Bad Debt, page 5
‘She . . . she stole my phone,’ the young man sobbed.
I looked at Meeko. She stared back at me through glassy eyes. I had assumed she’d recognise me and come to her senses, but she was too far gone; her brain addled by the concoction of caffeine and alcohol that is supposed to be a pick-me-up for little old ladies, but is more of a lock-me-up for a large contingent of Scotland’s youth.
Meeko muttered something incoherent, the slurred words accompanied by flecks of frothy saliva. I grabbed the wrist attached to the hand holding the broken bottle and stepped between her and her victim. She tried to pull her arm free, but I had a firm grip, and was about to impart some pro bono legal advice when she kneed me somewhere soft, and not gently. I let go, managing to shove her away before I doubled over. She started forward again, bottle raised, just as the door of the bar opened, and Brendan strode out. He sized up the situation in an instant and gave Meeko a left jab to the face. What was left of the green bottle flew from her hand. She staggered backwards and fell off the edge of the pavement, causing a car heading along the High Street to brake sharply, swerving to avoid her, crunching over broken glass as it did.
‘Would you quit mucking about?’ Brendan said, pointing a finger at me. ‘You’re supposed to be stopping the bastards from taking my licence away, not helping them.’ With that, a growl and a sideways glance at the girl in the street, he marched back inside.
I wasn’t sure what to do. The young man was shaking. Having had a good look at him, I realised that although he was tall, he wasn’t a man at all. He was just a boy, not more than thirteen or fourteen years old. He wore a waterproof jacket over what on closer inspection was a school uniform, though the colours were not the black and blue of my alma mater, Linlithgow Academy, which would have better matched his left eye.
After several attempts, Meeko rose unsteadily to her feet. The fight had gone out of her and holding her face she stumbled off, muttering and cursing her way down the High Street.
I asked the boy if he was all right. He took a few deep breaths, gingerly touched his swollen eye, wiped a cuff across his nose and nodded.
‘Where are you from?’ He was from Edinburgh. ‘Are you lost?’ He was. He’d been dropped off late afternoon to take part in choir rehearsals, and someone was supposed to be picking him up.
‘Where are they coming from?’ I asked.
‘Glasgow.’
Great. Most Glaswegians needed a passport and malaria tablets to go further east than Glasgow Cross.
‘Who is it that’s coming? Your mum?’
‘No.’
‘Your dad, then. Do you have a phone?’ Of course, he didn’t. Not any longer. That was why Meeko had taken such an interest in him. She’d seen him coming down the Kirkgate from St Michael’s Church and identified easy pickings. I took out my own phone. ‘What’s your dad’s number?’
‘It’s not my dad who’s coming, it’s my mum’s friend.’
‘Look, son, I don’t need the family tree, just the number of who I’m supposed to be calling.’
‘That would be me,’ said a voice from behind. I turned to see the unmistakably large figure of Stan Blandy emerge from a mineral-grey Range Rover that had eased silently up to the kerb.
Stan had once been a major importer of illegal narcotics. Cocaine and MDMA were his drugs of choice. He’d shunned heroin for the simple reason he didn’t trust junkies, while marijuana was a bulky product with an insufficient mark-up. Stan’s was a simple strategy. Top quality produce, at top quality prices, to top quality people. The people who could afford to buy Stan’s drugs were the kind of people the police weren’t interested in. These days, if you believed Stan, he was no longer involved in organised crime. He’d got out, something that’s not easy to do unless, like Stan, you organised the crime in the first place.
‘Did I not tell you to wait for me up at the kirk?’ he barked at the boy. The boy nodded. Stan took hold of him by the shoulders, looked at the black eye. ‘You got that at the school. Playing rugby or walking into a lamppost or something. Got it?’ The boy nodded again. He was good at nodding. Stan jerked a thumb backwards. ‘Get in the car.’
Head bowed, the boy obeyed.
‘What happened?’ Stan asked.
‘Someone took a shine to the boy’s mobile.’ I looked over my shoulder. Meeko had disappeared. ‘He got a fright, but he’s not harmed. Well, not too much. Who is he?’
