Broken Hearts. Grace Monroe
urgent.’
‘Too bad. They always say that, as well you know. I’ve got a family dinner tonight and if I’m late Kailash will kill me.’
‘He really did sound as if it was urgent this time,’ she answered. ‘Anyway–don’t you recognize the name? He’s that plastic surgeon. He’s very good. Apparently.’ I know that Lavender–and Kailash–thought I should know every mover and shaker in the city, but recognizing the names of plastic surgeons was surely taking things a bit far? Unless there was an implication that I might need an appointment myself.
‘It’s always urgent,’ I repeated. ‘What’s it about?’
‘He won’t tell me.’
Dr Graham Marshall just went up in my estimation. Lavender was the nosiest person I’ve ever met, and if he’d managed to keep his reason for needing an ‘urgent’ appointment from her, he might be intriguing.
My watch showed that it was six o’clock and I had to be at The Vineyard for seven thirty. Kailash could do everything except cook, so we tried whenever possible to make her take us to restaurants. If I saw Dr Marshall, it would mean I wouldn’t have time to change and Kailash would give me a bollocking. No, it wasn’t worth that. This meal meant a lot to her–when Grandad got back from his cruise, she and my half-sister Connie were all going off skiing, so it was the last time I’d see them for a while. I still felt pretty pissed off that I couldn’t go due to work pressures and money worries. If I missed the meal, too, I’d pay the price.
‘I collected your dry cleaning–it’s behind my desk,’ said Lavender. It wasn’t the first time she’d read my mind; one quick glance told me my shoes were scuffed but I’d get away with it. I knew that if Lavender was thinking ahead then she’d already decided I should talk to this man.
‘Okay, put him on.’
‘Ms McLennan, thank you for taking this call. When does your secretary leave?’ I felt the hackles on the back of my neck rise. I could say things about Lavender, just as she could (and did) about me, but I’d be damned if I’d let anyone else. She wasn’t some daft secretary to be bundled away on a client’s whim. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive,’ he continued. ‘It’s simply that a man in my position can’t be too careful.’
‘Dr Marshall, I can assure you that anything said within these walls is safer than in the Bank of England.’ I knew that for a fact, because in a former life Lavender Ironside had hacked into the bank’s files. It was why she’d changed her name and moved to Scotland–I think that the bank here had so far been saved from her expertise.
‘Ms McLennan, give me an appointment tonight and I will pay you fifty thousand pounds. If I agree to hire you, I will give you a retainer of a great deal more.’
I was speechless. I hated to be bought for money because it reminded me of Kailash’s business, but a quick glance at Lavender’s face as she listened to the man on speakerphone let me know which way the land lay. She was nodding furiously, daring me to say no.
‘Six thirty will be fine, Dr Marshall. Do you know where my office is?’
‘Yes,’ was the brief reply before the line went dead.
‘Arrogant bastard,’ I hissed at the phone. There was no way I could refuse the fee. High-profile trials like the Kenny Cameron case were all very well but, even though I made a fair whack out of legal aid, they didn’t pay the enormous overheads the firm carried. The cases that did were more mundane: a two-cop breach of the peace or an assault that I could farm out to another lawyer in the firm. I grabbed the phone and left a message for Kailash to stop her heading for the restaurant until my meeting was over.
‘I’m out of here,’ Lavender said, already putting on her coat, which was struggling to contain her baby bump. ‘I wonder what he wants,’ she said; a smile crossed her lips knowing she would be the one to type up my file notes. Nothing from the next meeting would be beyond her knowledge.
Six thirty had come and gone and there was still no sign of Dr Marshall. I stared out the window. Perhaps he was parking his car. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. The wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees as the rain bounced off the pavement.
I opened the door to Lavender’s room where my dry cleaning hung on wire coat hangers covered by plastic. I rifled through them. Each item was, to be frank, rubbish and, really, I had nothing to wear, pathetic though it sounded. Kailash would have a field day–she’d get to inform me with her superior fashion sense and all-round personal style perfection just where I was going wrong. Deciding that I might as well take the Fat Boy, which was parked downstairs, I threw off my suit and struggled into my leathers, leaving the top button on the trousers undone until they’d eased off a bit. Switching the desk light on, I settled down to go over tomorrow’s court files, but no sooner had I sat down than there was a knock at my office door. A shadow of doubt crossed my mind: recent events had made me wary and, as I recalled Ma Boyle drawing her finger across her throat, the last thing I wanted was an after-hours visit from the Boyles. I tried to settle my nerves. Although my own office suite was deserted, the building was filled with young associate lawyers working overtime trying to make partner. They weren’t exactly hired muscle, but surely their talents could stretch to calling the police if needs be?
Dr Graham Marshall didn’t wait for me to answer the door, walking in as if he owned the place. I watched our reflections in the mirror and so did he. He was judging me, his eyes lingering on the open button of my trousers, no doubt thinking that he could fix the fat for me for a couple of grand. I tucked my T-shirt in tightly so it was even more obvious that I’d recently packed on a couple of pounds, or ten. I took a sip of the cold black coffee on my desk. If I was going to spar with this one I needed all the energy I could lay my hands on.
‘Ms McLennan,’ he said, and held out a manicured hand. His hands were softer than mine, but then he’d probably never changed the engine oil on a motorbike. I noticed ruby cufflinks on his French cuffed shirt and remembered reading that rubies the colour of blood confer invulnerability on the wearer. Tough: he needed me; that much was obvious from the offer of big money and the demand for an urgent appointment. He wore a bespoke pinstriped suit with an immaculate cut and looked like a cover model for Men’s Health. Dr Graham Marshall was incredibly good looking, and he knew it. Damn, he knew that I knew it.
‘I was invited to the New Club last Wednesday. Have you been?’ he asked out of nowhere.
The New Club was a very old, distinguished club where the elite of Edinburgh meet. On Wednesday nights they debate obscure topics. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with whatever Marshall wanted me to help him with, but I had the right answer. ‘My grandfather is a member and I’ve had dinner there many times,’ I said.
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘I was otherwise engaged last week. I find it filled with irrelevant old men and equally irrelevant ideas, so I don’t go unless I’m dragged kicking and screaming through its hallowed portals.’ I got some pleasure from being deliberately combative.
‘Well, on Wednesday they were discussing something rather more relevant: should readers boycott books written by criminals when the proceeds are going directly to families of victims?’ It was getting late and I was in no mood to play his games; then I thought of the fee and remembered the client is always right. I cleared my throat and humoured him.
‘I take it that this theoretical book was bought by a publisher not because of the criminal’s talent as a writer but because the reader would believe it was a step-by-step manual of how a crime was actually committed?’
‘Oh, obviously. Lord McNair argued that such a book should not be published because of the pain and humiliation it would cause the victims–what do you think?’ The silence was heavy, my stomach rumbled; I hadn’t eaten since midday and my