Jake demands Robbie's undivided attention and is prepared to throw money at the defence - along with some decidedly dodgy evidence.

  Robbie has a choice, look after his daughter or look after his client. Can the two be combined to give the best of both worlds? Robbie aims to find out, and his attempts lead him into the alien worlds of high-fashion, drug-dealing and civil-litigation.

  It's what being a father/lawyer is all about. Isn't it?

  #7 PRESENT TENSE

  Some people said Billy Paris’s time in the military had left him clinically depressed, others that he had a personality disorder. Personally, I’d always thought him the kind of client who’d stick a blade in you for the price of a pint. Friday afternoon he was in my office with a cardboard box. The box said Famous Grouse. I didn’t hear the clink of whisky bottles as he thudded it onto my desk.