Duty Man (Best Defence series Book 2) Read online

  He glanced over his shoulder at Frankie who nodded reluctantly. Jo-Jo mirror, signalled and manoeuvred in slow motion and pulled into the side of the road.

  I seized the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. ‘Is the child lock on?’

  ‘Naw, Mr Munro,’ Jo-Jo said. ‘It’s just a wee bit stiff. You’ll need to give it a dunt.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Frankie.

  He got out of his side of the car, came around and yanked open the door.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said as I went to walk away.

  Frankie grabbed my arm. ‘Robbie…’

  I pulled away. ‘No.’

  He took my arm again. ‘I know Max Abercrombie was a friend of yours and I know how you must feel.’

  ‘No, Frankie, I don’t think you do.’

  ‘The boy’s innocent.’

  He seemed awfully sure about that.

  Frankie put an arm around my shoulders. ‘Meet him. Hear what he’s got to say for himself. After that, if you still don’t want to take the case, I’m gone. I’ll not say another word. Promise.’

  I shrugged him off. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie, I can’t. But, believe me, there are plenty other lawyers out there who will jump at the chance.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Fifteen quid to wear someone else’s shoes, put your fingers into holes where a million unwashed digits had gone before, all in an effort to knock over some skittles that would only stand themselves up again. It was my dad’s idea. He was trying to help, I knew that, but the last thing I felt like was a fun night out.

  I picked up three pints from the bar, placed them on a tray beside three packets of crisps and beat a path through the crowd, the soles of the blue and white bowling shoes sticking to the green nylon carpet each step of the way. At our lane I set out the drinks on a Formica ledge that ran along the top of the velour bench seats.

  ‘Here you are boys,’ I shouted, trying to make myself heard above Steelers Wheel and ‘Stuck in the Middle with You.’ If they played ‘Chirpy-Chirpy, Cheep-Cheep’ one more time I was going to cause a scene.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Vince, a wee barrel of a man and my dad’s best mate. Clad in an arbitrary assortment of clothes, he looked like he’d jumped through a wardrobe with glue on his body. He finished typing our names into the computer then picked up one of the pint tumblers and peered at it through a pair of thick lenses. ‘I’ve such a drouth on, I’ll not swallow any. My tongue will just soak it up.’

  I did what I could to dispel that particular mental image and raised a glass of ale to my lips; harshly fizzy with a faint hint of washing-up liquid.

  ‘ALEX’, flashed up on the overhead scoreboard.

  My dad tore open a packet of crisps and looked inside. ‘Crisps – a bloody expensive way of eating a tattie.’

  ‘All set, Dad?’ I asked, taking another mouthful of bowling-alley beer. ‘Think you’re up to it?’

  He put down the crisps, raised his bulk and the springs in the bench on which his broad frame had been resting sighed with relief. My dad was the largest man in the place. He was the largest man most places. Early-sixties, he still had a decent amount of hair although much of it lay along his top lip. He selected a bright blue bowling ball, the heaviest available, polished the top with the cuff of his shirt sleeve and then, with took two quick strides, launched the blue sphere at the ten white pins. It had scarcely left his hand than there were skittles flying everywhere. A big red digital X flashed up on the overhead scoreboard. My dad brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from the shoulder of his shirt. ‘We did say a fiver a game, didn’t we?’ He slapped Vince on the back, almost knocking him over. ‘Come on wee man, you’re up. Let’s see you murder them.’

  Murder. That word again. I didn’t want the Kelly case, and no-one could blame me. Max was my friend. I closed my eyes and saw a pistol, fire erupting from the barrel, bullets pumping into Max’s body. I opened my eyes quickly. I didn’t want to think about it. Not that it was easy to think at all over the sound of laughter, tumbling skittles, trundling bowling bowls and seventies pop music. When I lifted the pint glass to my lips, my hand was shaking. I had to try and relax, put Max’s murder out of my mind.

  Vince man strode up to the mark. Though the wee man didn’t have the power of his pal and the ball seemed to take an age to reach the skittles, he obviously knew what he was doing, scattering nine pins with his first shot and going back to pick off the straggler with a well-aimed second.

