Blood Lines (30 page)

I’d been born in that house and, after Bunny’s death I would probably inherit it. Not something I relished or looked forward to, although the news of Bunny Arbuthnott’s death would come as a welcome relief.

I held on even tighter to Joe as we followed the cobbled road round to the left and passed Royal Circus, a beautiful Georgian semi-circular development that would rival any architecture in Britain. Crossing Raeburn Place, I started to pray. We were uncomfortably near to Ann Street and I wasn’t yet ready for a confrontation with Bridget Nicholson. I buried my face in Joe’s jacket. He misunderstood my intentions and nuzzled back. When had he turned into a slut? I fumed all the way along Stockbridge, past the pram shop and the premises of expensive interior designers.

Turning right at the traffic lights we moved up past Fettes Police Headquarters and the school where Tony Blair had been a pupil in his youth. The allotments beside Inverleith Park were busy with gardeners harvesting the fruits of their labour. Maybe that’s what I was doing too.

We didn’t speak all the way up Ferry Road. There was no awkwardness, though; our bodies were too used to each other to feel ill at ease. What did I expect from this meeting ahead of us? I’d been around criminals for long enough to know that Bobby Burns wouldn’t be struck by a pang from his conscience as soon as we walked in the door, and offer to go straight round to the police station and confess. Whoever was running this operation seemed to be able to wield more clout and fear than Glasgow Joe or Moses. But, much as I wanted to believe it, I found it difficult to see Bridget Nicholson in the role of Mrs Big. However, the reason I was on this little jaunt was because I’d underestimated her previously, so perhaps I best wise up sharpish.

The bike drew to a stop outside the entrance to a block of flats. Four in a block, covered in graffiti, it looked as downtrodden as its neighbours. Unsurprisingly, none of these council houses had been snapped up.

‘Are you coming in?’ Joe asked.

‘If you expect me to stay outside and keep an eye on your bike, you’re mistaken.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant professionally it might not look too good.’

‘Thanks for thinking of my CV – but from where I’m standing, my career can’t slide much further down.’

I followed him into the stairwell. It smelt sour, unpleasant, and reeked of the stench of human urine. I trod carefully over the debris of discarded chip papers. In the corner I heard a rustle, and my imagination immediately came up with images of rats nibbling on half-eaten cheeseburgers.

Joe banged on the door. ‘Open up!’ He looked over his shoulder but took no care to be circumspect; his reputation would buy him all the discretion he required.

The cheap plywood door swung open as if battery-operated. Bobby had scurried away to the living quarters, presumably after seeing Joe through the spyhole. The hall was dark and narrow, carpeted with dark brown nylon with golden onion swirls, the height of fashion in 1976. The house was clean. Burns lived there with his mother. Bobby – or Agnes as I knew him – was seated in the middle of the room on a dining-room chair covered with pink velour. Above the unlit gas fire there was a painting of a blue Chinese lady. I seemed to remember lots of my mum’s friends having them and a story that they had been given away free if you bought a fire from British Gas.

‘How’s it going then?’ asked Moses as he came out of the kitchen. I knew now why Bobby had let us in with ease – Moses had paved the way and told him who was about to arrive. He had made himself a cup of tea and helped himself to a Penguin biscuit. Waving the tea and biscuits at me, he spoke with his mouth full.

‘There’s plenty more where that came from – do you want some, Brodie?’

I shook my head; a wee snack was the last thing on my mind. Moses settled himself down and put his feet up on the tiled coffee table.

‘You’d better not have made a mess in there or my ma will go mad,’ said Bobby – Agnes – or whoever the hell it was. I felt as if I was back in confused Donna Diamond land again.

‘I’d have thought that the state or otherwise of your ma’s kitchen should be the last thing on your mind.’

The boy squirmed on his seat as Moses chastised him; God knows how long Moses had kept him there. His skinny legs were encased in tight drainpipe jeans, and now that I got a good look at him, I saw he wasn’t in the first flush of youth. Sallow skin was stretched like parchment over his cheeks and mousy brown hair hung lankly to his shoulders. This Bobby Burns had been caught without his shoes on; no doubt his mother forbade the wearing of them on the front-room carpet. His well-worn socks scrunched the shag up and down as Joe stood on Bobby’s toes, and then Bobby cried, ‘What did you want to go and do that for?’

