| |
THE WHITE LIGHTING BOUNCED off the polished pine furniture as Cal took his seat in Court Number 2. His opposite number from the procurator fiscal was already in place, busily highlighting sentences in the witness statements piled up on his desk.
‘Morning, Mr Lynch. Joining me for a fun-filled day, I see,’ he smirked, raising his unkempt, wiry, eyebrows above his large round glasses. ‘Your client has amassed quite a record.’
‘Well, I’m thankful that the law doesn’t allow that information to be revealed to our lovely jury, John,’ Cal responded curtly, setting out his files on the desk.
‘Only pulling your leg, child. I’ve been in here for nigh on thirty years and couldn’t really give a shit about your client, or any of the others that cross my path. My mind is already on Friday and the flight to lovely Tuscany and the several bottles of red that await my presence. So please, don’t let this run over. I hear you made quite a reputation for yourself round the circuit in London?’ His bloated, red nose clearly showed a liking for wine and his attitude, coupled with his ageing appearance, gave the impression of someone biding his time until retirement.
Cal knew his task was challenging. John Burns was a formidable prosecutor fiscal who had a high success rate; he was frequently sought by Strathclyde Police as their preferred choice to lead on similar cases.
Franny McGurn entered the court from the holding cells flanked by two police officers. He was well-presented in a smart dark-blue suit and light-blue tie. Cal advised him at their pre-meeting to keep his hands below the screen in the dock; the Indian ink tattoos of love, hate and fuck the polis might have a detrimental effect on the jury’s opinion of the accused.
Cal nodded towards his client but received no reaction. Franny McGurn was now in court mode. This only required him to set his blue eyes on the sheriff throughout the trial, no glancing at witnesses, lawyers and, importantly, the jury. Don’t allow any preconceived thoughts of a guilty verdict to be reinforced by an unfortunate glance at a nervous jury member.
McGurn had been a continuous visitor to the building for most his adult life and had a charge sheet as long as his thick, muscular arm. A product of a dysfunctional family, he had learned to defend and fend for himself as a teenager and latterly as an enforcer with the local crime clan. Quinn had witnessed his abilities as he faced up to older rivals who sought to encroach on the embryonic local drug market. After that performance, he had joined the payroll and lived at Quinn’s palatial home. He would run through a brick wall for his master; he had sought to prove himself a loyal servant from the outset and always carried out instructions without deliberation.
Cal listened attentively as the clerk read the trial diet then he addressed the bench. ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’
He slipped into daydream mode as the clerk balloted the jury, read the indictment, and administered the oath for those selected.
Sheriff George Dunlop outlined the procedure to the sworn-in jury. Although he seemed to have permanent frown lines, he was an affable man and tried hard to relax the jurors with jokes – though he often failed to garner a response from the nervous incumbents.
Dunlop had worked the bench for some fifteen years. A failed Conservative candidate at the election two years earlier, he had stood on a local manifesto to clean up the growing drug epidemic engulfing Paisley. The people spoke during the democratic process; he scraped just enough votes to retain his deposit.
Although the sheriff’s primary role was to ensure the processes of justice were followed and the jury advised where appropriate, Dunlop’s background put Cal on edge. No doubt the sheriff would seek to influence the jury in such clear-cut cases as the one about to play out in his court.
‘Francis McGurn, 12 Spencer Avenue. You are indicted at the instance of Her Majesty's Advocate and the charge against you is that on 2nd June in Wellmeadow public toilets, Paisley, while acting alone, you did assault Ian Saddler, strike him with a knife or similar instrument, punch him on the head and knock him to the ground, all to his severe injury and disfigurement.’
John Burns called the first witness for the prosecution: Ian Saddler. A middle-aged man shuffled slowly across the room to the witness box, his head down. He looked decidedly older than his years as a court assistant assisted him to the box.
‘Are you able to stand, Mr Saddler, or would you require a seat?’ enquired the sheriff.
Saddler waved his hand dismissively. His face was still raw with scar tissue from the left side of his small forehead to below his chin. Cal knew what to expect next from the jury: a quick study of the horrific injuries followed by a stare at the accused. Could McGurn have done this to this poor, frail man?
