Blood Lines. Grace Monroe
had one official paper and a scribbled statement from my client. If I was Eddie Gibb I would have been ready to go to trial and win, but no sober lawyer would proceed on that basis. I noted the trial date down, two weeks from today. It would be hard work, especially as the Alchemist was insisting that I prove that DI Bancho had fitted him up. Now I’d had time to think of Bancho rather than push his name out of my mind, I had to admit that we went way back. He was a colleague of an old flatmate, Richard Sturgeon, and a crowd of us used to go out on Friday nights. However, there was no love lost between Bancho and me now, in spite of a couple of drunken snogs in the police club in Gorgie.
As it was, the last case called before lunch meant I had to stand and wait until the court was cleared; which really meant until the judge had left the bench. It was like watching a kettle boil. Eventually, I could go. As I left, Andy, the court macer, approached me.
‘Sorry to bother you, Brodie.’
Andy was a nice guy, and I could tell by his face that he hated to be the bearer of bad news.
‘Don’t worry, Andy, I won’t shoot the messenger.’
‘You might – you put your name in to represent Tanya Hayder? Her case was called and you didn’t appear. I did everything I could because I saw you were having difficulties this morning. The sheriff clerk kept it back right to the end – it only called five minutes ago. You were just too late.’
‘Story of my life, Andy. So what’s to happen now?’
‘It’s Sheriff Harrison and he wants to see you at two o’clock in chambers. He’s pretty mad – he was playing golf at Muirfield and he’s had to cancel because of this.’ Andy patted me on the back and we left the court together as I moved towards my next run-in.
‘Bernard! I want a word with you – in private.’ I was past being polite. ‘You heard what went on in there.’ I inclined my head towards the court, not giving him the chance to wriggle out of my question.
‘I …’ he started to stammer.
I cut him off.
‘This trouble is of your own making. If you want to go to trial on that defence in two weeks make sure you have five grand in my hand before close of business on Friday.’
I turned and left without waiting for a reply. I was stopped in my tracks by a voice I knew only too well.
‘Charging Kailash’s prices now?’
Glasgow Joe was back.
Joe never had approved of me lying on tombstones.
‘Aren’t you scared of the dead?’
‘It’s not the dead you should be afraid of, Joe – it’s the living.’
Greyfriars Kirkyard was the nearest green space to the court, and my favourite lunch spot. Mary, Queen of Scots had opened its gates to the townspeople of Edinburgh when it was still a rural site. Glasgow Joe and I had left court to get some peace and quiet – and, despite the tourists and snogging teenagers, we almost managed it. I was at my usual dining spot, Alexander Scroggie’s flat tomb. With raised legs, it looked rather like a small mossy table, situated in the best site in the graveyard, under a large oak tree. I liked to lie on it and watch the clouds go by whilst I ate my sandwiches. I didn’t mind that it was hard and cold. The only drawback was that crumbs fell down my neck, and I knew that at four o’clock I’d still be finding them inside my bra.
‘Are you in trouble, Brodie?’
‘Of course. Didn’t you used to tell me that trouble was my middle name?’ I said to evade his real question.
‘You were seven. I thought you’d grow out of it.’
Joe and I had been at junior school together. The girl whose mother had aspirations for her never fitted into the tough Leith environment – but when the hulking ginger ogre that was Joe, even as a kid, descended from the West, I knew I had a friend. The fact that he was still around owed as much to his doggedness as my lure. He’d saved me more than once, and I hoped he’d always be there to do so. If he found out about Jack Deans, though, it could be the end of what we had established over years.
I watched a cloud that looked like a dragon pass in the otherwise clear blue sky.
‘You had a lucky escape then, Joe.’
‘Is that what you think? Is that what you think happened to us? I escaped you?’
I didn’t like the way this conversation was heading – how much did he know? I tried to make the peace – we had fallen onto the edges of an argument far too quickly today, and I didn’t want him, of all people, to be upset or angry with me.
‘What difference does it make, Joe? Our past is far away, and all we’ve got to worry us is whether you’ve eaten all the chocolate brownies.’ Maybe I could distract him – if only Awesome was parked on one of the graves; that would get his attention. He loved that bike as much as I did. In fact, I sometimes marvelled that he’d ever been able to hand it over for my twenty-first, given how much he still treated it as his own possession.
‘Here, Joe – do you think the ghost of Burke’s watching me?’ As I lolled on the grave, I could almost imagine the days when the famous resurrectionist used to sit nearby watching the burials, so he could come out after dark and dig up the bodies.
‘Don’t act tough and intelligent, Brodie, I know you’re just soppy about that daft wee dog,’ threw back Joe.
‘What? A scruffy wee Skye terrier holding me here? Not even a very bright one at that – he didn’t even recognise his master was kicking up the daisies for years.’
Joe stood beside the gravestone, his kilt swinging as he swayed back and forward, chewing a hot meatball baguette. His legs were muscular and well-formed, black hand-knitted kilt socks lay in puddles at the top of his polished Caterpillar boots. For a biker, Glasgow Joe was fastidious and it showed in the whiteness of his cotton shirt. The cuffs had been carelessly rolled up to his elbows, showing his thick muscular forearms. Unusually for a redhead his skin was golden brown. The epitome of a Highland warrior, he stood six foot four in his size-thirteen stockinged soles. Even though he was off limits for me, I could still appreciate the fact that he was gorgeous as fuck.
A group of Italians on a walking tour of the graveyard had spotted Joe. It wasn’t hard. Like flies to a corpse they swarmed over to him. The girls stood shyly at his side, elbowed out of the way by their buxom mamas who placed their arms around him, and found enough English to ask him what he was wearing beneath his kilt. Joe managed to find a smile for the photographer. He always did. He should be getting a fee from the Scottish Tourist Board given the number of times he found himself in the memories of visitors. They all shouted arrivederci and he shrugged off their thanks. Alone again, he turned to me.
‘Will you sit up, Brodie? Don’t you know it scares the shit out of me seeing you lying there like that? And it brings back some crap memories of the last time we were in a graveyard together.’
I ignored his last comment – did he mean when we considered grave-robbing or when my blood father’s widow tried to kill me amongst the memory of a thousand dead Highlanders? No, I wouldn’t go back to Jerry Springer territory again. My back was beginning to hurt anyway. ‘I would have moved sooner but I didn’t want to interrupt your fan club.’
He stared at me for longer than he needed to. ‘Have you ever considered that men welcome a bit of appreciation?’
‘They get far too much bloody attention as it is, Joe. And if you just let yourself go a bit, the world wouldn’t stop spinning. You’re vain, that’s all it is.’
He looked at his watch. ‘You’re a rotten liar, Brodie McLennan. If I’m not worth your time, how come you’ve been here so long?’
I checked