Blood Lines (12 page)

Now I put 1 and 1 together and how come that
jewelery has suddenly ended up as evidence?

If you can answer that Brodie then I think – in spite
of the rehab – you owe me one.

Your Friend

Tanya

(Hayder)

‘What’s the smackhead saying now?’

Lavender was itching to know as she looked over my shoulder.

‘She says I owe her a favour.’

‘Again? Do you?’

‘We’d better hope so.’

And with that, I began to pray as best as a non-believer scumbag lawyer could.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Two pounds fifty to terrify yourself? You have lost the bloody plot, Brodie. There are plenty would do it for free for you.’

Lavender handed over five pounds to the attendant, but she wasn’t finished with me yet.

‘I don’t mind you frightening yourself but I’ve got more than enough going on without having to actually witness you having a freaky fit.’

‘It’s aversion therapy. If I force myself to confront my fear of heights then I will feel very brave. I need someone to come with me and you’re cheaper than a psychiatrist.’ I didn’t say that I also needed something to take my mind off Tanya’s letter before I decided what to do about it.

The Carrara marble statue of Sir Walter Scott and his beloved dog Maida looked as if they were mocking me. I didn’t blame them. This wasn’t exactly a life or death situation, but I still wondered how I could summon the courage to climb the 287 steps of the two-hundred-foot monument.

‘I’ve paid the money so you are climbing to the top.’ Lavender stood to the side to allow a group of enthusiastic Japanese tourists to pass. She grabbed me roughly by the arm and marshalled me into the stairway.

‘Don’t even start about your claustrophobia. What I don’t understand is how you can drive that bike at breakneck speed and yet be frightened of a little thing like this.’

By step fifty-five I was already sweating, from fear as well as exertion. Lavender was behind me, poking and prodding me up those steps. At seventy-five I stopped and faced her.

‘Why do I get the feeling you are enjoying this?’

‘Because I am – now turn around and get moving, look out at the scenery. There’s no lesson to be learned unless you face your fear.’

I felt myself being pulled to the edge magnetically. Down below, office workers enjoyed an alfresco snack in Princes Street gardens. Little did they know they were in real danger of experiencing my own mid-morning nibbles, as nausea started to overwhelm me. I pulled at the neck of my blouse, trying to cool myself down.

‘Get moving.’ Lavender nudged me. I rushed to the first floor and the museum, faking interest in the superb stained glass windows.

‘What does that mean?’

I followed Lavender’s pointing finger.

‘What am I – a tour guide?’

‘No. You are, or at the very least were, a nerd, and I bet you know exactly what that means.’

She was right. ‘This is the third window and it shows the coat of arms of Scotland – the Lion Rampant.’

‘But what does the motto mean?
Nemo me impune
lacessit
?’

‘No one provokes me with impunity.’

‘Sounds like a good mantra to take into your appointment with Lord MacGregor, Brodie.’

Her words spurred me on to a charge up the steps. If I couldn’t face looking over a perfectly safe two-hundred-foot precipice, what chance did I have looking into Grandad’s face and explaining myself? I shouted historical details at Lavender as I raced upwards. It kept me distracted.

‘The Scott Monument was built after his death because the people of Scotland wanted to commemorate him. No public funding was used in the original build.’

‘Don’t worry, Brodie, if you kick the bucket I’ll put a fiver in for your memorial.’

We stared out over the Waverley Valley. It was nothing to Lavender but I felt triumphant. I waved at the people down below and ventured to put my arm around her shoulder.

‘Keep your fiver – if I’m out on my arse, Roddie will make sure that you’re not far behind. Race you down.’ I pushed my way down the stairwell, in two minds about the direction I was going, for every step took me closer to my meeting with Grandad.

Lavender walked me to Awesome, parked at the bike spaces near the Waverley train station. She’d refused to ride with me from the office, preferring to walk, but she had a soft spot for the Fat Boy, knowing how much that bike meant to me. Gingerly she pointed her shoe at a small drip of oil.

‘You need to get that leak fixed – do you want me to phone Joe and get him to arrange it?’