‘His stepmother is a . . . business acquaintance of mine. The boy . . .’ Stan winced apologetically. ‘He sings in a choir.’
‘I’ve never seen you drive before,’ I said. ‘Where’s your chauffeur?’ I’d met Stan’s usual driver many times previously. He didn’t have a name, just a shaved head, facial scars and a propensity for extreme violence.
‘His step-mum was supposed to be coming for him and then something cropped up. She asked me if I could help.’ She must have been one hell of a business acquaintance if she could press Stan Blandy into working as an Uber for the night. ‘I took a wrong turn on the way here and had to double back.’
‘I know who took the phone,’ I said. ‘Stephanie Meek, she’s one of my clients.’ I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a knee in the chuckies get in the way of our business relationship. Bams weren’t that thick on the ground in Linlithgow. ‘She’s okay if you can catch her sober. I’ll speak to her and try and get it back.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Stan said. ‘I’ll get him another, before his step-mum finds out.’ He walked over to his car. ‘You going somewhere?’
‘Home,’ I said.
He opened the front passenger door. ‘Get in.’
We didn’t talk much on the short journey.
‘Thanks again for helping the wee man out of a jam,’ Stan said, as we pulled up outside my house.
‘I didn’t do much,’ I said. ‘I didn’t have to. Brendan from the Red Corner sorted it out really.’
Stan laughed drily. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a spit-and-sawdust joint like that would be your usual Friday night haunt, Robbie.’
‘What do you mean? I pick up half my clients in there,’ I said.
‘Business is business eh?’
‘And I went to school with the landlord. He’s a local celebrity. Won gold in the Commonwealth Games. Flyweight. I was down seeing him because he’s got some trouble with the local Licensing Board. They’re trying to close the place down. Too many unsavoury incidents like tonight’s outside his premises. He’s got a hearing coming up.’
‘How’s that likely to go?’
Not very well was the answer. Brendan’s publican’s licence was hanging by the shoogliest of pegs.
As I alighted, Stan took a hold of my arm and squeezed. ‘All the same. Thanks. If there’s anything I can do for you, just give me a shout.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Stan—’
‘Stupid? You think there’s something stupid about me wanting to express my gratitude?’
‘Not stupid. What I mean is—’
‘You should know by now that Stan Blandy is beholden to no-one.’
‘Of course you’re not. What I mean is . . . I just did what anyone would have done. It was no big deal.’ I stepped out of the car. When I turned to close the door, Stan was leaning across the passenger seat, the seat belt straining against his immense frame. ‘Anything. You understand?’
7
It was after ten when I slipped silently through my front door. The plan was to send my dad packing, carry out a check on the kids to make sure they were safely tucked in, and give my teeth a brush so that when Joanna returned from her night out she’d be none the wiser about my trip to the Red Corner Bar.
‘You’ve been drinking.’ Joanna emerged from the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. ‘Where were you? Red Corner Bar?’
‘You’re back early, darling,’ I said.
‘And just as well.’ She sat down on the sofa. ‘When I came home your Dad was sleeping in the chair, Jamie was in his cot crying his beads out with a dirty nappy and Tina was watching a slasher movie. What’s all this about you working late with some important client – on a Friday?’
‘Long story,’ I said. ‘Why are you not out with your Fiscal friends, bragging about all the folk you’ve had banged up?’
‘The others went on for drinks. I just stayed for the meal.’ She took a sip of tea and looked away.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’ She took another hurried drink.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Forget it.’ She drained the mug. ‘It’s nothing.’
In my experience, when women say, “it’s nothing,” it’s usually safe to assume it’s very much something.
Joanna rose to her feet, mug in hand. ‘I think I’ll go put some more milk in this.’
I took hold of her arm. ‘Did something happen tonight?’ The sleeve of her blouse rode up to reveal some faded black markings on the back of her hand just below her wrist. ‘What’s that?’
Without a word, Joanna set the mug on the arm of the couch, sat down again and pulled up her sleeve. There, partially washed away, was some writing. It looked like a car registration number. I didn’t understand.
