Blood Lines. Grace Monroe
plain light-oak door. Gingerly I knocked on it, trying to wet my lips with my parched tongue.
‘Enter.’
Sheriff Harrison wore his twilled silk gown but his wig lay on a pile of law reports. If this was his attempt at informality, he was failing. In spite of my best efforts – head up, shoulders back – he must have known I was afraid.
‘I suppose you’ve heard? I’ve missed my tee-off time at Muirfield.’
‘I’m very sorry to have inconvenienced you.’
‘Well, of course you are – your slip-up has led to you standing before me now, and even I recognise that’s not a nice experience.’
‘Yes, M’lord.’
At this point there was no limit to the grovelling I thought I would have to do, or indeed, that I was prepared to do.
‘Actually, I’m quite intrigued to meet you, Miss McLennan. Your father was my devil master and we were in the same stable before he was elevated to the bench. Of course your actual existence was news to me – I don’t know how your father managed to keep it secret for so long.’
I bit my tongue and said nothing. I was uncomfortable talking to anyone about my father – hardly surprising given not only the recent discovery of the fact but also what I had found out about his predilections.
‘I suppose everyone has told you that your resemblance to him is remarkable?’
I was shocked. Most people did not even mention my father, and within my circle of friends and family no one would upset me with the knowledge that I looked like him. I had to stand there and take it, so I smiled blandly and nodded. At least he was viewing my absence as the oversight of a lawyer with the proper blood in her veins and not as contempt of court.
‘I’ve spoken to your grandfather, of course – marvellous man – and he has assured me that he’s taking you under his wing, putting you back on the straight and narrow and so forth. You will be showing some spark of intelligence if you listen to him.’
I nodded dutifully, all the while thinking he looked like Owl out of Winnie the Pooh, filled with his own importance. I was so lost in this imagery that he had to repeat his question twice. Me – part of the establishment? It was surreal to even consider it fleetingly.
‘So what is it you want for your client?’
‘I respectfully submit …’
‘Yes, yes, of course you do. Just tell me exactly what is your desired outcome.’
‘Well, I’d like her probation to be continued and for her to be placed in a rehabilitation unit.’
‘My, my, Christmas has come early to Edinburgh. I suppose the taxpayers will be funding this little jaunt of hers?’
What could I say? We both knew it was a pointless, expensive exercise, but that little white stone made me think maybe this time Tanya could do it. I knew that this would have to be dealt with in open court so I nodded and was about to leave when he extended his hand towards me. His fingers gripped my wrist, and, grasping my right hand, he interlaced his thumb with mine. I was thrown off guard, unsure what to do, so I fumbled, pressing his knuckles. He stared through me and smiled. I left the chambers unsure of what, if anything, had occurred. It then struck me that the whole interview between us had taken place without the presence of the sheriff clerk. There were, unusually, absolutely no witnesses to what had transpired.
The courtroom was remarkably empty. The sheriff clerk sat in the well of the court and the macer had gone to bring the sheriff onto the bench. Tanya sat in the dock, looking more optimistic than she had any right to. Of course, Bridget Nicholson sat centre stage, having bagged her ringside seat early to watch my downfall.
The owl came onto the bench, and nodded to the public benches. Without ceremony, the sheriff clerk called Tanya Hayder.
Tanya’s record was horrendous. No one would admit to being her if they were not, but formal identification was necessary.
I joined in the play.
‘My name is Brodie McLennan. I represent Tanya Hayder.’
The sheriff clerk handed the papers up to the judge, who began to speak immediately.
‘I took the opportunity this morning to read over this case thoroughly. Given the details of the last social enquiry report on Miss Hayder, I have decided to take the unusual step of deferring sentence in this matter until the end of the probationary period. In addition, I want the recommendations that were not followed in the last report carried out, namely a place must be found for Miss Hayder at Castle Fearns rehabilitation centre.’
He handed the papers back to the sheriff clerk.
‘You’re a gentleman, sir, a gentleman.’
I turned to quieten Tanya before she got done for contempt of court or a bad rendition of some Dickensian dialogue. She wouldn’t shut up, though, turning her pleasure to me.
‘That was some result, Brodie. What did you have to do to pull that rabbit out of the hat?’
Sheriff Harrison heard every word from his position on the bench. I blushed and tried to push Tanya into the arms of the police, so that I could get out of there. Bridget Nicholson’s face looked as if I had slapped it, before worry clouded her eyes. I’m sure she was picturing her seat on the bench being pulled from under her. She skulked out of Courtroom Three whilst I sat quietly in the aftermath. Sheriff Harrison had left the bench and the clerk busied himself tidying away the papers. The Fiscal wanted to talk. But all I could think, as I looked at his face, was that I missed Frank Pearson. Frank had been a great ally in the Fiscal’s office but it wasn’t for selfish reasons that I missed him. He had asked for a transfer to Inverness because he couldn’t hold his head up after spurious photographs of him during auto-erotic asphyxiation were circulated round the Bar common room. A Fiscal can only find so many latex thongs in his files before he realises his credibility has gone.
The corridors were quiet. I checked my phone for messages. Ten texts from Lavender, every one of them telling me she had been right about something or other. I deleted the ones from Joe, as I had seen him since he had sent them, and cautiously opened the one from Jack.
meet u in the drs after court
What harm could it do?
The Doctors was a famous pub near the court and even nearer to the old hospital, hence the name. I pushed the door open. Jack was standing at the bar getting a round in; his wallet was open and he waved his hand expansively towards a motley crew of journalists who occupied an alcove.
‘Stranger!’ he said as he caught sight of me. ‘You were the last person I expected to see here.’
‘Cut the dramatics, Jack, you invited me.’
‘I know, but I didn’t think you would come. Hang on a minute – you want something, don’t you?’
He stopped and allowed his eyes to rake over me.
‘Enjoying the view?’
‘Brodie, we both know that I do, and I’m not going to hide it.’
‘Except when Joe’s there?’
‘Well, that’s a given. What do you want to drink?’
I hesitated; Kailash’s voice ringing in my ears.
‘Diet Coke.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m driving.’
I banged my battered black bike helmet down onto the bar.
‘Fair enough. I’ll be back in a minute – they turn nasty if you’re slow with their drink,’ he said, tipping his head towards his fellow waiting hacks.
I watched him walk away. He’d been working out and definitely was a different man to this time last year.