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‘GOOD MORNING. YOU MUST be Mr Lynch. You are very welcome.’
‘And you must be Ms Knox,’ Cal replied, smiling broadly as he walked towards the middle-aged woman dressed in a two-piece, silver-grey suit and frilly blouse. Most likely from Goldbergs, he thought. ‘It’s great to be here at last.’
‘May I first of all apologise for yesterday, Mr Lynch. We assumed you would be taking over the business from today. It was a tiresome day and we try to vacate the office for some respite at lunchtime to allow us to remain focused in the afternoon,’ she said hesitantly. She left the confines of her desk and met him in the middle of the office. ‘May I also complement you on your attire? Hand-made in Savile Row, if I’m not mistaken? Herringbone tweed.’ She observed the sharp cut of his suit, complemented with a light-blue button-down shirt, gold tie and matching cufflinks and tiepin. ‘I’ve a very keen eye when it comes to quality material.’
She clearly had an acute sense of admitting misdemeanours while enshrouding them in compliments. Once I get her loyalty, he thought, she’ll be a great asset. ‘No problem, Ms Knox. Or shall I call you Anne?’
‘Why, of course you can.’ She observed his distinctive brown eyes that continually scanned the sparse office, taking everything in.
‘Please call me Cal.’
‘I prefer formalities, especially around clients, Mr Lynch.’
‘Of course, quite correct.’ She was laying down a marker; first point to her. Let her have it – he was the boss after all.
‘Our colleague, Mr Joyce, is delivering papers to the procurator fiscal’s office at present. He shouldn’t be too long. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve begun allocating time in your diary for this week, though I have left this morning free for you to settle in. Your first appointment is with a potential client at 2pm. I thought you would like the office vacated by your predecessor. It is the more spacious of the two, and has a big window with clear views onto the Wellmeadow. As well as having less dampness on the walls,’ she added, gesturing at the black patches and woodchip wallpaper lifting off the walls.
‘Excellent, Ms Knox. I’ve just got a few boxes to bring in.’ He moved towards the door.
‘Sorry, we assume you will want to make changes to the business. Staff, maybe?’ she called after him, slightly lowering her voice.
‘Nothing that can’t wait or will kill us, Ms Knox. Don’t worry.’
Cal quickly made himself at home. He rearranged the desk to view the front door of the main office, which looked on to West Brae and the busy thoroughfare of Wellmeadow Street. His primary objective was to observe the comings, goings and, more importantly, the dynamics of his new business rather than taking in the delights of the grey urban scenery and its population.
The space under the window was an ideal position for his record player and the boxes of LPs which accompanied him wherever he worked.
He settled back in the dusty leather chair; it creaked with every movement. He thought about how far he had come in the past twenty-two years and time seemed to shrink in those few short moments. The thoughts and feelings that were the driving force behind his relentless motivation never left him. His eyes closed momentarily as memories of his father returned; he saw him rubbing his strong fingers over his skull as Cal sat at his feet playing with his cars and building tunnels with the thick fireplace rug. He could feel the sense of warmth and security that he had failed to emulate since.
This wasn’t revenge; it wasn’t about getting even but about putting right a wrong. He ruined my life. Now I’ll demolish his.
‘Ms Knox, my office with Mr Joyce as soon as he’s back, okay?’ he called via the internal line.
‘Very good, Mr Lynch. He shouldn’t be too far away.’
The door slammed and he heard a muffled conversation in the front office. With a light tap, his new secretary entered accompanied by her colleague. ‘Mr Joyce has returned, Mr Lynch,’ she said.
Rising to his feet, he met his new employee at the front of the dark-oak desk. No need to be too formal yet. ‘Pleased to meet you Mr Joyce.’
The man stood around five feet eight, had a dishevelled appearance and seemed to be sweating profusely. His thinning black hair was swept from left to right, fighting against an emerging bald spot.
‘And you, Mr Lynch. Please call me Jack or Jackie. Bit out of breath here. Had to make the PF’s first thing with witness papers for a defendant. Guilty as sin, the wee thug, but we are here to represent, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed, Jack,’ Cal replied, his mind racing to the next part of the planned conversation. ‘Take a seat, please.’ He perched between them on the edge of the desk. ‘I just want to run through a couple of points. First thing, there will be no payoffs or new staff coming in. It’s the three of us for the foreseeable future.’ He scanned their eyes and body language. All good so far.
‘Secondly, I’ve obviously read through the caseloads, the accounts and, more importantly, each of your roles in keeping this place functioning when things got, shall we say, tough. Thank you for doing that. I may implement changes in the coming months and I am really looking forward to growing the business,’ he added, walking round his desk, thankfully recalling his squeaky chair before sitting down. It would have ruined his impact. ‘But we’ll do it as a team – or, if we can’t agree, I’ll decide,’ he advised them assertively.
Jack had encountered five new owners in the twelve years he’d worked in the West End. Each one was either burned out by a monotonous, enormous caseload or sold up to move onto bigger, better things. One incumbent, Gordon McIntosh, saddled with gambling debt and a growing dependency on cocaine, had succumbed to gangster pressure that resulted in him being struck off and receiving a custodial for smuggling drugs to clients on remand in HMP Barlinnie. McIntosh had arrived at the law practice with the same enthusiasm the new incumbent was currently displaying, he thought. That all changed a mere ten months of his tenure when new client files were created which only the lawyer himself had access to. His demeanour became increasingly detached and the day to day business of low level criminal cases was continually ignored. Upon his arrest, the office was turned over by local police officers and the secret files were removed shortly before a full-scale raid by plain clothed officers from Glasgow, accompanied by inland revenue colleagues arrived with a warrant to seize all documents. McIntosh was in deep and knew more than he should have. He refused to co-operate or answer questions during days of interrogation. He knew his fate and accepted he would be jailed, his promising career over. Keeping his mouth shut would ensure he would be well looked after once he arrived at the prison to see out his sentence.
‘Sounds fine to me, boss,’ responded Jack, glancing over his shoulder towards the uninterrupted, blue sky that was struggling to break through the dirt-encased window and bring some brightness to the dimly lit room
‘So, it’s business as usual. I’ll arrange a weekly team meeting with Ms Knox. That’s all for now.’ Cal’s eyes unintentionally steered them both towards the door. ‘Ms Knox, just a couple of things. Get our landlord on the phone about the damp, please. I’m not paying rent for a dump. And forward our new details to all the local police stations for the relevant desk sergeants. Can you get hold of a joiner, preferably local? I want a clear glass door on here and we need a new sign out front. Make sure I am here when this work is carried out. And also organise a weekly window clean, inside and out. Oh, and the signage. The wording is, “Cal Lynch, Criminal Defence Lawyers”. Thank you.’ He thought that sounded fantastic.
‘I’ll deal with that straight away and have drafts and quotes by close today. Once I contact Mill Street Police Station, you’ll be added to the on-call rota, Mr Lynch,’ Ms Knox replied, pulling the door closed behind her. Then she put her head round it again. ‘Oh, and Mr Lynch.’ A mixture of laughter lines and wrinkles appeared on her face. ‘Welcome to Paisley.’