  ‘Well done, Vince,’ I said, and he shrugged with all the modesty he could muster.

  My dad bit into a crisp, screwed up his face and glowered accusingly at the packet. ‘Cheese and onion? In a blue packet?’ He examined the small print on the back, presumably on the basis that there was some kind of breach of the Advertising Standards Code going on.

  My turn. I hadn’t bowled since birthday parties as a boy when there used to be inflatable bumpers down the side-gutters. I jammed my fingers into the holes and, hoping they’d come out again, took a few tottering steps, summoned up all my strength and chucked the ball down the lane. It arced through the air for several feet, landed with a thud, bounced, rolled and clipped the rearmost skittle on the left hand side. Only nine to go.

  ‘Taking out the hard one first? Good idea,’ Vince said. ‘By the way, is that what they call the bouncing bomb technique?’ I could hear my dad, who had obviously recovered from his crisp-induced shock, chuckling in the background. I ignored the two of them and retrieved the same ball again as it fell from the conveyor belt. Taking a moment to gather myself, I tried to focus on the remaining pins. Skittles - how difficult could it be? I ran, skidded to a halt and released. This time the ball bounced twice and rolled into the right-hand gutter. I returned to the seats where Vince had removed his specs and was contorting his arthritic fingers into goggles while humming the theme from the Dam Busters.

  My dad put an arm around me and squeezed tight. ‘The boy’s toying with us Vince. It’s kind of him really: not wanting to show up a pair of geriatrics.’ He gave me another squeeze. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get him riled.’

  After the game we repaired to the adjacent Sports Bar, though going by the number of beer bellies in evidence the place didn’t seem to attract many athletes. There was a free table between the big screen video jukebox and a bunch of eejits playing pool. Not far away, a man old enough to know better was blasting space aliens with what looked like a fluorescent green .44 Magnum. I tried not to think about guns or Max and instead forced myself to listen to Vince prattle on. He was over the moon at breaking a hundred and couldn’t resist having another dig.

  ‘Forty-two, Robbie? Well done. Maybe we should have got you riled. Who knows? You might have pulled out all the stops and scored forty-three.’ He laughed so hard his glasses jiggled and threatened to fall off.

  My dad put down his pint and wiped the froth from his moustache. ‘Give the lad a break, Vince. It’s not about winning or losing...’ He took another drink of his beer. ‘But that’s a tenner the two of you owe me.’

  ‘That’ll be right,’ I scoffed. ‘You’ve drunk your winnings. Do you know the price of a pint in here?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Ach, it’s enough just to know that I’m better than you at something.’

  I gave his moustache a pull. ‘That’s it. Next time we play? I use my good arm.’

  Later, we jumped a taxi back to my dad’s. On the way we dropped Vince off at his local where he had high hopes of catching last orders, so it was just the two of us.

  My old man’s house was small and neat and tidy, in a National Service sort of a way. I pulled up a chair by the fireside, stretched out and watched Billy the budgie head-butt his mirror and make the little bell ring. The bird had never spoken a word in its life and there was a standing joke that I had advised it of its right to remain silent.

  I could hear my dad in the kitchen, rummaging in cupboards for drink and knew it would be whisky, but not the good stuff. The old boy was still smart
ing from Christmas when I made a Whisky Mac out of a 16-year-old Lagavulin. The thought of adulterating his precious Islay single malt with ice and a splash of Crabbie’s green ginger had been almost too much for him to bear.

  ‘And don’t try to fob me off with any firewater,’ I shouted through to him. ‘I know there’s an eighteen-year-old Bruichladdich hidden away somewhere. Your birthday wasn’t that long ago.’

  He came back with two glasses, a bottle of blended and a small jug of water. He poured us each a dram and raised his glass. ‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us?’

  ‘Damn few and they’re all deid,’ I replied, in time-honoured fashion.

