Blood Lines (33 page)

‘I came here for answers, Bridget. This isn’t a social call and a glass of inferior champagne will not make it one.’

‘Prosecco Valdo is all the rage this summer,’ she haughtily informed me, but her use of ‘Prosecco’ instead of champagne did make me wonder: if she was the blackmailer and raking in so much money, why was she buying cheap wine?

‘Bring your wine through to the drawing room,’ she ordered. I was somewhat surprised that she hadn’t excused herself to get dressed, but it showed me just how intimate she and Joe were – and I didn’t like it.

A Waterford crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and I could see our little trio in the ornate gilt mirror that was hung over the fireplace. Joe towered above us, his masculinity dominating the room. We sat down on the overstuffed sofas and Bridget and I faced each other like gunslingers. Joe took the easy way out and opted for a wooden chair on the outskirts of the action, ready to jump in if things got too rough, or jump out if they got too embarrassing.

‘I’ve seen the video, Bridget,’ I told her.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asked.

‘You are one sadistic bitch. Moira Campbell didn’t want to be there.’

She stared at me coldly. ‘What makes you so sure that I wanted to be there, Brodie?’

‘I’ve already told you that I’ve seen it.’

‘And that makes you the expert?’ she asked, putting down her glass and getting up from her seat.

‘Would you like one?’

Picking up an antique silver cigarette case, she offered it first to Joe. He declined and, as an afterthought, she passed it in my direction. She didn’t know him as well as I thought. I picked one up. Joe glared at me. I put it back.

A smile formed on Bridget’s lips as if to say I was a stooge and that was how she had played me – he who laughs last laughs loudest. Let Bridget think I was a naïve idiot – more than one successful person in history had used that strategy.

‘What happened between you and Alex Cattanach?’ I resumed. ‘You were pretty much an item. I even heard talk that you had arranged a civil partnership. After I had been to see her in the asylum, you seemed pretty upset when you asked me how she was.’

‘You flatter me with your attentions. You seem to take more than a passing interest in my affairs. I didn’t know you cared, Brodie.’

‘Our lives seemed to overlap, much to my distaste. I was dismayed by your girlfriend’s overt interest in me and I had the sneaking suspicion that you had something to do with Alex Cattanach’s curiosity.’

‘I can’t take the credit for that – you managed to piss her off all on your own. You seem to have a talent for it. Is that her only talent, Joe?’ she purred at him; she was far too old to be playing the ingénue and it was nauseating.

‘Brodie has rare and unique abilities in many fields, Bridget, all of them to my taste.’ Joe’s voice was deep and censorious but Bridget refused to be insulted.

‘What happened between you and Alex Cattanach?’ I asked, ignoring how I’d felt when Joe had supported me.

‘It’s very simple. She found someone else and dumped me. I was hurt.’

‘Hurt enough to attack her?’

‘Don’t be so stupid, Brodie. I got over her; thanks to you, actually.’

I shifted my weight in the chair. She misunderstood and hissed: ‘Don’t flatter yourself; you’re not my type. Joe, on the other hand, is a different story – I have always been partial to going over to the enemy now and again.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said, not wanting to imagine any such thing at all. ‘Who was Alex’s new girlfriend?’ I pressed, steering us back on course. ‘And how come no one else has spoken about her?’

‘I don’t owe you or Alex Cattanach any favours. If you want to find out who her girlfriend was then you’ll have to do it yourself.’

‘I think you might want to help me slightly more than you realise, Bridget,’ I countered. ‘There is the small matter of the tape – what age were the girls?’

‘They were over sixteen, and even if they weren’t you can’t prove when that video was made. I’m not talking and the other two girls are dead.’

‘What about the mystery lady? The woman behind the camera? Was it Alex Cattanach?’

Bridget walked over to her music system and selected a compilation of love songs. It was dire – she whipped through the first few bars of some dirges sung by an overblown American woman before settling on Whitney Houston. It seemed horrendous to me, but there was something pitiful in the way that Bridget stood. The slump of her shoulders and the way her thin mouth turned down at the corners made me think that perhaps Alex
had
been the love of her life – everything else was just bravado.

