Blood Lines (26 page)

‘Only if I thought you secretly wanted me to.’

He winked at me. He was anxious to get into Glasgow Joe’s good books and any news that would give Joe an insight into me would be hot property, although he must have been a little concerned that the messenger might get shot.

‘Cut the crap, Moses. How are you getting on with Duncan Bancho?’

‘Well, the little misunderstanding we had over the man now known as Blind Bruce has gone away – since there were no witnesses.’ He looked me in the eye. I said nothing. ‘There were no witnesses,’ he repeated. ‘And even Bruce has admitted to the police that he was extremely unlucky to fall on his own knife and poke his eyes out.’

‘It was a harsh punishment, Moses, and you know it.’

‘Who made you God, Brodie? You’re here because someone is setting you up. Is that fair? At least Bruce had a chance – he knew the rules. If at any point he had grovelled, said he was sorry, things would have been different, but no, he challenged me, he kept on challenging me, and that couldn’t be allowed to pass. It’s the law of the jungle, Brodie: eat or be eaten.’

I watched a girl doing a service wash. It was quite therapeutic, seeing her fold the snowy-white sheets and towels.

Moses watched me watching her.

‘Funny you should be drawn to watching that girl. She belongs to Kailash, she’s given me the contract for her places. Kailash is very loyal; but I wouldn’t like to cross her. She’s not daft, mind, she runs a very tight ship, she really screwed me down on price, and if it’s not perfect then it’s handed right back for me to have another go.’

‘Moses, keep to the subject – we’re both being fucked by Bancho – you’ve been paying him a lot for protection and information and now he’s taking someone else’s money and you have no idea who that is or why. Am I right?’

Moses raised his eyebrows at me and I sensed that there was something going on here that he didn’t want me to see. In the background the Alchemist had come in. He’d slunk round the back through the multicoloured plastic streamers. With him was a fattish merchant-banker type, maybe just the right side of thirty, three stone overweight, wearing salmon-pink cords that had probably cost a fortune, even though there was never a decade in which they were in style.

Five minutes later the man came out, pockets bulging, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

‘You’ve missed some!’ I shouted to him and he wiped his nose.

‘You know how I feel about drugs, Moses. I thought I knew what you thought about them too.’

‘You’re fucking naïve about them, Brodie, that’s what I think. Despite your job you don’t seem to understand that there is a difference in drugs – I don’t do heroin, I don’t deal with smack-heads. That guy who just walked out – do you think he thinks he’s a junkie? He could buy and sell you. He’s probably buying stuff to take to his shooting lodge in the Highlands. It’s just recreational stuff I’m involved in, nothing else.’

The Lost Knickers Diner is an excellent shop-front for Moses’ pharmaceutical industry, which is way too big to be called ‘cottage’. I remember reading an article saying that cocaine use amongst twenty-and thirty-something Scots had doubled in a year and that it was now the drug of choice for young professionals. Moses wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity.

‘Anyway,’ he said, getting back to my original question, ‘if Bancho has his way I won’t be in this business any more – and I don’t mean that he wants to put me behind bars. No, that greedy wee bastard has got someone who’s paying him big-time, muscling in on my supply chain. I’m losing dealers left, right and centre. Whoever’s paying Bancho is paying him to supply the drugs and the information. When the Alchemist gets there they’ve already got their gear. No amount of doings is going to pull them into line. My best hope is the Alchemist’s trial – have you found the witness?’

‘I’m not telling you because I know what you’ll do – and that’s not good for anyone.’

‘So you’ve found the witness and, surprise, surprise, he’s not co-operating.’

‘Drop it, Moses,’ I warned.

‘Don’t worry, it’s dropped – now, I’ll ask you again. What did you come here for?’

I didn’t believe a word he said about not going after the witness, but I would have to give this job to Glasgow Joe – he was the only one who could control Moses. I handed him Donna’s five-year diary. I wanted to see what his reaction was – he had great intuition, but he also knew more than anyone else I was in touch with about the seedy side of life, which would hopefully lead him to answer some questions I had about the contents. He opened the pages as if he was trying to give the matter due attention. He was attempting to get back into my good books. I expected a few schoolboy jokes as he flicked through, but perhaps he acknowledged a fellow human being’s suffering in those lewd cartoons.

