‘Yeah, that’s got to be it.’
The agents’ room, Livingston Sheriff Court, lunchtime Friday. How the usual football chat had metamorphosed into a discussion on my marriage, I had no idea, but my so-called friend and fellow defence solicitor Paul Sharp was holding forth on the subject.
‘Let’s be honest…’ It was an intriguing proposition to put to a room full of lawyers. ‘You don’t have to apply much in the way of critical thinking to work out that Joanna didn’t marry Robbie for his looks.’ It was a statement I didn’t think needed to be quite so readily accepted by those gathered. Yes, aesthetically speaking, there was a certain disparity in levels between my wife and I; however, I put that down to extreme prettiness on her part as opposed to some gross deformity on mine.
‘It couldn’t have been for his brains either,’ someone else piped up, ‘Joanna’s twice the lawyer Robbie will ever be.’
Which again was true. If by that they meant Joanna knew twice as much law as I did. Personally, I’d never viewed legal knowledge as such a huge advantage when it came to court work. When it came to criminal law, clients largely judged a lawyer on results, and I liked to think my win record spoke for itself. I was about to say so; however, Paul wasn’t finished.
‘And it definitely wasn’t for his money.’ Again, an averment with which I couldn’t disagree. ‘So,’ he summed-up, ‘Jo must have seen Robbie as a fixer-upperer. You get women like that. Ones who like a challenge.’
‘A challenge? She’s an ex-Procurator fiscal depute and now my wife and business partner,’ I said, ‘she’s not Amelia Earhart. Anyway, what’s so needing fixed-up about me?’
Paul blew out his cheeks in a where-to-even-begin kind of a way that made me glad when the door opened and a court officer stuck his head around it and said, ‘Robbie, there’s a lady out here wanting to speak to you.’
I couldn’t help but notice the use of the term ‘lady’ not ‘woman’ or even ‘some burd’, for there weren’t all that many ladies to be found in Scotland’s sheriff courts, not if you omitted those women for whom the title came, often undeservedly so, along with shrieval commissions and horsehair wigs.
‘Sorry, I have to leave you. The ladies can’t keep away from me,’ I told the assembled as, intrigued, I followed the court officer out of the door, where, before veering off in the direction of his lunchtime sandwiches, he steered me towards someone standing in the main corridor outside Court 1, her slender figure silhouetted against the wall of windows. I was no expert, but if poise, elegance and expensive clothing were anything to go by, then she did indeed look like someone who might very well fall under the category of lady.
As I approached she pulled off a leather glove finger by finger, elevated a hand and held it limply mid-air. It seemed I was supposed to do something with it. Thinking a hearty shake was probably not what was expected, I took hold of a few digits and gave them a gentle squeeze. ‘Mr Munro?’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a lawyer.’
‘Then look no further. You’ve got one by the hand,’ I said, receiving in response a slither of a smile making me wish I had on a better suit, and causing me to give the toes of my shoes a quick polish on the back of my calves.
‘I have a legal problem. I was given your name when I went to see Maggie Sinclair at Caldwell & Craig. I believe you worked there for a while.’ She was right. I’d joined Caldwell & Craig, upon leaving Uni and left ten years later following a difference of opinion. My opinion was that I should stay, Maggie’s opinion was that I should take up my legal aid forms and walk. Senior partners of law firms tended to emerge on top when it came to differing views, so I’d moved to Linlithgow High Street and had been looking around for signs of crime ever since. If Maggie was sending business my way, some things were guaranteed. It would be a criminal case, and a real stinker at that. Not to worry. Stinky criminal cases were something of a Munro & Co. speciality.
‘How can I help?’ I asked, nostrils twitching at the scent of money drifting up from the designer handbag slung over my new client’s shoulder.
‘It’s my husband.’
I’d thought she might be here on behalf of someone else. She didn’t look like my usual Sheriff Court client. ‘I see. What’s he supposed to have done?’ I said.
‘Died,’ she said.
I was taken aback a little by this. My usual Sheriff Court client had a pulse. No money, but a functioning circulatory system was the norm. ‘Oh… I’m sorry to hear that,’ was the best I could come out with at short notice.
‘Supposed to have died anyway.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He’s supposed to have died. I don’t think they’re quite sure yet.’
‘Who’s not quite sure?’
‘The police.’
You didn’t spend fifteen years in criminal law not to learn at least the basics of human physiology, and I’d always found breathing in and out to be a good indication of life. I’d also come to realise over the same period that nutters came in all shapes and sizes. Some might even come lugging designer handbags. No wonder Maggie Sinclair had punted the woman in my direction.
‘I’m sorry.’ I seemed to be doing a lot of apologising considering I wasn’t the one who couldn’t work out if their spouse had joined the choir invisible. ‘Maybe you could explain further.’
‘What I mean is they haven’t found him.’
‘Oh, so he’s disappeared?’
‘Yes… though not all of him.’
I thought I’d play along. ‘Okay… how much of him has disappeared?’ I asked with as straight a face as I could marshal.
‘All of him apart from his left arm.’
‘And the arm…where is it now?’
‘I’m not sure. With the police or in a morgue or somewhere.’
‘Then how can I help?’
‘There are people who think that my husband was murdered.’
If the man had been separated from an arm without his consent, I reckoned those people might have a point.
‘And who do these people think murdered him?’ I thought was a reasonable enough question.
‘That’s the problem, Mr Munro.’ She put the one bare hand back inside a glove and gave it a little tug to secure it in place before she looked up at me again. ‘They think it was me.’