‘Did you have a bump with the car?’ I said.
Joanna sighed. ‘We were in the restaurant. I wasn’t drinking. After the meal, I said cheerio to everyone and was at the door putting on my coat when this guy appeared from nowhere.’ She paused, took a deep breath and continued. ‘He was friendly enough to start off with and I thought he was . . . you know, just trying to chat me up. I said I wasn’t interested and that I was just leaving. He offered to give me a lift home. I said no thanks, I had my own car, and he said he’d walk me to it. He wasn’t being aggressive or anything.’ Joanna took a drink of tea. ‘Not at that point.’
‘Not at that point?’
She patted the cushion next to her. ‘Sit down, Robbie. I’m all right. He followed me. My car wasn’t parked far away. I thought he was just trying it on, and flashing my wedding ring would get rid of him, but . . . Well, he grabbed my arm. Really tight. He wouldn’t let go. He dragged me into a shop doorway. I screamed and tried to kick him, but he had me in a sort of bear hug. I couldn’t break free, and when I tried to scream, he put a hand over my mouth. I kicked him on the shin a few times, really hard, and he let go.’
‘And then what?’
‘And that was it. He just walked away, got in a car and drove off. Some passers-by must have heard me screaming and came over to see if I was okay. They made sure I got to my car safely.’
‘Did you call the cops?’
‘I was going to. That’s why I wrote his number plate number on my hand. Then I thought the cops had better things to do on a Friday night, and, even if they didn’t, I couldn’t be bothered with all the hassle of giving a statement, and what would have happened anyway? No one else saw anything. It would be my word against his.’ Joanna laid her head on my shoulder. ‘I told you it was nothing. He’d probably had a few too many. I’ve had to deal with quite a few drunken idiots in my time. I haven’t been able to scrub the numbers off properly and I didn’t want you to notice it . . . Or the . . .’
‘Or the what?’
‘I might have one or two bruises as well.’
I put a clenched fist to my mouth and bit down on a knuckle. ‘Where?’ Joanna pulled down the collar of her top to reveal red marks either side of her throat. I would have been on my feet again if she hadn’t held me down by the shoulders. ‘Did he give you his name?’ I said between gritted teeth. He hadn’t. ‘Then what did he look like?’
‘Forget it, Robbie. I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid.’ She finished her tea, lifting the mug to her mouth with a shaky hand. ‘It’s just one of those things. Promise you’ll forget about it?’ She waited and tried again. ‘Promise?’
‘I will if you will,’ I said eventually.
Joanna smiled. ‘Forget what?’ She leaned across and kissed me.
From the bedroom young Jamie made his presence known.
‘Stay where you are,’ I said. ‘I’ll make him a bottle.’ And taking her empty mug, I walked through to the kitchen to jot down that car registration number while I still remembered it.
8
Saturday teatime. It had been a sunny afternoon. Tina was in the garden getting creative with mud and twigs, I was in the kitchen making her something to eat and her wee brother was finding new and interesting places to stick mashed banana.
Joanna was sitting outside in a deckchair, reading her way through a large bundle of papers clipped into a ring binder.
‘You can’t go ahead with it, of course,’ I said, after lifting Jamie from the highchair and carrying him outside to join his mum.
‘Why’s that then?’ Joanna asked, not sounding terribly interested in any answer I might have.
‘Because it’s . . . well . . . it’s highly irregular.’
‘Highly irregular?’ On many issues, my opinion and that of my wife often differed; nonetheless, throughout our married life she’d consistently recognised my inalienable right to be wrong. ‘Would you stop and listen to yourself? Just about everything you do in court is highly irregular. Why can’t I be irregular now and again?’ She flicked over another page. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what the big problem is.’
‘The big problem,’ I said, wiping Jamie’s face with one of the endless pieces of kitchen roll I now carried about my person at all times, ‘is that there’s an obvious conflict of interest.’
‘Really? How’s that then?’ Joanna asked, not taking her eyes off the brief.
