Dark Angels (21 page)

‘If you stand on a crack, you’ll break your back. If you stand on a stone you’ll break a bone.’

I whispered the childhood rhyme under my breath as I picked my way along the pavement outside the offices of Lothian & St Clair in Castle Terrace. I hadn’t been back, or in contact, since my meeting with Lavender. I had, of course, been in touch with the lovely Miss Ironside, but, rather than force flowers and fruit on me, she rightly guessed that what I needed most was for her to hold the fort. To be honest, it was what she did when I was there anyway. I heard a voice calling my name from the other side of the street as I headed towards the building.

‘Lizzie!’ I shrieked in delight as five feet two of perfumed loveliness hurled itself at me.

‘Brodie, darling!’ she answered, immediately informing me she was in middle-class luvvie mode. ‘God, you look shit.’

‘Really? That bad?’ I asked, fingering my various facial cuts and bruises.

‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘you look worse. You’re way beyond “shit”.’ Lizzie paused for dramatic effect as she leaned back to survey me. ‘Aye–definitely shite on legs.’

She whacked me on the arm as she burst into gales of laughter. Looking around and seeing no immediate sign of Glasgow Joe, she asked, ‘Where’s that gorgeous man of yours then?’

‘He’s not mine, but he is around–he’s parking. Where have you been, Lizzie?’

‘You know where I’ve been. Bloody Milan. With bloody Luciano. I tell you, he’s as Italian as my arse. And that place! You been there?’ I shook my head. ‘You could
buy
fuckin’ Primark with what one handbag costs. But never mind my woes, what’ve you been up to, silly cow?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, Lizzie. Drink tonight?’

‘Abso-bloody-lutely, darling. And make sure that lovely bloke in a kilt is there!’

She flounced off in the direction of the coffee box, Marni coat flapping, as I turned round again to face where I was going.

The slabs on the street had shifted and moved through decades of frosty winters, and left an uneven, dangerous surface. At the height of press attention during the Kailash Coutts affair, Roddie tripped on a protruding stone falling head-first into a parked car, denting the passenger door. He waited until I had extracted an apology from the Glasgow tabloid before suing the council. The dunt on his head had been worth
£10,000 to him; it wasn’t one of my finer moments, but it did remind me that Roddie always came up smelling of roses.

In the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, I hesitated outside the firm’s offices. It seemed as if years had passed since I last entered its glass and marble hallway. I felt old as I watched a group of young Italian language students dressed in colourful cashmere wander up Castle Terrace, smoking, and talking excitedly, waving their arms in the air. Wearing jumpers round their waists and necks, it was apparent that the summer sun that sometimes frequents Scotland was too weak for their blood. A cavalcade of Fringe performers dressed like medieval mummers wound their way up the side of the castle, rushing to be on time to perform in the Royal Mile. A jester in a pointed purple and gold velvet cap carrying a stick with jingling bells stopped by me to adjust his spandex tights. I could have happily slapped them all. I was in a shit of a mood, and the city at this time of year couldn’t possibly help matters.

‘Are you going in, or are you just going to stand there–gawpin’?’ Joe sounded pissed off; probably because he was. He had dropped me at the corner ten minutes before and had gone to park the bike. I still hadn’t made it to the revolving door thanks to Lizzie. After a heated discussion he agreed to wait for me outside the office, but he didn’t like it.

‘Joe, I don’t need grief from you as well–this is hard enough. I’d rather do anything than go upstairs and see that slimy bastard.’ I said it quietly for fear of being overheard. Any number of young, and not so
young, associates would love to report back and take my place on the headed notepaper. I had worked too hard to throw it away. A montage was running through my mind–as a young trainee, my heart had skipped a beat with pride every time I told someone I worked for Lothian & St Clair. The glory days were more than a bit tarnished now, or, more accurately, had certainly been shining a bit less brightly since Kailash came on the scene.

