Bad Debt, page 22
‘That’s not right is it, Sammy?’ he said softly, his bulk casting a sobering shadow over the man in the chair. ‘You’d never do a thing like that. Would you?’
Sammy had the look of someone whose post-Marches Day hangover had come early. ‘It’s . . . It’s . . . Listen, Alex, I can explain . . .’
My dad handed me the half-eaten pie and began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m all ears.’
42
Even the strongest men break under many hours of intense interrogation. Sammy Veitch cracked faster than a Humpty Dumpty suicide bid; holding out barely long enough for Brendan to return to the bar, or for me to eat the rest of my dad’s scotch pie.
Back home, Joanna was waiting for me in the living room, like death awaits us all. Jamie was down for his afternoon nap, and Tina and her Uncle Malky had gone off to the fair.
‘Did you know about this, Alex?’ Joanna asked my dad accusingly. ‘Did you know your youngest son was hatching a plan to kidnap a politician this morning?’
‘It wasn’t a kidnapping,’ I said, forcing a light little laugh into the proceedings. ‘I wasn’t asking for a ransom or anything.’
‘Just an abduction, then?’ Joanna said. ‘Oh, well, that’s fine. You’re out on bail for murder and if breaking into houses isn’t bad enough—’
‘Keggie’s dead,’ I said. ‘He was murdered this morning before I got there. I don’t know the details, but I’ve spoken to his wife.’
Joanna took time to take in this information, process the data and formulate her next question. ‘Eh?’
‘Keggie’s dead. It looks as though somebody shot him on his doorstep. With the help of the police, I managed to speak to his wife.’
‘The police are helping you?’ my dad said. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story. I’ve got two cops from the SCD—’
‘The what?’
‘The Specialist Crime Division.’ My dad’s face still drew a blank. ‘They’re like the old Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency,’ I said, ‘but, hopefully, not quite so bent. They’re helping me . . . sort of. Well, we’re supposed to be helping each other.’
‘And what have you done so far to help them?’ Joanna said.
Nothing was the answer to that. Not yet. I sat my wife down and told her and my dad about my discussion with the recently widowed Patricia Keggie. When I’d finished, my dad began to fill Joanna in on Sammy’s confession, something he thought better done with a glass of whisky in his hand. By the time I’d retrieved the bottle of Springbank 21 that Brendan had given me, and brought it through with a couple of glasses, he’d already summed up the gist of things for my wife.
‘Just to recap, Robbie,’ she said. ‘This morning, after a failed abduction attempt, you gatecrashed a murder scene to speak to the victim’s widow, then interrogated a fellow solicitor in the back room of a pub?’
‘Well, yes, it sounds bad if you put it like that . . .’ I said.
Once again, my wife insisted on countering my protests using accuracy and logic. ‘What other way is there to put it?’
‘Not like you’re the prosecutor and I’m the accused in the witness box who you’re trying to tear a strip off,’ I said. ‘Try and see things from my point of view.’
She laughed, if you could call it a laugh. ‘Robbie, sometimes I think you live in a cartoon world. I love you for it, but, if not me, who else is going to give you the version of life without the unicorns and pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I’m trying to help build you a defence, meantime you’re charging around like a loose cannon!’
‘I don’t think loose cannons charge around,’ my dad said. ‘I think that’s more to do with . . . You know . . . bulls and . . . maybe china shops . . .’
Springbank 21 is bottled at 46 per cent alcohol by volume. On receipt of a look from Joanna, the old man thought his drink might be helped by a drop of water and made a tactical retreat to the kitchen.
I continued in his absence. ‘Jo, you’ve got to see there are certain inquiries that can’t be made through the proper channels. I can’t write polite letters to people asking them to speak to me when I know there’s no chance of them replying. You know how hard I tried to speak to Simon Keggie, and where did it get me – or him? And don’t you think it’s a bit rich you blaming me for going off like a loose cannon, when you were the one forcing Josh Wedderburn to cough up his guts on pain of either having his face pounded by a bouncer or facing a trumped-up sexual assault charge, or both?’
