Relatively Guilty (Best Defence series Book 1) Read online

  ‘Andy’s, as I recall,’ Grace-Mary said, never one to take my side in any argument. ‘You told Jake to blame whatshisface, that big numpty he hangs about with.’

  She was referring to Deek Pudney, Jake Turpie’s gormless but brutal minder.

  ‘A perfectly sound defence,’ I said. Or it had been until the speed-camera photos came in showing a clear picture of a small, bald headed man in oil-stained overalls, and not a six foot six gorilla in a suit and turtle-neck.

  ‘Yeah,’ Andy said, uncertainly and looking to Grace-Mary for support. ‘Challenging the calibration was my idea. Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I relented. ‘We’ll go halfers.’ I slipped the fifty into the top pocket of my jacket that was hooked over the back of my chair. ‘Grace-Mary, give him twenty quid out of petty cash.’

  The two of them opened their mouths in unison. Anything they might have said was drowned out by a roar from reception.

  ‘It’s for you, Robbie!’

  ‘Still hasn’t quite mastered call transfers yet – they're quite tricky,’ I felt compelled to say in mitigation of Zoë’s telephonic failings.

  ‘Who is it?’ I yelled back.

  ‘Your brother!’

  ‘Tell him I’m busy!’

  Grace-Mary didn’t say anything. She just did that thing where she stiffened, pursed her lips and stared out of the window. I had come to recognise it as a sign of major disapproval.

  Andy took a rolled up newspaper from one of the side pockets of his suit jacket. ‘Your brother being prosecuted?’

  I shook my head. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ my secretary frowned. ‘It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone.’ Grace-Mary Gribbin for the defence. Not an everyday occurrence.

  Andy inhaled deeply, blew out his cheeks and released. ‘Not what’s suggested here.’ He turned to the middle pages of his red top.

  ‘I don’t think anyone is particularly interested in what that rag has to say on the subject,’ my secretary said.

  Andy ploughed on regardless. ‘Someone was telling me at court that Robbie’s brother was out cold when they cut him from the wreckage and by the time they got him to hospital he’d lost so much blood already that taking a sample seemed churlish.’ Andy was in danger of getting on the wrong side of Grace-Mary, a place from where many a young lawyer never returned.

  I took the newspaper from my assistant. Malky’s crash had happened early Friday evening and had only now made it onto page fourteen.

  ‘Unfounded rumours.’ Grace-Mary elbowed Andy out of the way and began to re-organise the files on my desk into neat piles. ‘Has he been convicted of anything? No,’ she declared in answer to her own question. She cocked her head and glared at my assistant, daring him to come back at her. Then she looked at me. ‘Are you going to just sit there and let him talk about your brother like that?’

  That was the thing about Malky. People liked him; even battle-axes like Grace-Mary. When he’d gone off with Cathleen, somehow it had all been my fault.

  Working all hours, never there for the girl when she needed you. A woman thrives on attention. No wonder she found comfort elsewhere.

  Zoë came through with a smile that wafted over me like a warm summer breeze. ‘Is Malcolm Munro really your brother, Robbie? Big Malky Munro the footballer? My sister used to have a huge crush on him. There was a gynormous big poster of him on her bedroom wall. Great hair. Don’t you think shorts were a lot tighter back then?’ Zoë stared into space, no doubt calling up the mental image of my brother in his restrictive playing kit.

  ‘I play a bit of football,’ Andy said. ‘Five-a-sides, mainly. Got a hat-trick Sunday night.’

  ‘Robbie used to play,’ Grace-Mary piped up on my behalf. ‘A lot of folk say he could have been just as good as his brother.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Andy asked, a hint of admiration in his voice.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…,’ I replied. ‘I was young. Foolish. I should have stuck in at it instead of frittering away my time getting a law degree.’

  Zoë wasn’t listening. ‘Mr Munro, that is, Malky,’ she giggled, ‘says you’re always busy. I told him he was right about that. Anyway, you’ve to pick him up at your place, half twelve.’ She wagged a finger at me. ‘And no buts.’

  A little box popped up on the monitor to say that the on-line legal aid application had been rejected and I was to contact the administrator; whoever that was. It had been my third attempt.

