Blood Lines. Grace Monroe
to be fair, every weekend’s pretty much like that for David,’ commented Eddie before Lavender could rugby tackle him to the ground with her demands.
‘Maybe this weekend was different,’ added Robert Girvan. ‘He told me he’s met a soul mate at the Fire Island club and he wants to spend some time basking in young love’s delusion. I hope he’s got the sense to lock up his valuables.’
This was a recurring pattern with David. He’d married young in an effort to convince his mother he wasn’t gay, and as soon as she was lukewarm in her grave, he was off with the scoutmaster. Like all his relationships, it didn’t last long. David couldn’t decide whether he was a slut or a hopeless romantic. It didn’t bloody matter – I was one body down.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve taken care of it.’ Lavender bristled with efficiency. ‘I’ve instructed Laura McGuigan.’
Everyone groaned.
Laura McGuigan was an absolute bitch. The only female agent used by the firm, she tended to work as a criminal assistant for her boyfriend, Neville Boardman. This was a man whose only personality trait was his dandruff. Under normal circumstances, Neville’s chronic eczema would elicit sympathy, but as chairman of the Edinburgh Bar Association, he was one of my main adversaries. I wasn’t the only one to detest him, though, and the fact that Laura had now defected away from him made me want to believe that she might be open to leading the swing against Neville and the Bar Association.
Maybe I needed someone like that around, someone two-faced, more than I was willing to admit.
On cue, Laura walked in. We shuffled a little uneasily in case she had heard us, but she would be so grateful for the work after leaving her meal ticket, both professionally and personally, that she wouldn’t say anything anyway. Her silver shiny suit looked as if she had raided a Next January sale twenty years ago. I had to hand it to her – she had tried with her remaining wisps of hair, which were carefully plastered down with Vaseline by the looks of it.
As Lavender handed out the court files, Laura smiled at me and I felt incredibly uneasy.
‘We still have a problem,’ Lavender said.
‘We do?’
I looked around and saw the appropriate files in the correct hands. I checked my photocopy of the court diary again. ‘It’s not in there. I haven’t entered it.’
It’s a sackable offence not to enter a date in the court diary. Lavender knew this to be the case – not because she had ever been careless enough to do it, but because she had heard me rant on about it ad nauseam.
She waited a few seconds before announcing, ‘I didn’t put it in there because I don’t think you should do it. Tanya Hayder’s been lifted. She was taken into Leith police station this morning. She won’t get legal aid, she’s no money, we have no one to appear for her, and she’s going away for a long time, so it’s not an investment, Brodie. You can’t represent her – it’s not just your arse you’re trying to keep out of the fire – I need this firm to survive too. I don’t have a rich grandad to support me.’ I knew why Lav was doing this, why she was twisting the knife; but we both knew it wouldn’t work. Tanya Hayder and I went way back. Irrespective of whether it had been put in the diary or not, I would be there for her regardless of the cost, and we all knew it.
My Fat Boy roared past Edinburgh Sheriff Court, and I took my time making sure that all the punters saw us – my Harley Davidson motorbike was my greatest marketing tool.
Slowly, I did a U-turn past the pompous statue of William Chambers before coming to a regal stop directly outside the gates to the Sheriff Court. There was a parking place for solo motorcycles further up the street, but I always parked Awesome where he could be seen.
Riding my bike was my greatest source of joy, a pretty sad indictment on my life. Awesome was eight years old, and I can’t pretend that the one lady owner was careful. Oil dripped onto the road where I parked, but I wouldn’t part with the Fat Boy for anything. The bike had been a twenty-first birthday gift from the one man who truly loved me. Unfortunately, I had an easier relationship with the bike than I had with my benefactor, Glasgow Joe.
The upside of riding a motorbike was that you could get through Edinburgh’s congested streets and find a parking space in relative safety from the parking wardens. The downside was that I had to arrive early to change out of my leathers.
As I dismounted, I remembered another drawback. Helmet hair.
It was 9.30 a.m. and the usual suspects were beginning to gather at the court entrance. Polyester suits were in abundance, and teenage girls with pussy pelmet skirts clung to the arms of aged Lotharios.
My eyes drank in the scene, looking for my clients. At least I didn’t have to make them up any more. When I had first started building my practice, I noticed that the successful lawyers carried lots of files. They then made a great show of standing in the atrium of the court before the call-over of cases where they shouted out their clients’ names. The more successful you were, the more names you hollered.
In the beginning I had one slim file. It was embarrassing. To keep myself amused I took old, fat files out of storage, stood next to the busiest lawyers and barked out fictitious names. The number of clients I called for, naturally, was always greater than my rivals.
Mary McLennan, the woman I would always think of as my mother, used to tell me, ‘Be nice to those you meet on the way up, as you never know who you might need on the way down.’ Feeling alone today, as usual, I wished that I had listened to her.
‘Brodie!’
Panic ran through my veins. I wasn’t expecting him to be at court today. Had I missed a date?
Moses Tierney sauntered out of the shadows. The leader of the Dark Angels – and my most important client – looked his customary picture of sartorial elegance. His peroxide hair was spiked and gelled with military precision, and kohl enhanced his grey, wolf-like eyes, making his skin seem even whiter.
The Dark Angels were rarely seen in daylight. Rather dramatically, they prided themselves upon being creatures of the darkness – which is difficult in Scotland during the summer months. Recently I suspected that Moses was trying to model himself on the London gangsters of the Fifties. Moses had made it known that he was now a legitimate businessman, flashing his money about and being a bit more careful about who he was dealing with – which would have been bad news for me if it had been the truth. In fact, his few legitimate ventures required the services of commercial lawyers so I was able to refer him to my partners.
‘What the fuck are you up to, Brodie?’
Moses grabbed me by the collar of my leather jacket, and pulled me into the corner, away from the gathering crowds.
‘What do mean?’ I genuinely had no idea why he was so upset.
‘Look at that radge there.’ Moses pointed into the opposite corner where a Dark Angel stood looking shame-faced. I would have placed him in his late twenties, so he was quite old to be a member of Moses’ gang.
‘Who is it?’
‘See? That’s my point, Brodie. You should know who he is.’
I had a good memory for faces and I definitely hadn’t met this one.
‘See, Brodie, when you let yourself down, you let me down. Know what I mean?’
Frankly, I didn’t know what he meant, and it must have shown on my face.
‘Do I have to spell it out for you? That gadge works for me – and the arsehole got himself lifted by the polis.’
I saw Moses’ point now. I knew that I had never met this gang member, but it was customary that if a Dark Angel was arrested by the police, then they asked for me to represent them.