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  Praise for William McIntyre

  Last Will

  ‘A Scottish crime thriller with a great lead in lawyer Robbie Munro and a cast of reprobates to keep you guessing, laughing and on the edge of your seat - a cracking read.’

  Gregor Fisher (Rab C. Nesbit)

  ‘McIntyre’s outstanding mystery featuring Scottish defense counsel Robbie Munro perfectly blends humor and investigation. Readers will want to see a lot more of the endearing Robbie.’

  Starred review, Publishers Weekly

  ‘Last Will is a reminder of how good Scottish crime writing is . . . Robbie Munro, defence lawyer, struggling Dad, always flying by the seat of his pants, is great fun to be with.’

  Paul Burke, NB Magazine

  ‘A clever, absorbing and funny book . . . an addictive page turner. I loved it!’

  Mrs Bloggs’ Books

  Present Tense

  ‘Crime with an edge of dark humour . . . could only come out of Scotland.’

  Tommy Flanagan (Braveheart, Sons of Anarchy)

  ‘Page-turning read, helped by a clear and crisp writing style. A fresh take for the Tartan Noir scene and I look forward to seeing where McIntyre takes Robbie next.’

  Louise Fairbairn, The Scotsman

  ‘This is dark humour, ironic humour, the kind you need when dealing with the things lawyers deal with.’

  Liz Loves Books

  ‘An entertaining novel with enough mystery threaded through it to keep crime fans gripped, and characters well rounded enough to carry a series.’

  Shots Magazine

  Good News, Bad News

  ‘Take a plot that would knock John Grisham for six, season with a picaresque cast of supporting characters, garnish with one-liners that Frankie Boyle would kill for and you have a page-turner of the highest quality.’

  Alex Norton (Taggart)

  ‘Dry and pleasing wit which will surely see Robbie taking his place alongside Christopher Brookmyre’s Jack Parlabane soon.’

  Sunday Sport

  Stitch Up

  ‘A deft slice of Caledonian crime . . . rings viscerally true, thanks no doubt to McIntyre’s lifelong experience in criminal law.’

  The Times

  ‘Nail-biting, dark-humoured writing, with twists and gut-wrenching surprises that leave you thinking, “just one more page please”.’

  Scottish Field

  ‘A compelling, well-plotted mystery.’

  The Herald

  ‘A cracking read: cleverly plotted, engaging characters, humorous and McIntyre knows his subject matter well.’

  Grab This Book blog

  Fixed Odds

  ‘Larger than life characters and a great story-line with a nice twist.’

  Scots Magazine

  ‘Full of wit . . . entertaining with a darker core, this is another winner in the Munro series.’

  Live and Deadly blog

  ‘A perfectly crafted Tartan Noir with mixed layers of hilarious moments and dangerous times.’

  Meggy Roussel, Chocolate ‘n’ Waffles blog

  ‘I just adored everything about Fixed Odds.’

  Whispering Stories blog

  William McIntyre is a partner in Scotland’s oldest law firm Russel + Aitken, specialising in criminal defence. He has been instructed in many interesting and high-profile cases over the years and now turns fact into fiction with his Robbie Munro legal thrillers. He is married with four sons.

  Also in the Robbie Munro series

  Last Will

  Present Tense

  Good News, Bad News

  Stitch Up

  Fixed Odds

  First published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Willow House

  Stoneyfield Business Park

  Inverness

  IV2 7PA

  Scotland

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © William McIntyre 2020

  Editor: Moira Forsyth

  The moral right of William McIntyre to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ISBN: 978-1-913207-30-4

  ISBNe: 978-1-913207-31-1

  Sandstone Press is committed to a sustainable future. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council ® certified paper.

  Cover design by Two Associates

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  This book was largely written late 2019 when Covid 19 was just a twinkle in a Wuhan bat’s eye. That and the fact the book is set in 2021 is the reason there is no mention of the virus, but nonetheless, I would like to dedicate it to all the doctors, nurses, pharmacists, paramedics and other frontline staff, keyworkers and volunteers, who have worked so hard to keep the rest of us safe, not forgetting the forgotten lawyers, clerks, judges, sheriffs, police officers, social workers and prison staff who keep the wheels of our criminal justice system grinding.

  1

  You could tell it was summertime in Scotland by the longer intervals between the rain. It had started again. Fat drops splattered onto the page in my brother’s hand. When he’d finished reading, Malky tucked the soggy sheet of paper inside his jacket and ducked his head under my big black umbrella. There were more people graveside than I’d thought there would be. As a rule, the older you were when you died the fewer mourners you could expect. I stared down into the hole. Made you think. One day you were having the time of your life: drinking with your mates, watching football, playing golf. The next you were being buried or burned.