  I banged the desk with my fist in frustration.

  ‘Don’t get angry with me,’ Zoë said, slapping my hand as she flounced from the room. ‘You’re the boss, do what the hell you like. I’m only here to pass on the messages.

  CHAPTER 4

  Prestonfield Park, home of Linlithgow Rose FC, was situated behind a red brick wall across the road from the cemetery, not far from my old school. Linlithgow Academy: uniform colours black and blue. How fitting.

  As we walked through the car park, a Club Official: grey slacks, white shirt and a wrinkly maroon blazer that matched his face, came out to meet us. He seized a grip of Malky’s hand and the two of them embraced and slapped one another’s backs for a while before we were shown through the main door.

  Sauntering into the lounge bar with Malky Munro leading the way, was like being escorted into Sherwood Forest by Robin Hood. Malky had started off his career at ‘The Rose’ and, after being scouted in his late teens had moved onto greater things with Glasgow Rangers, leaving his home town Club on a firm financial footing.

  Soon we found ourselves at a table in the centre of the room, and, later, as I was presented with an excellent steak pie and chips, people were still coming over to shake Malky’s hand and bask in the glow of his patented boyish grin.

  ‘Dad not joining us?’ I asked, once the tide of autograph hunters and well-wishers was on the ebb, along with my brother’s practised smile.

  He nicked one of my chips, sprinkled salt on it. ‘I’ll drop by to see him later.’

  The old man would like that. He’d never admit to having a favourite, but he’d never asked me to go down the boozer with him so that he could show me off to his mates. Despite Grace-Mary’s attempts to talk up my footballing skills for the benefit of the lovely Zoë, when it came to sports Malky had always been the gifted Munro boy. Malky was a natural. He’d made his name at football but would have excelled at most sports. After his forced retirement from the game he’d taken up golf. I’d been playing for years and was still struggling to break ninety when I took him for a round to try out his new clubs and enlighten him on the etiquette of the game. He shot a scratch twelve over par and I’d wanted to brain him with my sand-wedge.

  Malky leaned back in his chair to allow a beaming waitress, white blouse, maroon skirt, to set a smoked mackerel salad in front of him. It had been his favourite during his playing days and they’d prepared it especially.

  ‘Enjoy, Malky,’ she said, coyly, giving my brother’s chin a little tug and winking at him. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like.’

  ‘Don’t worry…’ Malky read the name badge, ‘Veronica.’ He patted her bottom. ‘I will.’

  It was sickening. The way he could carry on as though nothing had happened. As though Cat’s death was only a minor pot-hole in the Malky Munro highway to happiness.

  ‘The accident,’ I said, once he’d quite finished accosting the serving staff, picked up his knife and fork and prodded his food once or twice. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  He leaned across the table towards me. ‘Of course I do. Why do you think I’ve come back to this dump? Why do you think we’re having lunch?’

  That more or less ruled out any, I’ve-come-back-to-beg-your-forgiveness-for-stealing-your-girl-and-then-killing-her, theory I might have been formulating.

  ‘I need your help,’ Malky said. ‘There are a few things I haven’t told you.’

  He’d already given me his account o
f Cat’s death. That had been hard enough for me to hear. I started in on my steak pie. The soggy underside of the crust, the bit I liked the best, brought back images of a creamy layer of adipose tissue punctured here and there by the end of a Phillips screwdriver. I tried not to think about it and, fortified by a slug of house red, told Malky to start at the beginning.

  He took my biggest chip, broke it in two, popped it all in his mouth and chewed slowly for a moment. ‘You know how me and Cat moved down south a couple of years ago—?’

  ‘Not that near the beginning. Fast-forward a bit.’

  He reached for another of my chips but I fended him off with a jab of my fork.

  ‘The day of the accident we met in Brighton for lunch. I’d moved there from London after we separated.’

  ‘Separated?’

  ‘Aye, about six months ago. It started out as a trial separation and was a success - at least I thought so. Cat was busy all hours at the hospital and my job takes up a lot of my time. I’m a sports pundit on local radio. It’s hard work but I quite enjoy it.’