McGurn sat impassively, his compact features devoid of movement or emotion. His large shaved cranium gave the impression that it was designed for head butting, which was something he was proficient in delivering.
John Burns tugged on his faded black gown as he stood up. ‘Mr Saddler, please relax as much as you possibly can. If we can go back to the second of June of this year. Can you recall the events of that night?’
‘I can. I had just locked up my new shop and wen ... went to the public toilets before heading for the bus home.’ Saddler’s eyes darted around the room. ‘I just got to the urinal when I felt a huge pain on the left side of my head. I fell to the ground and landed on my back’. Closing his eyes tightly, he gripped the edge of the witness box. ‘I looked up and saw a frightening, hate-filled face hanging over me. He grabbed me by the coat and started pounding me with his fist. After that, I can’t remember a thing.’
‘Can I take you back further, Mr Saddler? Have you ever been approached to pay a type fee or protection money?’
‘When I took the shop on, two young guys in cheap suits called in and said there would be an uplift on the property every week. I chased them out the door.’
‘For the benefit of members of the jury, Mr Saddler, could you tell the court the injuries you received from the savage attack you suffered?’
‘I have... I have not worked since. A broken jaw, fractured eye socket, dizzy spells, twenty-eight stitches along this cheek. All because I wouldn’t pay protection money.’
‘And, Mr Saddler, can you point out the person within this court who you picked out at a subsequent identity parade, and who you believe is responsible for this vicious attack?’
Mr Saddler, his laboured breathing heard throughout the silent courtroom, raised a shaking finger directly at McGurn, who never flinched.
‘Thank you, Mr Saddler. I also refer the jury to item reference 1.1 within the evidence documents provided – details of Mr Saddler’s positive identification of the accused at an identity parade which took place at Mill Street Police station. It should be noted that this procedure was two months after the assault, due to the fact that Mr Saddler was hospitalised and unable to see with clear vision a full seven weeks from the night in question.’ The prosecutor took his seat, satisfied that the die had been cast with the first witness.
Cal rose slightly from his chair. ‘No questions, Your Honour.’ He glanced towards the public benches to see Quinn’s other henchman, Nails, glaring.
Joyce was sitting behind him, head buried in a file. They had been in the office right up to the early hours, running over the witness’ statements and case files. This was not part of the plan.
John Burns’ next witness was already in the box as Cal raised his head from his notes. ‘Mr Dawson, can you take the court through the events you witnessed in the public toilets on the evening of the second of June this year,’ the prosecutor asked.
Dawson turned his bony face, revealing a heavily tattooed neck, and glanced over to the public benches where he met the eye of what was clearly a CID officer present to witness that proceedings went the way they expected. ‘Well, I was burstin’ on the way home ’n’ nipped doon for a pish, ’n’ that’s when it happened.’
‘Take a wee step back, Mr Dawson. Was there anyone present in the toilets when you entered?’
‘Aye, there was an auld boy and him ooer there, they were at the urinals. Ah stood in between them tae dae a piss, then that guy pushed past me ’n’ leathered the auld guy. Ah got a fright and jumped back. Ah didnae want ma new bleached jeans splattered with blood.’
‘Did you try to intervene and stop the assault?’
‘Naw, he was well scary. He looked up at me ’n’ told me tae fuck off oot. Sorry fur swearing.’
‘And you are convinced that the man on trial here is the same individual you witnessed carry out an attack on a defenceless man. He is also the person you subsequently selected from an identification parade at Mill Street Police Station?’
‘Aw aye, definitely him.’ Dawson was growing in confidence, pleased to be doing his civic duty; he raised his thumb tellingly towards the police officer in the gallery.
‘No further questions.’
Cal rose and walked slowly to the lectern. ‘Mr Dawson, my name is Cal Lynch. Tell me, do you frequent Paisley on a regular basis.’
‘Naw, Ah usually just stay in ma scheme in Johnstone, but that day oor chemist was closed ’n’ Ah haud tae find wan in the toon tae get ma script. So Ah jumped oan a bus tae the West End.’
‘Can I ask what medication you are prescribed, Mr Dawson?’
‘Valium.’
‘Do you take any other medication, Mr Dawson?’