Joe was wearing metal-studded bike boots and I could see a tiny droplet of blood form on Bobby’s cotton sock.

Joe got off his foot and paced back and forth in front of him. He reached into his boot and pulled out a knife that made the whinger look like a penknife. He ran his finger up the blade. Even I winced as droplets of blood formed a line along the imprint where the blade had been. Joe’s hair was hanging free around his shoulders and he looked like a savage, a side of him that I knew he’d tried to suppress and make amends for. How many times had he told Moses that it was a mug’s game? I had drawn him back into the mire. Guilt pressed my back into the wall.

He moved fast.

One tap from Joe’s size-twelve boot and the chair fell over.

Two flicks from his knife and Bobby’s jeans lay like cheese strings around him. Joe’s movement slowed down as he went for the boy’s cheap cotton boxers, but the skinny bugger held on to them and crouched down on the rug.

‘You’re a mad bastard, Glasgow Joe. You fucking leave my knackers alone.’

His hands were cupped over his balls. Joe ignored his words and pushed him over with his foot. He placed his boot none too gently on his neck and bent over his victim like a gamekeeper gralloching a deer. When Bobby felt the coldness of the blade move down and land on his groin, he started to cry.

Joe reached down and grabbed him by the scalp. Yelping, Bobby was dragged to his feet. Dancing on his tiptoes, a grotesque marionette, Joe sneered into his face.

‘Start talking,’ he snarled. ‘You
KNOW
what I’m after.’ Joe’s knee connected with the testicles. Bobby crashed to the ground again. Rolling in the foetal position, he vomited on his mum’s shag-pile carpet.

‘Let’s start with the easy questions – who gave you the order?’ Joe asked. ‘Bridget Nicholson?’

‘Fuck off, Joe! I thought you knew the score but you know nothing.’

Joe’s foot attached itself to his face; he wouldn’t be entering a beauty pageant anytime soon.

‘If you want to know so much, get your bitch to ask Tanya Hayder.’

It was a good idea.

If Tanya thought we had Bobby on the defensive, she might be a bit more forthcoming with what she had kept from us. I flipped open my mobile and called The Castle. The fact that it was more like a hotel than rehab meant I could call any time and get who I wanted.

‘Can I speak to Tanya Hayder, please?’

I used my best telephone voice and informed them I was her lawyer.

I was asked to hold on whilst they went for her.

When the female voice came back on the line, it was obviously not Tanya. ‘I believe you are asking for Miss Tanya Hayder?’ the woman enquired.

I agreed, with my posh voice still working, giving her details of who I was.

More silence.

‘Please wait one moment whilst I speak to my superior,’ la-di-da told me.

God – did they know I hadn’t exactly played ball on my last visit? Was Tanya a grass now amongst everything else?

The man who came on the line was certainly succinct and none too friendly.

‘I’m sorry, Miss McLennan – Miss Hayder is no longer a guest here.’

Shit.

She’d bolted.

‘When did she leave?’ I asked.

The man breathed heavily as he considered my question. He had probably been told all about me by Duncan Bancho, I’d imagine.

‘I have checked your name out, Miss McLennan, and am aware that you and Miss Hayder were professionally connected. In a legal capacity,’ he quickly added.

‘Yes,’ I layered it on, ‘I’m sure you have. I wouldn’t doubt that you’d be very professional – and I do appreciate it. One can’t be too careful.’ I tried not to look at Joe standing beside Bobby Burns as I said it.

‘May I fax you confirmation that I represent Miss Hayder?’

I was praying he’d say ‘no’.

‘Not any more you don’t,’ he informed me.

I swore under my breath. I really couldn’t blame Tanya for mandating, but I really didn’t want it to be for Bridget Nicholson.

‘Who’s representing Miss Hayder now?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Unfortunately, where Miss Hayder has gone she won’t be needing a lawyer,’ slime-man told me. ‘As her ex-lawyer you need to know, I’d imagine. Miss Hayder met with a rather nasty accident in the showers. I would ask you to be discreet about this, Miss McLennan – we haven’t informed her relatives yet, and we don’t want the papers to hear about it. It would cause panic, and many of our clients are paranoid enough as it is.’

