Bad Debt, page 13
What did they have on me? A neighbour who’d seen me and Bop break in? Or just my car’s number plate? Maybe someone had recognised Bop and he was already arrested and spilling his guts. Or maybe the wee rat had thought it too good a story to keep to himself and the whole world now knew how he’d helped Robbie Munro, lawyer and murderer, break into Crazy Meeko’s house. A hundred possible sources of evidence leapt into my mind, accompanied by a hundred and one possible explanations I could use in my defence. After all, if it had been Meeko who reported the crime, what could she say? That someone broke in and stole the mobile phone she’d stolen two weeks before? No, I was confident I’d be found not guilty of any housebreaking charge. I just didn’t want to languish in prison as a bail-breaker while awaiting my chance to secure an acquittal.
An age later one of the cops came back, minus his partner or my glass of water. ‘Looks like you’re out of here, Mr Munro,’ he said.
‘I’m being released?’ I said, trying not to sound too surprised.
‘Grounds no longer exist, apparently. Don’t think the Inspector was so very happy about it. She got a call from HQ. Looks like you have friends in high places.’
Not that I knew of; however, like the song, I did have friends in low places. One friend in particular. Did Stan’s influence reach as far as the upper echelons of Scotland’s unified police force?
I returned to the charge bar, where I signed for my few belongings. ‘We’ll let you out the side door,’ the sergeant said. ‘There’s a car waiting to take you back.’
Released and chauffeur-driven home? Something didn’t seem right. Were the cops being wary because I was a solicitor? I’d lodged many a complaint over the years on behalf of clients lifted out of their beds in the dead of night, only to be released barefoot and penniless at horrible o’clock in the morning and expected to make their own way home. Not that it had done anyone much good. Complaining about the police was like complaining about the weather. You felt better after a rant, but it still rained the next time you had a barbecue.
The sergeant came from behind the charge bar, led me through the main door from the cell area and along a corridor towards the glass door through which I’d been brought a few hours earlier. There was an unmarked saloon car waiting. Why the special treatment? Escorted out, not by a member of civilian staff or a bobby, but by the custody sergeant, and to what wasn’t a blue and yellow liveried patrol car, but what turned out to be a very comfortable-looking, sapphire black BMW 7 series. Something was definitely wrong.
I stopped, turning to the sergeant. ‘It’s okay. I can find my own way home, thanks.’
Two figures in plain clothes, one male, one female, exited either side of the beamer and stood waiting, staring straight at me. The front passenger was female, forties, tall with an athletic build and a craggy face that had forgotten how to smile. Her male companion, standing by the driver’s door, was older, fatter, with greying stubble on his head and chins and a face that had forgotten how many sausage rolls he’d had for lunch.
The female produced a small plastic wallet. She flipped it open and held a warrant card in front of my face. ‘SCD. We’d like a word.’
The Specialist Crime Division investigated organised crime. It was formed in 2013 when Scotland’s police forces amalgamated, and was successor to the former and highly controversial Scottish Crime and Drugs Enforcement Agency. The SCDEA had been a separate police force from the previous eight regional outfits. It didn’t have a Chief Constable, rather a Director who reported to the Scottish Ministers. It had been called the Scottish FBI and was thought by many who moved in the same legal circles as I did, to have people working for it who were bigger crooks than the people they were trying to catch.
The custody sergeant gave me a gentle nudge in the back. ‘I don’t think finding your own way home is an option.’
I climbed into the back of the car and we set off. Neither of the police officers spoke, not even to accept my stilted thanks for the lift home. When, having emerged from the Avon Gorge, the BMW continued a mile or so along the A810 and took a right turn down an undesignated road, I thought the driver must know a shortcut. It was only when a little further on we swung left onto a country lane, that I knew exactly where we were headed. Officers from the SCD weren’t here to discuss a break-in. They were here to talk about murder.
23
‘Remember this place?’ The male cop asked, as the car braked sharply and came to a halt, half on gravel, half on the thin strip of grass that marked the edge of the single-track road.
