‘And then Jerry came to his senses.’ Greg climbed out of the couch and disappeared into the kitchen area, returning with another bottle already cracked open and emptying fast.
‘Greg’s right,’ Tony said. ‘He broke things off with Cherry and he and Maddy got engaged.’
Greg took his seat on the couch again, legs akimbo, the halves of his dressing gown threatening to part. He leaned forward, one hand on top of the other, both resting on the beer bottle. ‘If Maddy and Jerry were murdered, we’d like you to tell us who did it.’ To my relief he leaned back and closed his legs.
‘Join the queue,’ I said.
‘I don’t suppose that sort of information comes cheap,’ Tony said. ‘What’ll it take?’
Here was a man I could get to like very quickly. The trouble was, he was willing to buy and I had nothing to sell. I could tell them what I knew, which wouldn’t take long, charge a smallish fee for my troubles, and go home – or make something up. If it was good enough for Night News…
‘Robbie doesn’t know,’ Joanna said, before my creative juices were fully flowing. ‘Cherry Lovell stupidly assumed that because Billy was his client he’d have told Robbie everything.’ She laughed. ‘Clients seldom tell their lawyer everything, which is usually just as well.’
Tony and Greg were clearly disappointed at the news. They glanced awkwardly at each other, not sure what to say.
I looked around my luxurious surroundings and knew exactly my next move. It was the week before Christmas and twelve days since my main revenue stream had been cut off. My daughter was seven hundred miles away and I was in a five-star hotel in the company of the lovely Joanna and two has-been, but very wealthy, popstars.
‘Joanna’s quite correct,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a definitive answer for you. What I do have is one extremely plausible theory. If you’re interested, that is.’ They were. ‘Then make yourself comfortable. This is a story that will take me some time to tell.’
33
‘It was completely shameless.’ Joanna pressed her foot on the accelerator and the Mercedes sped along the eastbound carriageway of the M90 motorway. Monday morning and the re-trial of HMA -v- Keith Howie had been transferred to Edinburgh in the hope there’d be fewer flu-infested jurors there.
It hadn’t been easy, but on pain of death-by-secretary, I had persuaded Joanna to fly out for the Alps on Wednesday with her family and friends. That morning she was dropping me off at the High Court before heading for Livingston where she’d deal with any new legally-aided custody clients the cells might have received over the weekend. First of all, Joanna wanted to meet with the client and advise him of the change-over.
‘I didn’t hear you complaining when you were being wrapped in seaweed and force-fed canapés and chilled glasses of Veuve Clicquot,’ I said.
‘That’s because you wouldn’t have heard anything over the sound of your own voice spouting a lot of nonsense about a helicopter crash you know practically sod all about.’
That was unfair. I’d known enough for an excellent dinner and overnight stay at a top-class hotel. It had been great to live the life of a superstar, even that of a couple of burnt-out ones, if only for the night. Greg and Tony were good company and no expense, nor geriatric single-malt, had been spared.
Sunday morning I awoke to find fresh underwear, shaving kit and toiletries, all provided by the hotel, as well as my linen suit, dry-cleaned, lightly pressed and smelling wonderful.
‘Greg and Tony seemed quite interested in what I had to tell them,’ I said.
My client being dead, I’d felt unfettered by confidentiality issues and, although I’d been unable to say categorically how their friends had met their end, what I could tell them was that I had it on good authority, if Billy Paris could be described as such, that the helicopter had indeed been sabotaged. I had also been able to reveal that prior to his untimely death my client had proclaimed he’d had proof of the saboteur’s identity, missing out the part about him supposedly having given that evidence to me. From there on I’d explained Cherry Lovell’s view of things, and then speculated on a few more ideas that sprang to mind. Assisted as they had been by a bottle of red wine and several whiskies, it was true to say that my theories had grown wilder as the night wore on; however, while they may have not been wholly, or even nearly, accurate, the Glass brothers had found them entertaining enough to pick up the tab.
‘How much whisky did you have to drink, by the way?’ Joanna eased us off the M90, through a long uphill bend and onto the City Bypass.
