Dead And Buried

Twenty-five

Ray Wilding looked at the name on the brass plate on the railing, with the blue Legal Aid logo alongside. ‘Oliver Poole WS,’ he read aloud. ‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘it amazes me why allegedly smart people use lawyers like this one. Whenever they or their assistants turn up to represent someone in custody, it’s as if they scream “guilty by association” at us.’

‘There are plenty of them in Glasgow too,’ Bandit Mackenzie told him. ‘But you shouldn’t read anything sinister into it. There are big corporate law firms who make most of their money out of business clients, and there are those like this one who look to the criminal legal-aid system for their turnover. They all provide a service, that’s all, so don’t go putting them in the same box as their clients.’

‘I’m not. What I’m saying is that when a straight citizen retains a firm like this, he doesn’t know the signal he’s sending out.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t. But Poole and guys like him advertise in the press and on telly, so maybe he’s the only lawyer your Mr Straight knows by name. Let’s find out.’ He led the way up the three steps to the front door.

Although the solicitor’s plate was the only one showing on the street, he shared the Haymarket office building with several other firms, including a secretarial agency, and an accountancy practice. Each had its own entry buzzer: the chief inspector pressed and waited for an answer. ‘Oliver Poole WS.’ Even through the tinny intercom the woman’s voice sounded nasal.

‘DCI Mackenzie and DS Wilding for Mr Poole.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘We’re the polis, dear; we don’t make appointments. We called to tell him we were coming.’

‘Just a minute.’ Mackenzie heard something unintelligible, shouted across an office, then, ‘Open the door when you hear the buzzer, and come down to the basement.’

They followed the directions, pausing only to ensure that the door had closed properly behind them. The building was modest, but appeared to have been refurbished in the recent past. The paint on the walls was fresh and the carpets felt soft underfoot, as if the underlay was relatively new. The door to Oliver Poole’s office faced the foot of the stairs. It was held open by a small, tubby, middle-aged man, his sparse hair swept back from his forehead as he peered at the detectives over half-moon spectacles.

‘DS Wilding,’ he said, as they stepped inside, ‘good to see you again. The last time was in the Sheriff Court I believe: Her Majesty’s Advocate versus McCafferty.’

‘That’s right, Mr Poole: he was sent to the High Court for sentence at the end of the day, as I remember.’

‘We can’t win them all, Sergeant. You were a pretty good witness.’

‘Thanks for that; you didn’t give me an easy time.’

‘It’s my job to give you a hard time.’

Wilding grinned. ‘I know. That’s why I don’t hold it against you. Mr Poole, this is my new boss, DCI Mackenzie.’

‘Ah,’ the solicitor exclaimed. ‘You’re the man, are you? From what I hear, you’ve been causing a lot of fear and despondency among the under-classes since you came here from Strathclyde. So, you’ve moved on from drugs, have you?’

The two men shook hands. ‘As of last week,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I’m back in the mainstream now.’

‘You’ll be relieved, I’m sure. Dirty business: if I’m allowed to class my clients in order of preference, the dealers are absolutely my least favourite.’

‘So why do you represent them?’

‘I don’t believe I have the right to turn them away: our constitution, such as it is, says that they’re entitled to the best defence available. My profession requires me to provide it. Yours requires you to prepare a case so formidable that I can’t find any holes through which my client can wriggle. You might see us as adversaries, Mr Mackenzie, but I don’t. We’re both in the public service, the twin pillars of the justice system. Enough of the philosophy, though. Come through to my office.’ He led the way across an open area big enough for five desks: two were occupied by young women, and the others were empty. ‘I have three assistant solicitors,’ he explained. ‘They’re all in court just now. You know what Monday mornings are like.’

‘We do our best to keep you busy,’ said Mackenzie, as they took seats in the small private room. ‘All our mornings can be like that, and the middle of some of our nights too.’

‘I’m sure. So, gentlemen, what can I do for you? Which of my clients is in such deep shit that you come to me, rather than the other way round?’

‘We believe that you represent Gareth Starr,’ the chief inspector began.

Poole held up a hand. ‘Wrong.’

‘You accompanied him when he was interviewed in the Queen Charlotte Street police office last week.’

‘Yes, but I’m being legally exact: I now represent his estate. I’m named as executor in his will. To be honest, I’ve been expecting your visit.’

‘How long have you known Mr Starr?’

