Blood Lines (29 page)

I was reluctant to open the attachment but knew that if Frank was not at his desk waiting on my email, then he was in the toilet being sick. I felt like joining him. Frank was definitely not a drama queen like myself, so whatever had spooked him was sure to send me running to the ladies.

‘Lavender – do you remember the vodka that was left over from Harry’s retirement do? Any of it still left in the office?’ I shouted through to Lavender in the next room.

‘You’re out of luck – we finished that lot off when the jury decision came in on the McTavish case and you’d won.’

Unconsciously I rubbed my head. I remembered that night vaguely. A police officer, Julie McTavish, had been wrongly accused of a crime because her fingerprint was at the scene – we had taken on the ScotCrime Fingerprint Bureau and had identified several anomalies in the way they carried out fingerprinting techniques.

Julie McTavish was a fine police officer. Not only was her career saved but I got lots of good publicity over my courtroom skills. This was the only type of press I relished.

Lavender’s mention of Julie reminded me that she owed me a favour, a big one. And one that I needed to call in against Duncan Bancho. Now.

‘Lavender? Call Julie McTavish for me and arrange a lunch, will you?’ I was still shouting to her through the open door – I wasn’t sure I could trust my bowels when I got up.

‘You sound as if you need this more than we do.’

Eddie Gibb came into my room with a screw-top bottle of wine, already open. The glass in his left hand didn’t look too clean but I was past caring. I clicked the mouse and opened up the attachment. As I’d hoped, Eddie sat down beside me on the arm of my chair.

‘You in trouble?’ he asked, without adding ‘again’.

‘I’m just about to find out.’

We sat and watched the screen as the pixelated photograph materialised. It was like watching paint dry. The first bit came through and then it seemed to get stuck whilst Eddie and I held our breaths. A dangerous thing to do, considering how long it was taking.

‘This is a crown production? I thought you had seen all the crown productions in your case?’

As we sat there, I started to feel embarrassed. I had instructed Robert Girvan, a man I didn’t get on with, to represent me. It was a real slap in the face to Eddie.

‘Eddie, I’m …’

‘It’s no big deal, Brodie. I just want you to get off – who else would employ Lavender and me if you weren’t here? I hope Robert Girvan’s up to the job.’

I took a deep breath; it sounded strangulated. Eddie instinctively put his arm around me. Lavender came round the back of my chair and we all stared at the screen. Lavender knew what she was looking at; she grabbed my glass and took an enormous swig.

‘Holy shit!’ she said through pursed lips so that it almost sounded like a whistle.

‘Frank’s waiting for a reply, Lav. What can I say?’

My fingers flew across the keyboard; I’m not sure whether it was wine or adrenalin that increased their speed.

From:
Brodie McLennan
Sent:
Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 2.38 p.m.
To:
Frank  Pearson
Subject:
We should be having a fag by now 

Good news – your instincts are spot on. Bad news – we appear to be up shit creek without a paddle.

How did this happen?

Brodie xxx  

We sat as we were, waiting for his reply. Eddie and Lavender silently joined hands behind my back. I had the uncomfortable feeling they were praying. Unfortunately, we didn’t have long to wait.

From:
Frank Pearson
Sent:
Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 2.40 p.m.
To:
Brodie McLennan
Subject:
Post-coital etiquette

Post-coital etiquette demands that you tell me the truth.

a) Is this lethal-looking weapon – with, I might add, the MacGregor clan badge and motto on it – yours?

b) If the answer is in the affirmative, I would like to ask why you have such a killing blade in your armoury? As a friend I would like to know – do you have any other weapons of mass destruction about your person?

c) How has this now come to be in the Crown Office productions? When I saw you, I showed you the photographs that the police had supplied to us. The weapon they had originally was a simple Stanley knife that could be purchased in any DIY store, as you pointed out.

I await your answers

Perplexed of Edinburgh x

From:
Brodie McLennan
Sent:
Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 2.48 p.m.
To:
Frank Pearson
Subject:
Who else is screwing us?