  I collapsed my brolly, stuck the spike into the ground and, along with my brother, stepped forward to receive one of the red cords the undertaker was distributing among the pall-bearers. There were lots of us, but then we weren’t lowering a featherweight. Not in any sense of the word. Distant family members, old friends who’d dragged themselves away from busy schedules, even older friends who’d dragged themselves away from the Red Corner Bar, all took a cord. Last to receive was Sammy Veitch. A trip-and-slip lawyer, such was Sammy’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the defects in West Lothian’s pavements, he could identify the offending upraised slab even before you’d tripped over it. For once the wee man was clad in a sombre tweed suit rather than his usual Highland garb.

  At the head of the grave, the minister droned on about life even more everlasting than his sermon had been back at the church. On his signal, we lowered the coffin into the ground, the thick hemp straps across the shoulders of the gravediggers taking most
of the strain. Soon wood met earth. We let the red cords fall and stepped back. The man in the back-to-front collar stepped forward and stooped to pick up a handful of wet soil. As the dirt slipped through his fingers, there came a sudden stillness in the air, a flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder. Someone up there was putting a No Vacancies sign in the window.

  The service finished with a prayer, another roar of thunder and hailstones pelting the gathered throng. Many, like my brother, who’d been fooled by a bright start to the morning and come unprepared, scurried by us, casting soil into the grave as they went.

  Malky and I were making our own departure, shuffling along, both trying to stay under the one umbrella, when Sammy came over, reached up and put a hand around each of our shoulders. ‘I’ll miss him,’ he said. ‘We all will. You can say what you like about the man, but he was a—’

  ‘Dodgy, corrupt old shyster?’ was my dad’s suggestion. He’d come forward to toss an excessively large clod of mud into the hole and watched it splat against a coffin lid already lightly dusted with dirt and gravel. He turned to Sammy. ‘No offence, of course. Sorry for your loss and all that. If you can call it a loss.’

  ‘Dad, you’re talking about Sammy’s business partner. The man’s dead. Leave it at that, will you?’

  But the old man was on a roll. ‘Leave it? No, I won’t leave it, and don’t go thinking you’re any better than Eddie Frew the way you’re headed.’

  ‘And where exactly am I headed?’ I said.

  ‘Defence lawyers,’ my dad spat. ‘There’ll be no snowball fights where Eddie “The Fixer” Frew’s going.’

  My father’s view on the presumption of innocence and the right to a fair trial veered on the side of the lynch mob.

  ‘You’re retired,’ I said. ‘It’s okay to stop thinking like a cop.’

  ‘And start thinking like a crook?’ he said. ‘Like him? I mean, what’s all that about?’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the minister, standing head bowed at the graveside. ‘I’ll bet the only time Eddie picked up a Bible was to check for loopholes.’

  Sammy stepped between us. ‘That’s enough, Alex. Robbie’s right. It’s my partner’s funeral. You didn’t like him – Eddie knew that. He knew that and he didn’t care. Now why don’t you shut up and have a little respect for the dead?’

  My dad snorted. ‘Respect?’ He turned on Malky. ‘And as for you. I might have known Robbie would be here, but I expected more from you. Making speeches about what a great guy Eddie was. Always there to give folk a helping hand. Aye, so long as they greased his palm first.’

  Sammy had had enough. ‘Come with me, boys. You’ll get soaked walking back in this.’ He manoeuvred Malky and me away from my dad and led us in the direction of a man in morning dress who was waiting by one of two black limos, seemingly oblivious to the downpour.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Sammy,’ I said, once the three of us had clambered into the back seat. ‘I’ll have a word with my dad later. Get him to apologise properly.’

  Sammy, in the middle, turned to look at me. ‘It’s okay, Robbie. Me and your dad have always been sound. He never did like Eddie much, though,’ he added, rather understating the obvious. ‘Your old man and Eddie had too many run-ins back in the day. Eddie used to say your dad could make a bachelor confess to bigamy. Don’t worry, we’ll patch things up later over a dram.’ He smiled. ‘And Alex is right about one thing. Eddie was as bent as a Brexit banana. He was also as rude as hell to the punters. I could never understand why they flocked to him. There’s me, buzzing about like a blue-arsed fly, chasing business all over town, while he just sat there, fighting off the clients. And as for legal aid? Not a chance. Cash was always king with Eddie.’

  Like anyone who had known the late Eddie Frew, I couldn’t disagree. A reputation was everything in criminal law. Especially a bad one. Some clients didn’t want a straight-shooter. They wanted someone they thought would bend the rules in their favour, and Eddie ‘The Fixer’ Frew would bend them, break them and scatter the pieces about the courtroom if necessary, just so long as the money was right.

  Sammy leaned across and patted Malky on the knee. ‘By the way, I should have said earlier, thanks for coming and saying a few words, big man. It would have made Eddie’s day knowing you were here.’

  Come to think of it, why was my brother here? Sammy was the deceased’s former business partner. A few of us local solicitors had pitched up out of professional courtesy. My dad had probably come along just to make absolutely certain Eddie was dead, and I suspected the large contingent from the Red Corner Bar had a lot to do with the free drink that was being laid on back at their local, courtesy of Frew & Veitch. But my brother? Was football legend Malky Munro, radio pundit and after-dinner speaker, doing guest appearances at funerals now?

  ‘I’m here because Eddie asked me to come,’ Malky said.

  According to reports, Eddie had died from a massive heart attack. Dropped dead while on a visit to Queensbury House, a 17th century building renovated and integrated into the Scottish Parliament, where politicians and guests downed taxpayer-subsidised liquor. It was the equivalent of the old boys’ clubs and smoke-filled rooms of yesteryear, where affairs of state were discussed. Except these days there were a lot more women and a smoking ban. Many was the time Big Eddie Frew, a staunch unionist, had said he wouldn’t be seen dead in the place at the foot of the Royal Mile. He was wrong about that. He’d been seen very dead. Dropping like the pound on the eve of Brexit, dram in hand and never spilling a drop. There would have been no time for him to call Malky before he hit the floor.

  ‘When did he ask you?’ I said.

  Malky scratched his jaw. ‘Would have been a few years ago now. Remember that time someone broke in and stole my Cup medal?’

  How could any of us forget the wailing and gnashing of teeth that had followed? Or the fact that out of all Malky’s trophies, that medal was all the more important because he’d scored the winner? A goal that had gone down in Scottish football legend as either the best or the luckiest cup-winning goal ever. An opinion that varied depending on the tint of the spectator’s spectacles, light blue or shamrock green.

  My brother looked out of the window at a West Lothian that was getting wetter by the minute. ‘Eddie . . . Well . . . Let’s just say he arranged for me to get it back and wouldn’t take any money for it. All he asked was that I do him a favour. I thought he wanted a signed shirt or tickets to a game or something, but, no, he said to me, “When I die, say something nice about me at my funeral.” I thought he was joking, but here I am.’

  ‘Sounds like Eddie,’ Sammy said. ‘Sometimes I think he made more money out of court, than he ever made in it. He had the Scottish Parliament to thank for that, even though he hated the place. Closing all those police stations and turning the bizzies into call centre operatives. What did that lot in Holyrood think was going to happen?’

  I knew what he meant. Close hospitals and there’d be fewer admissions, but people didn’t suddenly stop getting ill. They looked for cures elsewhere: old wives and witch doctors. It was the same with police stations. For some, Eddie Frew was a justice medicine man – the cure to a failed system. It made sense in a twisted sort of a way. If you had serious people on the books, and Eddie had a client bank of some top-notch villains, why not hire them out? Someone stole your motor? Assaulted you? Maybe just a noisy neighbour? The police don’t want to know, neither does the Council, so why bother to report it? Go see Eddie Frew. He knows a guy, who knows a guy. For a price, you’ll get justice. Proper justice, without all the hassle of court and definitely no witnesses – at least none that will speak up.

  Sammy was ten years Eddie’s junior. Eddie had taken him on as a legal apprentice, and for years the pair practised in their hometown of Linlithgow, before deciding there was not enough business. So they’d diversified, opening offices in Edinburgh and Bathgate, with Eddie chasing the private money, Sammy chasing ambulances. Eddie had made a lot of contacts over
the years, both high and low. He could eat at anyone’s table. He had a map of where a lot of bodies were buried and was never afraid to exhume a few. Eddie always knew somebody who knew somebody. And the other somebodies those somebodies knew, were not the kind of somebodies you’d want to meet up a dark close.

  ‘All the same, you must have done all right out of it,’ I said to Sammy. ‘You were in partnership for how long?’

  Sammy thought about that. ‘I’m sixty-four, so it must be getting on for forty years. Not that there was a lot in it for me. I fed off the crumbs from Eddie’s table. He did occasionally pull a few strings for me, but we ate what we killed and shared overheads. After his illness, Eddie was very choosy and only took on a few new clients.’ The richest few, I guessed. Sammy tugged at the seat belt and strapped himself in. ‘Eddie might not have liked your dad, but he was Malky’s biggest fan. Never missed a game. And he had a soft spot for you, too, Robbie.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised he was such a good judge of character,’ I said. ‘Unlike my dad.’

  Sammy laughed. ‘Och, your old man’s all right. Dead proud of the pair of you he is.’

  ‘Hides it well in my case,’ I said.

  Sammy leaned forward to give the driver some directions. ‘What do you expect?’ he said, reclining again. ‘Your old man was a cop for thirty-odd years, doing his best to get folk banged up. Then you come along and start getting them out. But remember, he’s still your dad. You don’t judge a man like Alex Munro by his words. You judge him by his actions, and he’d never do you a bad turn, no matter how much he complains.’