Poole ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Gary? Let’s see: I’ve been in independent practice for eighteen years, and he came to me not long after. . Yes, I acted for him for sixteen years.’

‘How did your relationship begin?’

‘I was recommended by a partner in the firm where I had been an assistant.’

‘What was the nature of the service you provided?’

‘General. I handled all his legal requirements: my practice is mainly criminal but not exclusively so. I made sure his licence was always up to date, I handled his conveyancing, when he bought his house and his shop, and I acted for him in his divorce.’

‘What were the grounds?’

‘Irretrievable breakdown; Kitty left him, simple as that. Her main complaint was that he was a skinflint.’

‘Was she right?’

‘I don’t believe so. The truth was that his business made him a living and that was all. Kitty thought that all bookies own Rollers, not Ford Sierras and the like. If she had the idea that she’d walk away from the marriage with a lot of money, she was wrong, way off beam.’

‘Do you know where she is now?’

‘Yes. She’s remarried and living in Gilmerton. She rang me first thing this morning: she wanted to know whether Gary’s original will was still valid, or if he’d changed it.’

‘And had he?’

‘Happily, yes. His mother is still alive; she’s in a nursing home in Joppa, and the new will leaves everything to her.’

‘How did she sound when you told her?’ asked Wilding.

‘As you’d expect: a little disappointed.’ Poole chuckled. ‘I imagine you’ll want to speak to her. I’ll let you have her address. Her name is Philips now.’

‘What do you know about Mr Philips?’

‘Nothing. I’ve never met him.’

‘Mr Starr’s business associates,’ said Mackenzie. ‘What do you know about them?’

‘What business associates? There was the clerk, Eddie Charnwood, and the board man-cum-gofer, the smelly bloke, but that was it. Gary was a small independent bookmaker, Chief Inspector. The only other people in his life you could call associates were his punters.’

‘Are you a punter yourself?’

‘Very occasionally; but I’m what Gary would have called a big-event player. I’ll have a bet on the Grand National and the Derby, and sometimes on the Open Championship. Naturally, when I did that I’d bet with him. He used to smile every time I came into the shop.’

‘Did he have any awkward customers that you knew of? For example, were there any disputes over pay-outs? Have there been any threats of legal action, since the new legislation was floated allowing people to sue over gambling matters?’

‘None. A bookmaker of Gary Starr’s size can’t afford to alienate customers. Word would get out and he’d find his shop empty.’

‘Was he a violent man, Mr Poole? Was that incident last week typical of him?’

‘If he was, he never showed it to me. We weren’t close friends, Mr Mackenzie; we had a normal business relationship, but it had become established to the point of cordiality. I found him quiet, occasionally short-tempered, but nothing more than that. I know what you’re leading up to. He contacted me on Friday afternoon and told me what had happened. He asked if I thought there was any chance of him being prosecuted.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him that I’d bet against it, but that I’d accompany him to the interview for safety’s sake. He asked me what odds he should give me, and I repeated what he’d often said to me, that the odds don’t matter when you’re going to lose, as he would have if he’d taken my bet.’

‘There’s no chance of him being prosecuted now, that’s for sure.’

‘There never was. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Probably not,’ Mackenzie conceded. ‘Mr Poole, since you are the executor, you’re in a position to help our investigation. We have an open mind on Mr Starr’s murder.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘I am a criminal lawyer, Chief Inspector. I have seen things.’

‘You haven’t seen this, I promise you. Take it from us that it was brutal and leave it at that. The only thing we do know for sure is that there was nothing random about it; it wasn’t a housebreaking gone wrong, or anything like that. We’re going to need access to everything about his life, business and personal. It’ll save us a hell of a lot of time if you can give us a written authority to access his papers, bank accounts, shop records, all that stuff.’

‘You need it in writing?’ asked Poole. ‘Yes, I suppose you do: bankers can be very stuffy if they put their minds to it. Okay, that’s easily done.’ He opened a drawer of his desk, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, picked up a pen and began to write. When he was finished, he folded it, placed it in an envelope and slid it across to Mackenzie. ‘There you are: that’s all you require. If anyone questions it, put them on to me.’

‘There are safes in his office and house. There’ll be no comeback if we have to force them, will there?’

‘None: that note lets you go everywhere and do anything in pursuit of your investigation. Good luck, gentlemen. When you find the bastard who did this, I can promise you I won’t be defending him. I don’t have all that many straight clients, so I don’t like losing any of them.’