‘That was different,’ Joanna said. ‘If Josh had called my bluff, I wouldn’t have done anything. There’s a difference between saying something and actually doing it.’
‘And there’s a difference between being a lawyer and being the person who’s actually facing prison.’ I manoeuvred myself over to the couch and sat down facing my wife. ‘I need you to take the pieces I’m giving you and build me a defence. A proper one. Starting with the fact that we now know Simon Keggie tried to buy an incriminatory video of Harvey Rudd from the real MacDonald in order to win the election. When he asked for more money, Mrs Keggie whacked him over the back of the head with the blackthorn walking stick.’
‘I can’t believe she’d do that,’ Joanna said.
‘You know what they say, Jo. Behind every good man—’
‘There’s a woman with a bloody big lump of wood ready to bring it down on someone else’s head?’ She reached for my glass, had a sip, grimaced and handed it back to me.
‘I’m only telling you what she told me,’ I said. ‘And she’s got no reason to lie. MacDonald’s dead, and so is her husband. She hit MacDonald, Keggie told her to tell the police she’d been in bed at the time, then he went to see Eddie Frew, who promised to sort things out.’
Joanna was still somewhat dubious. ‘Okay. Let’s assume Mrs Keggie is telling the truth and that there was a salacious video of Harvey Rudd. Did she say what it showed?’ She hadn’t, but as Joanna observed, it would have to have been somewhat sensational to threaten the career of a politician. Long gone were the days when adultery, a visit to a prostitute, drug-taking or even dodgy expenses claims were seen as resignation matters. ‘And where does Sammy Veitch come into it all?’
According to Sammy, he hadn’t come into it very much at all. He knew about the plan to time-bar the case, but only because Eddie had told him he had someone at Crown Office in his pocket. ‘I was sent in blind, Jo. I was just there to make up the numbers, and because Sammy knew that if there was an attempt to extend the time-limit, I’d oppose it because—’
‘Because you object to everything in court?’ Joanna sniffed. ‘Time-bar. I suppose it was quite a good idea really. I mean if you’re going to chuck a prosecution and don’t want to take too much flak. Especially with a case like Keggie’s.’
I agreed. It might look slightly fishy – a technicality leading to the acquittal of a local politician – but it wouldn’t be the first time the prosecution had run out of time and a case had to be deserted. It could easily be shrugged off. There were more cockups than conspiracies in the Scottish justice system. The Crown wouldn’t even have had to admit to a blunder, just blame the underfunding and pressure of court business. These things happened. The law fixed the time limits and the prosecution had to prioritise their caseload. And anyway, who was going to complain about a burglar-basher not being prosecuted?
‘It all comes back to Jessica Barrett,’ Joanna said. ‘She’s the one who told Josh Wedderburn to drag the case out. She’s also the Crown counsel who marked your indictment in record time.’ She thought for a moment. ‘What else did Sammy know?’
‘Not much. He didn’t know the plan had failed until I met him in the pub that Friday night. After that he called Keggie who was spitting nails. He’d paid Eddie a lot of money. Money Sammy now sees as part of his retirement plan—’
‘Do you think it was Sammy who arranged for the fake MacDonald to threaten me?’ Joanna said, jumping to the same conclusion I had.
My dad returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and a teaspoon. ‘Trust me, pet. It wasn’t Sammy,’ he said.
Sammy had been quite adamant about that, even under duress from my dad. According to him, he’d simply reassured Keggie, told him there was nothing to worry about, that I was a miracle-worker and that everything would be fine. His faith in me was quite touching, really.
‘Then who?’ Joanna asked. ‘Josh Wedderburn? He knew his plan had failed and that Hugh Ogilvie had passed the case to me.’
‘But after all that, substituting the fake MacDonald for the real one? That’s way too risky if you ask me. Someone would notice.’