Remember it? The buildings on the far side of a hawthorn hedgerow were ringing more bells than a campanologist at Christmas.
‘Muiravonside Country Park is a mile or so down the road isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I’ve passed by this way before with the kids.’
‘And at night-time with your phone, it would seem.’ He shifted awkwardly in his seat to look at me. Due to his bulk he could only half-turn and I could only see one side of his face; below the left spectacle lens was the faintest memory of a bruise. ‘Get out,’ he said.
I remained seated, staring straight ahead.
‘Get out now or I’m turning this car around,’ he said, glaring at me with one piggy eye, like I was his six-year-old son misbehaving in the back seat. ‘And then you might find grounds suddenly exist again for that housebreaking charge.’
He alighted and yanked open my door. I looked up at him. His stubbly head and face were obscured by the roof of the car.
‘If I get out, I expect to hear no more about that housebreaking rubbish,’ I said to the Paisley pattern tie that was lying almost horizontally over the paunch in the white cotton shirt. ‘That’s the deal. Okay?’
He ducked his head under. ‘If you say so. Now get out.’
The two of us walked together a few metres further along the road to a field gate now festooned in blue and white police tape. If there was forensic work still going on, the male cop didn’t seem to care. ‘This place was derelict for years before Angus MacDonald bought it. Ideal for a murder locus, don’t you think? Location, location, location.’ He pushed the gate open and led me up the path, past the front of the cottage and across the courtyard to the outbuilding. There was police tape across the door, and it was still secured by the rusty six-inch bolt. The cop stripped away the tape and removed the bolt from the hasp. Inside, the smell was just as bad as before, and the place almost as dark, illuminated only by the open door and small window, the bars casting stripes of light across the stone floor. At a quick glance I could see the lengths of duct tape and electrical ties that had been used to bind MacDonald had been removed. On one of the flagstones, white chalk circles had been drawn around a few dark-coloured splodges that I took to be MacDonald’s blood. There was no sign of the pickaxe handle. I really hoped Stan’s men had tidied up behind them. Otherwise, tape, bag and pickaxe handle would all have been sent for examination to the Police Forensic Science Lab on whose database, since my arrest, my DNA and fingerprints were now to be found.
The cop pointed to the chalk outlines. ‘MacDonald was brought here bound and gagged. It’s not clear where exactly he was killed. From the blood on the kitchen floor it looks like it was done in the cottage, but he was here before or after and his body later taken away.’
Clearly, MacDonald’s bid for freedom had been short-lived. Stan’s men must have come back after dropping me off at home. They’d killed MacDonald and got rid of the body. Why hadn’t he called the police before they got to him?
The cop looked at me expectantly. Did he think I was going to break down and blurt out an admission of guilt? Who were these people who had the power to release me from police custody and put a pen through what was, on paper at any rate, the crime of housebreaking committed whilst on bail? Why had they brought me here? I’d already appeared in court on the murder charge. I was now fully committed for trial and under the protection of the court. The police had no authority to question me further about MacDonald’s murder. They’d had their chance and received a big fat no comment. Anything they might attribute to me on this impromptu visit would never make it as far as a jury. Even Sammy Veitch could pluck the fruit from this poisonous tree and throw it in the face of the prosecution.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked. ‘Just so I know when I send in my formal complaint.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dicker and my colleague is Detective Chief Inspector Sandeman,’ he said.
‘Then, as experienced police officers, you must know that bringing me here is a waste of your time and mine.’ When he didn’t reply I took a step towards the exit, only for the female cop to appear framed in the doorway, feet apart, hands behind her back, daylight streaming around her.
Dicker brought his face close to mine. His glasses needed cleaning. ‘Why was Angus MacDonald murdered?’
I took a step back. ‘I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I don’t know the answer,’ I said.
Dicker smiled through the stubble, chubby cheeks lifting the frame of his glasses. ‘We’ll see how smart-arsed you are after they stick twenty-five years up you.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to see how ridiculous and ineffectual you bringing me here is. If this is some kind of an attempt to fit me up, and I don’t see what else it can be, it’s only strengthening my case.’
