Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2) Read online

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Jake from the middle of the road.

  Deek let go my arm.

  ‘What you doing?’ asked the young apprentice, still holding my left wrist.

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘What d’ye mean?’

  Deek elaborated. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘But…’

  Deek grabbed his young colleague by the collar and pulled him aside. The boy had kept a grip of my arm and I stumbled after them. ‘D’ye know who that is?’ By his gormless expression the youngster didn’t. Deek enlightened him. ‘Frankie McPhee - that’s who.’

  Frankie smoothed the rough edge off a fingernail.

  The big lad looked from Frankie back to Deek then over to the van where his boss was beginning to lose it. ‘But what about Jake?’

  There were cars queuing up in the road behind the van. Jake reached in through the driver’s window and hammered on the horn.

  Deek let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Jake who?’

  The young man had the look of a Jesuit being preached heresy. His grip on me slackened.

  ‘You pair, get him over here now!’ Jake exploded at his mutinous helpers.

  Deek didn’t even glance in his boss’s direction. Instead, he spoke to the young man whose hold on me was now so weak that I could easily have broken free. He talked slowly and quietly as though explaining to a two-year-old child that poking one’s sticky little fingers through the bars of the electric fire wasn’t such a good idea. ‘Trust me on this, son. Just take a walk.’

  Frankie held the café door open for me. The hand on my left arm fell away.

  ‘Catch you later!’ I called over to Jake. Much later I hoped.

  CHAPTER 4

  We sat down at a corner table. Sandy arrived tossing a damp cloth from one hand to the other and took our order before disappearing through the back to perform whatever arcane rites conjured up the best bacon rolls and coffee in town.

  I looked Frankie up and down and didn’t let myself be taken in by the dark suit, freshly-ironed white shirt and sombre tie, not even by the big leather Bible that protruded from his jacket pocket. Perhaps prison did work, but for the likes of Frankie McPhee? I doubted it. Still, I was happy enough to see my former client. Not only had he saved me, momentarily a least, from the wrath of Jake, but back in the good old, bad old days, before he’d been, as the tabloids put it, caged, Frankie had been a main tributary of my revenue stream. Whenever one of his boys was huckled I got the call, and the very fact that I was Frankie McPhee’s brief was a magnet that attracted a lot of high-quality, low-life business; however, the feature that endeared Frankie most to my heart was his habit of paying fees in cash. The man shed brown envelopes like an oak tree dropped acorns in autumn and part of me, the part that worried about the overdraft and angry landlords, hoped the rumours of his rehabilitation were exaggerated.

  We made small talk until Sandy returned to set before us two mugs of coffee and a plate of rolls. Andy would have to wait for his. I hadn’t eaten since hearing the news about Max and my teeth were itching to sink into a bacon roll. Sandy handed me the bill and his lips tightened into a charade of a smile. I knew what was coming.

  ‘And how will you be paying?’

  I was disappointed in him: embarrassing me this way. We had an understanding: I ran up a tab and... well… actually that was about it. I was mentally dusting down the legal aid cheque story when Frankie took the bill from my hand and put it in his top pocket.

  ‘I’ll be paying - with cash – when we’re finished.’

  Sandy opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Something about Frankie hadn’t changed - he never had a lot to say but when he spoke people generally listened.

  ‘What brings you to the Royal Burgh?’ I asked, after the café owner had sounded his retreat.

  ‘Do you remember Chic Kelly?’

  Chic Kelly: another man I hadn’t heard of in a while. I had acted for him on a few occasions long time past and with limited success as I recalled. Chic was someone who enjoyed the good things in life - it was just unfortunate they always seemed to belong to other people. As a housebreaker, it had to be said, he’d been a real class act. He could break into a property faster than most people could break open a packet of fags and was as quiet as a snake in slippers. The only trouble was he kept getting nicked. One minute he’d pull off an audacious break-in, the next he’d get huckled in the pub or the bookies spending the loot. But it was not because of his undoubted talent for burglary that Chic Kelly would be remembered.

