Dark Angels (12 page)

Uncomfortably, I drifted in and out of consciousness, unsure of my surroundings and the faces that came to see me. By the time Jack Deans turned up, white plate in hand, stacked with pancakes, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Mother Teresa doing the dusting.

‘How’s Sleeping Beauty?’ he asked, as if we’d been having a perfectly ordinary chat seconds earlier. The plate that he put down clanged off the bedside cabinet as I stared at him in disbelief.

‘Ambulance chasing now, Jack? You’re sinking lower than even I predicted.’

‘You’ve been out for three days, Brodie. Fishy had to go to work…so I offered to babysit. Looks like it’s going to be a thankless task.’ Jack Deans busied himself, straightening my bedclothes as if the situation was a perfectly normal one.

‘Where’s Malcolm?’ I asked.

‘He’s just left. I had to throw him out the door–poor old sod’s been with you the whole time. Now it’s my turn–I’ll attend to your every need. Cups of tea, bowls of soup, commode, bed bath, inside stories on your colleagues–you name it. Particularly the bed bath.’

‘How did you know I’d been attacked, Jack?’ I wasn’t in the mood for our usual verbal sparring. I knew he
had his sources and I was panicking that word on the assault on me was out. Lavender would cover me as best she could at work–and that was nothing to be sniffed at–but if Roddie and Co. actually knew that I had been attacked, that would put a completely different complexion on things. As I waited on his answer, I became aware that I was absolutely starving. Reaching over, I pulled the plate of pancakes towards me, and pain shot down my right arm. I had an instant memory flash–after I had gone over Awesome’s handlebars I had landed awkwardly on my right shoulder.

‘You in pain?’ asked Jack.

‘Nothing like asking the obvious to show your shit-hot journalistic credentials, is there?’ I looked at him grumpily, now too sore to eat.

He answered by shoving a pancake into my mouth. It tasted better than I would ever let him know.

‘The old guy left pills for you, but I think they’re a bit dodgy, no packet or anything. At the risk of repeating myself–which I’m sure you’d never let me away with–you need to watch yourself, Brodie. I had a bad back and the doctor gave me extra strength pain killers. I brought some in case you needed them.’

I refused his medicine, leaving the pills on my bedside cabinet. Jack Deans had no healing skills that I could see and he seemed oblivious to the irony of me taking his pills over those from Malcolm. The man was hardly a walking ‘good health’ advert.

‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.

‘Sniffing out another scoop, Jack?’

‘Aw shut it, Brodie. I’m actually genuinely concerned–and genuinely bothered given that I’m forsaking my valuable time to be passing you bloody Lucozade and grapes. Show a bit of gratitude, will you?’

I’d do the shutting up bit, but that was all he was getting. I was still getting over the irony that he was in my apartment, and I was in bed, but we were both fully dressed and eating pancakes rather than doing what was a damn sight more appealing.

‘It’s just that I spoke at length with Fishy, and he filled me in on the details. I thought perhaps, well, after the accident your recollection might be hazy…’

My mother had always insisted that I did not speak with my mouth full; now managing to stuff the warm pancakes into my mouth, old habits died hard and I nodded at Jack, urging him on.

‘Fishy received an anonymous call at the police station. It came through on his mobile.’

Jack knew the import of what he was saying. Anxiety gnawed at my stomach, making the pancakes suddenly hard to digest. Fishy’s number wasn’t easily obtainable; someone had gone to considerable lengths to find it. Either that or they knew it already.

‘They said that you’d met with an accident near Dunsappie Loch.’

Jack Deans sat down on the bed, his bulk pulling the covers tightly over my legs, so that I was suddenly aware of pain in places that had hitherto seemed fine. Ignoring my wincing, he grabbed my hand.

‘Brodie–they said it was a warning. You don’t mess with these bastards.’

‘That’s the problem, Jack. I don’t know who they are so I don’t know who to stop messing with. Did they say what they wanted me to do?’

‘I suspect they think we know more than we do.’

‘Is Roddie Buchanan a factor in all of this?’ I asked, feeling an urge to pace while still unable to move. ‘Maybe they think I found out something when I was acting in his defamation action.’