  Hard work? Talking rot on a football phone-in? That wasn’t work. Work was engaging in bitter battle with Sheriffs like Albert Brechin who thought the presumption of innocence was a malicious rumour put about by defence agents.

  ‘When we separated, I’d left a lot of loose ends; just moved out really and left it at that.’ Sounded chaotic, irresponsible, very Malky. ‘Cat was always going on about tying things up properly, kept phoning me. Last Friday, she insisted we meet up to finalise division of our joint finances over lunch.’ Sounded sensible, civilised, very Cathleen. ‘There wasn't that much to discuss. Once everything was agreed and I was about to leave, Cat got all upset. She’d had some wine and I didn’t want to send her home by herself. I’d only had a couple of beers so I offered to drive.’ Malky flaked some mackerel with his fork and balanced a chunk on a piece of crusty bread.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, pleased to see he'd directed his attention back to his own plate and wondering when he’d come to the point.

  ‘The weather had been fine all day, then we came out of the restaurant and it was total stair-rods. On the way back to her place, I took a corner and woke up in hospital. All I had was a bump on my head and a cut arm. There was a lot of blood, but, after the doctors had stitched me up, I was good as new and walked out of hospital the next day.’ Malky set down his fork. ‘Cat never regained consciousness.’ He took a bite of bread and smoked fish. ‘I have absolutely no memory of what happened – none at all,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘I don’t know if it was my fault, if I was driving too fast…’ He swallowed. ‘Or,’ he continued, ‘could have been a blow-out, faulty brakes or something. The crash investigators haven’t ruled out mechanical defect as a cause.’

  Having experienced Malky’s driving on many occasions, my money was on the driving too fast theory.

  ‘And you never thought of letting me and Dad know?’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I never thought. Must have been the bump to the head. I got out of hospital Saturday afternoon and the doctors said I just needed to rest for a few days. It was only when the funny phone calls started that I put two and two together and knew I should come and see you - so here I am.’ He stole another chip and dipped it into my steak pie.

  ‘So why do you need my help?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He wants me dead.’

  ‘Who?’

  Malky bit the gravy end off the chip. ‘Dexy Doyle.’

  ‘Stop exaggerating.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are. Cathleen despised her father. They hardly spoke.’

  ‘I’ve just told you – I’ve had phone calls. Threats.’

  ‘Hoaxes.’

  ‘Pretty convincing then.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I reminded him. ‘Dexy might be upset and looking for someone to blame; it’s only natural, but that’s a far cry from trying bump you off. He’ll come to see reason. Time is the great healer.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ Malky slammed down his fork, banging the table and upsetting my bottle of brown sauce. A few people looked over, saw it was Malky and smiled. ‘Robbie, the man’s had folk knee-capped for spilling his Guinness,’ he hissed. ‘What do you think he’ll do to the person who killed his daughter?’

  My brother did have a point. Dexy Doyle had swapped West Belfast for the east end of Glasgow back in the eighties and his empire of pubs and clubs had not been built on the basis of a benevolent disposition or forgiving nature. His actual Christian name was Dechlan. ‘Dexy’ was a nickname earned as leader of a gang that became known as the Midnight Runners because of the late night raids that, in those early empire-building days, had encouraged rival publicans to sell up and run away while their kneecaps were still operational.

  ‘You’ll just have to lie low for a while. Let things cool down a bit,’ I told him.

  ‘Cool down? He isn’t going to cool down. This is Dexy Doyle we’re talking about.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I reminded him yet again. ‘He’ll understand that - eventually. Until then, keep out of his way. It’s not like you move in the same circles.’ I forked in another mouthful of steak pie. ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Cat’s is tomorrow; family only. I’m trying to delay mine.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He laughed: I didn’t. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t funny. I just don’t know what to do. You’ve got to help me, Robbie.’

  He seemed so relaxed about Cathleen’s death. I’d only lived with her a few weeks. Malky and Cathleen had spent over two years together. Then again, my brother’s primary interest had always been for number one. Even coming to see me for help; you’d think he’d be too embarrassed. Not Malky. It was so simple to him. He was in trouble and now I was expected to drop everything and come to the rescue. The thought that I might be annoyed with him, or even enjoying his paranoid ramblings after what he’d done to me, would have never entered his head. After all he was the great Malky Munro. Didn’t everyone want what was best for him?