  ‘Got done for killing that judge a few years back,’ Frankie said. ‘Remember?’

  Of course I did. Who didn’t? Though it had been much more than a few years ago that Lord James Hewitt of Muthill, the then Lord Justice-Clerk, had been blown away in the drawing room of his Perthshire mansion. A reward of twenty-five thousand pounds had been put up by the Justice Minister for information leading to the conviction of the killer, but the SOCOs hadn’t got all the judicial brain-matter out of the Axminster, before Chic Kelly had been nabbed trying to sell the murder weapon: the judge’s antique shotgun, covered in his fingerprints and liberally sprayed with judicial blood. Chic eventually confessed to the crime and soon the new Lord Justice Clerk was waving him off on a life sentence with no hope of parole this side of the grave.

  ‘There was some mention of it in legal circles,’ I conceded.

  ‘Well,’ Frankie said, ‘his boy is up for murder too.’

  ‘Like father like son?’

  ‘More than you think.’

  ‘I don’t recall any High Court judges being bumped-off recently,’ I said, unable to resist drawing up a mental wish list of candidates.

  Frankie shook his head. ‘Not a judge. A solicitor.’

  I didn’t like the way the conversation was headed. ‘You mean Max Abercrombie?’

  Frankie nodded. ‘Chic’s an old pal and I know the boy’s mum from way back. I was talking to her the other day and said I’d look out for him.’

  ‘Nice of you.’

  ‘He needs a lawyer.’

  ‘Hope he finds one – a bad one.’

  I got up from my seat. Frankie tugged at my arm. ‘Sit. Hear me out.’

  ‘Sandy!’

  The cafe-owner came out from behind the counter and over to our table, keeping a wary eye on Frankie. I handed him my mug of coffee. ‘Put that in a paper cup will you? I’ve got to go.’

  Sandy looked down at the untouched plate of rolls. ‘You want these in a bag?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Linlithgow Sheriff Court, I’d miss the old building when it closed later in the year. Outside the entrance door a plaque was fixed to the wall in remembrance of James Stuart, first Earl of Moray, illegitimate son of King James V, half-brother of Mary Queen of Scots, shot dead as he rode down Linlithgow High Street one bright morning in 1570: the first ever recorded assassination by use of a firearm.

  As far as I knew, no-one else had been shot dead in Linlithgow since; that is until Max Abercrombie was gunned down in his office just a few hundred yards from that historical locus.

  The rain was lashing down as, using my gown as an umbrella, I ran into the court, past the crones who lurked inside the main door, huddled around an urn, touting hot drinks in the name of charity. In the new place I suspected they’d be replaced by a vending machine inflicting even more villainous brews upon the general public.

  My plan that morning was to deal with the few routine cases I had as quickly as possible, then leave and not even think about the man who sat in a cell outside Court 2 awaiting service of a murder Petition. I expected his case would call after the rest of the weekend custodies, including my new foreign friend, had been processed. I had no intention of sticking around that long.

  At the top of the staircase I was met by the court’s security system: a door with a number lock, the code for which any court official was happy to divulge, presumably o
n the basis that terrorists intent on sabotage of the criminal justice system wouldn’t be cunning enough to dress smartly or carry a black gown.

  I pressed the little silver buttons and walked past the shrieval chambers into the agents’ library, a large square room with a long table, some chairs, some out-of-date text books and some even more out-of-date lawyers. I hung up my coat. The cold reception was nothing unusual. Linlithgow’s motto: ‘Be Kind To Strangers’ didn’t seem to apply to me as the majority of the local Criminal Bar had not taken kindly to my arriving in their midst a year or so previously. To them I’d always be unwanted competition; an increase in the number of defence agents chasing a decreasing number of Legal Aid certificates.

  I had emptied my bag of files before anyone spoke.