I didn’t have time for sympathy, though.

‘I asked you if Alex Cattanach was the camerawoman.’

‘No, she was not – she abhorred the video; it was against her so-called bloody principles. God … you know even better than I do what Alex is like – was like – when it came to right and wrong.’

Bridget walked up and down on the red handmade Turkish carpet, smoking furiously, drawing deep with every breath. Lost in her own thoughts I saw that this was a routine she carried out often, probably every time she was under stress.

‘She couldn’t take the pressure of being a lesbian, you know – she felt as if she was sinning against God. It drove her to drink, and she was a pretty mean drunk.’

‘Personally, I didn’t find her too sweet sober.’

‘I had nothing to do with that crusade of hers against you, Brodie. I’m not saying that I didn’t enjoy it, because that would be a lie. There are few things that I would have enjoyed more than seeing her nail you for fraud. But I didn’t start it up, I didn’t ask her to go after you.’

Her red-taloned hands picked up her glass. Draining it, she left to get a refill.

‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ I hissed at Joe.

‘I thought you were doing well on your own,’ he whispered back.

The fridge door slammed shut – so did our mouths.

‘You were kindly saying how delighted you would have been if Cattanach had nailed me,’ I said as Bridget reappeared.

‘Of course. There’s no pretence between us, Brodie. I hate you and you despise me.’

I ignored the dig and went on, ‘Donna Diamond thought that Alex was being blackmailed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Alex instructed Donna …’

I had barely got a few words out before Bridget interrupted me. ‘Shit. Complete horse shit. There is absolutely no way that Alex would ever have gone to Donna Diamond if she had been in trouble. Think about it – it doesn’t make sense. Even before her operation she wasn’t a great lawyer. Donna and David before her were both too preoccupied with what was or wasn’t between their legs to think about the law.’

The silver tray on the Georgian mahogany sideboard contained glasses and a decanter of whisky. I put my wine glass down and walked over. I poured myself a generous measure and offered one to Joe, who declined. Full of manners, as my mother would have said. Bridget didn’t comment on my drinking habits, and I knew that Joe wanted to. I didn’t care what anyone thought – the decanter contained a single malt Islay, one of my favourites. I needed
uisge beath
right now.

‘Alex consulted Donna. I know this,’ I told her. ‘I have Donna’s diary and the entries aren’t faked.’

‘Alex Cattanach was a blackmailer, Brodie.’

‘Who was she blackmailing?’ I asked.

‘I’m not doing your work for you – you seem to think you’re a cop these days; work it out for yourself. But let me tell you one thing – Alex Cattanach wouldn’t have been up for a medal for services to law, and she certainly wouldn’t be getting the sympathy she’s having thrown at her these days if people knew what she was really like.’

I guessed Bridget Nicholson had been one victim of Alex’s, irrespective of the fact that they had been lovers too. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the video would end Bridget’s judicial career. I would see to that. Not for myself, but for Moira Campbell and Tanya Hayder, who got more than they deserved when they sought out her services.

Bridget wasn’t finished yet.

‘Someone is using you, Brodie. I may not like you, but I wouldn’t deliberately see you sent down for a murder you didn’t commit. You think you know everything about Alex because of something in Donna Diamond’s diary? Alex brought about Donna’s prosecution, Brodie! I don’t believe she would have gone to her for help, and I don’t believe Donna would have given it.

‘If Alex had ever really been in trouble then she would have instructed you – she told me so. She liked to taunt me with it when she was drunk. Alex admired you, Brodie. She admired you.’

Suddenly we all saw a different reason for Alex Cattanach writing my name in excrement on her hospital walls.

She wanted my help.

Chapter Forty-Two

Opportunities make a thief.

This had been one of Alex Cattanach’s favourite sayings, and she used it in every interview she gave. Maybe it had also applied to her – after all, blackmail was just theft under a different guise.

A text message had come in from McCoy the next day. He wanted to see me immediately – no doubt to call in his favour. I didn’t mind; who would have thought he’d be right with pinning down Cattanach as a common blackmailer?

I waited in the common room at Castle Huntly for the guard to find him. The open prison was reminiscent of a run-down student hall of residence, especially with the pool table in the corner.

