Face in the Frame

FACE IN THE FRAME

Unfinished Business Series #2

By Heather Atkinson

Copyright Heather Atkinson November 2015

Acknowledgement

The premise for this book actually came from my wonderful husband Paul when he was driving on a long lonely road through the highlands of Scotland, watched by crows. In such a dramatic setting his mind naturally turned to the macabre and the idea for Lucas Thorne’s exhibition popped into his head. As I thought it was such an unusual idea I decided it would be something for Brodie to investigate. So thank you to Paul for helping me create Lucas Thorne and his bizarre exhibition.

Also thanks to my mum Stephanie for proof-reading my book and to my sister and fellow Indie author Suzanne Clark for her unwavering support. Also thanks to my dad Tony, my lovely little girls Charlotte and Sophie, to Diane, Michael and friends for changing my life and to Brodie, who is enormous fun to write. Finally many thanks to you the reader for taking the time to read my work. Enjoy.

Heather Atkinson November 2015

CHAPTER 1

“Ah Mr Brodie, please come in.”

Brodie rolled his eyes as he stepped inside the seedy, piss-stinking flat. His surname of MacBride didn’t seem to exist for most people, everyone called him Brodie. Just the one name, like Cher or Madonna.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” continued the scrotum who’d opened the door to him. “A most wise decision on your part.”

Brodie frowned at the skinny, gleekit wee prick. He was from Partick but he spoke like a Bond villain.

“You’ve seen sense and decided to give me the e-mails?” said Brodie, wanting to get out of the manky flat as quickly as possible. His client was a wealthy and very well respected judge, one Brodie was familiar with from his time as a police officer. She also had a long-standing girlfriend and this little weasel had intercepted her e-mails to her lover and was threatening to send them to her already suspicious husband, a ferocious defence lawyer who would take great delight in using his considerable skills to pull apart his cheating wife’s life.

“Please take a seat,” said the weasel graciously as he took an armchair by the electric fire.

Brodie almost laughed out loud when a fluffy white cat jumped onto his lap, completing the Bond villain look. He also suspected that was the source of the pissy smell.

“I’m not sitting down,” said Brodie. “Give me the fucking e-mails then I’ll be off.”

“That’s not how it works Mr Brodie,” he replied, wagging his finger back and forth, giving Brodie the urge to pull it off and poke him in the eye with it. “We do this my way if the honourable judge wants to keep her life intact. Now sit and we’ll talk in a civilised manner.”

Brodie huffed impatiently. This fool seemed to think he was fucking Moriarty. Did that make him Sherlock Holmes? He laughed inwardly at the comparison. Cass - his second-in-command and long time secret crush - had a thing for the guy who played Sherlock. Brodie wondered if he pointed out the similarities in their professions whether it would be a tick in his favour?

“Hello, are you listening to me?” snapped the weasel. “You’re not going to get what the judge wants by acting like that. Now, I suggest…”

When Brodie’s fist connected with his face the cat leapt off his knee with an hysterical hiss.

The man dabbed at his bleeding nose in shock. “You hit me.”

“You’re sharp. Have another,“ said Brodie, punching him in the left side of the face, causing him to slide sideways in his chair. “Now I’m going to tell you how it’s going to work ya wee shite bag,” said Brodie, looming over him. “I’m going to keep hitting you until you give me what I came for. Any questions?”

“You can’t…ow, stop it,” he cried after another blow. “I’m not…ow.”

Brodie hit him again then again. He thought Sherlock Holmes didn’t punch enough people, it was the only language cretins like this understood. Sherlock wouldn’t have had to fanny about half as much if he’d just given Moriarty a good kicking.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get it,” he said, holding up his hands.

“Good Weasel. Show me.”

He frowned. “Weasel? Alright, take it easy,” he exclaimed when Brodie raised his fist again.

He rose on shaky legs and staggered over to a wonky cupboard leaning against a wall, as though it was on the verge of fainting. He pulled it aside to reveal a hole cut into the wall in which was a small wooden box. Opening the box he took out a memory stick.

“Crap hiding place,” said Brodie. “Now give.”

Miserably he handed over the memory stick, still dabbing at his bleeding nose.