‘I’ll speak to him myself.’

Lavender’s eyes lit up.

‘Oh, I thought that you were avoiding him.’

‘You think too much for your own good sometimes, Lav.’

I yanked my bike helmet on – she knew that now I couldn’t hear her – and threw my leg over Awesome. I jumped down on the kick-start and the engine roared into life.

I sped off down Waverley Bridge, narrowly avoiding dozy packs of tourists who were more interested in wolfing down their McDonald’s than taking care of their lives. I turned left at the roundabout down past the Edinburgh Dungeons, where the queue was massive. The ragged skeleton in the cage seemed to wave at me as I drove past. I was taking the long way round to my destination – I could have walked from the office or from the monument, but I needed an excuse to get on the bike.

With the thinking time I’d created for myself, I wondered how bad my punishment could be and felt quite cheered as I pulled into Parliament Square, the Fat Boy announcing my arrival with a roar. I circled the statue of King Charles the Second astride his horse and then parked. I could almost hear the sniffs of dis approval but I felt bullish.

‘Miss MacGregor!’

The man’s voice rang out round Parliament Hall as I made my way inside. Parliament House is no longer the residence of the Scottish Parliament, although it did sit there until the Union of 1707, when those members bribed to do so signed away Scottish independence. They had some scruples, and the treaty of Union was not signed in this hallowed hall but in a pub cellar in the High Street. Not much has changed, and most advocates still do an inordinate amount of business in the pubs up and down the Royal Mile. Why had Lord MacGregor insisted on meeting me here?

‘Miss MacGregor!’

The voice was insistent. He, along with everyone else associated with this place, knew I was still calling myself McLennan. Footsteps came steadily nearer at a speed belying his age.

‘Miss MacGregor!’

Childish, I know, but I was refusing to turn and answer to that name, pretending to be consumed by the intricate details in the vast black mantelpiece. The grate was empty in deference to the time of year, but, in spite of the fact that it was summer, it was a Scottish summer, and consequently chilly at times.

He finally caught up with me.

Prather tapped me on the shoulder, continuing the icy mood. He was a law unto himself, and within this Parliament House he was used to being obeyed. Prather’s status was difficult to define. The closest that I could come to it was to say that he was rather like Jeeves – a lackey who’s infinitely smarter than his employers and with little done to conceal the fact. Nothing happened in Parliament House, home of the Scottish High Courts and Faculty of Advocates, without Prather’s consent or knowledge.

He ran a tight ship by virtue of an excellently trained staff of underlings, the average age being seventy-five. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed in livery with silver buttons, his white hair slicked down. Intelligence shone out of his small brown eyes as he cocked his head to the side before he began speaking to me.

‘Miss MacGregor – your grandfather has asked me to direct you to the lower corridor where he is waiting for you.’

It reinforced my grandad’s clout in the Scottish court that Prather deigned to deliver this message in person.

I walked along the corridor, my biker boots sounding heavy on the worn flagstones. Idly I looked at the boxes of counsel papers. When an advocate is called to the Bar, they are given a box and instructions from solicitors are placed in it. The box starts outside Court Nine, then, as advocates die, your box moves up. It’s a slow process.

‘You took your time.’

‘Good to see you too, Grandad.’

‘If I didn’t know better, Brodie, I’d say you were avoiding me.’

‘Now, why on earth would I do that? Anyway, I saw you on Sunday.’

‘I’m not stupid, Brodie. I know that since then – well, shall we say, a few things have happened to you. Come here, I want you to see something.’

My grandad stood in front of a large blackened oil-painting. He placed his hand in the small of my back and pulled me into him. I felt tiny beside him for he was surprisingly tall for his age. Reluctantly, I acknowledged that was because his posture was so good. Mary McLennan had shouted at me for almost half my life to put my shoulders back and stop slumping, especially when I morphed into a sullen, dull-eyed teenager. Which was exactly what I felt like now.

Lord MacGregor’s gnarled arthritic finger pointed at the picture. I shook my head in ignorance.

‘Am I supposed to recognise this?’

‘
The Hale Fifteen
.’