I didn’t agree. Not in this case. MacDonald was a nobody – the alleged victim of an assault a year before and a man who lived in a village ten miles from the court and had only recently moved down from the Highlands. There had been a day when prosecutors met with complainers to take precognitions, usually to ensure that they’d be sticking to the script, but financial cutbacks, or maybe it was just laziness, had put an end to that practice except in the most serious of cases. The photos of MacDonald showed the image of a man with a bushy beard. The rest were of the back of his head and torso. As for the cop who’d taken the real MacDonald’s statement, after a year he might possibly have recognised him again, but the cops had their own separate witness room at court and quite often they remained at the police station until they were called in. The police photographer had testified and left before the fake MacDonald had been called to the stand, and no witnesses yet to give evidence would be allowed into court during the imposter’s testimony. Who would be in the actual courtroom to notice it was the wrong person? I’d no idea what he looked like, neither did Joanna or any of the other court officials. Furthermore, witnesses were never asked to produce ID before they gave evidence; neither were accused persons for that matter. It was just assumed that unless compelled to do so, nobody would come to court voluntarily to appear in the dock or the witness box.
‘We still don’t know why someone would want to replace MacDonald,’ I said.
My dad knocked back his drink and held the empty glass out to me for a refill. ‘Because the real MacDonald was dead?’
‘That has to be it,’ I said. ‘With MacDonald dead, the Crown would have used his witness statement against Keggie, with a much higher chance of a conviction.’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I know Josh Wedderburn’s an idiot, but I can’t see him getting himself involved in something as serious as that. Allowing an awkward case to time-bar as a favour to Crown counsel? Sure. But not attempting to defeat the ends of justice or conspiring to commit murder.’
She was right. Wedderburn was only following orders. The first person he’d have told about the problems with the time-bar plan would have been the person who’d asked him to arrange it in the first place.
‘Robbie,’ Joanna said. Eyes wide, face flushed, she shifted to the edge of the couch. ‘Think about it.’
To be fair, I had been. So much so that my brain was starting to hurt. Fortunately, I had the perfect solution, and at the moment the perfect solution was forty-six per cent alcohol. Following my dad’s example, I carefully added no more than half a teaspoonful to the Campbeltown whisky. You can add water to a dram, but if you ruin it you can’t take it out again.
Joanna continued. ‘Jessica Barrett is engaged to Harvey Rudd, the person whose video the real MacDonald tried to sell to Keggie.’ She looked like she might try another sip of my whisky, then thought better of it. ‘Okay, here’s how I see it having happened. Imagine if you were Angus MacDonald and had a blackmail video of Rudd. You’d need to be Billy Big Bollocks to blackmail Scotland’s Justice Secretary. So, what do you do? You go to his rival and offer him the golden ticket: Local Councillor to Member of the Scottish Parliament in one swift Sun newspaper headline. I’ll bet Mrs K would have loved that. A wee flat down Holyrood, courtesy of the taxpayer, accompanying her husband on all sorts of foreign junkets. No wonder when she saw the dream walking out of the door, she went berserk with the walking stick.’
It seemed plausible enough. Because of Mrs K’s fit of temper, MacDonald was hospitalised, her husband was charged, the video never saw the light of day and Harvey Rudd won the election.
‘You’ve totally lost me,’ my dad said. ‘Rewind a bit. Who’s Jessica Barrett?’
I poured my dad another dram. ‘I’ll fill you in later. Just sit back for now and watch a great mind at work.’ I looked to my wife. She was thinking again. It was what she was good at. She took some time. I could almost hear the pieces clicking together.
‘After MacDonald was assaulted, someone got word to the Justice Secretary about the video. Only four people knew about it.’
‘MacDonald, Keggie and his wife. Who’s the fourth?’ I said.
Joanna smiled. ‘Eddie Frew, of course.’