‘You know perfectly well.’ I brought out a playmat and laid my struggling son down on it for some tummy time. ‘I’m your husband.’ Ignoring my wife’s fatalistic shrug, I continued. ‘You can’t prosecute a case I’m defending.’
‘Why not? Do you think I’m going to go easy on you because we’re married?’
Not for a minute, but it didn’t matter what I thought. It was what other people thought.
She laughed. ‘Robbie, when did you ever bother about what other people thought? You just want the case to time-bar, collect a fat fee for doing zilch and watch a guilty man go free.’
That did more or less sum up most of my professional goals, not that I was going to give way on the point.
‘It’s not even your jurisdiction,’ I said. ‘In case you’ve forgotten you were moved from Livingston to Falkirk because your bosses thought it wasn’t a good idea for us to practise in the same court.’
‘There are exceptions to every rule, Robbie, and the plain fact is that there are no deputes available in Livingston to do the trial. I promised Hugh Ogilvie I’d do it. I know you two don’t get on . . .’ That was putting it mildly. Hugh Ogilvie, West Lothian’s procurator fiscal, regarded me as the urinal splashback in his world of beige trousers. ‘But he helped me get my part-time contract in Falkirk after wee Jamie was born. I feel indebted to him.’
Jamie, who was learning to crawl, had only mastered reverse gear and was slowly making his way backwards off the playmat and onto the patch of divots and dandelions we impertinently referred to as the lawn.
‘I take it Josh Wedderburn is still playing the sick-boy card, then?’ I said, picking my son up and putting him down again on the centre of the playmat. ‘Surely there’s someone available in Livingston. Why can’t Ogilvie do it himself? He is the actual procurator fiscal after all.’
Joanna didn’t bother to answer. We both knew that Ogilvie only conducted trials where victory for the prosecution was a certainty, and media coverage likely. Keggie’s case wasn’t one of those, and, looked at objectively, Joanna was not only an extremely good prosecutor, she was also working flexible part-time on the basis that she could be parachuted into cases at times of emergency such as this. Still, I wasn’t going to start being all objective and reasonable when I’d much rather have faced off against Ogilvie or one of Joanna’s colleagues.
‘It’s unfair of them even to ask you,’ I grumbled, reaching over her shoulder and trying to close the ring-binder. ‘Giving you a case like this to look at over a weekend. You’re only part-time. If it starts on Tuesday, what if it spills into the following week?’
Joanna pulled the binder out of my reach. ‘If it spills it spills, but it’s not going to. There’s only a couple of days in it, three tops, and, as I’m sure you are only too well aware, if it doesn’t start sharp on Tuesday the case will time-bar.’
‘Then let it time-bar,’ I said. ‘Who cares? No one can blame you. You’re bombproof.’ I made another go for the binder, this time snagging a corner. ‘You can’t be expected to pick up a stinker of a case like this and be ready in a couple of days. It’s the weekend and you’ve got kids to look after.’
My wife didn’t see that as a problem. ‘Monday’s a court holiday, you remember what holidays are don’t you? That means if I can get a chance to read the papers today . . .’ She tugged the binder from my grip. ‘I can have tomorrow and Monday off. You say it’s a stinker, but it’s not exactly complicated. Most of the material facts are not in dispute, and, anyway, why can’t I be expected to be ready? You were only instructed a few days ago and you haven’t exactly been knocking your pan in with preparations for the defence.’
‘That’s because the defence is extremely well focused,’ I said.
‘The whole case is well focused, Robbie. We’re both agreed that the victim . . .’ She leafed back to the beginning.
‘The trial is a matter of hours away and you don’t even know the alleged victim’s name,’ I said.
‘Everything in the future is hours away, Robbie, that’s how time works, and what do you know about the case? You’ve barely opened that file you brought from the office.’
I knew enough. Sometimes it was better not to get bogged down with too many facts. ‘I’ve read the witness statements and the medical stuff. I think I can say I have captured the flavour of the thing. Man breaks into accused’s home. Accused hits man over head with big stick. Man is injured. Man deserved it.’