‘Oh, that your defence is it?’ Dicker said. ‘A police stitch-up?’ It was certainly fast heading to the top of my list of possibilities. ‘If we really wanted to, we could fit you up for this MacDonald murder faster than a Singapore tailor. That’s not why you’re here. You’re here for an off-the-record chat.’
In my experience off-the-record chats with cops had a habit of metamorphosing into on-the-record admissions when it came to the trial.
‘Good, then you can put this on the record,’ I said. ‘I have absolutely no idea why someone would want to kill Mr MacDonald. Honest.’
‘Honesty is exactly what we’re looking for. We’ll be honest with you, if you’ll be honest with us,’ Dicker said.
Seriously? Was he trying the help-us-to-help-you routine with a solicitor, veteran of a thousand police interviews? When cops said that, what they really meant was help-us-to-help-you-convict-yourself.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but before we go any further – you’ve done all the talking so far, and been reasonably polite. Your colleague hasn’t said anything yet. Am I to take it you’re the good cop?’
Something clattered off the stone floor at my feet. A pickaxe handle. It was inside a thick plastic production bag, sealed with translucent blue tape, but with no crime label attached.
Sandeman walked over and stood so close to me that I could smell the perfume she wasn’t wearing. It was time for the bad cop to speak for herself. ‘What’ll they find if they run that under the microscope?’ She poked the production bag with the shiny point of a sturdy no-nonsense shoe and slid it across the ground to Dicker.
He picked it up and gave me a close-up through the thick polythene bag. There were a few thin, dark streaks on the side of the pickaxe handle: the blood that had dripped from MacDonald’s face after he’d been struck by Stan’s driver. I said nothing. That was why I’d been brought here, wasn’t it? In the hope that I’d say something stupid. And talking of stupidity, how stupid was it of Stan’s men to leave the DNA-ridden pickaxe handle at the scene?
Dicker’s face broke into a wide smile. That and the smell of the place reminded me of gutted trout. ‘Looks to me like it could be blood, ma’am,’ he said.
Sandeman feigned a sigh. ‘I suppose we’ll only know for certain if we send it to forensics.’
Dicker turned and sauntered towards the door, taking the production bag with him.
‘I take it you know the way home from here, Mr Munro?’ Sandeman said. She pressed a card into my hand. ‘My number. I don’t think you killed MacDonald. But I do think you know why he was killed and who by. That means you have a choice. You either decide you want to talk to us, in which case we’ll help you get out of this, or you don’t, and that production bag gets sent to the scientists.’
24
It was way past Tina’s bedtime. I’d called her in from the garden several times, but to no avail. Joanna, young Jamie on her hip, joined me, in the hope that our combined authority might succeed where my vocal cords had failed. It was so good to be home again. Earlier that day, while I’d been trying not to help the police with their enquiries, Joanna had provided the Crown with an affidavit confirming her police statement. She’d already resigned from the Procurator Fiscal Service and was now officially instructed by me as my defence solicitor. Those were sufficient changes in circumstances for the review of my bail order to be sanctioned, and the prosecution hadn’t even bothered to oppose the motion to remove the special condition of bail that we should not communicate with one another.
‘Just five more minutes,’ Tina said, pre-emptively, when she saw us standing at the back door. Taking the rubber bone from Bouncer’s mouth, she hurled it as far as she could down the garden before girl and dog bounded after it.
‘Watch out for any monst—’ I began to shout. But there was no monster. The monster had been Angus MacDonald. No need to watch out for him any more.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked Joanna.
She kissed me. ‘The first thing we do is get the kids to bed and then have an early night. After a good eight hours we’ll see things a whole lot clearer.’
‘Jo,’ I said. ‘I’ve been a legal aid lawyer for fifteen years, I am on the duty lawyer scheme, I have two young kids and now I’m charged with murder. The last time I had a good eight hours I had an umbilical cord attached. We need to talk now. Listen to me.’