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Speak to Dexy. Tell him it wasn’t my fault. That the car hit black ice or something.’

  ‘In June? Why don’t you just go back to Brighton and get lost for a while? You’ve managed to do that okay for the last three years.’

  Malky stretched out a hand across the table, dipping a shirt sleeve in his cole-slaw. He grabbed one of my wrists; the one attached to the hand holding another forkful of steak pie. ‘It’s not that easy. I’m recognisable. People know me. Dexy’s boys would find me in two seconds.’

  I pulled my hand away, put the food in my mouth and chewed slowly. I was trying not to enjoy it; watching him squirm.

  ‘Come on Robbie,’ he said, reaching over the table again and taking a firm hold on both my wrists so that my fork and knife pointed upwards, unable to get at my plate. ‘We’re brothers. I know you took it hard when Cat left you,’ (interesting choice of words) ‘but this is my life we’re talking about. Dexy likes you. He respects you. You got his brother off with that fraud charge. The Doyles owe you big time. If you could just speak to him, tell him my side of the story—’

  ‘Make something up you mean?’

  He let go of my wrists, deftly nicking one of my chips as his hands retreated across to his side of the table. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, and after a day in court spent banging my head against the brick wall of the criminal justice system, the last entry in my diary was a meeting with Isla Galbraith, whose husband I’d left lying on a mortuary slab the previous Friday afternoon. Isla was pretty and shy and her voice carried the sing-song lilt of the Western Isles. In physique she reminded me of Zoë, which is to say: five feet five and around the nine-stone mark. Unlike Zoë, her hair was long and blonde, held at the back in a clasp, and the two women obviously didn’t share the same taste in clothes; my client eschewing sexy, satin blouses for handmade summer frocks or extreme
knitwear. Other differences included the ring, still on the fourth finger of Isla’s left hand, and the beautifully-crafted silver charm bracelet on her right wrist.

  I tried not to get emotionally attached to my clients, especially those charged with murder - they often disappeared for long stretches - that said, I couldn’t help liking Isla. Even though she wasn’t a private fee-payer, which is what I tended to look for most in a client, I especially liked the reason she had chosen me to act in her defence.

  ‘I spoke to some people from the Federation,’ she’d told me at our initial interview at Cornton Vale women’s prison, where she’d spent a seven-day-lie-down before being fully committed for trial and released on bail. ‘They’d always helped out with legal matters in the past,’ she’d said, rather sweetly surprised that the Scottish Police Federation hadn’t wanted to finance the defence of the person charged with murdering one of its members. ‘But they were horrible. Eventually I begged them just to give me the name of a good lawyer and I heard one of them say, ‘anyone but Robbie bloody Munro.’

  That advice had more or less clinched it for Isla and by instructing me she’d shown, I felt, a degree of faith that would be needed for the ordeal ahead.

  ‘Do you think I should plead guilty?’ she asked, the words almost whispered.

  ‘Not to murder,’ I told her for the umpteenth time. ‘My job is to persuade the Crown to take a plea to culpable homicide.’

  That would pose something of a problem initially, but I was sure the prosecution would see things my way, once I’d apprised them of all the facts. Isla’s husband had been a violent man. She'd suffered frequently at his hands. On the night of his death, Callum Galbraith had come home late. They’d argued, he’d hit her and gone to bed. As regards what happened later, while her husband was asleep, Isla had been more than helpful with the police during a taped interview at which her then legal representative, a lawyer from the Public Defender Solicitors Office, had allowed her free rein to get it all off her chest. The brave new face of the Scottish legal system: accused persons investigated by the Government, prosecuted by the Government and defended by the Government; usually shortly before being locked up by the Government. To be fair, something I tried not to be where the numpties at the P.D.S.O. were concerned, even before Isla’s confession there was already a wealth of other incriminatory evidence, ranging from blood-stained clothing to possession of the murder weapon, complete with finger-prints, to a distinct absence of any other suspects. When I took over the case I quickly realised self-defence was a non-starter and that the only route to take was one of damage limitation.