Killer Contract (Best Defence series Book 4) Read online

  I smiled professionally. Joanna licked a finger and wipe an imaginary stain from the sleeve of her jacket. Kirkslap made a woeful attempt at a serious expression, holding his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Not that I have a bad word to say about the gays,’ he said. ‘Oh, no. In fact, lesbians star in some of my favourite movies. Them and custard.’ He lowered his broad frame down onto the couch and patted the cushion. Joanna joined him, while I pulled up a leather armchair opposite. ‘The hair was all Candy's idea. Part of my make-over.’ He slapped a hairy hand on the thigh of the red-head and gave it a squeeze. She giggled, lifted a champagne flute to her lips and let a strawberry tumble out into her mouth. Kirkslap looked at Joanna and me in turn. ‘Now what are you two having?’ he asked, extending an arm towards the bar and a barman who was standing between two immense carved-wood, barley-twists either side of a fine array of single malts. Yes, it was only the back of five and I had an important meeting ahead of me, but was it ever the wrong time for an eighteen-year-old Bowmore? Joanna could always drop me off at the train station.

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit, Mr Kirkslap,’ Joanna said. ‘We've got something very important we need to talk to you about.’ She glanced meaningfully at Kirkslap's attractive companion. ‘In private.’

  I was about to explain that while those matters to which my assistant referred were indeed important, they could, nonetheless, be discussed over a glass of something peaty and old enough to vote, when Mike strode into the bar looking a tad flustered. He was clutching his iPad and towing a blonde-haired man behind him.

  ‘Looks like the gang's all here,’ Kirkslap said. He tapped one of Candy's shapely legs, and, taking the hint and the bottle of champagne, she got up and moved over to a table at the curved-glass bay window, overlooking the grounds. ‘Mike, Mr Munro, I think you two know each other—’

  ‘Oh, I know Mr Munro all right,’ Mike said.

  ‘What about you, Zack?’ Kirkslap said. ‘Zack Swarovski meet Robbie Munro and Miss…?’

  ‘Joanna,’ said my assistant. ‘Joanna Jordan.’

  I offered my hand to the blonde-haired man. ‘Swarovski? Like the fake diamonds?’

  ‘No - like the crystals,’ he said. I could tell he was one unhappy American.

  ‘Do I have you to thank for my little hold-up at Queen Street station?’ Mike asked, quick on the uptake.

  I had the sudden urge to stare up at the ornate cornicing and start whistling. I remained impassive.

  ‘Do you know I was detained for nearly an hour?’ he said.

  Joanna came to the rescue. ‘We thought we'd come through and tell Mr Kirkslap our thoughts on how to tackle the retrial.’

  ‘Retrial?’ Kirkslap spluttered. His early good humour evaporated and his complexion rose to that of the strawberry on which he was almost choking. ‘What retrial?’

  I gave him the Reader's Digest version of the earlier conversation with Mike at Linlithgow railway station.

  Kirkslap spat the half-chewed strawberry into the soggy paper napkin that had been wrapped around the neck of the champagne bottle to catch drops of condensation. ‘When’s all this going to happen?’

  ‘Soon,’ I said, ‘and the sooner you put a new defence team together...’ I pointed at Joanna and then myself, in case he required clarification, ‘the better. The mix-up with the jury and the oath gave you a second chance, nothing more. Don't forget they found you guilty. Unless someone can do better next time, your champagne and strawberry days are over.’

  ‘And that's why you're here? You think you can do better than my present lawyer?’

  ‘You don’t have a present lawyer. Andy Imray’s been sacked from Caldwell & Craig,’ I said. ‘He was their criminal defence department, now he’s just another lawyer looking for a job.’

  Mike pitched in. ‘Mr Munro is a sole practitioner. We need a big city firm. We should stick with Caldwell & Craig.’

  Kirkslap didn’t take his eye off me. ‘What do you think Zack?’

  ‘I think Mike's got it right on this one,’ he said.

  Kirkslap shrugged. ‘There's your answer, Mr Munro.’

  ‘Caldwell & Craig?’ I scoffed. ‘with Andy away, they’ll just delegate the case to some other minion. You had them act for you the last time, but in actual fact it was only one man: Andy Imray, a newly-qualified lawyer and a newly-qualified lawyer working in a big city firm is still just a newly-qualified lawyer. You need more experience on your side.’