I nodded to the security guard at the door who was bizarrely dressed as a Rear Admiral, and wondered, yet again, who would be reassured by that type of get-up? It was a formality anyway–I spent more time at this place than I did at home, so identification was not an issue. Waiting on the lift I caught my reflection in the gleaming brass door-frames. I hadn’t made the time to go home and get changed. If I was really stretching a legal technicality, I’d describe me as ‘highly informally attired’. In all truth, I was a mess in faded ripped jeans held up by my infamous belt. Too late I realised I had one of those bloody t-shirts on again, the ones I only seemed to buy when drunk, yet wear when sober–today’s informed everyone that ‘Good Girls go to heaven but bad girls go everywhere’. Was there somewhere I could buy good sense alongside white shirts and grey suits or perhaps I could just persuade Kailash to keep sending Malcolm round to my flat every morning with a pre-selected outfit?

The office was like the Marie Celeste–only frazzled partners, panicked about their workload, tended to come in on a Sunday. The only person moving in
the corridors was Anna, the oversexed immaculately dressed office junior, who had strangely taken to playing the role of office virgin–badly. How on earth could she be so well groomed on her meagre wages? Her blonde streaks alone must cost about a quarter of her wages. Weekend overtime or a sugar daddy? Still, Anna’s ambition was to marry a solicitor, and in any business you have to speculate to accumulate–Kailash would have been proud of her.

The corridors of the firm were Anna’s own shop window. She’d toss her hair flirtatiously as she lowered files to display her goods. A brilliant white shirt (not a logo-ed t-shirt I noticed) clung to her ergonomically superior breasts; it was like something out of a Russ Meyer movie. When I saw Anna, I saw descriptions hanging above her head (no man in the office would bother looking that high up), and today I would say she was wearing a modest item which hinted at hitherto unknown delights. A demure black skirt hugged her young hips that swayed in time to the rhythm of her clicking heels. It was powerful stuff, so naturally I despised the frittery cow with vigour.

When Anna recognised the scruff approaching her, those clacking heels went tap-tapping down the corridor, moving faster and faster away from me than such articles probably are designed to, until she reached the ladies’ loo.

So that was how the land was lying–even the office juniors were afraid that association would damn them if they spoke to me. I popped my head around my own office door–it was immaculate. Lavender had clearly
been there, but there was no sign of her now. She’d either be chasing Eddie around or keeping my nose clean in my absence.

I had to move on, get to the place I really didn’t want to be, and then I could get out again.

Roddie Buchanan was alone in his room, standing at the window, looking up at the castle outlined against a clear blue sky. His back was to me, and, as when I had observed him unnoticed previously, it never failed to surprise me what a small man he was, even though he had a huge head. A comedy-sized head really–unless you were the bearer of it (or his mother, I suppose). In fact it was probably the sheer size of his head that made people think he was a big man.

I coughed to announce my presence, and he made me wait by pretending he hadn’t heard. Suddenly I felt overwhelmingly tired, and in no mood to play games. The last few days had rearranged my priorities in life, and getting a row from Roddie was way down the list.

I took a seat, and my earlier resolve vanished. I lit up one of Joe’s cigarettes; slumping down in the chair I noisily sucked it up for all it was worth, enjoying it even more in the knowledge that Roddie was an anti-smoking fascist. Finally turning round, he looked at me, flicking his eyes from my boots to the top of my head.

‘You look dreadful,’ he growled.

Something about him reminded me of a cockroach, and I felt my skin crawl. If I cut his head off would he live for a week?

‘It isn’t catching–you can still live in a sunny little
world if you choose. Whatever I’ve got–or am getting dished out–isn’t contagious.’ I hoped he didn’t see my fingers crossed behind my back. You could feel the knowledge of Kailash between us. Although the silence was uncomfortable, I decided to sit it out. I was offering no information–not for free anyway.

Roddie Buchanan finally spoke. ‘Two pieces of information–one, your office manager is currently not here as she is, once again, on the trail of Eddie Gibb. Two, in case you’re thinking of withdrawing from Kailash’s case–don’t bother. We want you to continue acting.’

‘We?’

I couldn’t see any of the other partners in the firm taking an interest one way or another–whatever we were at Lothian & St Clair, it was not a united team.