  ‘Robbie!’ Lorna Wylie, the only female in the otherwise male-dominated criminal bar, was a sign-them-up-plead-them-out kind of a girl. ‘How are you?’ She came over and gave me a hug. ‘I heard about Max. Didn’t expect to see you today.’ She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Her sympathy was delivered with all the sincerity of an undertaker’s get well card. I played along.

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine.’ I put on my gown while Lorna went over to check her reflection in the glass of one of the bookcase doors. Once she’d freshened-up her lippy and run a hand through her hair, she sidled over to me again. I knew the others were listening.

  ‘You’re the duty man and this guy they’ve arrested – Kelly - are you...?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘But it’s definitely not you? You’re not acting?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Actually, that’s wrong,’ said a familiarly annoying voice. I turned to see Hugh Ogilvie, Procurator Fiscal standing in the doorway all teeth, no hair and holding a thin red file of papers. Ogilvie was a career prosecutor. A man on a mission. A man who liked to do things his own way – providing it was all right with his superiors at Crown Office. ‘I’m calling Kelly early. The police think he might gather a crowd and they’ve asked me to bring the case forward. He’ll be going through on Petition, Court two, just as soon as he’s seen a solicitor.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said. ‘There’s a whole roomful here.’

  ‘I’m the alternative duty agent.’ Lorna stepped forward ready, willing, if not particularly able.

  Ogilvie ignored her. ‘He hasn’t named a solicitor which means it’s down to the actual duty agent.’

  The duty agent scheme was set up by the Scottish Legal Aid Board and staffed by local solicitors to provide legal representation for persons in custody who had no access to a lawyer, either because they couldn’t afford one or didn’t know whom to contact. It operated on a weekly rota basis and could be a lot of bother for little reward. The only thing that made it all worthwhile was the occasional opportunity to pick up something juicy amidst all the drink drivers, shop-lifting junkies and wife-beaters. Under normal circumstances I’d have been delighted with a murder.

  ‘Forget it,’ I told him.

  ‘I don’t think you mean that,’ said Ogilvie. ‘I took the liberty of calling SLAB. They said you can’t pick and choose.’ He sniggered. ‘I suppose that’s why it’s called the duty scheme. You’re the duty man this week and, apparently, if you don’t act you’re off the list.’

  I couldn’t afford to come off the duty list. As a newcomer I’d been lucky to squeeze my way on in the first place. Although something of a lottery, the two or three duty weeks allocated to each solicitor per year could be a good source of new business.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, hating myself. ‘But I’m just putting him through; someone else can do the full committal next week.’

  ‘I’ll be duty agent next week,’ Lorna reminded us.

  ‘Then he’s all yours,’ I told her.

  ‘I really don’t care,’ said Ogilvie. ‘Just so long as the scumbag is represented and can’t go whining to the Appeal Court when he gets what’s coming to him.’ He did an about turn. ‘Court Two in ten minutes – be there.’

  CHAPTER 6

  I met briefly with the accused in an interview room adjacent to the cell block. His name was Sean Kelly and he was nineteen years old. That was as much as I wanted to know about the person charged with murdering my friend. I didn’t even want to look at him. I explained briefly what was going to happen and accepted the papers he shoved under the screen at me.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, when I got up to leave.

  I didn’t reply. The only thing the wee shit had to be thankful for was the sheet of Perspex between us.

  I made my way into court. The proceedings would be in private, just myself, the P.F., the Sheriff and Sheriff Clerk would be present along with a couple of court security guards either side of the prisoner and a token cop.

  Any serious charge like murder always started off with a Petition from the Procurator Fiscal requesting that the accused be remanded in custody for a week while the prosecution made further enquiries. After the ‘seven day lie-down’, as it was known, the accused returned to court to be fully committed for trial. Bail was now permitted on a murder charge, thanks to the European Convention of Human Rights; however, if refused, the accused was remanded in custody and the Crown had eighty days in which to serve an indictment and one-hundred and forty to bring the matter to trial in the High Court.

  I’d taken a seat in the well of the court opposite Hugh Ogilvie when the Sheriff came onto the bench. I didn’t recognise him. Some out of town floater brought in to take the case lest there be any accusations of bias.