Hi Perplexed,

The answers are as follows:

a) The knife in the photograph is, as you guessed, mine. It is known as a whinger specifically designed to be the length of a man’s gut from navel to spine. It is a MacGregor family heirloom, another wonderful legacy from my father.

b) It is in my possession because it always belongs to the heir apparent. The family legend is that whoever takes the whinger into battle is invincible. Ha bloody ha. Until recently, i.e. last week, it was in my cutlery drawer. It’s marvellous for paring vegetables with. I can confirm I have no other weapons of mass destruction – if I had I would use them on the bastard who planted that evidence.

c) I don’t know how the whinger is now in the Crown Office productions. There has been no break-in to my home. The only person I can think of who could have planted the evidence would be DI Bancho.

Brodie xxx

I pressed the send button and we all waited.

‘I phoned Joe and told him what’s happened,’ said Lavender. ‘He’s on his way.’

‘You take too much on yourself sometimes; most secretaries would say, “I hope you don’t mind …” or “Is it all right if I …” but not you. Lavender knows best.’ I couldn’t help snapping at her.

Eddie jumped off the chair; he hated confrontations. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out that there was one coming this way very soon.

‘You need Glasgow Joe, Brodie. I need Joe. Thank God he’s on his way.’

‘Joe this, Joe that – do you know he’s shagging Bridget Nicholson?’ I screeched at her.

Eddie’s ears pricked up and he broke the habit of a lifetime – he got involved.

‘I don’t believe Joe is shagging that woman.’

‘Is that right, Eddie? Well, sadly your love antennae aren’t too sharp because I saw him in her house.’

He puffed. ‘Not even if I saw him in her bed would I believe it – she’s not his type.’

Eddie was stalwartly defending Joe. Why did he inspire such loyalty? I hated to admit that I was jealous.

I was relieved when Frank’s email came through.

From:
Frank Pearson
Sent:
Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 2.55pm
To:
Brodie McLennan
Subject:
Shit

What about that new cleaner you were so bloody pleased about?

Send me details now – what contractor was she from? Will do a police background check.

Frank xxx

Lavender began, ‘I’ve got the cleaner’s details in my computer next door. Maisie who cleans for me is off on holiday next week and I thought it would be handy to use your new girl rather than an agency. I’ll send them straight through to Frank as he’ll need to contact Fresh as a Daisy for all the personal stuff on her.’

Lavender left my office to go next door. Her mood had immediately lifted now that she had something to do. Eddie and I faced each other, wondering what to do next.

He decided on the easy option. ‘I’ll make a fresh cup of coffee – it sounds as if we’ll all need our wits about us.’

Eddie shut the door between my office and outside. It was odd, that door was never closed. I put my hand on the brass handle to open it again, then I checked myself – obviously they wanted privacy. Maybe he was advising her to leave whilst she still had a job. It’s far easier to get another job when you have one.

My paranoia was running riot.

‘How’s it going?’ A voice said as the door opened.

Eddie hadn’t wanted privacy for himself; it was for Joe. He must have seen Joe park the bike outside and he scampered. Joe was still pulling his helmet off as he walked into the office; he must have run upstairs.

Dressed all in black leather biking gear, he looked like a gorgeous Darth Vader – with more of a face, obviously. He wore a Liberty silk scarf round his neck, pale pink with delicate flowers. Far from detracting from his stinking manliness, it added to it.

I reached up to feel it.

‘Why are you still wearing that old scarf? She wasn’t your greatest fan, you know.’

He ran Mary McLennan’s best Sunday accessory through his fingers.

‘I know – I just wanted to have her near. We had our own understanding, Brodie. Your mother knew me inside out and she held me to a standard that I can’t meet. When I wear a bit of her, at least I try.’

I wanted to cry at the thought of my mother. Instead, I sat down at the computer. Frank’s reply was in. Joe leaned over me; a delicious concoction of peppermint chewing gum, fresh summer air, bike oil and sunshine. I sniffed long and deep – and openly. He looked down at me, puzzled.

From:
Frank Pearson
Sent:
Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 3.09 p.m.
To:
Brodie McLennan
Subject:
More shit

Brodie,

Have just checked out what Lavender sent through.

No Agnes McElhose living at Muirhouse Green, Edinburgh. There is a Robert Burns who resides there.