“Good Weasel.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you look like one. How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

Brodie huffed out a breath. “Hack into the judge’s e-mails you daftie.”

“She always goes to the same café for lunch, I see her there most days. I set up a duplicate of the café’s free wi-fi account so when she logged in on her phone I could see everything. Clever don’t you think?” he said, unable to resist bragging.

“No. Mediocre. Did you target her specifically?”

“No, I’d no idea who she was until I read her e-mails.”

“Then you saw your chance to make some cash, you dirty wee scrote. I hate blackmailers, you’re right up there with syphilis and stubbing your toe.” Brodie grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt and dragged him towards him. “If Jennifer Murphy is ever bothered again by any more bollocks like this I’ll be straight round here, only next time I’ll bring my wee bag of tricks and really get medieval on you. In fact, if I ever come across another blackmailing case again to do with anyone you’ll be my first port of call and it won’t be pleasant, for you anyway, I’ll have a fucking ball.” Brodie’s amber-coloured eyes hardened. “Literally.”

All the blood drained from the weasel’s face and Brodie hastily released him when he threw up all over himself.

“Urgh, you dirty bastard,” grumbled Brodie, stepping back so the vomit wouldn’t splatter him. “Still, it matches the carpet.”

The weasel crumpled into his armchair while the white cat ran back into the room and started to lick up the sick. “I’ve given you what you want so please leave me alone,” he sighed.

“I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re going to curb your nasty wee habits.”

“I have. I won’t blackmail anyone ever again. Promise,” he wailed.

Brodie wanted to punch him once more just to make sure he’d got the message but he didn’t want to get sick on himself so instead he said, “see you around Weasel,” before strolling out the door.

Once outside Brodie took out his phone and sent a text to Jennifer Murphy telling her he had what she wanted. He’d wait for her to get back to him with a meeting place where he could hand over the memory stick.

He drove back into the city centre. There was no parking outside the block where his office was located, which was one reason why he’d chosen it. He didn’t want anyone pulling up outside his business mob-handed. If someone wanted to attack him then they had to negotiate at least one busy street packed full of CCTV cameras. Instead he parked on the next street and popped into a bakery to buy two coffees and two doughnuts before strolling around the corner, whistling to himself.

“Hey Mr Brodie,” called a bundle of clothes huddled in the doorway next to his office.

Brodie didn’t bother correcting the bundle about his name. He’d known Fred for four years, ever since he’d set up headquarters here and - despite the number of times he’d had to correct him - he’d never got it right so he’d long ago given up.

“Hello Fred, how’s tricks?” replied Brodie.

“Not good.” Fred’s paranoid blue eyes shone out of his grimy, bearded face, flicking left and right before leaning forward conspiratorially. “I saw the devil last night.”

“Not Bible John?” said Brodie. Fred claimed to have seen the infamous Glaswegian serial killer with his third victim back in the sixties. Fred suffered from paranoid delusions and was always coming up with ridiculous conspiracy theories but his Bible John story had never changed, it was always consistent, making Brodie think there was some truth to the tale. He was good at spotting tall stories after his years on the police force - climbing the ranks to detective inspector before becoming disillusioned by flaws in the law letting scumbags off the hook. The rest of Fred’s tales were all tall, except for that one, he was sure of it.

Brodie was obsessed with the Bible John mystery - three women had been beaten, raped and strangled in Glasgow after a night out at the Barrowlands Ballroom and no one had been caught for the crimes. Brodie’s sense of injustice seethed at this fact and it would give him great satisfaction to see the bastard caught, if he was still alive, it was a long time ago after all. He never tired of listening to Fred’s tale, no matter how many times he heard it. He’d referred to Bible John as the devil so often Brodie naturally assumed this was who he was talking about now.

“No, not him,” replied Fred, shattering his assumption. “This was a new devil.”

Brodie was intrigued. “Go on.”

“He walked up to me bold as brass and said he liked my face.” Fred’s eyes bulged. “He wants my face.”

Brodie sighed inwardly. Fred’s face was lined and coated with dirt and thick white stubble, eyes wild and lips chapped. It was an interesting face, one that had seen a lot of life, but he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it. It seemed Fred had developed a new conspiracy theory. Still, he liked to humour him, Fred didn’t get many opportunities for conversation. “Who wants your face?”