‘What, more than what was splashed over the papers?’

‘Seriously…can you imagine how edgy some people are feeling just now? Kailash is a loose cannon. If she’s going down–and it looks as if she is–then I bet she intends to take every member of the establishment that has ever come within five feet of her right down there too.’

Sheriff Strathclyde’s behaviour at the judicial examination had certainly convinced me things could blow.

Something else was bothering me.

‘How did Kailash know to send Malcolm? She’s in prison.’

Jack Deans got up and circled the bed. For the first time I noticed the creases in his shirt, and the heavy circles under his eyes. Had he been keeping watch with Malcolm, or had he thought it necessary to stand guard?

‘Something else I don’t know. The guy’s like fucking Mary Poppins, but more effeminate than Julie Andrews ever managed. He just turned up at the door.’

‘Is that when Fishy phoned you?’

‘Yep, he wanted to check him out, to see if I knew anything about him. But he’s a shadowy figure in
Kailash’s life. Don’t know what the old guy’s hiding, but he’s covered his tracks pretty well.

‘Obviously, Fishy was worried about you. You were bleeding so much and he wanted to take you to hospital. Stroppy cow that you are, you refused. I can’t even imagine how hysterical you must have been to get him to agree.’

Too many questions were in my head. I knew that Fishy had recently had his doubts about his superiors in the force. His sleepless nights weren’t for nothing. Like me, there were cases that niggled, details that made sleep impossible, but, for Fishy, it had been going on for too long as far as I could see. It had been a while since we had stayed up till the wee hours chatting over a bottle of wine, but even I could see the dark circles under his eyes, notice the weight falling off him, and recognise the jumpiness from sleep deprivation. I had the impression that someone he worked with was making things hard for him–phone calls abruptly finished when I walked in, he took days off when I knew he wasn’t ill. I’d had enough run-ins with cops to know how difficult they could make things–was Fishy being picked on by one of his own? Had someone given his mobile number out? If they had, how did they know who had attacked me? Who was involved with what here?

The front door bell rang. Jack’s face tightened with anger, he seemed genuinely concerned about me and I was close to being touched by it.

‘Jack–where does Kailash Coutts fit into all this?’

‘You’ll get a chance to ask her yourself. Madam Kailash wants to see you.’

As he stomped off to answer the door, he added: ‘And the all-involved Malcolm says you’re fit enough. That’s him now.’

I could barely see Malcolm’s face as he staggered in under a mountain of clothes and designer bags. Nice to know he was still able to manage a bit of retail therapy in the midst of his concern for me.

‘Been enjoying yourself, Malcolm?’ I asked.

He looked at the pile he was creating in the middle of my floor as if surprised that they had got there in the first place.

‘You’re meeting Kailash–did no one tell you?’

‘I’ve been informed that an audience is scheduled, but I still don’t see what that’s got to do with you maxing out your credit card.’

‘Well…last time you met, Kailash was a tad
concerned
about your appearance.’ He nodded, as if he had explained everything perfectly.

‘Kailash insists
all
her girls look the part.’

Malcolm began derisively throwing all my clothes into the middle of the floor, as Jack Deans smirked, hanging around the edges of the wardrobe, hoping to catch a glimpse of a PVC corset.

‘I am not Kailash’s girl,’ I spluttered. Adrenalin propelled my legs onto the wooden floorboards, and the endorphins over rode my pain. I bent down to pick up my own clothes with one hand, throwing Kailash’s offerings aside with the other.

Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I was stopped in my tracks. My hair looked redder than its usual auburn and its curls had not been tended to for three,
hard days. Raising my hand to touch my bruised, grazed cheek, I thought of Patch, and pity welled up inside me. I didn’t recognise the woman before me; I saw instead the scholarship girl, huge dark chocolate eyes staring out of a pinched pale face. Malcolm was right

—I was a mess.

As I stood there with Kailash’s offerings in one hand and my own sorry articles in the other, the feel of the expensive cloth between my fingers slipped through. It felt good, even in this state–why was I fighting?

Isolation is the cruellest of punishments. Before I went to Gordonstoun, it had never occurred to me that I was something less than human because I couldn’t afford to look like others. Survival was my only hope, success my only revenge. I’d thought those days were behind me, but this had brought it all back.