‘All sorts. Ah used tae be oan the smack but Ah’m clean noo. The Valium keeps me calm and helps me sleep. Ah’ve been aff the gear for nearly a year, so well proud.’ He smiled, straightening his back and puffing out his shallow chest, his happy grin revealing a mouthful of black teeth.
It was now Cal’s turn to glance towards the plain-clothes cop. He had this figured out as he circled passages of the witness statement with his red pen. ‘Mr Dawson, can you recall the last time you visited the public toilets on Wellmeadow St?’
‘That wis ma first time.’
‘Your first time? Let’s be clear, you haven’t visited these premises previously?’ Cal glanced at the witness then met the eye of several of the jury, ensuring they were paying attention.
‘Naw.’ Dawson looked at him, confused.
‘And you were only at the urinals within the facility. Is that correct?’
‘Aye, the urinals that’s right,’ Dawson replied, nodding assertively.
‘No further questions. Thank you for your cooperation Mr Dawson.’ Cal took his chair, writing quickly on his notepad while his opposite number scanned his notes. The older lawyer knew something was not quite right; he just had to figure out what.
‘Mr Burns, your next witness?’ Sheriff Dunlop pressed the prosecutor impatiently, tapping his pen on the elevated bench.
DS Lawrie stood on the witness stand, police notebook in hand, straight back, his unshaven chin held high. An experienced officer, the surroundings wouldn’t faze him; no doubt he would be methodical and disciplined, with nothing left to chance.
‘Detective Sergeant Lawrie, you were the first officer on scene and consequently the lead investigating officer in relation to this alleged assault – is that correct?’ Burns asked, peering over his glasses.
‘Correct, sir.’
‘Can you run through the sequence of events in relation to the second of June, please?’ Burns returned to his seat and recommenced scouring his case notes.
Lawrie slowly flicked through his small black notebook. ‘I received a radio call at approximately 18:00hrs to attend the Wellmeadow public toilet, where an individual had been assaulted. On entering the premises, I found a middle-aged male, who I later identified as Mr Ian Saddler, semi-conscious. From my immediate examination,’ Lawrie paused to look at the jury, ‘I noted that the individual had lacerations to his head and a severely swollen eye. I immediately checked and found a weak pulse. I radioed for an ambulance and uniformed support to secure the crime scene and the evidence.’
‘Was there anyone else present, detective?’ Burns enquired.
‘No, sir.’
‘Let’s move on. As the senior investigating officer on this case, can you outline to the court how you apprehended the accused?’ Burns asked, leaning on the lectern.
‘Our investigations indicated that the person of interest had gone to ground and was planning to hide out in London until such time as things quietened down. He was arrested on Platform 1 at Glasgow Central, while boarding a London bound train on the fourth of June at 07:00 hrs.’ Again Lawrie glanced assuredly at the jury. ‘No further evidence was captured during the interview process. Forensic evidence from the scene, and two witness statements linking the accused to the crime and his subsequent identification, led to the charges as outlined.’
Burns returned to his seat and Cal quickly went to the lectern. Then, stepping back, he began to walk around the front of the court, hands in pockets. He oozed confidence. ‘DS Lawrie, you were the first responder to the incident?’
‘That’s correct, sir,’ Lawrie responded.
‘Does an officer of your senior rank usually respond to such calls?’ Cal asked, turning on his heels.
‘Mr Lynch, this is not an American movie set. Use the lectern or stay seated. Understood?’ The Sheriff glared at Cal, clearly unhappy that his court could be turned into a sideshow.
‘When the call comes in we have a duty to respond – no matter your rank ... sir.’ Lawrie smiled.
Cal flicked through his file and lifted a paper from the lectern. ‘So, did you respond to the other – let me see – twelve 999 calls that were received and logged within K Division that evening?’
‘If I’d been available, of course I would have, sir.’
‘And your ten-hour shift the previous day? Eight 999 calls, three of which were serious assaults. Any of those?’ Cal stared intently as Lawrie glowered.
‘Again sir. If available, without doubt I would have. That’s my job, sir.’ He was agitated with the line of questioning and expected the fiscal to intervene on his behalf. Cal’s questioning, which bore little relevance to the crime, irked him. Lawrie’s jaw tightened and his glare became more evident.