  ‘And you have that?’ said the blonde-haired man.

  ‘In spades.’ It was an expression I knew Americans used a lot, or did in the movies. ‘And I won't be working alone. Joanna’s an ex-Procurator Fiscal-depute. We can come at this case from all angles. Two heads and all that. We can go one better than the last time.’

  ‘I didn’t do so badly,’ Kirkslap said. ‘I mean – here I am.’

  ‘The only reason you’re not behind bars right now is because of a technicality.’

  ‘A technicality that was exploited by a newly-qualified lawyer. The one from that big city firm.’ Zack the blonde haired man pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, and that newly-qualified lawyer learned everything he knows from me.’ I turned to Mike. ‘Show them.’

  ‘Show them what?’ Mike asked.

  ‘That thing on your iPad. The newspaper report.’

  Mike rolled his eyes, opened the app and flicked to the smoking jury report.

  I took the tablet from him and handed it to Zack. He read the few column centimetres, shrugged non-commitally and handed the device to Kirkslap.

  I pressed on, while he read, a smile growing on his face. ‘I also have access to Scotland’s finest Q.C.’

  ‘And that would be?’ Mike asked.

  Fiona Faye was my first choice for senior in any High Court trial. Big, blonde and brassy, she had the knack of getting alongside the women jurors, and as for the men, they just wanted to lie down and have their tummies tickled by her. Fiona was a pussycat with the jury, but could rip into a careless witness like a sabre-tooth tiger. She was just the woman for this job.

  ‘We already tried to instruct Fiona Faye,’ Mike said. ‘She wasn't available. Her clerk said she was 'clearing her feet,' whatever that means.’ There must have been some serious feet-clearing going on for Fiona to have turned down such a high-profile and highly remunerative case. ‘Miss Faye's clerk suggested Mr Staedtler and, fortunately, he was available.’

  I had no doubt. The one thing you could rely on with Nigel Staedtler was his availability. It was his chief attribute. Rule one when instructing counsel: be wary of the constantly available. Rule two: never listen to the recommendation of an advocate’s clerk. They punted those least instructed, and those least instructed were least instructed for a reason. Take, for example, Nigel Staedtler Q.C.; living proof that while ignorance of the law was no excuse, it wasn’t necessarily an obstacle to a legal career. Staedtler's elevated position at the Bar had more to do with family and educational ties than ability. There were Silks and High Court judges swinging from every branch of the Staedtler family tree, and his educational tie bore the blue and white stripes of Edinburgh Academy.

  ‘Then, my next choice would be Cameron Crowe,’ I said, almost choking on the words. Relations between Crowe and me were usually in a state of flux, ranging somewhere between not very good and open warfare. After several years as a prosecutor, Crowe was once more back in the realms of the righteous, though yet to be raised to the rank of Queens Counsel; something that puzzled him more than it did others.

  ‘The important thing is - is he any good?’ Kirkslap asked.

  ‘If you mean is he ten times better than Nigel Staedtler Q.C. who's currently instructed? Yes, he is good.’ I could also have added that Cameron Crowe was obnoxious, self-important and, on occasion, downright malevolent, in fact, just the man to have on your side in a courtroom battle. ‘If you’re looking for someone to rip a highly circumstantial prosecution case to shreds, which you should be, Cameron Crowe is g
uaranteed to put the fear of death into any forensic scientist the Crown can throw at you.’

  Kirkslap turned his gaze from me to his two colleagues.

  Mike shrugged. ‘It's your call, Larry.’

  ‘I still don’t like it,’ Zack said.

  Kirkslap stood. He took Joanna’s hand and kissed it again.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Zack asked. ‘This is not just about you, Larry. There’s the company to think about.’

  Kirkslap waved to Candy, who tottered over on high heels. ‘I’ll make a decision in the morning,’ he said, placing an arm around her waist. ‘Until then - let me sleep on it.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything.’