‘An accident?’ I parroted. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Oh, rather bad. Rather bad. About as bad as it gets, unfortunately.’

There was nothing more to say.

I ended the call.

‘Tanya Hayder’s dead,’ I told the threesome watching me.

From the look on his face, I wasn’t telling my cleaner anything he didn’t already know.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

We had consciously chosen the time and venue for our meeting. It was imperative that no one saw us together, otherwise the career that I had fought so hard for would be over. The career in question belonged to Detective Constable Julie McTavish this time, not myself.

The one o’clock gun rocked the café and the tourists at Edinburgh Castle stopped to look around. The one o’clock gun goes off every day so that the good burghers of Edinburgh can set their watches; however, there is some merit in the argument that routinely firing a cannon is a rather imprudent act in today’s atmosphere of red alerts. Inhabitants of the City, unless they are caught unawares, don’t react to the gun – to do so would be childish and foolish and mark you out as a tourist – nightmares for the capital’s would-be snob brigade.

Julie and I sat within the sharp glass angular windows that overlooked Princes Street Gardens. The walls were painted with soldiers in Red Coats – lobster backs. The murals seemed to be depicting the Battle of Culloden. It was so tasteless a scene that I lost my appetite. The food didn’t help, mind you.

‘How’s the prawn sandwich?’ I asked Julie as she picked up a stale piece of bread oozing a nuclear pink sauce with bits in it that had gone orange at the edges.

‘As good as it looks.’

She owed me a favour but that didn’t mean she was happy about it. I reminded her of the worst time in her life and she was a perfect example of being careful what you wish for. Sure, we had successfully restored her career, but her superiors and colleagues weren’t happy about the ripples caused by her case. It was well nigh impossible for her to gain promotion, and any shitty detail that was required to be done had her name all over it. Any complaints and she would be told that she could leave if she wasn’t happy. Having fought so hard for it, she thought she couldn’t give it up. The conflict showed in her eyes, which were ringed with black and had large bags under them caused by cortisol, the antecedent of adrenalin. Her eyes showed a career of too many late and stressful nights and no good food.

‘How are you doing – in the force, I mean? Is your career going forward again, Julie?’ I asked unnecessarily; my spies already knew how crap her so-called career was.

No light shone in her brown eyes. The hair that had once been expensively cut and coloured looked harsh and brassy around her puffy face and her make-up was too thick. Julie was hiding something. Was it something more than the red broken veins on her cheeks, put there by the two bottles of white wine she drank daily when her shift was finished, according to my sources?

I needed to find out what I was here for, the information that was the real reason for meeting Julie today.

‘Julie – do you know how Tanya Hayder died?’

She stared at me with something close to dislike, fighting with the knowledge that she needed to keep me onside.

‘They’re trying to keep it quiet, Brodie, but you can’t hush up anything that happens in a rehab, especially one with celebs in it; they have too much time on their hands. Anything at all acts as a diversion and something like this …’

‘Anything would help, Julie – all I know is that Tanya had an accident in the showers and she’s dead. We all know Tanya’s been on smack for years. I saw her a couple of days ago; she didn’t look good. The slightest thing could have carried her off.’

A small child was having a tantrum in the corner, standing up in the high-chair and throwing her food around. Julie McTavish looked at her enviously. I coughed to bring her attention back to the table.

‘Well, all I know is, it wasn’t a small matter, it wasn’t a
slight thing
.’

‘It was described as an accident to me when I rang.’

‘Well, it would be – you’re her lawyer. You
were
her lawyer. Anyway, rehab is big business. Once this is leaked to the press, they’ll have to pay people to stay.’

The child had quietened down now and had progressed to throwing strawberry ice cream at anyone who passed within two feet of the high-chair. Julie was still distracted by the child, and the wistful look in her eye made me think maybe hers was one case that I would have been better off losing. At least then she would have been able to get on with her life instead of being stuck in purgatory at Craigmillar.

‘Compliments of Patch – I phoned him because I knew that he’d been called in.’ She handed me an envelope. I knew that it contained photographs that I didn’t want to see. So I did what I always do in these situ ations – I tried to distract myself.