‘You state that Mr Saddler was alone when you entered the scene of the assault. Can you advise how the witness, Mr Dawson, was located?’
Lawrie welcomed the change in tack and read from his notes. ‘Mr David Dawson presented himself at Mill Street Station and volunteered a statement.’
‘Detective, as the witness advised in his evidence to this court, he is a recovering heroin addict. In all your years of experience serving the good people of Paisley, is it common for such individuals to actively engage with the police in such a manner?’
Lawrie understood Cal’s intention to discredit the main witness in front of the jury and sow doubt that the events had not actually taken place as the police had presented them.
Lawrie had won many cases from the witness box and, yes, he had bent the rules at times to put individuals away. David Dawson had owed him a turn. He had called in at Mill Street the day after the assault to answer an outstanding warrant. Their conversation had led to a statement that embellished the truth slightly as to what he’d witnessed at Wellmeadow.
‘Not in my experience, but Mr Dawson was clearly traumatised and still in shock from the vicious attack he had witnessed on a defenceless man. I’m sure anyone who was exposed to such violence would do their utmost to ensure it didn’t happen again to someone else ... sir.’
‘Hmm. Thank you, DS Lawrie. No further questions from me.’
‘Detective Sergeant Lawrie, were you able to establish a motive for this attack during the course of your investigations?’ Burns asked quickly, trying to return the narrative to the victim.
‘The victim was quite insistent that he was being pressured to pay protection money to a security organisation for new premises he had taken on. This organisation is well known to the police. We have, as yet, been unable to confirm or establish the link to which the victim refers.’
‘No further witnesses from the fiscal, Your Honour.’ John Burns sat down, satisfied to have sown the seed of a motive.
‘Mr Lynch, your turn,’ Sheriff Dunlop advised, his head darting between his notes and the jury.
‘Defence calls Mr Robert Newton, Your Honour.’
Robert Newton filled the witness stand with his heavy frame. Sweat was already gathering staining his neatly ironed, council-branded T-shirt.
‘Mr Newton, could you explain your role with the local council, please?’ Cal asked. He remained in his seat; he liked to change tack with witnesses. It allowed the jury to recall various stages in the trial process. If he followed a repetitive routine, all the events and evidence may just roll into one and key points were lost.
‘Aye, I’m in charge of aw the maintenance of the council’s public toilets and another coupla buildings,’ Newton replied proudly, wiping his forehead and neck with a discoloured handkerchief.
‘And the public toilet at Wellmeadow, according to the maintenance log submitted to the court, was upgraded and repainted on the first of June – the day before the alleged incident. Is that correct?’
‘Aye, repainted all the walls and new pipes added to remove the auld corroded works. It just opened late morning of the second, then we had tae close it again ... obviously.’ The witness laughed uncomfortably.
Cal looked across the desk at his opposite number. ‘So just to clarify, Mr Newton, the walls were repainted the day previously and the facility was only opened a matter of hours before the alleged assault at approximately 6pm?’
‘Correct. Two coats of magnolia. Place wis lookin’ like a new pin.’
‘Thank you, Mr Newton, no more questions.’
The fiscal was scouring Newton’s statement and log sheets. ‘No questions, Your Honour.’ His complexion was growing redder by the minute.
‘Your final witness, I believe, Mr Lynch. We will all be home by lunch at this rate.’ Dunlop laughed towards the jury and received a lukewarm response.
‘Can you please provide your name and job title for the jury?’ Cal was back on his feet facing the witness box.
‘Stuart Sutherland, Scene of Crime Officer, Strathclyde Police.’ The middle-aged man stood no more than five foot tall, with glasses perched on his shiny bald head. His protruding stomach marred the look of his smart, three-piece tweed suit.
‘Mr Sutherland, can you inform the jury of your role in gathering evidence at the scene of the alleged assault at the Wellmeadow Public Toilets on the second of June this year?’
Sutherland lowered his glasses over his soft brown eyes to read from his notebook. ‘I was the forensic officer in charge of the locus. I gathered samples from the scene, noted in the incident log all those who entered the premises after the assault, and those we knew were present at the time of the incident, of course.’