  Thursday. Mid-afternoon. Joanna was sitting at Andy’s old desk in reception, flicking through Danny Boyd’s case file. I was standing beside her, hands planted on the desk, leaning over her shoulder and reading the disclosure statements that Grace-Mary had downloaded earlier from the Crown web-site.

  I stood up straight and took a quick step back as Kaye Mitchell strolled in, fanning herself with a mobile phone. ‘Jill sent me a picture this morning. Thought you might like to see it.’

  She handed me the phone. On the screen was a photo of Jill in ski-gear, standing on a snowy mountain side. An equally ski-clad man stood at her side, one arm around my girlfriend’s waist, the other brandishing a pair of ski-poles and looking pretty pleased about things in a devilishly handsome kind of a way. I had a horrible, queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘This Josh seems to be a terrific sport,’ Kaye said. ‘I'll print that off for you, if you like. You can put it in a frame on your desk or something. I take it you still have a desk, and you two haven’t decided to share?’

  Joanna took the phone from my hand. ‘They look very... cosy. Are you sure you're still going to—’

  ‘So, Kaye.’ I said, rallying from her exciting news about my girlfriend’s dalliance with a handsome Swiss man on the side of an Alp. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’

  But her reporter’s instinct was not going to be so easily side-tracked. ‘Are you sure you're still going to what, Robbie?’

  ‘Plead guilty,’ Joanna blurted. She held up Danny Boyd’s file. ‘The evidence in the tomb raiders’ case has just come in.’

  Kaye raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘And... well... it looks like the prosecution case isn’t quite as strong as we’d expected.’

  ‘Really?’ The note of suspicion hadn’t completely left Kaye’s voice.

  ‘That’s right.’ I took up from where my assistant left off. ‘They’ve been charged with violating a sepulchre, but this is more like a fifty-two or a malicious mischief.’

  ‘A fifty-two what?’ Kaye enquired.

  ‘A section fifty-two. Of the Criminal Law (Consolidation) (Scotland) Act nineteen ninety-five,’ Joanna replied.

  ‘Vandalism to you,’ I said.

  ‘Vandalism? How can it go from that sepulchre thing to vandalism?’ Kaye wanted to know. ‘I mean it’s not complicated. A mausoleum is just another word for a sepulchre and they damaged it. What’s not violation of a sepulchre about that? Seems simple enough to me.’

  But it wasn’t simple, and there was a century’s worth of case law to show just how not simple it was. ‘The thing is, Kaye, there is no property in a dead body in Scots law. So to stop people grave-robbing and meddling with corpses the common law of violation of sepulchres was introduced yonks ago.’

  ‘And?’ Kaye enquired.

  Joanna picked up the threads. ‘To be guilty you don’t just have to damage the grave, you have to tamper with the body in some way. That’s what Robbie and I were discussing. According to the evidence, the two Boyd boys damaged the mausoleum door and that’s about all. Unless the Fiscal decides to amend to a much lesser offence, it looks like a not guilty on the charge as it stands.’

  Kaye didn’t look too pleased. ‘So, Linlithgow’s Burke and Hare...?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’ll just have to do what you usually do on a slow news week, and slap something about the Gala Day Queen on the front page.’

  Grace-Mary had gone out just after lunch to do the banking and, multi-tasker that she was, had taken the opportunity to do her weekly shop at the same time. ‘You’ve a visitor,’ she said to me, staggering in, laden down with carrier bags.

  My brother strode into the now over-crowded reception, clamped a hand either side of my face and kissed the top of my head. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘How—?’

  ‘Dad phoned me. I’m on my way to show him my new car. Listen, don’t muck about. You’ve made your mind up, just go for it or you’ll get cold feet.’ He looked out of the window. ‘I was thinking you should have a Spring wedding. The weather’s usually the best then. You know what Scottish summers are like. My producer knows a guy who can fix you up with a marquee. All you need after that is an outside licence, a buffet, some of those cocktail guys that throw the bottles around and a band. Whatever you do, don’t let Dad talk you into booking the Red River—’

  ‘You’re getting married?’ Kaye’s steel-trap of a brain had sprung. ‘Does Jill know?’ She glanced down at the phone lying on Joanna's desk and then up at Joanna. ‘I warned her about you hiring this floozy.’