Shrugging my shoulders sullenly, I indicated without whining that he had lost me.

‘
The Hale Fifteen
is, as you can see, an ancient picture – it represents the beginning of the Scottish legal system. The history of the position of the judge was that
he
was to take the place of the King in the administration of justice. But Stewart Kings believed they were appointed by God – naturally, James IV thought that one man alone could not take his place so he decreed that all fifteen would have to sit together.’

‘I must be slow, but I don’t see what this has to do with me or my life.’

‘Look at the painting closely – see the anomaly.’

His finger poked at the ancient depiction. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was going to pull him up for vandalism.

‘Fifteen men in judicial robes,’ I said. ‘Fourteen of them wearing the Templar Cross.’

‘So, you are awake? The fifteenth man is dressed in black, and not the traditional red and white. He is a judge – the bastard son of the Lord Advocate.’

I felt him swell with pride – he did not share my aversion to secret societies. Thankfully he did not tackle me on that subject.

‘And I am the bastard child of the Lord President,’ I helped him out.

Pointing at the painting again, my grandad restarted the story. ‘The black bastard was his own man, and he forged his own path. There’s nothing to stop you eventually following him.’

‘Eventually?’

I knew what he meant but for some masochistic reason I needed him to say it.

‘I can’t help you get a seat on the bench just now, Brodie – even a position as a temporary sheriff is out of the question.’

‘I know that. You don’t have to take it badly, Grandad. I’m not sure I want to be a judge at the moment.’

‘I’m not entirely senile, Brodie. Your feelings on this matter have been adequately communicated to me. That wasn’t the news I was trying to break to you.’

A pain gripped my gut like a knife being twisted. It was prophetic.

‘Prather contacted me last night. He didn’t want you to suffer unduly when the news was announced.’

I felt stupid and weak. Prather’s unasked-for kindness was about to be my undoing, I thought. I fought back the tears even before I heard the news.

‘As we speak, my dear, Bridget Nicholson is being offered a position as a Senator of the College of Justice. Of course, it will take some time before the position is officially announced, but there is no question about it – you will be bowing before Lady Nicholson.’

Words failed me.

I turned to run.

He grabbed my shoulder. It hurt. He pulled me up in front of his face and hissed.

‘If you ignore everything else I say, Brodie, obey this – make a friend of your enemy.’

Pulling myself free, I ran. My heart told me he was right but my stomach felt sick at the thought of sucking up to Lady Nicholson, even if there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Chapter Fourteen

I am one of the ninety-five per cent of dieters who sabotage themselves by comfort eating.

And right now, I didn’t give a damn. My only worry was how fast I could stuff the hot and salty chips into my mouth.

‘That’s unnatural. You shouldn’t be able to get a whole bag of them in at one time, Brodie.’

I smacked the hand trying to grab a piece of my white pudding.

‘There’s no need to turn nasty.’ Moses Tierney, leader of the Dark Angels, shook his hand dramatically.

‘What are you listening to?’

He didn’t wait for an answer, rather he pulled one of my earphones out and shared them with me. Moses was caterwauling along as he listened in.

‘Johnny Cash has never sounded so bad, Moses. Who told you that you could sing?’

‘Everyone. Everyone does. They all say I’m the dog’s bollocks.’ He looked genuinely surprised.

‘Makes sense. Who in their right mind would tell you what you didn’t want to hear?’

‘Too true, Brodie, my girl – I mean, who really needs some whinging bastards around who keep disagreeing with you; present company excepted. I pay you too well to just get lip service.’

Moses and I have a disturbingly close relationship. He has watched over my safety for more years than even I know. Our lives are linked, whether I want it or not, through Kailash. He was another survivor of the sadistic paedophile ring headed up by my father and the experience shaped him into a unique character. Moses was the undisputed leader of band of renegade teenagers for years, and he took pride in the fact that they were like Teflon, non-stick.

‘Shift your arse up.’

My Harley was on its stand and I was leaning against it outside the Rag Doll pub. Moses placed his rather more slender hips against the seat. It was intimate but not uncomfortable or remotely sexual.