  We talked a little, but sat mainly in silence and it was only once he’d recharged our glasses that my dad raised the subject we’d skirted all evening. ‘Poor Max – it’s a terrible business.’ The old man yawned. It was well past his bed time. ‘I remember when he used to call round for you every morning before school – you were never ready. He was a good boy and grew into a fine man. Did the legal work when I sold up and bought this place. No fuss. Just did the business. A proper lawyer doing proper legal work.’ It wasn’t meant as a dig, I’m sure, but in my fragile state I felt it nonetheless.

  ‘Someone told me you were acting for the boy charged with killing him.’ My dad, formerly Sergeant Alex Munro, one of Lothian & Borders’ finest, had eyes and ears everywhere. I tried to butt in and put him right but he steamed on. ‘I just told them it was your job. A professional. That’s what you are. Max was your friend but you can’t let that get in the way. Doesn’t matter what people are saying—’

  ‘What are people saying?’

  ‘Ignore them. You have to be dispassionate, detached, do your duty.’ He was doing his best but I knew he didn’t mean a word of it. I felt tears well up. Had to be the whisky; stirring my emotions. Usually it had the opposite effect. A few drams and I was ready to strap on a claymore and head for the Border.

  ‘Everyone needs to be defended in court. Especially on a charge like murder,’ my dad chuntered on. ‘I’m proud of you. There’s not many people would have the sense of professional and moral courage to do what you’re doing.’

  I looked up at him through eyes swimming with tears. ‘Dad,’ I croaked. ‘I’m not acting for him. I just can’t do it.’

  My dad took my tumbler, topped-up my drink once more and handed it back to me.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, clinking glasses. ‘Here’s hoping the wee bastard swings.’

  CHAPTER 9

  On the way to the office next morning I dropped into Sandy’s for a much needed black coffee, all the while keeping a weather eye out for my irate landlord. Two of the stylists from Jay Deez Hair Salon were having breakfast. Soon, they’d return to their world of blow dries, perms and hot oil treatments. One of them, Butch Baillie, I knew from my visits to the salon. He was a big cherubic-faced man wearing a cap-sleeve T-shirt, his bare arms white and flabby. The other I’d seen only a couple of times before, a skinny wee thing, hair tied in bunches, biting chunks out of a fried-egg roll and letting the molten gold trickle down the back of her hand and onto the paper napkin tucked into the neck of her pink T-shirt.

  I called over to them. ‘All right Butch? How’s the new girl shaping up?’

  Fittingly for a man in his line of work Butch owned a great deal of hair. He wore it long and was constantly brushing wisps of it out of his face. ‘Nikki’s got her first tint at eleven.’ He elbowed his young colleague in the ribs. ‘It’ll be the highlight of the day.’ The girl in the pink T-shirt giggled, almost choking on her bite of roll.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ I asked.

  A few weeks previously, Jacqui Dillon, the proprietor of Jay Deez had been caught three times in the space of half an hour by the same speed camera. She’d left home for work, realised she’d forgotten something, gone back for whatever it was, then set off for work again. She’d never noticed the white van at the side of the road, the one with the wee hatch in the back door through which she was being photographed by a speed camera. Nine penalty points to go along with the three already on her licence would have meant a totting-up disqualification and I’d received a distress call from her, horrified at the thought of having to put her cerise BMW Z4 in mothballs for the next six months.

  The offices of the Procurator Fiscal closed at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon. I’d popped in around three fifty-five, cornered one of Hugh Ogilvie’s deputes and put it to her that Jacqui’s three indiscretions had all been part of the same course of driving and in terms of section 27(4) of the Road Traffic Offenders Act 1988 it wouldn’t be competent to impose three sets of three penalty points consecutively. Andy had even dug up a case about it: Green –v- O’Donnell from nineteen ninety-seven, which might have been required if the depute hadn’t been in such a hurry to be off and running. By three fifty-nine I’d sealed the deal that eventually saw Jacqui plead to one speeding charge resulting in three penalty points and a sixty pound fine. My finances being what they were, now was the time to squeeze out a small fee.

  Using first one hand and then the other, Butch flicked back his hair, swinging his head from side to side as though he were in a hairspray ad. ‘Haven’t seen Her Majesty since we loused on Friday. She should have phoned if she wasn’t coming in - at least that’s the rules for the rest of us - but, hey, she’s the boss.’