‘Could you elaborate, please? What type of samples did you collect?’ Cal asked, quietly.
Mr Sutherland flicked through the pages quickly, closed the book and replied, ‘Blood samples, skin samples, hair, footprints, multiple fingerprints and a full palm print.’
‘A full palm print? Can I draw you and the jury’s attention to page fifteen in the witness pack, referenced as forensic item 3745. May I add this was not included in the Prosecutor Fiscal evidence bundle. Can you confirm Mr Sutherland who the full palm print belongs to?’ Cal held up the page for emphasis and ensured the clerk of the court was on hand to point out the page to the jury members.
The forensic officer double-checked item 3745 and spoke confidently. ‘Our follow-up processes show there was sufficient ridge detail to identify print marks. This subsequently allowed a comparison to be made from those provided by witnesses who’d been present at the scene, or stated at a later date to be at the scene. This was followed up by submission to the Ident1 database which also matched the print to that of a Mr David Dawson.’
Cal now took his voice up an octave to accentuate the importance of what was being revealed. ‘Mr Sutherland, from the layout on the drawing of the toilets in front of you, page thirty of the witness pack, reference 4600, where was this print recovered?’
‘This print was recovered from the first cubicle toilet within the premises.’ The officer pointed at a large map.
‘Let us be clear – not at the urinals but in the cubicle?’ Cal enquired.
‘Yes, the cubicle, it was sited on the wall above the toilet,’ Sutherland stated, insistently.
‘And how, in your professional opinion, was the palm print left on the wall, Mr Sutherland?’ Cal probed, leading the witness to where he knew exposed the weakness in the prosecution case.
‘I believe the individual was leaning his hand against the wall while urinating into the toilet.’
‘Are you positive? How certain are you regards the location and positioning of the print? Could you be mistaken?’ Cal was asking questions that might be going through the jury members’ heads, as well as gently stirring the expert witness.
Mr Sutherland turned to look at the sheriff for guidance, the bright lights bouncing of his polished dome. He received no response. ‘I’ve been twenty-five years in the forensic business, man and boy. I don’t make mistakes. A full palm print can only be identified, in such a location, in the circumstances I have described. In addition, everything is checked and peer checked before we leave a scene, similarly when we review back at the lab,’ he responded, contemptuously.
‘So, help me then, please, Mr Sutherland. The previous day the toilets had been painted with two coats of magnolia, and only opened hours before the alleged assault.’ Cal faced the jury then swiftly turned to eye the forensics’ man. ‘A witness to that incident, a Mr David Dawson, stated – and I quote – “he visited the toilets for the first time and was situated at the middle urinal when the assault took place.” Unquote. He then left quickly and thankfully did his civic duty and presented himself at Mill Street Police Station to give a full and detailed account of what took place. How could he possibly have left a full palm print in the newly painted cubicle?’
Mr Sutherland turned slightly to face the jury, feeling his professionalism and credibility were being called into question. ‘I can’t answer for the statement to which you refer. I’m presenting the forensic facts collected at the scene by my office. Facts, Mr Lynch, with evidence collated against best practice.’
That’s the answer and precise attitude I wanted you to show, Cal thought.
‘The forensic facts? I could not put it better myself. Thank you, Mr Sutherland. No more questions, Your Honour.’
John Burns was already making eye contact with the plain-clothed officer sitting at the rear of the court. He rose slowly, his face gradually moving from crimson to deep red. ‘Your Honour, the Crown will not be presenting any further evidence and will no longer be pursuing this case.’
‘Yes!’ McGurn slammed his fist on the side of the dock, startling the court.
The sheriff stared at him for what seemed to be an eternity, then he spoke. ‘Members of the jury, I would like to express my gratitude for your contribution today. I have no doubt you have found some of the evidence harrowing. As you have heard, the prosecution no longer wishes to proceed with this indictment so you are dismissed from further service this week. Mr McGurn, you have clearly also heard the procurator fiscal. You are free to leave the court.’
Cal collected his papers and glanced at the public bench as Quinn gave a crooked smile and quietly sneaked out of the court.