Robert, or Bobby, Burns is well-known in this office, and not because he has a famous name.

Have you ever seen him?

Daft question. Obviously not, I suppose, or you’d know a bit more about your new cleaner. It gives me no pleasure to say this, Brodie, but this is all shockingly sexist of you. Tut tut. Did you just assume all cleaners were women?

Bobby Burns, the one who you seem to think is Agnes, lives at 252 Muirhouse Green.

Have Googled and Agnes McElhose is the name of a girlfriend of the ‘real’ Rabbie Burns. The poet nicknamed her Clarinda and she named him Sylvander. She was a married lady and, un usually for Burns, the relationship was platonic.

Our Bobby Burns has a warrant out for his arrest for escaping from Saughton Prison. A female social worker went in on a visit, he attacked her and nicked her flowery coat and high heels. None of the guards gave him a second glance; mind you, he’s not bonny. Stupid gets, shouldn’t be letting them watch
Silence of the Lambs
for ideas, though.

The good news is – Bridget Nicholson is not his employer, she is his lawyer.

SO WHY IS SHE RISKING HER CAREER TO
SHAFT YOU, BRODIE?

Leaving the office now – you can get me on my mobile.

Frank xxx 

‘Tell me you didn’t?’

I could think of at least a hundred things that I would rather not tell Joe at the moment, so I kept silent.

He didn’t.

‘Tell me you didn’t employ someone you’d never seen or met? Tell me you didn’t give them a key and that you weren’t always out when they were there? And tell me you didn’t do all that with a notorious waster?’

My one overture of friendship to Bridget Nicholson and I hand her the keys to my house, whereby she promptly sets me up.

I looked at Joe, remembered that I had seen him in Bridget’s house, and knew that although she had taken everything from me, it still wasn’t enough to satisfy her hatred.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘It’s gone.’

‘What’s gone?’ asked Joe.

My finger was raking about in my purse, pushing the mounds of copper pennies back and forth so hard I thought the nail on my index finger would be bruised.

‘The white stone that Tanya Hayder gave me years ago when she was in Cornton Vale. I always thought that if I had it, she might come out okay, and so would I.’

‘You don’t need me to point out that you’ve got more to worry you than losing a bloody pebble.’

‘It’s not the stone itself, Joe. I know she probably bought a packet of them in a supermarket. It’s the fact that it feels like an omen.’ I was on the back of Joe’s bike, travelling down to Muirhouse to see if we could get our hands on Bobby Burns.

Lothian Road was already busy; the rush hour was getting earlier all the time. The air was warm and balmy and, not for the first time, I thought that being on a motorbike was the only way to travel round the city. I had my arms around Joe’s waist and he felt thinner. Had he been working out? For her? I leaned against him. His leather jacket was pliable and expensive. I could almost see how it could become a fetish. Bridget bloody Nicholson crossed my mind. Again. A pang of jealousy cut through me.

We were stopped at the traffic lights beside the Caledonian Hotel. It was the perfect opportunity to talk, but I didn’t take it. If Bridget Nicholson was capable of framing me, what else was she up to? Had she turned Joe against me? Even though he was there, I still felt that the world was against me. I would have put money on that being impossible only a couple of days ago, but now I suspected she was a lot cleverer than I had given her credit for.

I saw our reflection in Fraser’s shop window, scattered amongst the silver mannequins in expensive dresses and outlandish shorts. What story would people make up about us as we passed? Honeymooners on a biking tour of Scotland? It did not look as though it would be out of the question, I kidded myself.

Joe had left his Harley behind. Today, we were on his Honda Blackbird, top speed 190 miles per hour. Whatever Joe had decided he was going to do, he intended to get us there fast to do it. We turned along Queen Street, which had almost entirely been taken over by lawyers’ offices. Turning left at the traffic lights, we headed towards Stockbridge; the cobbles would be easier with the bike’s thick, sticky tyres. As luck would have it, we were again stopped by a red light, which helped my voyeurism. This time I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the house in Heriot Row which had been my father’s home. It had not been sold after his death because his widow Bunny was still alive, albeit locked up in a secure private mental hospital.