Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  ‘Laura was in care, son,’ she answered, as if Joe had asked the question, not the wee upstart she was ignoring. ‘That’s never a pretty picture, but that wee lassie went through a lot.

  ‘Whilst she was in the custody of the council…I think she was interfered with. Some dirty bastard taking advantage of kids with nothing left anyway. I’d rip their bollocks off and hang them up to dry, so I would.’

  Maggie stopped to catch her breath and blew her nose with ferocity. Composing herself she began again. I had more questions, and as long as she was answering them, I didn’t mind if she channelled it through Joe.

  ‘Interfered with in what way? Was she abused? Raped?’

  Maggie stared resolutely at Joe.

  ‘I used to bring her home for weekend visits when I could. She was always such a lovely lassie, but she changed after being in that home for a while. There was nae chance of her getting fostered–snotty weans fae druggies on schemes never seem to attract yer Hollywood stars looking for a cute wee bairn to take into their lives.

  ‘She eventually said when it was just me and her one day–the other ones were away up the Walk to pinch fruit fae the Paki shops…’ Maggie’s words came out naturally. Children shoplifting, local shopkeepers being the butt of racism, it was all as easy to her as going to the bingo and dodging the loan sharks on the estate.

  ‘We were sat here watching the telly when she said it,’ Maggie’s eyes watered at the thought of what her granddaughter had revealed.

  ‘When I say, interfered with–I don’t mean once or twice–she told me she was hired, loaned, to high heid yins. When I went to the polis–they’d have none of it.’

  Glasgow Joe and I listened in silence as she spoke. We had already agreed that we would not show her the photographs; there is only so much the human mind can bear.

  ‘So I decided to deal with it myself. I didn’t take her back that Monday morning, no’ right away. I took Laura to the doctor and had her examined–she agreed, said that she had been interfered with. I think she went to the polis as well, she must have done, because they came banging to the flat as soon as I got back, accusing my son who’d been staying here at the time. That meant every access visit from Laura had to be supervised by the social–word got out…’ Maggie turned to Joe and nodded at him for confirmation.

  ‘That my son was a “beast” for assaulting Laura–he was hammered in the lift and just left.’

  Joe nodded at her, supporting her; reaching out he held her hand, gratefully she squeezed it.

  ‘Davy, my son, couldn’t take it…he would never have harmed her. He had full blown AIDS by that time and it wasn’t even safe for him to come home. I couldn’t even let my laddie die in peace…’

  Tears ran freely over the red broken veins on Maggie’s cheeks; pushing, she lifted her great bulk from the chair, and hobbled to the kitchen. The arches in her feet had fallen as a result of her weight; she moved slowly and with difficulty, dragging her tartan slippers across the threadbare carpet.

  I could hear the kettle being switched on, and Glasgow Joe went through to the tiny kitchen to help Maggie. There was no room left in there for me and I wouldn’t have been wanted anyway. I stood by the balcony window whilst I waited for my cup of tea. The one redeeming feature of our flat had been the view. On a clear day I could see straight across the docks to Fife. The Firth of Forth was mesmerising in any weather. I loved to watch the ships come in and out. If I had lived on Maggie’s side of the building, perhaps I would have turned out like Shirley. It’s hard to visualise a better life if all you see is concrete.

  ‘Maggie was telling me the last time she saw Laura alive, was the 23rd September 1990, just before her fifteenth birthday.’

  Joe was carrying a huge tray laden down with Tunnocks teacakes and caramel wafers. My heart sank as I knew we would have to eat our way through a considerable number of them to avoid offending Maggie even further.

  Joe spoke loudly, so that our hostess could hear.

  ‘Maggie asked around after Laura told her what had happened. She used some of the people she knew through the grandparents’ groups, and some of the addicts that her kids were friendly with. Maggie reckons there’s a ring of men–and they’ve been grooming children round here for years. There’s also a rumour on the street that one girl escaped–and that she has evidence that could send them all away.’

  Maggie stopped her sobbing to interrupt him.