  Sandy came from through the back, white towel draped over one shoulder, and leaned on the counter. I could tell by the expression on his face that the matter of my outstanding tab had reached crisis point.

  I ordered a coffee and took out my mobile.

  ‘Does that thing run on batteries or gas cylinders?’ Butch’s young companion squeaked.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Butch held up a slim metallic-pink mobile that put my clunky phone to shame. ‘Mine’s is bust. I’ve got Jacqui’s. You looking for an appointment?’

  I wondered. Why not? I needed a trim and I could raise the small matter of my fee while Jacqui cut my hair.

  ‘Why don’t you swing by tomorrow afternoon?’

  Sandy poured me a coffee, muttering something about people being able to find money for hair-do’s and drummed his fingers impatiently on the countertop.

  Butch asked. ‘Two o’clock sound okay?’

  Two o’clock sounded just fine.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ripping through the morning mail there was no sign of a legal aid payment sheet.

  Grace-Mary came in and thumped a pile of files on my desk before walking out again. Each of the files related to an upcoming trial for which the intermediate diet would be calling in court the following day. I would be expected to be ready by then to advise the Sheriff on the state of my clients’ defence preparations.

  I opened one or two of the files and skimmed through stacks of witness statements and copy productions. The Procurator Fiscal was bound by law to disclose the prosecution case but liked to wait until the last minute to do so. I now had to sift through it all and identify any procedural issues that required attention: challenges to admissibility, potential special defences, attacks on character, uncontroversial evidence and so on.

  There was plenty there to keep me and my assistant busy for most of the day. Come to think of it, where was Andy? There was me paying him Law Society recommended rates, or very nearly, and yet he never materialised before nine each morning and come five o’clock you could practically see the small tornado of dust twisting over his chair as he battered out of the door.

  At that precise moment I heard footsteps in the hall and went through to reception just in time to see my assistant traipsing in. ‘What time do you call this?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit late’ he said, sipping from a tall paper cup. ‘Sandy’s was chockers.’

  He sat down and put his feet up on his desk. I knocked them off.

  ‘Robbie’s feeling a bit rough this morning,’ Grace-Mary told Andy. ‘I think he had a wee drink last night,’ she added, conspiratorially,
though she was standing only a few feet away from me. ‘Here.’ She presented me with some more prosecution statements hot from the printer. ‘It’s all right. At times like these you need to unwind a wee bit.’ Her face was strangely contorted and it slowly dawned on me that she was smiling. I wasn’t used to sympathy from my secretary.

  Andy snorted. ‘A hangover. No wonder he’s so crabbit.’

  I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly. ‘Crabbit?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Grace-Mary said, kindly, ‘but it’s nothing to worry about - you’re always crabbit. As for you,’ she turned on Andy. ‘Never mind sitting there giving cheek to boss, there’s a heap of filing needing done.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ Andy whined at me. ‘I’m a trainee solicitor not some sec—’

  Grace-Mary’s adopted a more natural frown.

  My assistant rolled his eyes and blew out in frustration. He lifted the wire basket brimming with letters and attendance notes that sat on my secretary’s desk, next to the out-of-date photo of her grand-daughter. These days Tracy Gribbin was a Goth: two-tone make-up, multiple body-piercings and more chains than the public lavvies. I could understand why my secretary preferred the wee girl in the picture, all ringlets and curls and hand-knitted jumper.

  As Andy walked past, I picked out a slip of yellow paper from the basket.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A telephone attendance note,’ replied Grace-Mary, not looking up from her typing.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I can see that. The words, ‘Telephone Memo’ at the top sort of give it away.’ I read the note aloud. ‘Chic Kelly phoned?’

  Grace-Mary nodded. ‘Well not him, the social worker at Glenochil phoned on his behalf.’

  I yawned. My earlier caffeine boost was wearing off. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wants a visit and you’re due in court in half an hour.’

  ‘Maybe the prison won’t provide quilted bog roll and he feels his human rights have been breached,’ Andy said, retrieving the note and dropping it back into the wire basket.