  Joanna folded her arms, lowered her eyebrows and gave Kaye the stare that had caused grown men to burst into tears in the witness box. The newspaper editor was impervious. You didn’t work your way to the top in journalism without a certain thickening of the epidermis.

  I pushed my way through the crowd in reception, went to my room and returned with the small velvet box. I opened it revealing the diamond ring. ‘I’m marrying... that is, I'm hoping to marry Jill. I’m going to propose when she gets back from Switzerland, and I really don’t want her to hear about it before I get down on bended knee. Understand?’

  Kaye put thumb and forefinger to her pursed lips, twisted her hand and tossed an imaginary key over her shoulder.

  Malky had noticed the photo on the phone. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Josh,’ I said. ‘Jill’s liaison officer, slash ski-instructor, slash fondue chef.’

  ‘He’s a bit gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Joanna said.

  Malky looked closer. ‘He’s good looking enough, I suppose.’

  ‘Good looking?’ Kaye bared her teeth and growled. ‘I could take a bite right out of him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, looks aren’t everything.’ It wasn’t every day my brother stuck up for me. ‘Robbie has other attributes.’ He didn't detail them. ‘And he’s got his own business.’ He looked around the scene of clerical devastation that was the working hub of Munro & Co.

  ‘Josh is vice-President of a multi-national pharmaceutical company,’ Kaye added. ‘He just missed out on the Swiss squad for the Winter Olympics in two thousand and two.

  Malky set the phone down onto the desk. There was only so much sticking-up a brother could do. ‘You know, Robbie...?’ He clamped a hand down on my shoulder. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t book that Marquee just yet.’

  Chapter 16

  Dubh Prais: a small basement restaurant on the Royal Mile, a cheese scone’s throw from the Tron Kirk, just off South Bridge. I ordered the hand-dived scallops on a pea puree with coral jus for a starter. My companion, Larry Kirkslap, opted for pan-fried haggis with a leek and whisky sauce. I noticed his hair was darker today, a more standard ginger, but still much too vivid for a man of his age.

  ‘Okay, here goes,’ he said, cutlery poised. I could tell that while he might have been a sex symbol in the seventies, he’d had far too much to eat in the eighties. ‘I’ve never had haggis before. I’m usually prawn cocktail, steak and chips, apple pie and custard.’

  I wondered if the thought of life in jail had concentrated Kirkslap’s mind and that’s why he wanted to try new things. Not that they didn’t serve haggis in prison, but if you’re going to experiment with offal, HMP Shotts probably w
asn’t the best place to start. ‘I’m a Scotsman who’s never tried his national dish. Can you believe it?’ Kirkslap leaned back in his chair to let the waiter once more fill his enormous wine glass with Chablis. The starters had just arrived. I'd not touched my glass. This was his second.

  ‘Can I take it you’ve reached a decision on your choice of legal representation?’ I said. When Grace-Mary had told me about the lunch reservation, I’d expected there might have been a message too. There hadn’t. I had no idea why I’d been summoned. I could only hope. ‘Is this meal a celebration or a consolation prize?’

  Kirkslap held up his fork, a piece of haggis stuck on the end. ‘Just a moment. If I don’t do this straight away, I may never be able to pluck up the courage.’ He screwed his eyes tight shut, put the morsel of haggis into his mouth, chewed cautiously before opening one eye and then the other. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Do you know what’s in it?’ I asked.

  ‘I have a vague notion and I’d like to keep it that way - vague.’ Kirkslap set his fork on the table and wiped his mouth with a large white linen napkin. ‘I put my conservative taste in food down to married life.’ He drank some more wine. ‘My wife was a woman with a limited range of recipes.’

  ‘Your wife, is she...?’

  ‘Dead? Alas, no.’

  Instinctively, I looked around in case anyone had overheard. Kirkslap’s High Court trial had taken place only a little further up the Royal Mile and ended controversially a few days before. The chances were there’d be an action-replay in the next few weeks. ‘Divorced then?’ I asked, satisfied that the other diners were more engrossed in their food than our conversation.

  ‘No such luck. Marjorie and I have an open marriage. So long as my wallet is open, we’re married.’ He finished the glass of wine. The waiter refilled it, put a dash in the top of mine and retired.