‘A good meal like that deserves a few digestifs,’ I said, ‘and however much I had to drink, your hero Greg had a lot more.’
My words caused the needle on the speedometer to continue north. It was a shame. Joanna had been so excited about meeting her girlhood crush, only to discover that he was now a bald porker with a drink problem and an unnatural amount of excess body-gas. I was really pleased.
‘Go on, admit it. You had a good time. And that seaweed’s worked wonders.’
Joanna couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.
‘By the way, good job in talking the legal aid board into granting sanction for senior counsel,’ I said, changing subject to the matter at hand, namely, Keith Howie’s rape trial. Junior counsel Brian Hazelwood had sadly, if very fortunately, fallen victim of the lurgy and somehow Joanna had persuaded the bean-counters at SLAB that the procedural problems occasioned by the collapse of the first trial, and the lack of counsel due to the flu epidemic, meant that only a QC could adequately step into the breach and defend the accused at such short notice.
‘I have my uses,’ she said. ‘But do you really think Fiona is the best choice for a case like this?’
The best choice? Of course Fiona Faye was the best choice. She was always the best choice. ‘Trust me,’ I said, ‘we’re in for some proper cross-examination now. If there’s anyone who can tear a hole in the Crown case and pull your client out, it’s the Princess Fi-Fi.’
‘The case is hopeless, Robbie.’ Fiona Faye was the best advert for feminism I could think of. She was intelligent, witty, superb at her job, and prepared to allow men like me to carry her bag if they were daft enough to offer.
Counsel’s library was up three extremely long flights of stairs. We had stopped halfway so I could catch my breath.
‘I’ll grant you, it’s challenging,’ I said, ‘but hopeless?’
‘Robbie. Me scaling Everest in my bra and knickers – that’s challenging. Your client’s defence is flying to the moon in a paper aeroplane.’
My own much lighter briefcase in one hand, I heaved Fiona’s semi-suitcase, stuffed full of goodness knows what, onto my shoulder to save my aching arm.
‘I take it you weren’t one of the feminists who complained about Pyxie Girl and ruined my daughter’s Christmas,’ I said, hoping she’d take the hint and perhaps offer to carry my briefcase the rest of the way. She didn’t.
On the subject of Pyxie Girl, Fiona had heard me before. Many times before. ‘Don’t start blaming women for that,’ she said, leading the way. ‘If you ask me, it was a load of confused, right-on men who did all the complaining, trying to impress a bunch of women who couldn’t give a toss. Now, is there any chance you could shut up about dolls and talk to me about this case you’ve landed me with? It’s not that I’m not hugely grateful for instructions in yet another rape, but I’m not.’
One of the problems with being both counsel and a female was that you tended to receive instructions in a lot of sex cases. This was partly due to a school of thought that believed if a jury saw a woman acting for a male accused, they would think he must be innocent because surely a woman would never represent a man she thought guilty of such a heinous crime? I didn’t think jurors were so stupid. I instructed Fiona because I thought she was the best.
‘What I’d give for a murder or even a robbery,’ she said. ‘Anything that doesn’t involve me asking questions about people’s genitalia for once.’
‘I’ll see what I can drum up,’ I managed to gasp. ‘However, coming back to this case, there really isn’t that much to it.’
‘Least said soonest mended, eh?’
‘Yes... Apart from when you tear strips off the complainer.’
Fiona grimaced. ‘I’m not sure strip-tearing is all that wise in the present climate, Robbie. Could impact on sentence.’
I thought it appropriate to mention that I’d been thinking along the lines that, with some robust questioning and a dash of luck, there might be an acquittal and no sentence that need be impacted upon.
‘Have you read the brief?’ Fiona asked, when we’d reached the top of the stairs and I’d put down our respective baggage in order to open the door for her.
I confirmed I had.
‘And you’re still optimistic? What do you know that I don’t? And please don’t tell me you’ve come up with one of your surprisingly clever lines of defence.’
There was only one defence I could think of. ‘If our client didn’t rape the girl, then she must have had sex with someone else.’