  ‘And I thought that girl was my bonnie wee Laura–I kept expecting her to walk in and we could put those bastards behind bars where they belong.’

  Maggie had reached her chair now and she manoeuvred herself into it like an oil tanker docking. Her knobbly hand tapped my knee forcefully, to gain my full attention or to beat me into submission.

  ‘I’m talking to you, lassie. Maybe I’m no’ playing with a full deck now–but that girl exists…’

  Maggie’s rheumy eyes stared into mine, they still shone with unshed tears.

  ‘I deliberately fooled myself that it was Laura–but you can’t blame a granny for hoping, can you? Especially when there’s no’ much to hold onto.’

  I placed my hand over hers, and promised that we would find the vanished girl, but I didn’t tell her what I really thought. The truth was, if the mystery girl was still alive, she wasn’t missing–she was in hiding.

  EIGHTEEN

  My stomach was aching from all the teacakes and caramel wafers I’d polished off, and we again decided to take the steps rather than the lift. Our route was empty and it gave me a chance to think what to do next. I switched on my mobile to check for messages–there were several irate texts from Roddie Buchanan but I didn’t want to meet him yet. My cases were being covered, Lavender had seen to that, when Joe had initially phoned her to say what was going on, so I could tell myself that there was no need to call him back.

  The sound of our feet echoed through every storey, and my hip was beginning to hurt–maybe I should have waited before I went out running.

  ‘Do you think that girl really exists?’ Glasgow Joe asked.

  ‘I want to believe…but she could be an urban myth. There are plenty of them round here.’

  I understood Maggie’s self-deception, and bought into it to some extent. I needed to trust in this girl’s existence because my own life might depend upon her.

  ‘Maggie’s theory about the paedophile ring didn’t sound right though, Brodie–there have only been four deaths over the years.’

  ‘Maybe there’s something unusual about those girls–something I have in common with them,’ I ventured. ‘Why would it go from them, their killings, to me? It can’t be random, that’s not how killers like this usually work. From what I know of the cases, there are certain things this killer needs to do, there are things that he–or she–do to get their way of working all over the murder, so there needs to be something that makes me next in line. What is it, Joe? What am I missing?’

  Joe ignored my last comment; we all see, and hear, what we want to.

  ‘But Maggie said they had already tried to report the men to the authorities–so the children were no threat to the ring, they knew that even if they did disclose, nothing was going to happen, the police weren’t going to do anything.’

  ‘Yes, but those girls jeopardised the security of the abusers, even if it came to nothing–perhaps they view me as a threat too?’

  ‘How could you be a threat to them? You know nothing.’ Joe was stating the obvious, again. But he was wrong, I did know something–and that was that I did not want to die. I was perplexed. I wanted a quick solution but I just couldn’t see things clearly. Pinning my hopes on Fishy, I waited on him to phone, which he did as soon as we were out of the flats.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick–I’ve been phoning all morning.’ He rattled on, his voice high and laced with anxiety. Highly-strung, I could hear him unwrapping his antacid tablets and felt guilty for upsetting his ulcer.

  ‘I’ve got to give evidenc
e in Edinburgh Sheriff court this afternoon–meet me in Chambers Street Museum before that,’ he demanded.

  Joe and I headed away from Leith, back to his lockup. We needed transport, and he had a collection of possibilities that would make an aficionado drool.

  Glasgow Joe has probably lost count of the motorbikes he owns. Awesome was his present to me on my twenty-first birthday, and remains the best gift I’ve ever received. He disapproved of the name I had chosen–but I was still tickled by how many teenage boys got hard-ons just looking at my bike, all of them mouthing ‘Awesome’ as they considered riding nothing trickier than a mini-scooter themselves.

  I thought I should be keeping a low profile, so I was surprised when he took the keys to his customized trike, a bespoke three-wheeled bike, hand built in Texas, with a chopper front and two seats at the back. The petrol tank was crafted into the shape of a coffin, practically impossible to get petrol into, but the practicalities weren’t what had attracted Joe to his toy.