‘Good, you came right away,’ McCoy shouted as he entered the room. He was used to attracting attention and it was a hard habit to break. Sadly for him, I was the only one there. McCoy was dressed for the outdoors today. Expensive garish cords and a green wool jumper with oblong suede patches on the shoulders and elbows made him every inch the country squire, from his brown handmade brogues to his twill checked shirt. It was a costume, but it didn’t do anything to hide the fact that he looked awful.

‘You’re not looking so good,’ I blurted out.

‘That’s why you’re here,’ he said snappily.

Maybe he wanted me to make a will.

‘Did you bring a car? I’m damned if I’m getting on the back of a bloody bike. I’ve seen the day, mind. Is Malcolm with you?’

‘He’s driving,’ I nodded.

‘Good – at least I’ll have some tolerable company.’

The old queen was looking to be slapped, and he must have seen me bristle at his insult.

‘Please forgive me if I sound a trifle harsh, my dear. It’s just at my age it’s nice to share some time with someone who can see more than liver spots and blue lips. Malcolm remembers me when I was in my prime, and I need that right now.’ I did understand and I even tried to help him into the car. His heart was bothering him and there was talk of him being released early. Malcolm, however, had other ideas. He leaped round to meet his old friend, anxious to show off his new nose, which had fully healed. Arnica, he assured me, had worked wonders.

‘You’re looking gorgeous, old girl,’ purred McCoy.

‘You’re not looking so bad yourself, old thing,’ replied Malcolm, but we all knew he was lying.

‘How is the romance going?’ McCoy asked as we pulled out of the prison car park. I was relegated to the back seat. I felt like a spare prick at an orgy, an analogy that had come readily to mind as I knew they were about to start discussing Malcolm’s love life. I didn’t want to hear. The two old codgers in the front were already acting as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, because, like it or not, I needed McCoy.

When McCoy had contacted me he was very specific. Bring Malcolm. I owed him big-time. He knew far more than he was telling me so I had primed Malcolm to help me winkle it out of him, not that I needed to. I had quickly realised that, behind Kailash, I was his favoured one. It was a nice feeling – I had liked Malcolm since meeting him last year. He had cared so much for me, without me even realising it to begin with.

McCoy had also advised me that he wished to go out for lunch. Just any pub or roadside café would not do – he wanted to go to Boath House, a hundred and twenty mile round trip from the prison. Malcolm was excited since it had such a fine reputation. I knew that I’d be picking up the tab; not that I minded. I had never adequately thanked Malcolm for healing me when my stepmother had injured me last year.

I tried to catch up on some sleep whilst we drove there. I was going to speak to Malcolm about giving me something to settle the sleeplessness on the way home. As I fell into an uneasy doze in the car, I heard the woman on the video. I felt that I knew her but I couldn’t put a face to the voice – the harder I tried, the more she seemed to slip away.

I must have been moaning and talking in my sleep as Malcolm was unduly solicitous when he woke me up. I think even McCoy felt sorry for me; maybe the nap had done me some good after all.

I was pleased that Malcolm had awakened me just before we entered the drive to Boath House. The pink shale driveway curved graciously to the house; along the roadside, round sandstone balls acted as bollards marking the way. Boath House had been built around 1825, and the present owners had spent years painstakingly restoring it.

We were greeted by the owner, who explained that the window cleaner had just finished his work. The original windows had been in a terrible state due to the summer storms the north-east had recently experienced. The two old queens added that they too were delighted at the sparkling windows, to the extent that I wondered how McCoy had found the time to embezzle such a large amount of money when he filled his mind with frippery.

The owner showed us into a lovely drawing room. The overstuffed chairs were reminiscent of Bridget Nicholson’s and they brought my mind sharply back into focus. We ordered our drinks. I stuck to a Diet Coke in case I was becoming like Eddie, plus Malcolm had indicated that I would be driving home, which, when I looked at the extensive wine list that I would be paying for, annoyed me.

McCoy put in his request. ‘I’ll have a Hendrick’s gin with thinly sliced cucumber and some borage please.’ I was surprised because the only other person I knew who drank this was Kailash; it must have shown on my face.