Fiona stopped in the doorway to the library and clapped her hands. ‘Brilliant, Robbie. Honestly, I don’t know why you haven’t taken silk.’
‘Let me finish,’ I said. ‘She’d been out at a party before she came to our client’s home.’
‘Yes, and according to your client, in his very helpful interview with the police, she seemed fine. By the way, how come you let the accused shoot his mouth off to the cops? I’ve never seen such a long statement.’ I knew what she meant. I couldn’t shut the guy up. When they transcribed Howie’s statement they’d probably had to skip some of the punctuation in order to save a few trees. ‘Whatever happened to the Munro & Co. sacred oath of omertà?’
Inside the library a few fellow advocates were dotted around an enormous dining table upon which were scattered the daily newspapers. They looked up from what they were reading, briefs or the sports pages, to acknowledge Fiona’s arrival.
‘Some of the witnesses say that they think she’d been drinking,’ I said.
‘So what? Her mum and dad are away, she’s a young girl who went to a party.’
‘She’s sixteen.’
‘Is that the best you can come up with? Underage drinking? That’s going to rock the world of an Edinburgh jury. A sixteen-year-old girl has a couple of alco-pops of a Saturday night? The little minx.’
‘She’s a Mormon. She’s not supposed to drink.’
‘So she has to repent. It doesn’t give anyone the right to rape her.’
‘What I’m suggesting is that she’s been drinking, and, because she’s not used to it, she’s got drunk, had her way with someone at the party, regretted it in the morning—’
‘And pinned the blame on dear old Uncle Keith?’ Fiona sat down at the table and flicked open a Daily Mail. ‘Did that come straight out of this year’s Robbie Munro’s Dodgy Defences Christmas Annual? Can you not give me something I can actually use? Tell you what. Why don’t you go back to your man and see if he can come up with something slightly more credible — like an alien abduction. If I have to pull the trigger, I’m going to need some ammunition. Don’t have me standing there firing blanks.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Well, at least you and him have got another day to think about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry, I meant to tell you before you came all the way up here. The clerk called first thing. Lady Bothkennar’s not well, poor soul. The case isn’t calling today. Mind you, were your client to change his plea, I could have him called this morning in front of Lord Tait. You know his views on rape: woman with skirt up, run faster than man with trousers down. Your client wouldn’t be looking at any more than a quick six, out in four. Maybe a five if the judge’s team won at the weekend.’ She looked across at an older advocate in a nicotine-stained wig. ‘Did it, Fraser?’ The older counsel shook his yellow wig. ‘Still, we could try for a five. The girl wasn’t injured, was she?’
‘He’s not pleading,’ I said.
‘You sure? You know who is prosecuting, don’t you?’ Fiona bit her top lip to show her front teeth.
‘Not Cameron Crowe?’
‘Just our luck, eh?’
Nosferatu in pinstripes. I should have known the undead wouldn’t come down with the flu like the rest of the population.
Fiona groaned. ‘I wish people would stop calling it flu. Anyone who’s able to say “I’ve got the flu,” hasn’t got the flu. The flu’s like the Glasgow Bar Association’s annual dinner. If you can remember it, you weren’t there. I should know. I had the real thing last year. Went to bed and never saw daylight for a week.’
‘Are we talking about the flu or the GBA dinner?’
‘Funny, Robbie. All I’m saying is that what’s doing the rounds at the moment is just a nasty cold-bug, a forty-eight-hour thing, maybe seventy-two if you’re a child,’ she turned the page of her newspaper, ‘or a man.’
With the trial not proceeding, I could have phoned Joanna and Grace-Mary to let them know I’d become unexpectedly free, but they’d only have found work for me to do.
‘What’s your sudden interest in this rape anyway?’ Fiona asked, putting the Daily Mail down and moving to her left physically and politically to pick up the Guardian. ‘I thought this was Joanna’s case?’
‘It’s complicated,’ I said.
‘It’s not that complicated, Robbie. I mean we’re not talking Father’s Day in Falkirk. If you ask me, he did it and now it’s all about damage limitation.’