Roddie sat down and motioned for me to do the same, even though I hadn’t waited for his permission and was already seated. In his own opinion, he was royalty. He’d remember for life if you had been seated while he was not. The black swivel chair he occupied was at least twice the size of the one that I was perched upon, but that was Roddie–gamesmanship and manipulation at its best.

His dark eyes were cold but he tried his best to convey empathy.

‘It’s too bad about the judge dying.’

Succinct, I suppose. What else was there to say? In light of my lack of response, he continued.

‘I realise it’s difficult, Brodie–no one in their right mind would choose to represent the woman who murdered the Lord President.’

I was about to interrupt and protest the innocence of Kailash, but I couldn’t be bothered. I was rapidly sensing that I was about to get more honesty from him than I could handle. Over his shoulder I could see Edinburgh Castle sitting on top of its rock. As an early defensive settlement it was second to none, and in times of war the citizens retreated behind the castle walls. The castle itself was virtually impenetrable because any enemy had to scale the rock face to get to the walls. It meant that those waiting there could see their enemies, and pick them off. I obviously had plenty of enemies who were complete strangers to me. I had no idea who they were–but they all knew me. I came back from my reverie to Roddie speaking once more.

‘You’re doing us a favour.’

His sly voice continued and I bridled. I kept a mixture of Machiavelli and Kailash in my mind–this was one situation where I needed to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. I smiled across at him.

‘It’s not a problem.’

Astonishingly, the words didn’t stick in my throat but slithered from my lips, as if they had been greased with castor oil. Something mucky was certainly in there.

‘I must say I’m surprised, Brodie. Some of us thought you might be difficult–principles and such getting in the way of what’s best for everyone.’

Tight lipped and smiling, I said nothing. Roddie squirmed a little in his chair before he spoke again.

‘In cases of extreme…’ Roddie searched around for the correct word‘,…sensitivity, we stick together. Like a brotherhood we look after one another–if one sticks
out for the common good then rewards can be expected, Brodie. In this case we require an Amicus Curae.’

I repeated the phrase back to him in English. ‘A friend of the court?’

An Amicus Curae is usually openly appointed by the court, and the accused knows all about it. I was labouring under no illusions that this particular manoeuvre was a covert action, and the last person I hoped would find out about it was Kailash Coutts. What was being proposed was beneath me, and it should have been too low a thing for Roddie to contemplate suggesting.

‘And just what exactly would this “friend” be required to do?’ I continued. He took exception to the tone of my voice, because, whatever he was, Roddie Buchanan was not a fool.

‘Brodie–the Amicus Curae will have to do whatever it takes to look after the interests of the court…in whatever form that may take.’

‘And if…“others” are satisfied with my work as an Amicus Curae, Roddie–what will be my remuneration?’

Roddie brightened up. I was talking his language. I was gaining his trust. His eyes flicked over me like a hawk.

‘I will have no part of your incompetence should there be any, Brodie. If you don’t carry out our instructions, you will be broken…and may wish to be permanently so. We would be willing to assist you in that…death wish.’ I swear I almost saw a smile on his lips.

‘And if I do as I am told?’

‘You’re young and some consider you bright…you would have our permission to profit in which ever way you wanted.’

I looked at him blankly, willing him to say the actual words, as he continued to twist the thumbscrews.

‘I don’t think a judicial appointment is out of the question. It would take some time of course, but, after all, there is pressure to appear politically correct and get more women on the bench.’

Roddie spoke matter of factly, but his insult was not lost on me. I was plainly as repugnant a bedfellow to him as he was to me. This is not unusual in law firms but what was slightly more galling about my situation was that my mother had worked herself into an early grave to give me this opportunity–and I still wasn’t good enough.

‘Roddie…I haven’t even taken silk yet.’ If I hadn’t gone through this procedure of professional rank, I wouldn’t be entitled to wear the silky gowns of the Queen’s Counsel. I could live with the fashion disappointment, but if I hoped for a judicial appointment, there would be no short cuts allowed.

‘That can be arranged. So what if you have to wait? If our plan is agreeable to you…then your presence is required at a reception tonight in the WS library.’

It was, in effect, a rhetorical question, indicative of Roddie’s usual management style. Reluctantly, I nodded my head. Receptions in the WS library are not known for their drunken jollity.