I’d given things a lot of thought, mainly about the alibi offers and who I thought might not crack while giving evidence. My dad was the best bet, though there were pros and cons. As a cop he’d have credibility, lessened to an extent by being the accused’s father, of course, but on the upside again, he’d had plenty of practice lying in the witness box. I rummaged in my pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper on which I had jotted down some notes. I smoothed it out on the palm of my hand.
‘Okay, let’s hear your plan,’ Joanna said, as she watched Tina rampage among the undergrowth. ‘But it better be good. What we need is a properly thought-out defence. No hare-brained alibi schemes, nothing left to chance. Every move carefully thought through, every countermove by the Crown anticipated and neutralised.’
‘You know?’ I said, crumpling the paper into a ball and casually slipping it back into my pocket. ‘I think I’d be more interested to hear what you have to say.’
Joanna took a deep breath. ‘Okay. We’ve got to assume your DNA is on that pickaxe handle. If the deceased’s blood is on it too—’
‘Why would the cops from the Specialist Crime Division be holding onto it if it was?’ I said.
‘I suppose they could be bluffing,’ Joanna said. ‘Why else take you to the murder scene? The pickaxe handle may have been tested for DNA and come up negative. They’ve no body and without a murder weapon linked to you, what have they actually got?’
We hadn’t yet received anything like full disclosure of the evidence but, from my wife’s enquiries through various channels, she’d gleaned some important pieces of information. There wasn’t much more I could tell her. It went without saying that, like any husband, I only kept from my wife those things I didn’t want her to know, but when it came to criminal law, only a mug didn’t tell their lawyer everything – even the bad stuff. Everything I said was confidential. Lawyers, like naughty children, have selective hearing. I’d told her about asking for help to track down Angus MacDonald, how I’d been taken to his place by two men whose names I didn’t know, and what had taken place in the outbuilding. I’d even told her about my strange encounter with Dicker and Sandeman from the Specialist Crime Division. The one piece of information I hadn’t divulged was any mention of Stan Blandy. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust my wife. I just didn’t trust her not to do the best for me, and she might think that doing the best involved telling the jury the whole truth. I couldn’t do that. I’d make my own inquiries with Stan, and very carefully. If Stan thought my predicament might prise a chink in his armour of respectability, a life sentence would suddenly seem like a trip to Disneyland.
Joanna placed Jamie in my arms. He was dressed in a chunky blue cardigan which either Joanna’s mum, Tina’s Gran or Grace Mary had knitted for him. I’d mixed up some of the baby presents and had been forced to keep things vague when sending out the thank-you cards. I’d even sent a thank-you card to one of Joanna’s relatives who hadn’t sent a gift – though embarrassingly one did arrive shortly afterwards. Joanna tugged the collar snugly around the wee man’s neck. It might have been a sunny evening in May, but there was still a chill wind blowing around chez Munro. ‘Let’s see . . .’ She counted off the sources of evidence on the fingers of one hand, starting with her thumb. ‘First of all, they’ve got what they think is a motive – you wanting to sort MacDonald out for stalking me.’
‘That’s easily explainable,’ I said. ‘He was a witness in a trial that was thrust on me at short notice. I had to prepare and, obviously, I’m going to try to precognosce the alleged victim.’
Joanna waved aside my intervention. ‘We’re not viewing this from a reasonable doubt standpoint,’ she said. ‘We’re taking the Crown case at its highest.’ She lifted her index finger. ‘Two: MacDonald hasn’t been seen alive since he was in court giving evidence. Before then you didn’t have his address. The witness list only gave him care of Police Scotland.’ Middle finger: ‘Three: they have your phone travelling from here to his house at around eight o’clock.’
‘Yeah, my phone. Not me.’
‘Seriously, Robbie. Stop talking like one of your clients.’ Ring finger: ‘Four: they have MacDonald’s blood on his kitchen floor. Also . . .’ Pinky: ‘Five: they’ve got a statement from me saying that you went out of the house shortly before eight and came back later with an injured arm.’ I hadn’t blamed Joanna for speaking to the police. She would have been worried when they came to the door asking questions and thought I’d been involved in an accident or something. She thumped me on the arm that wasn’t cradling Jamie. ‘That’s for lying to me about that.’