Yes. That was it. I could see it now. That was why Eddie had been at Parliament House a couple of weeks before his death. For a little chat with the Justice Secretary. I could imagine the discussion between them. Eddie would never have tried blackmail. He was too smart for that. But he’d have told Rudd that the topic of the video was likely to come up during Keggie’s trial. MacDonald wasn’t a housebreaker. He was at Keggie’s house for a reason, and that reason was to sell him the evidence of some misdemeanour by Rudd. If Keggie’s trial had gone ahead and MacDonald testified, not only could Keggie have been convicted, but the real reason for MacDonald’s late-night visit would have been revealed. Worst case scenario, it would have meant prison for Keggie and disgrace and loss of office for Rudd. Eddie was in the perfect position to solve the problem for both men. And at a hefty price from each, no doubt. He’d already taken twenty grand off Simon Keggie. All it needed was for Rudd to have someone high up in Crown Office put pressure on a lowly PF depute like Josh Wedderburn. No trial, no conviction for Keggie and no mention of Harvey Rudd’s embarrassing video. And who better to provide that pressure than your own fiancée?
‘It was a nice plan,’ Joanna said, ‘but it fell apart when I took over the case. If the trial was to proceed, there needed to be some fast thinking about what to do with MacDonald.’
My dad’s hand reached for the whisky bottle again. ‘Wait a minute. Are you two suggesting that Scotland’s Justice Secretary is a murderer?’
‘He has to be behind it,’ I said. ‘MacDonald was killed before he could give evidence and mention the video in court.’
‘But Keggie must have known that the MacDonald in the witness box wasn’t the man his wife battered,’ my dad said.
Undoubtedly, but Keggie wouldn’t have alerted anyone to the fact. He’d have assumed it had all been fixed to secure his acquittal. That’s why you paid Eddie Frew the big bucks. It was perfect.
‘What’s even more perfect, Robbie,’ Joanna said, ‘is that when your mysterious client thought he was abducting the person who was stalking me, he was right enough, but we all believed that person to be Angus MacDonald, who by that time might already have been dead. When the fake MacDonald was abducted and escaped, you’d unwittingly fitted yourself up for the murder that he committed.’
‘Then I’m in the clear,’ I said.
Joanna shook her head. The colour had gone out of her face. ‘No, Robbie. You’re not. No video, no proof, and we’re pretty much back where we started, with only a wild conspiracy theory involving a senior politician.’
There were three loud raps at the front door.
My heart sank. ‘I think that could be the cops, Jo. Quick. I’ll go see them and tell them you’re not in. You hide upstairs.’
‘What are you talking about, Robbie? Hide? Why?’
‘Because,’ I said, climbing to my feet. ‘If it’s the cops, they’re not here for me. They’re here for you.’
43
Joanna refused to hide. We argued about if for a while until the knocking on the front door stopped and there was louder knocking at the back. When eventually I opened it, I fully expected to be greeted by the fat florid face of his royal smugness, DI Dicker. Instead it was the angry wee face of her royal bamishness, Stephanie ‘Meeko’ Meek, in T-shirt and jeans and in an abnormal state of near sobriety for Marches Day, or for any day with a ‘Y’ in it. She wasn’t for opening pleasantries. ‘Did you break into my house?’
I glanced back at the clock on the cooker. It was only just after three. It’s a long day when you get up at five in the morning to do a spot of abducting, especially if you haven’t managed a wink of sleep the night before. I stepped outside. For a change it hadn’t rained on Marches Day. The sun was still shining defiantly down on the Royal Burgh, and the golden crown atop St Michael’s Church glinted in the hazy distance. I invited Meeko over the doorstep, but she refused, staying fixed where she was, hands on hips.
‘Someone broke in and trashed my flat,’ she said.
The state of the place, how could she possibly have noticed?
‘Okay, listen, Stephanie,’ I said. ‘I may have been in your flat a week or so ago, looking for something. I’m sorry about the damage to your door, but—’
‘I’m not talking about that time you and that wee shite Bop broke my windae. I’m talking about last night. Someone smashed the door in. Came breenging in late on. I thought it was the polis and climbed out the bog windae. Hurt my ankle when I landed.’
There was no reason for anyone to break in to Meeko’s house. Well, obviously, I’d had a reason, but . . .
‘Stephanie, do you remember a Friday night a few weeks back, outside the Red Corner Bar? You stole a mobile off a wee guy. Brendan from the Red Corner was there. You had an orange hoodie on. You fell in the street.’
My recounting of events didn’t seem to be ringing any bells. ‘I want compensation or I’m going to the cops,’ she said.