  The paint job on the trike would outshine a Ferrari, and probably cost as much. Even the seats are specially made black leather, with a hand-stitched embossed skull. Joe had decided we were going cruising. The point about a normal motorbike is that wearing a helmet affords you a certain amount of anonymity–on a trike you don’t wear a helmet, but you can give up all hope of not being noticed anyway.

  I knew Glasgow Joe had a plan; he just hadn’t bothered to tell me. Reluctantly I climbed on board, but not before he had handed me a jacket. I took one look at it, and protested loudly. ‘Bad Ass Girl’ was written in shocking pink gothic script between the shoulder blades. ‘Christ, Joe–did you get me this specially or do you keep it just in case you want to impress really classy women?’

  The roar of the engine announced our arrival two blocks away. We drove up Ferry Road, the early afternoon shoppers assuming we were a Festival act and waving us along. Joe was heading for Muirhouse and Pilton, some of the most deprived housing estates in Edinburgh, but he didn’t finish there.

  By the time we made our way up town and finally parked in Chambers Street we had visited the Edinburgh that is strictly off limits to tourists. For a reason. Glasgow Joe was showing anyone who might be interested that I was under his protection now.

  Chambers Street Museum is a vast, red sandstone edifice built by the Victorians. To get to its revolving doors, you have to climb a myriad of steps–maybe that’s what puts the lawyers off. Within its hallways I have enjoyed many contented hours, at all stages of my life. As a child with my mother, I would spend long periods dangling my hands in the sizeable fishponds, trying to entice the Carp and the Koi fish to nibble at my fingers. When I was older with Glasgow Joe, the fascination with the fishponds remained, but this time we were intent on collecting the coins from the bottom. Later, as a graduated law student it was a stone’s throw from Old College, and I sought a respite from professional exams within its peaceful, tranquil walls.

  Fishy was waiting for us in the café. After Maggie’s enormous spread I couldn’t eat a thing; Joe suffered from no such inhibitions. He went off to get haddock and chips, and an espresso for me.

  ‘You look very smart,’ I said, commenting on his navy, pinstriped court suit. He was obviously about to give evidence.

  ‘What time is the trial starting at?’

  A look of fury covered his face.

  ‘The accused pled guilty just before lunch, so, there’s another wasted day.’

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, I had done the same thing myself too many times before. We sat in uncomfortable silence waiting on Joe: whatever Fishy had to say, he obviously didn’t want to have to repeat it.

  Joe finally arrived, and we all squeezed round a table that was far too small. His elbows kept nudging Fishy as he worked on his meal, and I watched Fishy’s irritation grow. Pushing himself back from the table he began to speak.

  ‘There’s no easy way of saying this…the files that I saw six months ago have been removed from central filing. The records department maintain they’ve been lost for years, ever since the move from the annexe to the main building.’

  ‘But that’s not true, you handled the files, you saw them,’ I interrupted.

  ‘Well, their computer records back up the lie. I didn’t want to make too much fuss–the lower the profile we keep on this the better.’

  I thought of Glasgow Joe’s escapades this morning, and was not surprised when he refused to make eye contact. Joe left the table on the pretext of obtaining salt for his chips.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brodie,’ said Fishy. ‘All we’ve got to go on is this.’

  He pulled the photograph album out of his briefcase. If I had the choice I would never look at that bloody album again, but choice was exactly one luxury I didn’t have. I made a mental note to try to avoid the pictures of Laura Liddell until I felt stronger. This proved to be impossible.

  ‘I think it’s in chronological order, starting on the back page.’

  I could feel Fishy watching me intently, as I reluctantly followed his instructions.

  ‘Have you no idea who sent you this…this fucking atrocity?’ I shivered as I used my fingers to open the book; the pages were sharp, cutting into my fingertips.

  ‘I’ve already told you; it just arrived in the post.’

  I turned my attention to the first item. It was a series of newspaper clippings, yellow and brittle with age. I handled them carefully to avoid disintegration. But the newspaper articles did not refer to the murders, instead they gave details of a newborn baby thrown into the sea and washed up on Portobello beach in November 1976.

