Broken Hearts

Broken Hearts Grace Monroe When a corpse is found with its heart removed, the media is quick to resurrect the name of one of Scotland’s most infamous murderers. But when the chief suspect claims he is being framed, it’s up to Brodie McLennan to find who is really responsible – and fast…Evil has arrived in Edinburgh. When a man's corpse is found with its heart expertly removed, the gruesome keepsake prompts police and the media to resurrect the name of one of the country's most infamous killers - Romeo.This twisted modus operandi is identical to a twenty-year-old case, that of Brendan Fallon and Renee Richardson; two ten-year olds found guilty of kidnap, murder and mutilation. But having served their time, the killers were released under new identities and the case was put to rest. Until now…Are the Romeo killings beginning again or is a copycat on the loose? The authorities hope so - otherwise the evidence points to a cataclysmic error in judgment two decades before.Unorthodox defence lawyer, Brodie McLennan, is drawn into the investigation when she is hired to defend wealthy Dr Graham Marshall, who claims to be being blackmailed and wrongly identified as the Romeo killer. Who would be trying to frame him, and what is their motive?Brodie soon becomes trapped in a case where dangerous secrets from the past mean that nothing, and nobody, can be taken at face value. Ultimately, she must risk everything she has to defend a client who may be a victim . . . Or a monster. GRACE MONROE Broken Hearts Copyright (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. AVON A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009 Copyright © Grace Monroe 2009 Grace Monroe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9781847560469 Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007331635 Version: 2018-06-18 To Auntie Theresa who made this world a little better. Maria To Paul for being so splendid. Linda xx Table of Contents Title Page (#u26c3ade3-8c99-53a3-9fb8-f3a743b03332) Copyright (#ufdb65b64-34b5-5755-955a-d735c2ac66a8) Prologue (#u7f43e353-c2bc-5224-88c8-359a5900fd81) PART ONE Edinburgh November 2008 (#u1ccc3b46-dc56-567c-b030-0ae36afc455f) Chapter One (#u5ee3f7f3-2f82-5c90-b20f-752aba289b8f) Chapter Two (#u78c5a409-446d-5d25-98f7-fc308e1a49b4) Chapter Three (#ua29bdffc-34e4-58e6-88d9-d315e67f1716) Chapter Four (#u717fdf46-03d1-5cd7-84f0-ee7a2b442286) Chapter Five (#u6568e74c-295a-5ceb-b7c6-ebaf8150486c) Chapter Six (#u7c05f852-5ca3-5b7f-9f3b-0c3f07d72281) Chapter Seven (#ue7f9223e-9032-51f3-aeab-008ac17b7645) Chapter Eight (#uceaff0ca-6b68-5a7d-adfc-1fa44cd29de0) Chapter Nine (#u03f98699-f585-5540-94e1-95030b32d2bd) Chapter Ten (#ub6e3e252-fef9-5028-b74a-cab410b902b9) Chapter Eleven (#u27c15f67-e90b-579e-bdbd-870487efceff) Chapter Twelve (#u475ed328-1ad6-51e6-ad05-527eaa053cb7) Chapter Thirteen (#uc957398a-e241-5072-8019-e601857f5334) Chapter Fourteen (#u2cc48781-aa5f-501e-9176-97f8834bd7dd) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) PART TWO London November 1988 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) PART THREE Edinburgh November 2008 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) The middle of a November night in Scotland is rarely a happy time. For any poor sod in a PVC miniskirt and corset standing in an Edinburgh alley waiting for a punter, it was even worse. The wind was whistling down the Shore and right up her backside, even through her thermal knickers and the thin coat she had thrown on top of her outfit. It had better be worth it. She knew how to protect herself, but this weather was wearing her down. It looked as if she wasn’t the only one who was affected–the streets were quiet, particularly lacking the type of man she was looking for. She’d seen a girl who looked to be no more than fifteen disappear with an old bloke about ten minutes ago. You’d think that the ancient ones would rather be at home having a cup of tea than spending the gas money on a quick fumble with an underaged girl. She laughed quietly to herself. Not her type. Not her type at all. She wanted a nice car, with the heating on full blast, and a bit of comfort while she did what she had to do. Classy car; classy guy. She laughed quietly again. The ice moon actually suited her purpose, even if she was freezing. She could see almost everything right down the Shore to the Docks. If she had moved a few hundred yards, the Queen’s old yacht Britannia would have been in her line of vision from just beyond where lights from the local restaurants glimmered on the Water of Leith. During the day, and all through spring to autumn, there were swans swimming there. She remembered this from an earlier visit to Edinburgh, but, wisely, they were at home tonight as well. A car engine revved in the distance, creeping towards her. There was ice on the cobbles where she stood and the punter was obviously a careful man, which she could see both in the way he was driving in the treacherous weather and the manner in which he was scanning the women. A thought flew into her mind–maybe he was too careful. She screwed up her eyes; she didn’t want to be stopped by any of Lothian and Borders’ finest. Mind you, the cops in Edinburgh were tolerant of vice girls, and the official line claimed that they had ‘created a safer environment’. She’d read in the local paper that the residents weren’t quite so broad-minded and the flat owners around the gentrified area were no doubt less than happy to be part of this safety campaign for whores. She’d have to go on gut feeling–you couldn’t tell a cop by looking at him, and you couldn’t tell whether any man was going to be fit for the purpose until way beyond the stage when it was too late to turn back. The Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb. She teetered along in her heels to the window–it wasn’t the latest model, but it was close enough. Salesman probably. Away from home, away from the wife, needing a bit of recreation and able to justify that it’s meaningless. She saw in him what she was looking for–what she needed. She threw open her coat and gave him a look at what was on offer. ‘Evening, darling,’ he grinned after rolling down his side window, letting her feel the warmth away from the streets behind her. She smiled back and wiggled her way round the front of the car to the passenger door. Inside, it smelled of stale sweat and cloying pine air freshener. The back seat was littered with empty crisp packets, a discarded boy’s football boot and a teddy wearing a Newcastle United strip. She smiled at him again as if she hadn’t noticed, as if his treachery didn’t turn her stomach. She needed him as much as he needed her. More. Locking onto his eyes, she ran through a quick menu, making sure that the prices hovered somewhere between a bargain and a promise of satisfaction. She didn’t want to be too cheap or he might suspect that she was a beginner; she didn’t want to be too expensive or he might prefer to take his business somewhere less pricey. It was a balancing act, and the customer needed to get the sense that his luck was in. She offered a lot for twenty quid, and gave the excuse that it was a cold night. Price agreed, she and the punter drove off; he was headed for a secluded spot where they could conduct their business unobserved, or so he told her. She wasn’t frightened; her heartbeat was slow and steady, and her mind was focused. He seemed to know what he was doing. Experienced. Been here before. Good. A smile creased her face as she stroked her handbag. In another life, given different circumstances, she might have been married with children. She might have been the one waiting at home for this balding lump of lard as he risked everything. The car drew to a halt on a deserted road that ran alongside the Docks; no CCTV that she could see. A fine film of sweat had broken out on his brow; his breathing was heavy and expectant. He leaned in to kiss her and she got a whiff of fabric softener from his shirt. Some woman cared for him. She recoiled from the image as she shoved him back into the driver’s seat and leaned over. Her hand reached for the zip on his suit trousers. It wouldn’t take long. A few quick strokes and hopefully she wouldn’t have to go any further. She smiled as she pumped away at him–but his eyes were closed and he was paying attention to nothing but the actions of her left hand. He certainly didn’t notice as her right hand slipped into the back seat to the handbag lying on the passenger side beside the seat-belt clip. Her fingers slipped into the bag as he wriggled with delight, panting heavily and moaning some woman’s name inaudibly Stupid bastard; two-faced, hypocritical slime-bag. As she leaned in closer to his face, she could have sworn he was puckering up for a kiss. What he got instead was a syringe filled with pure heroin. His eyes widened in surprise as she pushed the plunger down, filling his right jugular. He started to struggle, but she knew that there would be no surprises here. He just had to wait it out. As did she. She opened the passenger door and stepped outside. Taking a battered cigarette from her pocket, she drew in a lungful of smoke that warmed her chest. Blowing rings into the freezing night air, she knew that the man inside the car would be struggling to hold on to life. She heard a noise and assumed that it came from his death throes as his arms flailed against the driver’s window. He was guilty, guilty, guilty. There wasn’t an innocent bone in his body. Married, obviously. Or at least living with someone who cared enough to make sure a capful of fabric softener had been thrown into the washing load. A parent, obviously. Or at least with a kid in his life so close to him that football training and kicks around the park were part of normal life. And what was he doing behind their backs? Screwing around. Messing everything up. He deserved what he got. He did. And there were plenty more like him. Glancing at her watch she felt irritated; he was taking too long. She opened the door and reached over the passenger seat. He had stopped thrashing and his eyes were closed, his breath shallow and laboured. But…he was still breathing. She didn’t have time for this. Reaching into the back seat she dug her nails into the soft fur of the teddy; shoving it into the man’s face, she held it against his mouth and nose, and waited–until any sign of life was gone. Good. Glad that was over, she started on the real work. She delved into her bag again, this time pulling out an ultra-sharp boning knife and poultry cutters. She rifled through his CD collection, quickly looking for something that meant nothing to her, something to muffle the sound of bones shattering, before realizing that heavy music coming from a parked Merc could arouse suspicion, even in a quiet street near the Docks. She cracked through his ribs. She was proud of her strength. Strategic planning aided her attempts every time. Still, both were means to ends. Plunging the boning knife in, she severed the superior vena cava and neatly removed the organ. She double-bagged it in cling film and popped it into her handbag. Stepping outside the car, she reached into her bag, lifting out a handheld car vacuum. Her work here was almost done. She reached into her bag again. With her thumb and forefinger she removed a hair, a single hair, from inside a plastic freezer bag. She left it where she was sure even those idiots from the identification bureau would be sure to find it. The sooner the better. PART ONE Edinburgh November 2008 (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) Chapter One (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) ‘Have you reached a verdict?’ Judge Neil Wylie asked the five women and ten men of the jury. Show time. I breathed deeply and steadied myself. I always hated this bit, this time in a trial where everything you’ve worked for hangs in the balance. If I was to live up to my reputation as some sort of Ice Queen, I had to keep my act going–but it was hard when I was bricking it. I stared unblinking at the jury box, thanking God for my poker face and Boots for the six inches of make-up that was hiding any emotion that might be lurking there. In truth, all I wanted was someone to hold my hand and tell me I’d done well and that everything would be fine. I’d be as well hoping for Santa to make an early appearance. To keep my hands busy, I pretended to scribble down notes on the yellow legal pad in front of me. It had been a long, tiring murder trial, but this moment was where everything was so exciting yet so terrifying. It was out of my control and I hated and loved that feeling. Would I have changed anything? Would I rewrite the script if I could? What if I’d fucked it up? My mind was flooded with all the little things I could have done better. There was also a part of it that was trying to remind me of all the things I’d done well. Really well. My mother’s voice wanted to sneak in there–Mary McLennan wouldn’t want me to get too confident in case I was heading for a fall. My mind was a busy place. A stout, pigeon-chested woman in her mid-fifties struggled to her feet. With her beige hunting gilet, green tweed skirt and reading specs hanging from a gold chain round her neck, she was a perfect advert for Horse and Hound. I rechecked the chart I’d drawn up two weeks ago during jury selection. This was Miss Agnes McPhail, breeder of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. My stomach tightened a bit–I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the thought of Miss McPhail as the foreman. She was only on the jury because I had run out of challenges. I remembered the old adage that dog owners end up looking like their pets–well, she must have been housing a few mutts that looked like well-skelped arses. The sound of the odd nervous cough was the only noise as the court macer took the verdict from Miss McPhail and handed it to the judge. I couldn’t take my eyes off the white sheet of paper. The judge unfolded it as I studied his face for a telltale sign. There was none. He was as good as me at this lark. I stole a glance towards my client, Kenny Cameron. An ugly, skinny wee shit if ever there was one. He was five feet five inches tall and, in his boxers (Christ, what a thought), he tipped the scales at just under nine stones. Cameron stared straight ahead; only the bobbing of his Adam’s apple indicating he was still alive and kicking. He was submissive and reconciled to his fate, as he had been throughout the trial for the murder of his wife, Senga. The only time Cameron showed any emotion was during direct examination, when he explained why he had bludgeoned big Senga to death. When asked to describe how his partner had sustained head injuries, Kenny Cameron began to sweat as he haltingly told the jury about hitting the ball hammer off his wife’s skull, over and over again until he was covered in her brains. When he was finished, his hands shook and his body heaved with great dry sobs. The jury looked a bit green too. I only hoped they still remembered why he had done it. ‘Will the accused please stand?’ Judge Wylie shouted. My client staggered to his feet. I remained sitting, staring ahead with a lack of emotion that was very hard work indeed. The press would be watching for any sign of weakness, to see if the Ice Queen was melting. ‘In the case of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Kenny Cameron, the verdict reads as follows: We, the jury, being duly empanelled and sworn, do find the accused Kenneth Michael Cameron, not guilty…’ The courtroom erupted. I couldn’t hear the rest of the verdict because of the din. One of big Senga’s sisters screamed obscenities while Billy Boyle, festooned with chunky golden necklaces and a Benidorm tan, tried to jump into the well of the court to stand up for the innocence of his dead sister. Ma Boyle’s eldest son held my eye as he was beaten back by a police officer. To be honest, I didn’t know who Boyle was coming for–Kenny Cameron or me. My client clearly thought it was him and collapsed in the box. The two court policemen standing guard by his side rushed to give him first aid. It was basic stuff–a quick, harsh slap on the face to bring him round. I made my way to Kenny knowing that he had won the battle but lost the war. ‘Calm down,’ I ordered in a voice much calmer and steadier than it should have been, given that I was dictating to Scotland’s first family of crime as much as I was to Cameron; they could hear me as clearly as he could. ‘Just relax…everything is going to be okay.’ The lie slipped out of my mouth and I put my arm protectively around him as the Boyles looked on. Someone tapped my shoulder. I half turned. Ranald Hughes, the prosecutor, handed me a glass of lukewarm tap water. He was ten years older than me, a senior member of the legal hierarchy who had been assigned what had looked like an open-and-shut case. Politeness was bred into him, and as an officer of the court he would want to do his bit to restore order and behave appropriately towards a lady. ‘Would this be of any use?’ he asked, looking doubtful. I took the glass and handed it to Kenny Cameron. Ranald Hughes watched my client sip the water. When the colour returned to Kenny Cameron’s face, it was time for the prosecutor to speak, which he did in the tone of a Church of Scotland minister. ‘Mr Cameron,’ he said, ‘the law must be seen to be done.’ He coughed, drawing himself up to his full height to deliver the abbreviated sermon. ‘I prosecuted you because no one can take the law into their own hands.’ I was itching to tell the prosecutor to raise his voice because Senga Cameron’s family still looked nasty, but that was pretty normal for them. I was out of luck just when I needed someone other than me to be loud and noticeable–maybe it was my imagination, but Hughes seemed to say the next bit in a whisper, so much so that I had to strain my ears to listen. He drew in like a conspirator, but not until he’d checked over his shoulder to gauge the distance of the Boyles, who by now were fighting with the police and refusing to leave court. They probably felt right at home, given how much time they spent there as a matter of course. ‘But I also want you to know I don’t think your wife had any right to treat you the way she did, and if you had overcome your fear of ridicule and shame then you would never have ended up in Edinburgh High Court, my man.’ Ranald Hughes coughed, nodded in my direction, turned on his heels and left for the judge’s chamber–well out of the way of any trouble. I, on the other hand, had to push through the melee of Boyles and journalists. As Kenny Cameron’s friends and supporters made cautious moves towards us, I put my hand out to him. He shook it. He looked and probably felt like a sick fish. His mob was no match for the Boyles. ‘I hope you can put this behind you, Kenny.’ I held his eyes. ‘Get on with your life. Everyone deserves a fresh start.’ Through gaps in the crowd I could see Senga Cameron’s mother, Ma Boyle, point in the direction of me and Kenny and draw her finger across her neck. She was a sly cow; no one else saw it. Nodding in my direction, she allowed the policeman to escort her out of court. Now that the verdict was in, and the trial was over, the lawyers were redundant. Ranald Hughes and the prosecution team came back into the empty court to collect their papers. He shrugged his shoulders in sympathy. ‘A Pyrrhic victory I fear, Miss McLennan.’ I smiled. I had a reputation to maintain, as did all lawyers–society would surely crumble if I’d fallen at his feet and started crying, telling him that he was right; but we both knew that he was. I wouldn’t get out of this without paying a price of some sort. Chapter Two (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) She loved how he looked when they were having sex. Staring at him, with his arm muscles supporting his full weight, she couldn’t care less about whether or not she was getting what she wanted or needed. Instead she wondered how they looked together–what other people would think of them if they could see them at this moment. Kelly Adams thought a lot about the opinions of others. She lay on her back beneath him and did what she could to satisfy Dr Graham Marshall’s every desire. Her jet black hair (straight out of a bottle) fanned out on the pillow, just as she’d arranged it. She lifted her legs higher round his shoulders as he growled and shut his eyes. Kelly was out of breath; this was bloody hard work, but it was worth it. She watched his body for signs that he was close to orgasm; every sinew in his neck tightening as he strained before the collapse came and he took his body out of hers. As his face came to rest on her shoulder, she made a few dramatic groans herself and gave quite an impressive shudder. To be honest, she’d never had an orgasm anyway, so she wasn’t quite sure how it should be, but men always appeared quite satisfied with what she’d learned from DVDs and magazines and friends. She wasn’t bothered–as long as he’d enjoyed himself, and as long as she could get him to herself, what else mattered? Graham Marshall lay for a moment and listened to Kelly’s heart race with her exertions. His nose wrinkled at the smell of her deodorized sweat interlaced with too much sweet perfume. He stroked her skin lazily and peered across her thighs at the clock on the hotel bedside table. It was one in the afternoon. Marshall sat bolt upright and threw his feet onto the floor, making the springs in the bed creak. Kelly watched her naked lover walk towards the bathroom, picking up his sports bag on the way. ‘Please stay, Graham,’ she said, unable to conceal her neediness. She knew that he hated that sort of thing, but sometimes she just couldn’t help it. They were so good together, so perfect, and she just wanted him to recognize it. ‘Why don’t you take the afternoon off? Why don’t you stay with me? Please?’ she whimpered again. ‘I’ve got a consultation at two thirty,’ he replied without turning round, the coldness in his voice unmissable. The hot water washed away the sweat he had just worked up and he ran his soapy hands over his firm pectorals, taking time to admire his own body. He towelled himself dry in the cramped hotel bathroom. Condensation from the shower had fogged up the mirror so he took the end of the towel and wiped the glass. Haunting blue eyes in a chiselled tanned face stared back out at him. Even he thought they looked cold. His mouth was thin and hard. Women were either seduced or cowed by it; the ones he liked best were both. He rubbed his hands through his thick dark brown hair; artfully messy was the look he was going for. Everything was artful with Graham Marshall. When he eventually came out of the bathroom, Kelly was still naked. On more than one occasion she had tried to entice him back into bed after he was ready to leave. He knew she was trying to control him with sex–he also knew how unlikely it was that she would succeed. ‘Kelly, Kelly, Kelly,’ he whispered seductively as he moved towards her and sat down on the bed. She smiled at him, waiting for the words that would make her feel worthwhile, words that would recognize just how perfect and special she was. Graham Marshall paused, then bent down to tie his handmade shoes as he sat up and looked at Kelly, leaning forwards to face her. ‘This, this my darling…’ He twirled her hair around his fingers as she gazed at him. ‘This…is the last time I’ll be seeing you.’ Kelly jumped out of bed almost at the same time as he stood up, a stunned expression on her usually confident, unremarkable but mirror-perfect face. ‘You are joking. You are joking! Tell me you’re joking, Graham?’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Why would I be?’ he asked, casually. ‘Because…because…well, why would you not see me again? What’s wrong with me? Why wouldn’t you want me? I just don’t understand,’ she whined. He stopped halfway through fixing his tie and stared at her. ‘No. You probably don’t. But you see, Kelly, you do nothing for me. You look like a hundred other stupid tarts. You have no brain to speak of. You lie there like a dead fish when we’re in bed, only showing some sign of life when you remember that you have to pretend to be enjoying it. You’ve been convenient, I’ll give you that–but what are you exactly, Kelly? What are you?’ Marshall kept his back to her so she would not see his grin as he finished his speech. ‘What do you expect me to say? I don’t know what you want me to tell you,’ she said, pulling at her hair and pacing the room. He half turned and stared into her eyes, enjoying the play of emotions on her face. ‘Okay Let me give you something–your little eyes lit up there, didn’t they? You’re not bad to look at in an overdone, fake sort of way, and you have never asked for much really, but…’ he tapped his forefinger off his temple as he spoke, ‘…you’re stupid, stupid, stupid.’ Kelly’s mouth fell open. She glared at him for a moment before her jaw tightened with anger. ‘You bastard! You think you can use me, and then just decide it’s over?’ she spat, anger flushing her skin again. ‘I’ll tell your wife. I’m going to phone her now. Watch me.’ She reached into her handbag for her mobile. His laughter filled the room as he picked up his briefcase. ‘Why don’t you care? Why don’t you care, Graham? You’re joking…tell me you’re joking!’ Her fury passed swiftly, and there was a pleading note in her voice. He shook his head. ‘Actually, I never joke.’ The smile slipped from his lips and he looked at her in a way that she’d seen before but always tried to ignore. This time it frightened Kelly and she stepped back and fell into the headboard. Graham Marshall prowled round the divan until he was standing over her. He studied her impassively for a second, in the manner of a lab technician observing an experiment. Suddenly, he grasped her ankle and painfully twisted her leg until she was face down on the wrinkled sheets. He took a moment to admire the length of her neck and the curve of her shoulder as she cried out in agony. He ran his free hand through her long black hair, and then he pulled it so hard that a clump came out in his hand, exposing a small patch of bleeding scalp. Her body trembled as he flipped her over onto her back again, still holding her leg. ‘I will only say this once.’ He spoke to her slowly, as if she was incapable of taking in anything but the most simple of messages. ‘You will never phone my wife.’ He yanked her hair again. ‘What will you never do?’ he asked. The smile had returned to his lips. ‘Phone your wife,’ she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice, hoping that he’d just hear obedience. ‘I will never phone your wife.’ He caressed her cheek with his forefinger. ‘Be a good girl and tell me why you will not contact my wife.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating every syllable. He twisted her ankle again; she winced in pain as the tears streamed down her face. ‘I won’t phone…I promise I won’t phone.’ It was hard for Kelly to speak as she was sobbing so loudly. ‘You didn’t listen to me,’ he whispered, squeezing the fingers on her left hand now that he had let go of her leg. ‘I won’t phone!’ ‘Tell me why.’ His voice was soft and understanding. ‘I’m a good girl and you told me not to.’ Kelly tried to smile as the excruciating pain coming from her fingers threatened to make her lose consciousness. Had he broken them? ‘I always do what you want…please stop hurting me.’ He let go of her and kissed her–gently–on the forehead. ‘Not bad,’ he smiled. ‘But a smarter reply would be that you won’t do anything to piss me off because I can hurt you–really, really hurt you.’ He crouched down beside Kelly and opened his briefcase. He paused for a moment, his back to the shaking woman, before taking out a scalpel. The blade shone so that he could see his own reflection in it. He placed the tip of the blade to his own cheek and closed his eyes at the coldness of it. ‘Really, really hurt you,’ he repeated, never taking his eyes off her as he put the scalpel back in his briefcase and walked away from the bed. Kelly wrapped herself in the duvet, trembling. He watched her reflection in the hotel window as he adjusted his tie. Could he convince her that this had all been a sick joke? Would she open her legs for him again? There was no doubt she would–she was dim to the core and she was crazy about him. These thoughts caused him to grin, and for a moment he played with the image of Kelly grateful to have him back because he was right–she was stupid. ‘You know, the room is paid for…you should rest, stay till the morning if you wish,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry,’ Kelly cried. ‘Please come back after your consultation! Please! I’ll be good, I promise!’ she pleaded, but he was already on his way down the corridor. The cold air hit him as soon as he left the hotel. The sky looked threatening, dark grey snow clouds rolling in over the Firth of Forth. He turned off the alarm on his black Porsche. Maybe one day he would do something for Kelly. Something delicious, a reminder, a keepsake. He drove off, smirking with expectation. Maybe she was a good girl after all. Chapter Three (#u19c0e4c9-52ea-59c2-92b3-14826936fe58) Dr Graham Marshall drove down Lothian Road where, on his left, Edinburgh Castle, shining black with rain, dominated the landscape. The miserable November weather was keeping the shoppers at home and off Princes Street, but a busload of Japanese tourists was decanting at the Caledonian Hotel. Waiting at the traffic lights, he could smell the sugar from the doughnut kiosk. His lips crumpled in distaste as a fat scaffolder stuffed fried dough into his mouth. Graham hated obesity. It was just one more thing on his list of likes and dislikes; a long list. The lights changed just as the radio reporter began the lead story on the two o’clock news; he turned left and headed towards Haymarket. ‘This is Tony Baxter at Edinburgh High Court speaking with Brodie McLennan, defence agent for Kenny Cameron, who has just been acquitted of murdering his wife…Miss McLennan, why do you think the jury accepted the defence of battered husband syndrome with regard to Kenny Cameron?’ ‘The jury returned a not guilty verdict simply because they heard the evidence…’ said a clear, educated Scottish voice. ‘Mr Cameron was hospitalized four times by his wife’s temper. A battered wife rightly gets a great deal of sympathy but there are a significant number of men who are subject to domestic violence.’ ‘If that’s the case, why don’t we hear more of it?’ asked the reporter. ‘The “henpecked” husband is as much a joke as the mother-in-law…these men not only suffer at the hands of their spouses but their plight is wrapped up in shame.’ ‘Not everyone would agree with you, Miss McLennan. Some women’s groups are angry at this decision, saying that you’ve set back the cause of zero tolerance by twenty years. One group said that this decision is simply a return to the days when it was assumed men had a right to hit their wives–because now, if they do, they can claim it is self-defence.’ ‘Violence is violence, Mr Baxter, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, your argument is muddled in the extreme. Mr Cameron’s wife threw a pan of hot chip fat over him in a drunken rage. She had a metal umbrella and the tip of it had been sharpened. Her usual practice was to stab him with it if he didn’t work fast enough. I could list many more instances, but it sounds to me as if your mind has already been made up.’ ‘Miss McLennan, Kenny Cameron beat his wife to death with a hammer–and he never denied that. Some people are saying that he walked free today because of a clever lawyer’s tricks.’ Listening to the radio, Marshall could hear the sharp intake of breath from the lawyer. When she spoke again there was no disguising the iciness of her tone. ‘It was a simple decision for the jurors to make once they understood how repeated beatings affect the human mind. This isn’t about gender, this is about violence, and I’m sure every women’s group in the country will be more than happy to educate you about that if you have some spare time, Mr Baxter.’ To his credit, the reporter didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ve been critical of the Crown Office for taking this prosecution from the start. Do you think they would have prosecuted a woman in these circumstances?’ ‘I think they would have accepted a plea of culpable homicide…but today I’m pleased they didn’t offer it.’ ‘Miss McLennan, you’ve had a string of high-profile victories in recent years–how do you handle your celebrity?’ The car filled with the deafening silence of dead air before Brodie McLennan replied in a softer voice, ‘Trust me, Tony, I’m run off my feet visiting clients in Saughton Prison and jointly managing a law firm…life’s too hectic to think about anything else. Thank you so much for your time and interest.’ His mobile phone bleeped to indicate an incoming text as he turned the radio off. Christ, he thought, Kelly again with her desperate clinginess–he hated that sort of woman, but they were just so easy to get. What would she be offering now? When would she get it into her thick skull that women like her had absolutely nothing to offer? They thought that sex was such a bargaining tool, but they had never realized that Graham Marshall had sex with himself, not with them–they were just there at the same time, and by far the less interesting partner. As soon as he parked, the message shone: Ur sins will catch up with u. Rag Doll pub in 1hr or i go to papers This must be her idea of intelligence. Laughable really. Marshall shuddered at the spelling rather than the content of the text, and flipped the phone closed. He sighed wearily before switching the mobile off and putting it in the glove compartment. What was this? Did Kelly think he was going to become the perfect boyfriend because she was pretending she knew things about him? She knew nothing. A scalpel held to her in a hotel room, a bit of rough sex in the afternoon; she probably thought the papers would be lining up to take her picture if she went public. As he walked towards his office, he reflected on why she was doing this now. He knew that the few words, the few gestures he did make that she could interpret as ‘warm’ were enough–no doubt she had visions of them sharing dinner with his parents, choosing an engagement ring, having babies. It was slightly intriguing to wonder whether she was actually willing to play the game a little–had she involved someone else? Was silly little Kelly trying to get what she wanted? The thought that she might have told someone else about them set Marshall thinking about other possibilities. It could be a blackmailer after easy money. It wouldn’t be the first. He’d had dealings with greedy men before and he wasn’t the one who came off worse. However, this time he suspected it was nothing more than Kelly Adams thinking she could make him do whatever she wanted. Really, the notion that calling his wife would be a disaster was laughable. Still, some credit was due to Kelly–she’d recovered rather quickly from the blubbering mess he’d left in the hotel room not so long ago. He had been working hard, so he called his secretary to postpone his afternoon appointments until later that week. A few easily rescheduled sessions would give him the chance to relax with a drink anyway. He rubbed his temples for a few moments, and collected his thoughts before turning the car round and heading back into town. He had time to play. Chapter Four (#ulink_8c3d4b89-9df8-5f90-99af-abe561d25b08) The afternoon trade at the Rag Doll was brisk, but it didn’t hide the fact that it was a down-at-heel drinking den that Dr Marshall wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. The regulars turned to stare at him as he entered the gloomy pub–for a moment he wondered whether it had been a good idea to park the Porsche outside. The owner of the bar was a huge man in a kilt who was hardly making the atmosphere friendlier as far as Marshall was concerned. He heard a customer refer to the man as Glasgow Joe; he was still behind the bar, not serving, just keeping his eye on the place, keeping his eye on Graham. It made Marshall uneasy; what was he looking at? Surely his money was the same as anyone else’s, so why did the huge man keep looking at him–was he a friend of Kelly’s? Is that why she’d asked to meet here? Was he in on all of this with her? Marshall told himself that he was an intelligent man, that there was no point in thinking of things that were probably nowhere near the truth. If Kelly was behind this, it was very straightforward. She just wanted money to make her feel better. He ordered a sparkling mineral water and took it to the table in the furthest corner from the door where he could see the comings and goings of the pub, switching his mobile back on as he sat down. Despite the stern talking-to he had just given himself in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel a wariness as he realized that the man he had heard called Glasgow Joe continued to look at him. Marshall tried to concentrate on the near-naked pole dancer who shimmied like a bowl of jelly to some vaguely identifiable Seventies disco nonsense. All of the other tables were empty; what customers there were in the place were crowded around the stage, and, unlike him, they didn’t seem to have to feign interest in the stripper. She wasn’t attractive to him and she wasn’t a potential client, so what was the point in looking? Graham wondered. Marshall’s phone rang and he stood up and made his way to the front door to avoid anyone eavesdropping on the call. Wisely, Kelly had obviously had second thoughts about a face-to-face confrontation and was going to try it all anonymously. The door slammed shut behind him and he pressed the green button to answer. ‘Pull the scarf more tightly round your neck,’ a woman’s voice purred. ‘We don’t want you catching your death, do we?’ He didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the horizon for Kelly. It didn’t sound like her, but she would no doubt try to disguise her voice or get a friend to call for her. If only she had put this much imagination into her performances in the bedroom, he might not have got bored so quickly. She was close by, watching him, he was sure of it. His ears were tuned into her soft, steady breath. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and imagined his hands around her throat, squeezing every last drop of air from her lungs. What would that be like? Would he enjoy watching as her eyes bulged and she gave up trying to scream? ‘Cat got your tongue?’ she said, interrupting his reverie. ‘We can be nasty or nice, it’s up to you.’ She hardened her tone. ‘It’s no skin off my nose. Either way, you’ll pay.’ ‘I don’t know what you’re selling,’ Marshall replied, tightening his jaw and listening to the nuances of her breath. This definitely wasn’t Kelly–there was no accent as such, it was unlikely such a caller would have given anything away in such a manner, he supposed, but there was no trace of Kelly at all from what he could tell. So, she’d brought a third player to the table, had she? If they were as stupid as she was, it wouldn’t make any difference. ‘Wipe that innocent look off your face: your playacting doesn’t wash with me,’ the caller said snippily There was a pause before the woman continued, and the words she came out with seemed to have meaning for her, seemed to matter more than they would to a two-bit blackmailer only after enough spare cash to buy a new handbag, if it indeed was Kelly behind all of this nonsense. ‘My mother always said a leopard can’t change its spots.’ Marshall drew breath but said nothing. ‘Do you hear me?’ she asked. ‘Do you hear me? Don’t you think I deserve an answer?’ ‘You didn’t ask a question,’ he said, smiling to himself. ‘I thought that maybe you were so smart that you might have guessed it by now,’ she told him. ‘Isn’t there a question that you’ve been avoiding for years, Dr Graham Marshall?’ She emphasized his name as if she was spitting it out of her mouth. He answered with silence. ‘Why don’t you tell me the answer to this, then,’ the woman continued. ‘How would you like people to know? Would you like that, Dr Graham Marshall?’ This didn’t feel like the sort of prank Kelly might play. This had an edge, but was it the edge he had peered over in the past? In spite of himself, Marshall was intrigued. ‘You clearly have a lot of time to waste, haven’t you?’ said the woman. ‘I’ve been to London, Dr Marshall, spoken to your old neighbours. They were very helpful, told me about you, your habits–they even showed me photographs, wasn’t that nice? You’re older, of course, but who isn’t? I took the snaps to a specialist–isn’t it amazing what they can do? It turns out that, with computer age progression, you can’t cheat Nature really. You’ve been caught, Dr Graham Marshall. Caught. Your lies and your cleverness–none of it matters. I know it’s you.’ The woman’s breath was getting faster, rushing towards him as the words fell out of her mouth towards his carefully constructed life. She was rustling paper so much that he could hear it. There was no point telling himself that it could all be fake, that she could be rustling today’s Daily Record and some supermarket receipts. She knew. So what? he asked himself. He was Dr Graham Marshall and he would not be taken down by some lowlife scheming blackmailing bitch. Not now. ‘I’m sure you think that your points are terribly interesting, Miss,’ he said, ‘but really, it’s rather old news, don’t you think? Now, I’m assuming that this is all about money and that you’d rather have cash, as opposed to a cheque or money into your bank account,’ he laughed quietly, ‘but I do like to keep things civilized–who am I dealing with? What’s your name?’ ‘Names only matter to some people,’ she hissed at him. ‘They’re not everything, are they? For some people, they can be changed as easily as a pair of socks; for others I guess they can be the key to their whole world collapsing around them.’ He felt cold. This needed to end. ‘Name your price,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned a fortune over these last years, haven’t you, Dr Marshall? And, in your game, reputation is everything. If you’re so sure that this is about money, why don’t you tell me what you’re willing to offer?’ ‘Have you told your…employer what you’ve discovered?’ Marshall asked, playing for time until he felt more confident. His voice was cold and hard. He needed to know who had instructed her to delve into his past. All he heard was a slow clapping start from her end. A steady, irritating sound that only told him she was using a hands-free and that she was getting stronger, more confident as this conversation went on. It was a long time since anyone had treated him with such disrespect. ‘Well done, good question. What’s the answer, do you think?’ she asked. He heard her drumming her fingers impatiently on a hard surface. His eyes searched all the parked cars, but from what he could tell she was nowhere in sight. Marshall stared unblinking into the distance and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘The answer, my dear, is…’ He raised his forefinger to his lips. ‘That I suspect you’re too smart to share this tidbit with anyone else. You’re not working for anyone else at all, are you? Let’s just say I still think it’s our little secret.’ The blackmailer was quiet but her silence revealed nothing more to him. ‘One thing does bother me, though…’ He pushed a stray hair out of his eye as he spoke. ‘You seem very confident about all of this. About dealing with me.’ Marshall paused before he said the next words and they formed a question for himself as much as for his would-be blackmailer. ‘Why aren’t you scared?’ The woman seemed to wait forever before laughing into the phone. ‘When you want something so badly, so desperately, you don’t really care about anything else. You don’t feel fear, you don’t feel anything.’ He had no idea what her game was, but was very keen to believe that she was actually just a money-grabbing lowlife. If so, she would presumably have worked out how much would keep her going for life. Well, let her believe it. ‘I think that five hundred thousand would be fair, don’t you?’ he asked, to no reply. ‘I don’t have that kind of money just lying around,’ he continued, hoping that he sounded convincing enough to buy some time. ‘I need a few days to raise it, to liquidate it. How much time do I have?’ ‘Once you’ve paid me exactly what I need, I’ll be out of your life. The sooner the better.’ She switched the phone off just before he whispered, ‘But I won’t be out of yours, sweetheart.’ Chapter Five (#ulink_664c3835-0303-5d1e-86f3-04a5352ab317) A bare tree branch lashed against the kitchen window. The drumming noise made Pauline Pearson even more impatient to see her husband, to hold him, and tell him she was sorry. Very sorry. When he was away, she genuinely did feel guilty about the constant arguing–when he was there, she was more than happy to blame Alan for his fair share of it. But she really did miss him when he’d been on the road for a while and, each time, she would decide to make a renewed effort. The Edinburgh to Newcastle road was a bugger at any time of the year, and in this weather it was even worse. She hoped a traffic accident wouldn’t make him even later. She peered out into the garden; it was a typical wet, windy November–just the type of night for staying indoors and snuggling up before a roaring fire. The boys were bathed and ready for bed. Pauline had prepared a special meal and romance was on the menu. Hopefully. She smiled. It was a long time since she’d done that–any of it: meals or sex. Even if she said so herself, the smell was delicious. She was supposed to be on a diet but tonight she’d make an exception for him. It was her way of apologizing. Pauline shuddered as she thought of the way she’d treated Alan over the last ten months or so. After all, as her mother had said this afternoon, the credit crunch was affecting everyone, and in Alan’s line of business as a financial consultant specializing in mortgages, it went without saying he would be one of the hardest hit of all. ‘The good times will come again,’ her mother had promised, before warning that this would only happen if she kept her man happy. Pauline blushed, even although there was no one around to see it. Keeping Alan happy in or out of bed had been the last thing on her mind since his income had dropped. It wasn’t just the money. He’d stopped taking care of himself, the pounds had piled on around his waist, and his hair had started to fall out. The doctor said it was stress. Pauline knew that sex would probably relieve the stress he felt, but the simple fact was she just didn’t fancy him any more. Who would? There was no sexual spark now and, unfortunately for their marriage, it was obvious. If only he’d try to get himself sorted out, do some sit-ups, cut back on stuffing his face in front of the telly every night when he was at home. He’d never been God’s gift, but surely it wasn’t hoping for too much to not have her stomach heave when she thought of him touching her? It was hard to know when she had stopped wanting him, but she was determined to do all she could to get things back to normal. She walked to the window again and pulled back the curtain. Where was he? The boys wanted to kiss him goodnight and Jason had left his Newcastle United teddy in the car. Although he was seven, he slept better when he was cuddling it. Pauline tried Alan’s mobile again. No answer. She poured a glass of wine to calm her nerves. He wasn’t answering his phone because he was driving: he couldn’t risk the automatic points and fine and she didn’t like him using a hands-free kit because it might still affect his concentration. In spite of their recent difficulties, she did love him deep down. The doorbell rang. At last. Why wasn’t he using his key? Maybe he’d forgotten it; he was always losing things. She took another sip of wine, deliberately not answering the door, and tried to calm down; she didn’t want to snap at him just as he was coming through the front door. Pauline could feel her irritation rising; his finger was back on the bell and the noise was going right through her. She could feel her romantic mood dissipating. A blast of cold air hit her in the face as she opened the door. It wasn’t Alan. Two police officers stood where he should be; one of them was a woman–that wasn’t a good sign, she thought. ‘Can we come in, Mrs Pearson?’ the female officer asked gently. ‘Well, I’m a bit busy, pet. My husband’s been away on business and I’m expecting him in any minute now,’ she replied. ‘So, no. No. I’m afraid not. No.’ She wanted them to go away. If they had something to say, she didn’t want to hear it. The woman reached out and took hold of Pauline’s damp, very, very cold hand. Pauline Pearson thought she felt her heart stop. ‘Aye well, it’s Mr Pearson we’d like to talk to you about…can we come in now, pet, do you think?’ Pauline heard herself whispering ‘No’ over and over again as they came in. It made no difference whatsoever. Chapter Six (#ulink_489ce43a-592f-5db6-aea7-ec8ec45a4ee6) Lord Edward Hunter took a deep breath as he stepped inside the front door of 10 Downing Street. He had waited for this moment ever since he had first been called to the bar in 1974. It did not disappoint. He was still holding his breath as his eyes took in the entrance hall on which many famous feet before his had trodden. This invitation was only the start, he told himself. As he climbed the grand staircase, the portraits of past prime ministers smiled down at him. The lackey had already advised him that the prime minister, Andrew Lairg, was waiting for him in the study. Lord Edward Hunter was excited to see this room, so full of history and promise. Winston Churchill had slept in it and the present PM had restored the tradition of working there. Hunter had long suspected that he still had a bit of the innocent child about him, and he found enjoyment in the fact that he could continue to be impressed by such environments. The fact that he was part of this world often amazed him, and he hoped it would long continue to do so. ‘I’m glad you could make it, Edward.’ Andrew Lairg smiled and held out his hand. The PM’s grip was firm and dry but not painful. ‘I think you’ve met Connor Wilson, haven’t you?’ ‘Yes, Connor and I have met,’ Lord Hunter replied. How could he forget the in-depth grilling the prime minister’s right-hand man had given him in the Garrick only two weeks ago? Lord Hunter sat in the seat that Andrew Lairg had motioned towards and stared into the fire which roared in the white marble Adam fireplace. The prime minister sat opposite him whilst Connor Wilson poured the drinks. He didn’t bother to ask how Edward liked his whisky. They knew everything about him–or they thought they did. Andrew Lairg looked preoccupied. ‘How’s the family?’ he asked his guest. ‘Its just Mary and me now that the children are off to university,’ Hunter replied, hoping that this small talk would not go on for long. ‘Are you both in good spirits?’ the prime minister asked. ‘Fit as fleas.’ Hunter had already been through a thorough medical check and MI5 would already have given Downing Street a copy of the report. ‘Good, good.’ With those words, the gentle, family-man image of the prime minister vanished, and sitting opposite Lord Hunter was the hard-nosed politician who had steered a Labour government through two general election victories in hard times. ‘The party cannot afford another cock-up like the Weatherby scandal. He sat in that chair and bloody lied to me.’ The prime minister’s eyes were cold and hard. ‘When that reporter from The Sun found her…found his bloody wife…’ Lairg went quiet and started brooding again. He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in the country had seen the pictures of Lady Weatherby and her lover. The scandal was not that she had cuckolded her husband, or the fact that her lover was twenty years her junior. It was the fact that the toy boy was an up-and-coming defence lawyer and she had judged a number of his cases whilst she still sat in the High Court. More worryingly he had always won. These cases were now all subject to appeal. Lady Weatherby had held the post of Lord Chancellor of England, the highest judge in the land, and her actions meant the whole legal system was now facing one of its worst crises in living memory. ‘Is there anything, any fuck-up, no matter how tiny it seems to you, in your past, that can come up and bite us on the arse, Edward?’ The PM was known for his language when stressed. ‘When you were a High Court judge, did you ever take a bribe? Did you ever knock up a secretary? Do you have a cocaine habit?’ These questions were not entirely ridiculous–they were specific rumours that had circulated about the last men to call themselves Lord Chancellor. The reason they were still referred to only as rumours was entirely due to the machinations of Connor Wilson. ‘I can wash my dirty laundry in public, Prime Minister.’ Lord Edward Hunter held the prime minister’s eye as he spoke. ‘And I can assure you there will be no bombshells. Although I rather suspect you know all of this already.’ The hush in the Downing Street study was oppressive. The prime minister finally spoke. ‘You’ve been briefed on why you are here, Edward. If I ask you to be Lord Chancellor, will you accept?’ ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Lord Hunter could not stop the grin that had spread across his face. ‘Good, then we’ll make the press announcement tomorrow. You’ll be a great Lord Chancellor, an honour to us all.’ ‘I am your servant, sir,’ he nodded at the prime minister. His response was rather formal but he felt elated–even if he had known that he would be offered this position long before he stepped over the threshold. The serotonin continued to pump round his body long into the night. He was unable to sleep. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed he felt his toes dig into the deep carpet; he inched them along the floor until he found his slippers. His wife, Mary, always a light sleeper, tossed and turned beside him. He wandered down to the kitchen and made himself a warm, milky cocoa. He rested his fine bone-china mug on the arm of his Chesterfield chair in the library, blew on the drink and then sipped cautiously. In the small hours of the night, he could be honest with himself. It wasn’t only the excitement of his appointment that prevented sleep. When Lord Hunter had told the prime minister that there were no skeletons in his past he was telling the truth. But there was a secret. Few people knew about it, and those who did would not speak. Nonetheless, it bothered him that he’d had to hide it from the man who was fulfilling his ultimate ambition. Lord Hunter took another sip. The cocoa was having the desired effect and he felt sleepy and relaxed. There was no way he could change the past; the secret had remained hidden for twenty years and the chances that it would surface now were remote. The more sleepy he got, the more he convinced himself of this. The cocoa grew cold as the new Lord Chancellor fell asleep in the chair. Chapter Seven (#ulink_25893f30-b465-51f9-b3d9-3f4e1e1c3d35) DI Duncan Bancho rested his head on his cluttered desk and lightly banged his forehead off it until an unpleasant ache made him stop. The pain took longer to come than it had the last time–or the time before that. He knew that he was pathetic; his life was shit, no money, no promotion and no sex. It was the latter that was really bothering him just now. Peggy had been his last serious fling, and that had been disastrous. Actually, disastrous didn’t even come close. The lies and betrayal had cut him deeper than he cared to admit. Well-meaning friends tried to set him up on blind dates, but he wasn’t a man who enjoyed sex with strangers. He missed the dull, domestic routine: sitting in on a Saturday night with a carry-out pizza and a cheap bottle of plonk watching crap telly with someone he liked would be his idea of heaven. Bancho acknowledged that his current attitude was affecting the team; even the assistant chief constable had pulled him in for a pep talk. Given that the actual words were, ‘Pull your fucking socks up you miserable bastard, you’re getting on everybody’s nerves,’ he wasn’t too sure how helpful it was, but he had to recognize that things were bad. He needed to socialize more, extend the hand of friendship to his colleagues, and all that bollocks. The detective pushed back his chair and wandered out to the operations room to grab a coffee. He put a smile on his face, which he hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt–otherwise it would frighten those of a weak disposition. The chatter in the operations room didn’t stop when he walked in the door–that was always a good sign. He wasn’t an official weirdo yet. His colleagues were hard at work and looked just as tired as he felt; a few of them even raised their heads and nodded in his direction. Bancho straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. PC Tricia Sheehy didn’t look too shabby in this light and, even in his miserable state, he had started to notice that she was the one thing that was keeping him going at work. Sometimes the thought of her even cut a few seconds off his banging-head-on-desk routine. She poured him a cup of tar-black coffee out of the percolator. ‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ she asked as she tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear. She was medium height, medium to look at, but with a spark in her brown eyes that penetrated his deadened senses–a bit. ‘Bancho! The ACC wants you to call,’ shouted a secretary. Bancho didn’t acknowledge her. He sipped his coffee and continued to look at Tricia Sheehy. ‘I said, where have you been hiding? You deaf?’ Tricia asked again. ‘He says it’s important,’ the secretary bawled even louder this time. ‘And I thought he sounded like he actually meant it.’ ‘I heard you’ve already been in to see the boss this week…you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You best go–sir,’ said Tricia. She briefly placed her hand on his arm to emphasize that he needed to move, and a quick tingle spread through his body. Bancho refilled his cup and took it back to his office, which seemed to have got dirtier and lonelier in the five minutes he’d been in the ops room. He put his feet up on the desk, opened the bottom drawer, took out a chocolate digestive biscuit and dialled the ACC. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, no preamble necessary between the two men, who knew that formalities only wasted time in the real world. ‘Another one’s turned up.’ Bancho stared into space. Christ. ‘His name is Alan Pearson, thirty-six, he was a mortgage broker,’ said the ACC. ‘Suicide then? Money problems?’ ‘Well, that would be bloody convenient, wouldn’t it, Bancho? But why the hell do you think I’d be calling you about that? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. This is yours now; you and your bloody fancy training sessions in America need to come to the fore, my man. Get this solved, sorted, ended, whatever you want to call it–fast.’ Bancho got over his quick bout of wishful thinking and asked, ‘MO? Is it the same as the others?’ If so, this was the third in the series of killings. ‘Yes. No sign of a struggle, a syringe filled with pure heroin in the right internal jugular, massive overdose, leading to a coronary…then the heart was removed post mortem. We’ve managed to keep the removal of the heart out of the papers, but it’s only a matter of time. You’re going to have to take over on this one, Duncan, it’s definitely a series.’ The ACC said it in a way that left no room for objection. Bancho swore under his breath, regretting the day he’d ever let Lothian and Borders Police send him to Quantico for a residential course on serial killers. He’d hated it, hated the bloody Americans, all looking as if they’d stepped out of a film with their chiselled jaws and perfect hair, and hated all the serial-killer profiling stuff which he couldn’t see translating to Edinburgh. America was different, too different he thought, the geography, the people–none of it was the same over here; even while on the course, he’d constantly questioned whether there was any point to him being there. ‘Right sir,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘I’ll get the details into the system, see what we can come up with.’ Both men fell silent, sending out an outspoken prayer that the updated version of HOLMES–the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System–would come up with something. Anything. ‘You up to date with the victims so far?’ asked the ACC. ‘Surface details–men in their thirties with good jobs, married with kids. Bodies left in their cars. We’re still checking to see if there is any connection between the first two men. I take it the new one falls into that pattern?’ ‘Yes, he does. What about the small stuff on the other two? Do they support the same football team, go to the same bookies, escort agency?’ ‘The team are going down those avenues and a million more besides,’ said Bancho, not holding out much hope, given that nothing had been turned up so far. ‘So this is the third body in as many weeks…he’s working fast. We’d better hope he doesn’t accelerate. Forensics is baffled. Even the lab boys are stumped. The bodies are clean except for a stray hair, they’ve analysed it, but whoever it belongs to is not on any database.’ Bancho wasn’t surprised; he knew better than to rely on someone coming up with an instant answer. When this case was solved it would be as a result of legwork and good old-fashioned detective skills, he told himself–no matter what the public thought. ‘I want results before the press know what we’ve got on our hands. Someone out there must know something…You find the bastard. That’s an order, Bancho. Find him quickly.’ Chapter Eight (#ulink_fd8bb3f3-9647-5749-b2c6-ebacfe564576) Edinburgh castle was floodlit. I stared up at it and daydreamed. The night was black, making my reflection in the glass all too obvious–Brodie McLennan, aged thirty and feeling ninety. I glanced across at the huge mirror that took up the wall opposite my desk. Contrary to public opinion, I am not a narcissist, but it was a good idea to be able to practise my court speeches in advance. The mirror was actually the idea of my grandfather, Lord MacGregor, a former Lord Justice Clerk. He had very strict ideas on the standard of pleadings in court and he was determined I would meet his exacting standards, and that meant paying attention to the superficial as well. The fact that he was on a round-the-world cruise with the second wife that I hadn’t yet met didn’t mean that he wasn’t still interfering with my life, even if it was via the presence of the mirror that constantly reminded me of him. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I loved that old man, even if I never told him. There are events that change the course of your life, and the trial of Kailash Coutts was one. Not only did I find my grandfather but my birth mother. Kailash was charged with the murder of Lord Arbuthnot, Scotland’s top-ranking judge–and my father. She walked free at the end of the trial and they walked into my life. If I wasn’t already screwed up by then, this put the tin lid on it. Kailash had been notorious throughout Scotland, and further afield, for a long time. What was in the public eye was that she was a dominatrix who pretty much ran the sex scene in Edinburgh–she’d probably tell me to emphasize that she ran the classy side, one of the many things she and I disagreed on. Kailash had been involved in a cause c?l?bre that had almost ruined the firm I worked for, given that one of the senior partners had found himself and his ‘preferences’ splashed across the front page of all the tabloids, thanks to his dominatrix of choice, Kailash again. When she was accused of killing one of Scotland’s top law figures, I was staggered to find myself defending her at her request–however, that paled into insignificance as events unfolded and I discovered she was my birth mother…and that the man she was thought to have killed was my child-abusing, rapist father. The mirror showed me that I had inherited his looks and her brains. It wasn’t as disastrous a combination as it sounds at first–Kailash was one smart cookie. Long dark auburn hair hung in curls–or rats’ tails, depending on the weather–around my shoulders. I didn’t have the usual redhead’s complexion because Kailash is mixed race and I had taken some of her skin tone. None of her dress sense, though, as she constantly informed me. In her words, I looked a bloody mess. A wave of self-consciousness flooded over me as I peered at the espresso stains on my blouse. I was a messy eater; it’s why leathers were so right for me. The buzzer sounded. ‘Brodie? A Dr Graham Marshall is on the phone and he says it’s urgent,’ said Lavender. She was in the third trimester of a much-wanted pregnancy and she sounded exhausted. I was surprised she was even answering calls–she had suffered from morning sickness so badly that she rarely made it out of the ladies’ these days. She had been grasping on to the fact that all the books her husband Eddie read assured them both that most women kissed goodbye to the nausea and vomiting once the first three months had passed. Lavender always did have to be different, though–and, at nearly seven months, it looked as if she might be one of the unlucky few who was going to throw up for the whole time. I felt sorry for her–but, after watching her and Eddie go through the misery of a miscarriage last year, I was secretly giving thanks every day she was sick as it meant she was still carrying that precious baby. ‘Make an appointment for him, Lavender.’ ‘He says it’s urgent.’ ‘Too bad. They always say that, as well you know. I’ve got a family dinner tonight and if I’m late Kailash will kill me.’ ‘He really did sound as if it was urgent this time,’ she answered. ‘Anyway–don’t you recognize the name? He’s that plastic surgeon. He’s very good. Apparently.’ I know that Lavender–and Kailash–thought I should know every mover and shaker in the city, but recognizing the names of plastic surgeons was surely taking things a bit far? Unless there was an implication that I might need an appointment myself. ‘It’s always urgent,’ I repeated. ‘What’s it about?’ ‘He won’t tell me.’ Dr Graham Marshall just went up in my estimation. Lavender was the nosiest person I’ve ever met, and if he’d managed to keep his reason for needing an ‘urgent’ appointment from her, he might be intriguing. My watch showed that it was six o’clock and I had to be at The Vineyard for seven thirty. Kailash could do everything except cook, so we tried whenever possible to make her take us to restaurants. If I saw Dr Marshall, it would mean I wouldn’t have time to change and Kailash would give me a bollocking. No, it wasn’t worth that. This meal meant a lot to her–when Grandad got back from his cruise, she and my half-sister Connie were all going off skiing, so it was the last time I’d see them for a while. I still felt pretty pissed off that I couldn’t go due to work pressures and money worries. If I missed the meal, too, I’d pay the price. ‘I collected your dry cleaning–it’s behind my desk,’ said Lavender. It wasn’t the first time she’d read my mind; one quick glance told me my shoes were scuffed but I’d get away with it. I knew that if Lavender was thinking ahead then she’d already decided I should talk to this man. ‘Okay, put him on.’ ‘Ms McLennan, thank you for taking this call. When does your secretary leave?’ I felt the hackles on the back of my neck rise. I could say things about Lavender, just as she could (and did) about me, but I’d be damned if I’d let anyone else. She wasn’t some daft secretary to be bundled away on a client’s whim. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive,’ he continued. ‘It’s simply that a man in my position can’t be too careful.’ ‘Dr Marshall, I can assure you that anything said within these walls is safer than in the Bank of England.’ I knew that for a fact, because in a former life Lavender Ironside had hacked into the bank’s files. It was why she’d changed her name and moved to Scotland–I think that the bank here had so far been saved from her expertise. ‘Ms McLennan, give me an appointment tonight and I will pay you fifty thousand pounds. If I agree to hire you, I will give you a retainer of a great deal more.’ I was speechless. I hated to be bought for money because it reminded me of Kailash’s business, but a quick glance at Lavender’s face as she listened to the man on speakerphone let me know which way the land lay. She was nodding furiously, daring me to say no. ‘Six thirty will be fine, Dr Marshall. Do you know where my office is?’ ‘Yes,’ was the brief reply before the line went dead. ‘Arrogant bastard,’ I hissed at the phone. There was no way I could refuse the fee. High-profile trials like the Kenny Cameron case were all very well but, even though I made a fair whack out of legal aid, they didn’t pay the enormous overheads the firm carried. The cases that did were more mundane: a two-cop breach of the peace or an assault that I could farm out to another lawyer in the firm. I grabbed the phone and left a message for Kailash to stop her heading for the restaurant until my meeting was over. ‘I’m out of here,’ Lavender said, already putting on her coat, which was struggling to contain her baby bump. ‘I wonder what he wants,’ she said; a smile crossed her lips knowing she would be the one to type up my file notes. Nothing from the next meeting would be beyond her knowledge. Chapter Nine (#ulink_53a562ea-2d68-5f85-9b5f-0951d87ff885) Six thirty had come and gone and there was still no sign of Dr Marshall. I stared out the window. Perhaps he was parking his car. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. The wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees as the rain bounced off the pavement. I opened the door to Lavender’s room where my dry cleaning hung on wire coat hangers covered by plastic. I rifled through them. Each item was, to be frank, rubbish and, really, I had nothing to wear, pathetic though it sounded. Kailash would have a field day–she’d get to inform me with her superior fashion sense and all-round personal style perfection just where I was going wrong. Deciding that I might as well take the Fat Boy, which was parked downstairs, I threw off my suit and struggled into my leathers, leaving the top button on the trousers undone until they’d eased off a bit. Switching the desk light on, I settled down to go over tomorrow’s court files, but no sooner had I sat down than there was a knock at my office door. A shadow of doubt crossed my mind: recent events had made me wary and, as I recalled Ma Boyle drawing her finger across her throat, the last thing I wanted was an after-hours visit from the Boyles. I tried to settle my nerves. Although my own office suite was deserted, the building was filled with young associate lawyers working overtime trying to make partner. They weren’t exactly hired muscle, but surely their talents could stretch to calling the police if needs be? Dr Graham Marshall didn’t wait for me to answer the door, walking in as if he owned the place. I watched our reflections in the mirror and so did he. He was judging me, his eyes lingering on the open button of my trousers, no doubt thinking that he could fix the fat for me for a couple of grand. I tucked my T-shirt in tightly so it was even more obvious that I’d recently packed on a couple of pounds, or ten. I took a sip of the cold black coffee on my desk. If I was going to spar with this one I needed all the energy I could lay my hands on. ‘Ms McLennan,’ he said, and held out a manicured hand. His hands were softer than mine, but then he’d probably never changed the engine oil on a motorbike. I noticed ruby cufflinks on his French cuffed shirt and remembered reading that rubies the colour of blood confer invulnerability on the wearer. Tough: he needed me; that much was obvious from the offer of big money and the demand for an urgent appointment. He wore a bespoke pinstriped suit with an immaculate cut and looked like a cover model for Men’s Health. Dr Graham Marshall was incredibly good looking, and he knew it. Damn, he knew that I knew it. ‘I was invited to the New Club last Wednesday. Have you been?’ he asked out of nowhere. The New Club was a very old, distinguished club where the elite of Edinburgh meet. On Wednesday nights they debate obscure topics. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with whatever Marshall wanted me to help him with, but I had the right answer. ‘My grandfather is a member and I’ve had dinner there many times,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see you.’ ‘I was otherwise engaged last week. I find it filled with irrelevant old men and equally irrelevant ideas, so I don’t go unless I’m dragged kicking and screaming through its hallowed portals.’ I got some pleasure from being deliberately combative. ‘Well, on Wednesday they were discussing something rather more relevant: should readers boycott books written by criminals when the proceeds are going directly to families of victims?’ It was getting late and I was in no mood to play his games; then I thought of the fee and remembered the client is always right. I cleared my throat and humoured him. ‘I take it that this theoretical book was bought by a publisher not because of the criminal’s talent as a writer but because the reader would believe it was a step-by-step manual of how a crime was actually committed?’ ‘Oh, obviously. Lord McNair argued that such a book should not be published because of the pain and humiliation it would cause the victims–what do you think?’ The silence was heavy, my stomach rumbled; I hadn’t eaten since midday and my dinner at The Vineyard was on hold. ‘I believe in free speech and freedom of the press. I don’t believe criminals should profit from their crimes, but that wasn’t happening with this theoretical case, so the book should have been published.’ I wanted to stop playing games, but I also wanted the fee he had promised me. Marshall smiled at me and nodded before his hand went into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed me a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. ‘Thank you for granting me an appointment, Ms McLennan,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, trying to sound as cool as possible while inwardly wondering if I could possibly hide my glee at all this desperately needed money. ‘I’d also be grateful–and I’d imagine you would too–if you would accept this additional sum as a retainer.’ He handed me another cheque–this one was for eight hundred and twelve thousand, two hundred and seventy-two pounds, and sixty-five pence. I stared at it. The amount was bizarre…and familiar. Confusion reigned on my face. Dr Marshall coughed to get my attention. ‘It’s the exact amount of the bank overdraft of Lothian and St Clair WS as at close of business last Friday,’ he said. ‘How the hell did you get our bank details?’ I asked in a voice much calmer than I expected. Most law firms have overdrafts–expenses are high and client fees can be slow in coming in. The banks are happy to extend credit because they have the deeds of the partners’ houses, but recently Lothian and St Clair had rather overplayed this side of things. Added to a credit crunch and overall financial meltdown, we were in deep shit. I was pissed that Marshall had investigated our finances, as well as being amazed that he’d got through every shred of data protection there was, but, on the other hand, the fee plus the retainer would pay the bank off and maybe I would sleep easier at night. It was a tricky one. I didn’t even want to imagine at this stage what I was going to have to defend. ‘No,’ I said, handing the cheque back to him. I never had claimed to have any business sense. ‘No thank you, Dr Marshall.’ ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry, Ms McLennan. I’m sorry. I thought it was standard business practice to know about a lawyer before hiring their firm, so believed that if you agreed to act for me you could have the fifty thousand pounds consultation fee and put the rest in the firm, account as a retainer.’ This time there was no smile on his face. I said nothing. ‘I may not need your expertise–one can only hope–but if I should, then I would expect you to drop everything and act on my behalf.’ ‘Do you have a case outstanding?’ I asked, unable to stop myself from trying to find out more. ‘I’d prefer not to discuss the potential legal action until it happens. You do have my sincere apology if there was anything about this whole business that you might have found distasteful. Do we have a deal, Ms McLennan? One thing I can assure you of, if I am charged I am innocent.’ He held out his hand again. I’d cooled down and needed to think about this second chance, not that I wanted him to know that. I imagined Lavender’s face–and words–if I turned down this much money. And Kailash. And Grandad. And the other partners. Shit, shit, shit. ‘Deal.’ I shook his hand. When the door closed behind Graham Marshall, I waved the cheques in the air and did my victory dance. I was slightly disgusted at myself for being bought, but I was also delighted that things might be on more solid ground with the firm. And, as Marshall had said, he might not even need me–in which case, it would be the easiest fifty grand I’d ever made. The office clock showed it was late–there was probably no point in going to The Vineyard. I picked up the phone and called Kailash. I didn’t even get to speak before I heard her imperious voice snap, ‘It’s late. Get over here now. Another wasted evening.’ She closed the phone on me and I sighed deeply. I didn’t want to go to my mother’s but I knew I had to. Kailash would still have been working, waiting for my call. Glasgow Joe took care of the casino, so I would have to break bread with my mother in her Danube Street brothel. Did all families work this way? I wondered, knowing the answer full well, even as I thought of the question. There was something much more obvious on my mind, though–who in God’s name was Graham Marshall? I couldn’t help but think he must be guilty as sin if he was offering me this much cash for an appointment without being accused of anything. That wasn’t the lawyer in me talking–that would be the thought of any sane individual faced with a well-known figure and a stash of money being thrown at her. Now, all I had to do was wait and see exactly what it was I would be expected to do. Chapter Ten (#ulink_8ed40b57-a163-53a3-bed3-5b4ea28fd000) The door was no different to any of the other respectable doors in the road. It was painted a conservative black in accordance with planning regulations, and the brass plate beside the bell gave the number of the house but not the identity or occupation of its inhabitants. Thankfully. When I parked the bike outside it I was in a good mood again. The cheques from Graham Marshall were in my pocket and I was certain they wouldn’t bounce. I had Googled Marshall before I left the office and his fame was more widespread and greater than even Lavender had led me to believe. The man was world famous. He operated alone in a small private hospital in Edinburgh; celebrities and the filthy rich came here from all over the world, just to be nipped and tucked by him. I had decided that it was a good sign that he chose me; my reputation was known amongst the criminal fraternity but he was an outsider. Naturally I was curious about the nature of his potential case–not to mention his manners–but many professionals and businesses retain legal firms for all sorts of reasons. The mistake ‘respectable’ people often make when getting into trouble is to instruct one of the big-name commercial firms, who may be excellent at drawing up a lease, but don’t know their arse from their elbow when it comes to court work. I rang the bell and waited, but not for long. Kailash’s staff knew better than to keep a punter hanging around on the doorstep. Malcolm opened the door. He looked well. As usual his make-up was impeccable. His eyes flicked over me and I was found wanting. Helmet hair and unidentifiable squashed things on my leathers meant that I didn’t pass his grooming test. I handed him my helmet and walked in. ‘You’re in trouble,’ he warned as I marched down the Georgian hallway. The brothel (or ‘club’, as Malcolm preferred to call it) was very upmarket, more like a chic boutique hotel than a sex joint. In my mind, no matter what colour the paint job was, it was still a knocking shop. I half turned to face him. Like a child I pulled the cheque out from my inside pocket and waved it in his face. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She won’t be impressed. Kailash could write you a cheque for twice that amount from her housekeeping and never even notice it was gone.’ He reached out and held my elbow. ‘You only have to ask her, Brodie–she’d love to help you if you need it. She doesn’t want you to struggle like she did.’ Only Malcolm could compare the financial struggles of an Edinburgh lawyer with Kailash’s past. He had been Kailash’s dresser for decades. They’d met in Amsterdam when she was an underage runaway. He patched her up when the punters got too rough, and he was with her when she made the momentous decision to become a ‘top’, the one who wields the whip. I had become acquainted with the world of bondage, domination and sadomasochism when we were reunited. Malcolm moved ahead of me and removed the thick blue rope that barred the stairs down to the private quarters. I followed him down into the kitchen, where Kailash sat at a substantial oak table surrounded by shiny red Poggenpohl units. A couple of girls, between clients, were at the other end of the table drinking tequila. Kailash poured me a mug of tea and passed it across. I sat down beside her, feeling like something stronger than tea–but having seen the look in her eye, I wasn’t going to ask. ‘So…who is this VIP client, the one who ranks above us?’ she asked immediately. Kailash had a golden rule–never betray or let down family or friends. It was one that she had only taken to relatively recently, but she was now a true convert. What had happened to and between us in recent years had made her convinced that we would never be apart again, even if we were still learning about each other, but it was hard going at times. Clients and work were way down her list of life’s priorities, and she made that clear to everyone. The girls and boys she employed were the family she’d made herself, so although she spent long hours in her businesses, she didn’t consider it work. I didn’t want to say too much because Graham Marshall clearly wanted discretion, but there was no harm in saying he’d come to my office; besides, he might be a friend of hers. I leaned forward, my voice hushed. ‘Now this is top secret.’ I glanced around at the girls but a flash of annoyance crossed all their faces. In their line of work, they knew how to keep their traps shut. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this unless I give you the say-so.’ The girls nodded. Kailash rolled her eyes and feigned disinterest. ‘Dr Graham Marshall,’ I said. Even Kailash perked up at the sound of his name. ‘Really?’ She thought for a moment. ‘He’s good, Brodie, very good–I’ve used him.’ My mother rarely spoke about what she’d had done. She was beautiful, and naturally so–but she wasn’t shy about enhancing and investing in what she already had. I looked at her in the warm glow of the real fire in the kitchen. Gorgeous dark hair–but filled out with extensions. Perfect figure for someone in her forties (a damn sight better than mine)–but undoubtedly helped by impossibly pert implants, something Kailash would never deign to speak about directly. A face to launch a thousand fantasies–fantasies that were helped by veneers, acid peels, Botox and plumpers. She was encased in a business suit that probably cost as much as one of the procedures she saw as an investment, and was walking in five-inch heels, looking as if she was enjoying a level of comfort that most women could only manage with a pair of Crocs. Kailash Coutts was a product. She had created herself after her early years were ruined by others. Raped as a child, left for dead by one of my father’s minions after she gave birth to me in chains, my mother had found strength from God knows where, and she had turned what men had used her for into her fortune. ‘So, what did he do for you?’ I asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer. My mother stared at me as if I’d just asked the last time she’d picked her nose and eaten it. ‘For the girls,’ she said, ‘I’ve used him for the girls. He’s discreet and he treats them well.’ ‘And he’s gorgeous,’ said Dina, one of Kailash’s favourites, a tiny little redhead from Dublin. ‘How does that help?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d prefer it was some ugly bloke cutting me up rather than one who I was going to embarrass myself about. I’d want to know he knew what he was doing rather than just been making himself look good.’ ‘He does,’ said Dina, ‘he knows exactly what he’s doing. But where’s the harm in having someone who you wouldn’t kick out of bed?’ ‘Who wouldn’t you kick out of bed?’ asked Rochelle, an Amazonian New Yorker who was one of Kailash’s newest acquisitions. Kailash had been on a bit of a spree lately, bringing in quite a lot of new workers, and I liked this girl a lot–she still seemed as if she was in control, as if she could walk away from this life any minute. ‘If they pay enough, they get to stay even if they look like…’ She paused. ‘A shitey arse. Right?’ Kailash had an international operation. Listening to this United Nations of whores always made me laugh: it was like foreign footballers on the telly suddenly coming out with Glaswegian accents just because they’d been at Celtic for a month. ‘This guy? Your mom put me in touch with him when I first got here,’ she told me. ‘I knew a few surgeons back home who were okay with working girls, but this one–he’s actually a nice guy. Doesn’t want to turn us all into porno lookalikes–looks at what you’ve got and makes it even better.’ ‘What’s he like off duty?’ asked Dina. ‘Arrogant,’ I said. ‘The best surgeons are…Why has he retained you?’ Kailash asked. ‘You don’t do commercial work.’ ‘I don’t think it’s commercial.’ ‘Well, you don’t do medical negligence cases either,’ she said. ‘For the sort of money he’s offering, I could learn. Anyway, I don’t know what his exact problem is and if I did I wouldn’t tell you…client confidentiality,’ I said. All I knew was that Marshall had seemed to hint that it would be a criminal charge. ‘I’m sorry I wrecked the dinner. Was Connie disappointed?’ ‘Yes, she was, but she’ll get over it. She’s all drama and hormones just now anyway.’ I looked closely at my mother when she said this, but there was no sign of resentment. I was born when Kailash was only thirteen–she hadn’t had the luxury of being a stroppy teenager like my half-sister Connie. ‘What about you? Do you forgive me?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ Kailash answered. ‘Good luck with Dr Marshall.’ She planted a cold kiss on my forehead, giving me a taste of my own medicine. Kailash was a harsh disciplinarian–it was the quality she had built her fortune on. I should have known better than to break the golden rule–family, family, family. But, if this was my family, they were all telling me one thing–I shouldn’t judge Marshall too quickly. These girls weren’t stupid, they could read people, and he seemed to have their vote. I had my own little research group here. I could only assume that Marshall was about to be sued by a client for some sort of malpractice and, if he had fucked up someone’s face or whatever, they must be even richer than him, given the amount of money he’d offered me. This might be interesting after all. Chapter Eleven (#ulink_7c280e48-0604-54e5-adac-0e5e5668c847) She knew that the body had been found by now and she assumed that the police were treating it as a serial case. Actually she could only ever make assumptions about what the police would do. All she knew for sure was that they were stupid. That they screwed up. That, even when they had a cast-iron case, they still got things wrong. She needed to leave them in no doubt. Ever since she had got here, she had known that this was where it would end. The years of waiting, of being used and being treated like a victim–it all stopped here. There were things that she couldn’t get out of her mind, images that wouldn’t go away, but these days she had other pictures to put in their place. When you knew what you were doing (as she undoubtedly did), there was a comfort to be found in killing. She felt that she had found her purpose in life–and God knows she had needed one for so very long. There were those along the way who had helped her to get to this place, and they were often good people. They had no idea that they were assisting her to do what she needed to do, but they were part of it, nonetheless. However, there were others, of course there were others, who had been the real impetus. She thought about it for a moment. She had no way to describe what had been done to her. There were no words. There were no emotions. No one could understand. No one could empathize. But it had happened. It was done. Now, all she could do was make sure that the payment was exacted from the right place. She had her methods by this point. There had been a lot to organize and it had taken a while to do it, but she was exactly where she needed to be. She thought back on the three men already dead at her hands. She laughed to herself, a low, soft noise that made her seem gentle and warm. She had read all of the books on how to do this, on how to avoid being caught, and on what killers do. She couldn’t believe that some of them kept mementoes, trophies. She had all of that in her head. She had nothing against those men as such–yes, she hated them, and had taken their lives, but it wasn’t personal. What on earth could she have taken from them? They were just symbols in themselves. Was she expected to fill her handbag with cufflinks? Locks of hair? Photos of them in their final moments? She had what she wanted from them–their bodies, their deaths; and the absolute knowledge that they had helped her. Since she had arrived here, it had all been so easy. These men, they all thought their needs were so important. Each of them so easy to spot. She always looked for particular cars–single businessmen were no use, she needed to make sure that they were guilty beyond her own certainty. Bigger cars, expensive cars, but ones with baby or booster seats. Little triangles on the back saying ‘baby on board’. Mr Men sunscreens that had been rolled up but were still identifiable. Good men, good fathers. Making sure their children were safe, happy and provided for. And while they themselves were away from home, what was wrong with a few minutes of downtime? Every businessman in every city in the country knew where to go. If they didn’t, there were websites to tell them. There had always been so much publicity about the red-light district in Edinburgh that it wasn’t hard to find. Even if the girls had been moved around a bit, it didn’t take much to discover where. The drugs were everywhere, too. Edinburgh had changed. There used to be less dependency amongst the prostitutes in the capital than in other cities, but in the last couple of years it had got as bad as anywhere. Cheap rates for everything. That worked well for her on two levels. She could get heroin easily and for next to nothing. And because she was clean, good looking and articulate, she appealed to the better class of punter as soon as he rolled down his window. The first one? He couldn’t believe his luck. Neither could she. It had been so easy for both of them. When she approached his car, she had expected to be nervous, but there was actually an amazing feeling of calm. She had been without true purpose for so long that this felt like the real thing, as if she was finally doing what she should be doing. His accent was closer to hers than she felt comfortable with, so she’d had to make adjustments there, but she had learned from that point not to be so worried. It wasn’t as if her victims were going to be around to give the police clues. She laughed softly to herself again. Her stomach had lurched at one point–not when she killed him, but when she had to…do what she had to do. The next two were easier. She was getting better, and she’d keep getting better. Now–now she had to find the next one. Time was pressing on. This had to end. Chapter Twelve (#ulink_d4354c31-f9e9-5eea-8c00-6cb1051833ac) I was driving slowly because the rain-soaked cobbles were dangerous, and lack of speed meant my helmet visor was steamed up. By the time I reached Suzie Wong’s in George Street I needed a stiff drink, or six. The weather had forced people off the streets, and even Edinburgh’s premier night spot–as described by its totally unbiased owner–looked deserted. Music echoed round the cavernous cellar, but the bar staff outnumbered customers. Moses Tierney, club owner and leader of the Dark Angels, looked pissed off at pretty much everything. It didn’t appear my welcome here would be any warmer than at Kailash’s but I was proved wrong very quickly, and not for the first time. Moses waved at me as soon as I came into his line of vision, and pulled a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. ‘I hope that’s not the watered-down stuff you sell to your customers,’ I said, accepting a glass, knocking it back quickly and indicating that I needed an immediate refill. ‘It’s not watered down, Brodie–it’s just a brand no one quite appreciates yet. This is the real McCoy though.’ Moses was celebrating my result in the murder trial. He hated the Boyle family for reasons that were not entirely known to me, so anything that upset his rival, Ma Boyle, was a source of rejoicing for him. A rumble of high heels and raucous laughter weaved into the bar in the guise of a huge hen party. Moses’s eyes lit up. His night had just got even better. Left alone to prop up the bar, I watched the staff spring into action. They shook and stirred sixteen cocktails in record time, which was just as well, because the girls looked as if they would swallow them as fast as the barman could make them. The party would definitely have passed Kailash’s scrutiny test. Spray-tanned to within an inch of their lives, I hated to admit they looked gorgeous, young, and vibrant. It would have taken a good chunk of Dr Marshall’s cheque to have paid for their hair extensions alone, and I wondered how they could afford it–then one glance in the mirror at my own sorry reflection told me that their money had been well spent. Moses ignored me, continuing his banter with the girls as he filled up my empty glass at the bar. The bottle was almost finished: surely I hadn’t drunk that much? My empty stomach growled and the drunken dizziness hit me like a sledgehammer just as Glasgow Joe walked in. He didn’t acknowledge me. I’m not sure he even had time to notice I was sitting there as the hen-party girls swamped him, sticking their hands up his kilt in a desperate bid to find out if he was a true Scotsman. He didn’t put up a fight. Behind the drinks dispensers were smoky mirrored tiles. I couldn’t avoid my reflection, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. I looked old. My ex-husband looked gorgeous and every girl in the hen party agreed with me. I’d split up with Jack Deans, my sort-of-boyfriend, three months ago, and I was having romantic thoughts about the spin cycle on my washing machine, so the sight of Joe combined with all the champagne I’d glugged on an empty stomach was having quite an effect. Glasgow Joe was the bad boy from my childhood. I’d hankered after him for years as we both pretended to be just friends, and then I married him in a cheap Vegas ceremony that lasted longer than the marriage itself. I still hankered after him. He came up behind me, hooked his finger in the loop of my trousers and whispered, ‘How about you and I get out of here, gorgeous?’ I guess he must have noticed me after all. I swivelled round to face him. Joe was about twice my size when I was sitting, and he had to bend down to speak into my face. He had a broad face with chiselled cheekbones and a couple of faded scars above his brow. Like an old tomcat he wore the marks of previous fights well. His collar-length hair was swept back from his face; a couple of stray grey hairs were obvious at his temple. His skin was clear and tanned and he had a touch of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He was untouchable–nobody who didn’t have a death wish messed with him–and I’d thrown him away on more than one occasion. God, the drink was getting to me. Glasgow Joe held my chin with his free hand, and his dark eyes stared into mine. He didn’t blink. They say that people in love stare into their partner’s eyes for eighty per cent of the time–it stimulates the sex hormones. Mine were certainly beginning to stir. ‘There’s a lot to think about,’ I slurred. ‘What’s there to think about? I’m promising you more booze, a carry-out pizza with up to three toppings of your choice, and any sexual position you can think of-within reason.’ ‘The pizza sounds good.’ ‘Don’t kid yourself, darlin’–you like the sound of the rest of it too.’ ‘I need time to think,’ I said, guzzling some more champagne and trying to sound ladylike. The truth was that I would have jumped on Joe quicker than the pizza order would have been ready, but, even in my drunken state, I knew that he didn’t do one-night stands. At least, not with me. Anything more was a scary prospect, at least for me. Every reconciliation we’d ever had had broken down because he’d wanted to get married again, have children, and settle down. The more I learned about my own history, the less likely that seemed to be an option. So I pushed him away. I insulted him and bristled at him. I told him I wasn’t interested in anything but casual sex, and then flaunted Jack Deans in his face. And all the time I was desperate for him. He could probably see my forehead furrow with all of these thoughts. ‘You’re thinking too much, Brodie,’ he growled, kissing my neck. ‘Let me go over the high points for you–food, drink, sex.’ His finger was still hooked into my trousers. I inadvertently glanced at the door–and that’s how I ended up with Glasgow Joe back in my bed again. As if I didn’t have enough trouble in my life. Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_8fea13c7-922c-5f21-84f1-95cc38b76266) Kailash keeps telling me that I need to act more like a lady–usually I tell her to piss off (which seems to highlight her point), but sometimes I see what’s she’s getting at. What went on between me and Joe when we first got back to the flat stays between me and Joe. Afterwards? Well, that’s a different matter. By the time I’d managed to drag myself out of bed, he was snoring softly and the first rays of morning were creeping in through the wooden blinds of my bedroom windows. I crept through to the kitchen, pulling his T-shirt over my head as I walked, smelling everything I liked about him on it. I didn’t know whether to wake my flatmate Louisa up as I guessed she’d probably been listening all night anyway–maybe I should just get the postmortem over and done with. I decided against it. I wanted to keep this to myself, even exclude Joe, just for a little while longer. When I was with him, when it was just the two of us, everything seemed so right, but as soon as I started thinking about things, I went down the road that had caused us to split up more times than I could count. Where could this possibly lead? I wasn’t the type for settling down. I wasn’t maternal. It would be obvious to anyone who knew the tiniest part of my life history that what I had come from was never going to make me average wife-and-mother material, but the truth was that I did actually have lots of strong women in my life–they just weren’t enough to convince me that I could do what they had done in their own ways. My mother, Mary McLennan, had been my rock. I had been through the time of worrying whether I was being horrible to Kailash by still thinking of Mary as my ‘real’ mother, but Mary had done everything for me and I missed her more and more as I got older. Kailash? She had given birth to me, and she had saved my life, but she was hardly the perfect Mum. How much of that was my fault, I don’t know. Malcolm had been right when he had said that she would do anything for me, but I still reacted against that. What sort of mother could I possibly be when my own background was so fucked up? I knew that it was what Joe wanted–was that enough? On top of everything, I’d watched what Lavender and Eddie had gone through last year and it had broken my heart. They had wanted that baby so badly, we all had, and when Lav had had the miscarriage, I had felt so hopeless. Now, every day was a day closer to the baby she was desperate to have–but the pain wouldn’t stop there, would it? She’d be terrified all her life, never knowing if she could truly protect it. I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope with that, and I didn’t know whether I had enough love in me. Joe wouldn’t give in. He persevered, told me we were made for each other, and I wanted to believe him so badly–and every so often we fell back into bed again. Were we going to follow that pattern forever? This was part of it–me, alone in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, thinking about things too much and being torn between those thoughts and yet wanting to just think about how much I…loved him. I did. I loved him. I’d be buggered if I’d tell him, though. ‘You thinking about me?’ came the voice from behind my left shoulder. ‘That you, Louisa?’ I asked, refusing to let myself soften at his words. ‘No offence–but do I look or sound like that weird wee lassie? Nice weird wee lassie that she is,’ Joe answered. ‘Want a coffee?’ ‘No. I want to talk to you.’ ‘Want a coffee?’ ‘You’re not funny, Brodie,’ he answered. ‘Well, you are–but not at times like this.’ He pulled me back from the kettle to the barstool I had just left. ‘Sit.’ ‘Woof,’ I barked back at him. ‘Remember. You’re not funny.’ As I sat on the high seat, I was closer to his eye level than usual and my feet dangled nervously, knowing the lecture I was in for. ‘We can’t keep on doing this. I can’t keep on doing this. Do you want the whole speech or just the highlights?’ he asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘We’re not getting any younger. Life isn’t getting any easier. But it could be, if we were together. You could have everything, Brodie–so why won’t you let yourself?’ ‘I’ve got everything I need, thanks,’ I muttered. ‘You’re not a bloody teenager. Christ, there’s not much to choose between you and Connie sometimes. You after a new mobile phone or something with all that pouting that’s going on? I’ve tried it every way with you. I’ve bought you lollipops when we were kids. I’ve battered the bullies in the playground. Christ, I’m still battering the bullies–it’s just a bigger playground. I’ve run away from you, I’ve married you. I’ve ignored it when you bring shit like Jack Deans back to your bed; I’ve hit the roof when you bring shit like Jack Deans back to your bed. What’s left for me to do? What is it going to take?’ ‘Before what?’ I asked him. ‘What?’ ‘What’s it going to take before what? Before you leave? Before you give up?’ ‘Is that what you think’s going to happen, Brodie? Is that what you’re scared of?’ I snorted. ‘I’m scared of nothing.’ ‘You should be,’ Joe said quietly. ‘You should be.’ ‘Because you are going to leave, aren’t you?’ Joe whirled the barstool round to face him and wrapped his huge arms around me. I was shaking and I hoped he’d have the manners to ignore it. He lifted me down from the seat and wrapped me up some more, moving my mess of tangled curls from my left ear. ‘I’ll never leave you, Brodie,’ he whispered. ‘Never. I can’t. But by Christ, can you make it all a bit easier? Please?’ I don’t remember what happened after that. Well, I do–but I’m trying so hard to be a lady now… Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_2b6cf3ec-d3a0-5fb4-b47d-f857c350ea23) After some more ladylike bedroom action, I was on my way to a routine visit of the cells in St Leonards, a courtesy call on the flotsam and jetsam I call my clients who were picked up on a variety of charges. None of them was particularly serious, and they could have been handled by Lavender’s husband, Eddie Gibb, who also worked in the practice, but I needed time to think about the consequences of my lust-driven actions of the night before. Glasgow Joe had a meeting at the casino with Kailash, and our business commitments and lack of sleep meant that we both had an excuse to leave the flat quickly without talking about anything in any more detail–that was par for the course with us, and the fact that we had almost seemed to be getting somewhere in the early hours of the morning didn’t really mean anything; I was sure we’d be back to square one next time we met. And I was sure that I would get the blame for it. The streets were deserted as I kicked the Fat Boy into life, turning left up the hill to Hanover Street where the black top was as shiny and black as Moses Tierney’s nail varnish. It meant only one thing; any cobbled road in Edinburgh would be as slick and dangerous as if it were covered in ice. A quick mental calculation meant I would have to take a detour through the Grassmarket. The Grassmarket is a half-trendy area filled with boutique hotels and expensive restaurants, but for years it was the haunt of the hopeless alcoholics, down-and-outs, and the homeless. A few shelters for these men and women are still there, and they manage to stop the area gentrifying into what it wants to be. It’s not a bad place–there are some nice shops and clubs, but I wouldn’t want to hang around there at night any longer than I had to, outside of Festival weeks. There are usually cops hanging around, though, so I stopped at a red light, even though there was hardly anyone about to potentially run over. As the engine idled I looked around, remembering it was Kailash’s birthday soon. I was trying to squint into the window of the cashmere shop. I had to shake my head at what I saw, not quite able to believe it. Dr Graham Marshall was the last person I expected to witness wandering through the entrance door of the Mission hostel. I was so shocked the bike wobbled beneath me, and for a sickening moment I thought I was going to lose control. Last time I came off the bike I broke my arm–I couldn’t afford to let that happen again. Lavender would kill me, for starters. What on earth was Marshall doing here? He was hardly homeless, or the do-gooder type, and, unless there was more money in begging than I’d ever imagined, he wasn’t going to pick up any new patients by hanging around here. Not only did I want to know why he was here, I needed to talk to him. The morning had come with a lot of questions I wanted answering. Despite last night’s activity with Joe, I had woken up needing to get more information on my new client. I was still burning to know how the hell he’d got the firm’s bank details for one. I parked the bike. What I had to say to Marshall would only take a minute; nonetheless I put the lock on the front wheel, remembering my own concerns about the place. A man and a woman stood on the steps outside the hostel smoking thin roll-ups. The man seemed to be wearing every piece of clothing he had ever found; none of it fitted, and a grey overcoat tied with a piece of string covered it all. Black dreadlocks hung around his shoulders, and on top of his head was a big Jamaican knitted beret. His age was indeterminable, his face covered by a salt-and-pepper beard, but he smiled at me and pointed to the bike. Harleys were a great icebreaker. The woman held a tin of super-strength lager in her hand. She was the size of an undernourished ten-year-old, but in spite of the abuse she’d clearly been through, her body had a youthfulness to it. I have to admit that my jaw slackened when she revealed a completely toothless grin. I smiled back at them and moved inside the door, where heat and the smell of food hit me. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether I’d made a mistake. It was incredibly unlikely that Marshall would be here–but there also weren’t many men who looked like him in Edinburgh, so who could I have possibly mixed him up with? No, it was Marshall I had seen, and I needed to find out what he was up to. ‘If you’ve two hands and are ready to use them, come in. If not, stop cluttering up my lobby,’ a Leither shouted from inside the Mission. The owner of the voice, a wizened pensioner in an oilcloth apron, smiled at me and held out her hands. She looked as tough as leather but her eyes were calm and contented. ‘Ina Gibbon,’ she said, and touched my elbow as if she wanted to share her world with me. My nose wrinkled at the smell of the place. I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this, but I did need to speak to Graham Marshall. I allowed myself to be taken to the kitchen. Industrial-sized vats of soup were being mixed by this thimble-sized woman; she was struggling, so before I’d even had time to remove my leather jacket, I started stirring the ham and lentils. I expected her to ask what the hell I was doing there, a stranger in this world, but she took a different tack after having a good look at me, maybe also just a bit pleased that she had another pair of hands in the place, however temporarily. ‘What’s your name, hen?’ she asked. ‘Brodie. Brodie McLennan.’ ‘Brodie? What kinda name is that?’ I smiled again, not really knowing how to answer such a question, and waited for a moment when I could ask about Graham Marshall. A shadow of recognition passed across her face before she smiled back at me. I wasn’t prepared for what came next. ‘Brodie!’ she chortled. ‘Oh, aye. I only remember one wee lassie with that name. Wis your mother Mary McLennan from the flats?’ Ina Gibbon had managed to link our worlds after all. Everybody in Leith knew my mum, and the flats where I’d lived. And the fact that my mother had chosen to name me after the tea factory that could be seen from our window had been a source of amusement to everyone as I was growing up. I nodded. ‘A very nice woman, your mother…what brings you down here, Brodie?’ she asked, suspicion still written all over her face. ‘You’re no’ a journalist, are you?’ she asked. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/grace-monroe/broken-hearts/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.