“The devil,” he repeated, clutching his grubby, calloused hands to his chest.

“What does he look like?” he said, expecting Fred to relate a description of a man with red scaly skin and horns.

“Ordinary, he’s pretending to be a human man but I know different. He came to me in the dead of night, wrapped in black, eyes hard and wicked. He wants my face,” he repeated, louder.

“How do you know he wants your face?”

“Because he told me. He touched me, like this,” he said, dragging his finger along his jawbone, the claw-like nail trailing through the dirty white hair of his beard. “He said I was perfect and he’d make me live forever.”

“And then?” said Brodie when he went silent.

“He left, vanished into the night. He had on a long black coat that made him look like a bat. Bats are the devil’s minions you know.”

“Really?” said Brodie flatly. “You weren’t on the meths again were you Fred?”

“Maybe,” he replied with a furtive look. “But I know what I saw.”

“I’m sure you do.” This new devil figure was up there with the aliens who wanted to probe him up the arse, Elvis’s ghost and the Loch Ness Monster swimming along the Clyde. Apparently it was on holiday at the time.

“You have to help me Mr Brodie, please, before he takes my face.”

“Alright, calm down. I’ll see what I can do but I’ve got to get to the office right now.”

Fred clung onto his arm, nails digging into the leather of his jacket. “He wants my face,” he cried louder, drawing curious looks from passers-by.

“Aye I know. Leave it with me Fred. Have something to eat,” he said, handing Fred a doughnut and coffee.

He snatched them off him and stuffed the doughnut into his mouth.

Brodie left him to it, walking through the door that led into his office and up the stairs. His office was on the second floor of a three storey building, making it difficult for anyone to break in through a window.

He entered the office to find two of his employees - Ross and Christian - whispering in a corner. Instantly Brodie was suspicious.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Not having heard him come in, they both jumped and spun round to face him.

“Nothing,” replied Christian, dark eyes darting from side to side, as though he was weighing up whether or not it would be a good idea to do a runner.

Brodie at one point had wondered if he’d done the right thing hiring Christian. The boy was just too good looking. He’d spotted the way Cass’s eyes had lit up when he’d introduced him as the newest member of their four-man team. Christian stood at a strapping six foot three with flawless ebony skin and eyelashes so long they touched his high cheekbones. Brodie thought they looked girlie but women went wild over Christian and his eyelashes. But he was huge and very handy in a fight, which was the main reason why he’d given him a job. He was also smarter than Ross, whose complexion was the exact opposite - pale to the point that he looked as though he haunted the place. Ross was just as big as his colleague, his clothes chosen for comfort in contrast to Christian’s sharp designer trousers and crisp shirts, his hair a ginger mop.

Brodie looked to his third employee and second-in-command sitting at her desk. “Cass, what have they done?”

“Broken the photocopier,” she called back, the phone pressed to her ear.

When Brodie looked back at the two men they involuntarily took a step closer to each other.

“How the hell did you manage that?” demanded Brodie.

“It was him,” they said in unison, pointing at each other.

Cass ended her call and hung up. As usual she wore a smart black shirt and trousers and shiny sensible boots, her waist-length dark hair held back in a ponytail. Brodie felt himself go warm and fuzzy inside. He’d been crazy about her from the moment they’d met in a pub three years ago. They’d enjoyed one incredible night of passion together before he’d discovered how skilled she was and offered her a job. Cass was the toughest woman he knew. Unfortunately she’d taken his job offer to mean that he didn’t want a relationship with her, which wasn’t true. As she’d never shown any interest in him since he’d been forced to hide his true feelings for her, which only seemed to grow stronger with time.

“The engineer can’t make it until the day after tomorrow,” she said in a strong Lancashire accent, she was his only non-Glaswegian employee.

Brodie turned his attention back to Ross and Christian. “You pair of fannies, we need that.”

“Sorry Boss,” said Christian. “We didn’t mean it.”

“In the past you’ve broken a desk, flooded the bathroom and set my office on fire. You should be in demolition, not private investigation.”