‘You were right, boss. They left a hole and we found it.’ Joyce beamed in delight and slapped Cal on the back.
‘Looks like I’ll make France after all. See you again, Mr Lynch,’ John Burns whispered as he waddled towards the exit
Cal shook McGurn’s hand as he left the dock. No words were shared. Exposing the flaws in the case had all seemed rather easy. He would put that to the back of his mind for now.
‘The boss is having a celebratory drink back at the office. He will see you there.’ Nails didn’t wait for a response as he walked quickly from the court.
***
Cal woke fresh from the previous late-night celebrations. He had ensured he stayed sober, only sipping on the one malt throughout the evening though Joyce had become gluttonous with the free bar. The party had gone on until the small hours, with Quinn holding centre stage and his employees hanging on every word.
‘Let me show you some of our achievements Cal,’ he’d announced guiding him towards the framed pictures on the silk-covered wall. ‘We never get recognition. Dialysis machines, baby incubators, training schemes, minibuses to take pensioners, kids and football teams abroad on holidays they could only dream about otherwise. And we’re crooks? Harassment, that’s what it is, plain and simple.’
Quinn wandered back to his desk, picked up a tattered, leather bound book and handed it to Cal. ‘Delinquent Man by Cesare Lombroso.’
‘Ah, yes. His study into the Favara Brotherhood in Sicily, believed to be the first Cosa Nostra. A very interesting read,’ Cal asserted, content that his familiarity with the subject would allow the conversation to flow.
‘Exactly, I read it at least once a year. And the reason it sits permanently on my desk? Because Lombroso states that certain deformities indicate criminals – criminal stigmata. And young guys like McGurn, with his tattoos and aggressive expression, is the modern day equivalent. I’m the modern equivalent too because I’m successful. New money - where did he get it? Must be a criminal.’
Quinn was loosening up, thought Cal, must be the brandy. ‘An interesting analogy, Mr Quinn, but if innocent you have nothing to worry about.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘In this town if you have a good lawyer you’ve nothing to worry about,’ Quinn said. ‘Here, more whisky.’
***
‘So tell me, Lawrie, why was yesterday so simple? You went to court with a flawed case against McGurn, which a junior counsel could have seen through, and folded it at the first opportunity.’
‘Christ, I’d thought you’d be happy, Cal. You won the case, didn’t you? And we do know he’s ruined that poor man’s life.’
Lawrie lit another cigarette and blew smoke out his wide nostrils. He has spent his whole police career in Paisley, rejecting the opportunity of further promotion elsewhere within the force. Having lost his only sister to a drug overdose Lawrie was determined, and obsessive, in his pursuit of smashing the local the dealers and the networks which supplied them. He had been radioed to attend a report of two bodies lying in an dilapidated lane. To find and cradle his sister, who had left the family home months before after a row about her drug use, was unbearable. At times his methods were out with the recognised rule book but the image of his beautiful sister, her body decimated beyond recognition with a blooded needle hanging from her track marked arm never left him.
‘Look, there’s bigger sharks circling Quinn. The details haven’t been shared, but we were told to throw this up with enough for the fiscal to proceed. Expose Quinn as a gangster again to get the local and national press to start digging then, when others move in, it’ll be easier to bring him down. Folk will be keener to provide info. Anyway, it gets you further embedded with him. He'll be more relaxed around you. You never know, they may drop some wee bits of info.’
Cal lowered the window and sniffed his cashmere coat. ‘Could we maybe meet somewhere with a bit of fresh air next time?’
‘I’ve still not fully sussed you out, but I don’t think yer one of his lackeys – yet. Anything for me? You partied until the small hours – must have been some interesting conversations?’
‘God, I don’t believe it. So simple,’ Cal whispered, under his breath.
‘What is?’ Lawrie sat up attentively. ‘This is about distribution? We know his empire is built on it, we just cannae nail him.’
Cal looked directly at Lawrie; he still didn’t entirely trust him. The lines on the seasoned detective forehead tightened as he awaited a response. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking out loud. Let me come back to you if I get anything.’
I’ll feed Lawrie small snippets to test if he is on Quinn’s payroll, Cal thought. Then I’ll reveal how the empire functions. Another step to bring him down.