‘I’m not talking about the case being complicated. I’m talking about Joanna and me.’
Fiona lowered the newspaper and raised an eyebrow. ‘Complicated? In what way? Have you and Miss Jordan finally…’
‘Fiona, is there something wrong with your eye?’
‘I’m winking,’ she said, ‘I’m just not very good at it. These eyelashes don’t help.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the stuff you have to glue them on with, it’s—’
‘No, why are you winking?’
‘Come off it, Robbie. You and Joanna? Everyone can tell…’ She looked around the table, on the circumference of which sat four highly disinterested advocates. ‘Well, I can tell.’
I sat down next to her. ‘Tell what? There’s nothing to tell. We’re work colleagues. She’s my employee.’
‘Come off it.’ She gave me a nudge. ‘I’ve seen how you look at her.’
‘I’m a man. We all look at Joanna that way. It’s hard not to.’
‘And I’ve seen how she looks at you.’
Yeah, askance, most of the time.’
‘Don’t do yourself down, Robbie. You’ve got a lot to offer a woman.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
Fiona skimmed through the newspaper until she came to the law pages. ‘Well, right now I’d happily accept a coffee. And see if you can’t rustle me up a choccy biscuit.’
34
‘You set me up.’
Kaye was sitting on the floor of her office, surrounded by rolls of brightly-coloured paper, swathes of ribbons, gift tags and glue. Monday was always a slow news day at the Linlithgowshire Journal & Gazette. It was a weekly paper and the deadline wasn’t until Thursday. Plenty of time for the editor to wrap a few Christmas presents. She didn’t bother to look up. ‘It’s always got to be either tears or tiaras with you, hasn’t it, Robbie? Where was the harm in it?’
‘You told me it was a blind date.’
‘I know. I lied. You’re a lawyer. You should be used to people lying to you.’
‘I am, but not my friends, strangely enough.’
‘Well maybe it could have turned into a date if you’d tried a wee bit harder.’
‘Tried harder? I was wearing my best suit.’
‘Good. Glad to hear you’ve got rid of that blue linen thing at last,’ Kaye ripped sticky-tape from a dispenser and stuck the ends of a parcel down, finishing it off with a ready-made gold b
ow.
‘And I took her to an expensive cocktail bar in Edinburgh.’
‘Robbie, sometimes us women don’t want best suits and stuffy old cocktail bars. We want spontaneity, candyfloss, a go on the big wheel, something fun. Edinburgh at Christmas. What could be more romantic?’
‘She thinks Ferris Wheels are death traps and that the Princes Street Christmas Market is tacky.’
Kaye tossed the present onto the completed heap and pulled over a candle in a jar that was next to be smothered in cheery Yuletide paper. ‘Yeah, I can imagine Cherry might be a tough shift. You probably dodged a bullet there, actually.’
‘I want to meet her again.’
Kaye pulled out a length of paper and neatly ran the scissors along it. ‘Not happening.’
‘You can make it happen.’
‘Nope.’
‘You made it happen before.’
‘That was different. I only had to fool you. This time I would have to fool Cherry and that wouldn’t be so easy.’
‘How do you know? Maybe she liked me and is too shy to call.’
Kaye reached for the glue-stick and studied it carefully. ‘Sorry, I thought I must have left the cap off this and you’d been inhaling the vapours.’
‘You owe me,’ I said.
‘No, Robbie. I don’t think I do. On the other hand I did owe Cherry, which is why I lied to you. Now I don’t owe her anymore and you had a nice night out with a pretty girl who got your face on TV. If anything, I’d say you owe me.’
‘Did you watch that nonsense the other night?’ I asked.
‘No, but I heard about it. One of your clients is in the frame for downing the helicopter that’s gone missing with Philip Thorn’s boy on board. Though, when I say missing, I understand it’s been found again.’
The phone on Kaye’s desk rang: her husband wondering what was for tea. She told him he’d have to phone for a pizza because she still had a few loose ends to tie up at the office.
‘Did you say that they’d found Jerry Thorn’s helicopter?’ I asked, after she’d replaced the handset and was busy wrapping again.
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