‘Well, fuck me sideways, Brodie!’ he shouted out and started to laugh, leaving me to regret my warmer thoughts about his empathy.

‘Keep your voice down,’ I whispered at him, now more unsure than ever of the ethics of touting this diary around town. He ignored me and started jumping around and punching his fist in the air, shouting, ‘Ya beauty! Ya beauty!’ I was desperate to know what it was that excited him in the heartbreaking diary.

‘Well done, Brodie, you’ve only gone and brought me details of my fucking supply chain! Whatever poor Donna Diamond went through to keep this diary, at least in the last six months, he’s – sorry,
she’s
– detailed the comings and goings of the bastard who’s been muscling in on my line of dealers.’

‘I’ve read it already, but it didn’t make complete sense to me – what does it mean?’ I asked him once I had pulled him off me and dried my cheeks from his kisses.

‘It means that whoever killed Donna killed her because of this.’ He waved the diary in the air. ‘We just have to find who’s been stealing my customers and we find Donna’s killer! Plus, we nail this bastard, then we get another go at nailing Bancho, and that’s got to be good because we’re doubling our chances of getting that bastard off our backs.’ He was looking at the diary all the time he said this, and exclaimed, ‘Bonus news for you, Brodie! Look …’ His black fingernail pointed to an entry dated the fourth of January:

Alex Cattanach contacted me today – as a client! Who would have thought? How the mighty are fallen.  Enough drivel. Obviously, she knew that whatever she told me was bound by client confidentiality (the bitch – it’s such a juicy tidbit). Even so, she was pretty cagey. She came up with some story that two friends of hers were being blackmailed. Apparently there’s a video of her ‘friend ‘and a.n. other engaged in what she called ‘lesbian acts’ (I’d like to see it). It gets better  – it’s shot in a legal office and involves young female  clients (better and better). Alex Cattanach is no better  than she should be, yet she still had the bloody cheek  to act holier than thou with me. On her way out she  asked me if I intended to plead guilty to the fraud  charge and save the Crown some money. Maybe if I find her blackmailer she’ll get the charges dropped.

Now I was definitely walking in Donna’s shoes. To prove my innocence I had to find the same people she was after and try to ignore what had happened to her when she had done so. I shuddered as I thought of my business card.

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘I’ve never seen this place looking so clean, Brodie – well, not since …’

Patch didn’t finish his sentence. We didn’t speak about Fishy, my ex-flatmate. He might have been handy for washing the dishes but he had a less useful side when he got in league with my stepmother and tried to kill me. Give me a sink full of crockery with mould on it any day.

‘Thanks, Patch. I’ve got a new cleaner – recommended to me by Bridget Nicholson no less. I’ve never met the lovely Agnes, but she’s doing a great job. I might start asking her to fix the rest of my life up too.’

I handed Patch an exceptionally hygienic cup of tea.

‘You see, Grandad, I can keep my enemies close,’ I whispered as I handed him his porcelain cup with a saucer.

We were having a war-council meeting. Frank had phoned late in the afternoon to say that all the Crown production documents and evidence were in. For once, I was delighted to suggest to the crew that they came over. I even asked Kailash, just so that I could show off my sparkling pad. Fresh as a daisy indeed, just as the cheesy advertising leaflets for the company said. I usually went into the office on a Sunday as it was so quiet and I could catch up on things, but today I was taking it easy. Not too much of a problem, given that we still weren’t as busy as I would like. I had cooked a feast using a Madhur Jaffrey cooking book I’d got in a charity shop for one pound fifty. Normally, I would just have ordered the food in, having had to spend all my time making the place sanitary. Today, I enjoyed baking my own naan bread and puris and hoped they would be impressed.

Frank insisted that we worked first, then ate.

He opened his briefcase and took out the ten-by-eight black and white photographs of the productions. I felt myself go a bit woozy as I remembered the last time I had sat here looking at photographs pulled from an envelope. It didn’t seem that long ago that a serial killer had been sending me pictures of friends with nooses around their necks, and images of butchered schoolgirls. This time Alex Cattanach stared up at me and my appetite went out the window along with her vacant stare.

The knife marks on her face were particularly evident in the starkness of the picture. Spiral welds formed a grotesque pattern on her cheeks. It was expert knife work. Acid reflux came into my mouth as I looked at her, not helped by the smell of the lamb biryani that was burning on the stove.

It was hard not to stare; it was even harder not to want to cry with sympathy at the ruination of this once proud, intelligent woman. She wouldn’t be starring in any naughty videos this side of Christmas, a horrid little voice in my head said. I was grateful that no one else could hear it. I must state in my defence that when people are faced with a dark situation the natural reflex is for them to laugh. I told myself it was natural, but not forgivable.

I didn’t feel like laughing at the next picture.

‘Would someone mind explaining this to me?’ Grandad tapped his arthritic old finger against the grainy black and white photograph.

‘I would have thought the picture explained itself, Lord MacGregor.’

Patch and Grandad had a thing going on – too small to be called a feud, too big to be dismissed. I don’t know how it started, I suspect it began in some court case, God knows how many decades ago, and I didn’t know when it would end. Certainly not anytime soon, I thought, by the looks of them. Like two old rams, they were locked by the horns, neither one willing to back down, Grandad smarting at the implication that he was losing his marbles.

‘Okay, calm down.’ My voice sounded calmer than I felt. ‘It’s my name, Grandad, written on Alex Cattanach’s wall, by her. The material she has used is her own blood and shit.’

‘Oh.’

‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘Well, regrettably, in this instance I am forced to agree with Professor Patterson. The photograph really does speak for itself, and I think we all have enough brain cells left to shudder at what any sane or reasonable jury might think of it.’

‘I think we should serve the food now.’ Kailash got up from the table and moved to the cooker. Her face was hidden from me and I feared she might have been crying.

I had set the places before they arrived and it looked lovely. My table was antique rosewood, chosen from a shop in Stockbridge. My only worry when I’d first bought it was that Moses seemed to recognise it. Even the glasses were old. Grandad had given me some of my unknown-Granny’s dishes and glassware and his eyes shone with pleasure as he recognised them.

Tonight we were eating in the dining room because there were so many of us. I took particular care not to seat Jack Deans next to Glasgow Joe, then I also had to keep Grandad and Patch apart. I missed Moses because, remarkably, he was a great peacemaker and in this assorted group of my friends and family he would have worked wonders. Strangely, my grandad adored him and it was not unusual for me to find Moses up in Grandad’s flat in Ramsay Gardens, as they chewed the cud together. Tonight, however, we had both agreed that it was more essential for Moses to get on with tracking down the blackmailer.

Kailash carried the basmati rice to the table in a huge Victorian soup tureen. The pattern on the china was blowsy and colourful – rust marigold edged in gold with dark blue leaves – not exactly true to nature, but a fabulous centrepiece to the table. A silver candelabra, with eight beeswax candles, showered us with a glow that the content of the evening didn’t merit. The pakoras were superb, and although the lamb was burnt I hoped that none but the most discerning palate would notice. Frank wolfed his down, and Grandad and Kailash toyed with theirs, claiming lack of appetite. Disappointed, I decided not to bring out the handmade mango ice cream, created from the gelateria that Joe had bought me for Christmas.

I cleared the dishes away quite quickly; the fun had gone out of the evening when the first photograph of Alex had appeared. It wasn’t helped by the fact that I’d been distracted and then ruined some of the dishes, not just the lamb. I really take pride in my cooking and usually my guests are well satisfied eating in an untidy kitchen around a cramped table. Tonight, I had really wanted to pull it off – it was the first time that I’d used my granny’s dishes and I wanted to show Grandad that I could do something – even if it was only to be the cook in Cornton Vale.

Now it was ruined.

Jack came into the kitchen laden down with dishes that I hadn’t collected yet. He placed them on the thick wooden worktop, still overflowing with food. I was scraping it into the bin like pig-swill, too annoyed to save it to be reheated – I preferred the grand gesture, as always. Jack came up behind me and pulled me close. He bent and kissed my neck; he knew my secret. Learn how to kiss my neck properly and I will hang around for life; or at least until I get bored.