  Almost immediately the accused was escorted into the dock and once he’d been identified, I rose to my feet.

  ‘Mr Kelly makes no plea or declaration,’ I said.

  At such an early stage in proceedings the accused wasn’t asked to plead guilty or not guilty. The lack of ‘plea’ I was referring to was any legal challenge there might be to the competency or relevancy of the charge set out in the Petition and they didn’t come much more competent or relevant than a murder charge.

  ‘I’m moving to continue for further enquiries M’Lord,’ Ogilvie said.

  ‘Any further motions?’ the Sheriff enquired.

  There was no point in asking for bail. Even if, by some miracle, it was granted, the PF would appeal; meaning my client, I hated to think of him as that, being be locked up in any event, awaiting a decision from the High Court. That would take the best part of a week, so I thought it simpler all round if he did a lie-down and tried for bail at the full committal hearing next week. By then he’d be someone else’s problem; Lorna Wylie’s problem. With her as his lawyer the lad wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  CHAPTER 7

  After court I returned to the office and found, somewhere under the awaiting pile of paperwork, a yellow-sticky from Grace-Mary. I was to return a call to Max. According to the note he’d phoned Friday afternoon, the day he was murdered. Probably to arrange a lunch or more likely to pass me some business. I must have over-looked the message amidst the usual Friday afternoon mayhem; either that or I’d just ignored it. Some friend I was.

  I didn’t go out the rest of the day. Occasionally, Grace-Mary came back and forth with files and telephone messages, but no clients came in and no calls were put through to me. For that whole afternoon my secretary didn’t once bring up the firm’s cash-flow crisis, the faulty central heating or even the leaky cistern in the toilet. She just left me alone, sitting at my desk, staring into space, thinking about Max and how you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

  The rain clouds had cleared and a slice of new moon had risen in a star-sprinkled sky when I left the office that evening. As I started off on my walk home I became aware of a kerb-crawling car; a beat-up crate with patches of rust along the sills and a hoarse sounding exhaust. It stopped at the kerb a few yards ahead of me. The front passenger door opened. Frankie McPhee got out. He opened the b
ack door. ‘Want a hurl?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve not far to go,’ I said, wondering why he was even still in the area.

  ‘I was hoping we could talk.’

  ‘Not if it’s about the same subject as before.’ I started to walk away.

  Frankie stepped in front of me, blocking my path. ‘I don’t want to know any confidential information. Just a quick chat so I can tell the lad’s mum that he’s doing all right. Five minutes of your time. Is that too much to ask?’ He removed his wallet. ‘Call it a consultation. How much do you charge for one-twelfth of an hour?’

  He was persistent, I’d give him that. I climbed into the back of the car and Frankie got in beside me. He leaned forward and slapped the driver on one of his broad shoulders. ‘You know Jo-Jo don’t you, Robbie?’

  I knew him all right. Jo-Jo Johnstone: a good man with a machete.

  The man in the driver’s seat tilted his head back. ‘Hello, Mr Munro.’

  ‘Jo-Jo shared a cell with me at Shotts,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m running a soup kitchen now – giving something back into the community. Jo-Jo’s helping out. I’ve not got him converted yet but let’s say he’s God’s work in progress.’

  Jo-Jo carefully adjusted the rear view mirror, indicated and, after an age, released the handbrake before moving off slowly into traffic. He drove like an old lady. Either that or his banger of a car wouldn’t go any faster.

  ‘First of all I want to say thanks,’ Frankie said. ‘You know for taking on Sean’s case today.’

  ‘I hate to burst your bubble,’ I told him, ‘but I’ve not changed my mind. I had to do his first appearance because I’m duty agent. I’ve done it and next week someone else will be taking over.’

  ‘There’s no need for that. Keep the case and I’ll pay your fee,’ Frankie said. ‘Not legal aid - proper money.’

  We’d already had this conversation. I poked the back of Jo-Jo’s neck. ‘Stop the car.’