Clinging to my downtrodden costume went deeper than the clothes. Letting them go meant releasing the final vestiges of my mother. Four days ago, on a thundery night at Dunsappie Loch, my assailant hadn’t won–whoever he was had beaten courage into me.

I thought I could hear Mary McLennan cheer. This wasn’t going to get me–this was something I could do. Something I could win.

Jack picked up the Armani suit, and passed it to me just before he excused himself, leaving me in Malcolm’s hands.

Jack Deans insisted on driving me to Cornton Vale, explaining I would be too tired to drive back. In any event Awesome was my only source of transport, and she had been towed to the garage.

Heading out of Edinburgh along the M9 to Stirling, it was obvious Jack had fallen on hard times–as if I needed proof. His Jaguar XJ6 was at least twelve years old and smelled like an ashtray. Actually, I liked its faded elegance. The white leather seats were cracked with age, and I could feel a draught on my forehead where there was a hole in the soft top.

The crown on top of Linlithgow Palace was visible for miles. Jack drove in thoughtful silence, intent on getting me to the women’s prison as fast as he could.

I, however, was in no rush to meet up with Kailash Coutts. There were too many unanswered questions between us. From my brief encounters with her so far, I held out little hope of getting any straight answers.

On top of that, our history was almost too much. This woman had nearly destroyed me; I could easily
have been a casualty in her war with Roddie Buchanan. If her antics had resulted in the financial collapse of the firm, my life would have gone into freefall; starting with bankruptcy. A domino effect would have resulted in me losing my home and my practising certificate. In effect I would have had to put out a begging bowl to any firm that would take me.

Edinburgh lawyers are not known for their charity. I don’t exempt myself from this charge, but I’m well used to taking care of myself whenever I can. What had happened between Kailash and Roddie had taken things out of my hands–it was only by getting Kailash to sign that affidavit that I had managed to get some control back. Throughout it all, I had felt uncomfortable that she was pulling the strings more than I was willing to admit–and this was the root of my difficulty now. My intuition kept telling me I was once more a pawn in Kailash’s games, and I could not yet see the path to safety.

Such thoughts roiled around my mind as the flames from the petrochemical plant at Grangemouth lit the sky. The M9 is a straight road cutting through the heartland of Scotland, an industrial past sitting easily beside a shortbread tin image. All too soon, the phallic monument dedicated to William Wallace, Scotland’s greatest patriot and the tourist icon of
Braveheart
, was visible; it meant my meeting with Kailash would soon be upon me.

My mood plummeted, and Stirling Castle reminded me of its past glories. I didn’t want my best days to be behind me. I had just started and, to be honest, work
was all I had, something I didn’t want to dwell on too much. Kailash would have to be handled if I was to get out of this how I wanted.

Cornton Vale is Scotland’s only women’s prison, notorious for the high suicide rate of its inmates. Clearly, imprisonment affects the psyche–some of my clients loved it; they enjoyed the routine and the easy access to drugs. But Kailash was a different type, more akin to a crooked accountant than a street junkie, and such people found loss of freedom much more difficult to accept.

If I was hoping to gain a psychological advantage over Kailash, it was dispelled the moment she walked into the small, sterile consulting room. Once more the air was filled with her scent. Prisoners who are on remand are allowed to wear their own clothes. As ever, she surprised me wearing a white and gold salwar kameez with a duppatta around her neck.

Her silk kameez rustled softly as she moved towards me. Smaller than I remembered, her stature did not diminish her presence. Like Marcus Aurelius, she had found that room inside herself. Peace radiated from her. Given her circumstances it was extremely disconcerting.

‘Was Malcolm able to help with the pain?’ she asked, without the padding of social niceties.

Maybe she was wondering whether the effects of what I had been through were even beyond Malcolm’s skills. Her voice had an ambiguous quality. It was difficult for me to identify her roots. I was listening intently to the inflections of her voice so that I did not answer her directly.

‘Brodie?’

It was the first time I had heard her raise her voice. Moving my head slightly to minimise the pain, I made eye contact.