  In the run up to Christmas, the discarded baby caught the imagination of the townsfolk of Portobello, and they determined that the child would not suffer a pauper’s grave. Local businessmen set up a fund, to commemorate the baby’s short life.

  ‘Sickening isn’t it? Their mawkish sentimentality determines that a dead baby needs a six foot marble angel on its grave, but five miles along the coast they wouldn’t have given two bob to keep a vulnerable kid like Laura Liddell safe.’

  Joe was back with his salt and we let Fishy rant. I was thinking of Maggie Liddell–no one is more maudlin than her and I’d have placed good money on the fact that she had contributed twenty-eight years ago.

  The angel on the grave was a marker, a symbol of hope and decency when life is callous. Fishy still had to learn. You couldn’t solve all of the world’s problems; you have to start with the ones that you find on your doorstep.

  There was another article relating to the baby. The police were looking for its mother in case she needed medical help. Such was the public furore that the wretched woman, who must have been beyond desperate to throw her baby away, would have been charged with infanticide if they had ever caught her.

  The local newspaper had devoted two pages to the erection of the angel. There were tales of local primary schools running jumble sales, women’s guild selling crocheted pram covers; it appeared that all the neighbouring communities had contributed.

  ‘Look closely at the photographs.’

  I stared and stared–what was I looking for?

  ‘Jesus, Brodie, look! Is that who I think it is?’ Glasgow Joe poked the paper excitedly. ‘It is! God, she looks good–she looked like that when I first met her.’

  I removed Joe’s finger to get a closer look. Sure enough, in the background at the raising ceremony stood a woman I couldn’t fail to recognise.

  My mother.

  A shiver ran through me. Mary McLennan, still slightly plump after giving birth to me, stood in the fashion of the time with her hair-piece piled high upon her head. She did look well, but, more than that, she looked sad. I wasn’t surprised–after five miscarriages, I was her last hope to become a mother, and cruelty towards children was something that was beyond her ken.

  ‘No!’

  The exasperated word hissed through Fishy’s pursed lips.

  ‘I wouldn’t have recognised your mother. I didn’t kno
w her when she was a young woman.’ Fishy sounded impatient.

  ‘Look again. Look at who I was showing you in the first place.’

  This time he pointed, directing my eye to the appropriate image. Amongst the list of dignitaries, Mrs Bunny MacGregor, wife of the late Alistair MacGregor QC, Lady Arbuthnot.

  ‘Christ–that’s some coincidence,’ said Joe.

  I felt my face tighten with anger and Fishy looked the same.

  Coincidence is a word you use when you can’t see who’s pulling your strings.

  NINETEEN

  The clock that sits on top of the Balmoral Hotel resembles Big Ben. It has four faces with one clock face always five minutes fast. It showed eleven o’clock now. The hotel once belonged to the railway and the management wanted to ensure that the passengers were punctual. As a student I worked at the Balmoral as a chambermaid. I started work late and left early according to whichever face suited my needs. As I waited on Jack Deans, I had time to reflect upon the fact that now I was the one who needed at least four faces.

  ‘Admit it, Brodie, he’s stood you up.’

  Glasgow Joe was striding up and down Princes Street, edgily dodging the admiring tourists trying to take his photograph; I was loathe to admit he was right.

  Raging, I tried to salvage the situation. Grabbing Joe’s arm, I crossed the street to the locus of the murder. Standing beneath the statue of Wellington on a horse, I retraced Kailash’s steps. Observing the bronze in all its detail, I conceded that from a purely professional point of view this impressive beast would captivate her–in laywoman’s terms, he had a huge whanger.

  Unusually for Edinburgh during the Festival, the air was warm. Typically, the ambience was European street life, with performers on every corner–except one. Not a soul was standing outside the gents’ toilets Kailash had claimed Lord Arbuthnot had visited in the moments before his death.

  I sent Glasgow Joe in to ensure that the coast was clear for me to enter. Despite the fact that I was still standing at the horseman, I could hear Joe kicking toilet doors open and shrieking: