Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  ‘Get out of there ya dirty old poofter–does your wife know you’re in here?’

  Joe’s sentiments cut through me like a hot knife in butter; at least it proved that, had Lord Arbuthnot been in the toilets, he would have heard the screaming Kailash. Following in the wake of Joe’s tirade, like rats leaving a ship (rats with their flies undone mostly), men of assorted ages ran out. I wanted to shout apologies to them but they sought anonymity, quickly slowing to a walk once they were safely away so as not to draw attention to their identities or activities.

  Though deserted outside, it appeared to me that the toilets were one of the busiest venues in town–that being the case, someone else would surely have heard Kailash scream?

  Glasgow Joe guarded the entrance.

  ‘Sounded to me as if you were unnecessarily harsh there, Joe.’

  ‘Some stupid old bastard thought Christmas had come early when I walked in–you can guess the rest.’

  Joe was righteous with indignation, inflamed by the fact that his suitor was a minister.

  Victorians took their sanitation seriously–their moral codes were a bit dodgier and had probably laid the groundwork for the man of the cloth who’d just tried to jump Joe in a public lavvy. They had built the toilets underneath Princes Street, away from the noses, and prying eyes, of the citizens. I walked down the steep spiral staircase; the steps were narrow and Glasgow Joe moved slowly trying to accommodate his galumphing great feet.

  The walls were lined with bottle green glazed tiles, cracked with age. At dado height the tiles were narrow, and formed a raised rope pattern. Above that line white oblong tiles increased the sense of height and theatricality; by the time I reached the urinals I was anticipating a spectacle. The dark teak water closets were substantially built, and there was plenty of room to accommodate a party of two. Original Thomas Crapper high cistern toilets were still in situ. It was actually a place with a good deal of atmosphere if you ignored the two matters of what it was for, and what generally happened there.

  Privacy was a problem; there was a gap of ten inches between the floor and the wood. If you were so inclined, it enabled you to count the number of feet thereby discerning the amount of occupants, and perhaps having a wee look if viewing was more your thing than participating.

  In recent times police have been known to place surveillance units on such toilets. To get round this, visitors make sure they carry high-priced carrier bags with them to such venues. The ones from posher stores are better able to withstand the wear and tear rather than a cheapie from Asda. As I investigated the scene, I found it difficult to imagine the Lord Arbuthnot I knew standing with a Harvey Nichols shopping bag getting a blow job in a bog.

  If this had been one of the last places he had visited before he died, what did it mean? Obviously he laid himself open to blackmail, but if Kailash was blackmailing him she wouldn’t want to kill that source of income.

  The sound of footsteps came dancing down the stairs. The little man with the weak chin was crestfallen when he spied me before he spotted Glasgow Joe. I acknowledged him with a nod before leaving the almost empty toilets. I carried his sense of disappointment and the smell of the cheap pine cleaning fluid with me as I reached street level with Joe at my side.

  Jack Deans was waiting for us when we reached daylight.

  ‘I don’t like to be kept waiting,’ Glasgow Joe snarled at Jack Deans.

  ‘Well then, you shouldn’t get distracted by your hobbies,’ Deans nodded in the direction of the toilets. ‘Anyway, I thought I was meeting Brodie, not you–if I had known, I’d never have bloody bothered anyway. “Hairy-arsed wideboy shags scum in public khazi” isn’t much of a headline.’

  ‘Better than you usually manage,’ answered Joe, clenching his fists, itching for a fight.

  I was only half-listening to them. They had done this dance before, many times. What really bothered me was how much I was going to tell Jack Deans. I realised just how little I had told the reporter already–our trip to and from Cornton Vale had been pretty much silent, and I hadn’t even told him anything by way of thanks for how he had helped look after me when I was recovering from the attack. I had a decision to make–was he trustworthy enough to receive full disclosure? In my heart it was a decision I wasn’t ready to make but I was concerned that others had made it for me.

  Deans offered no explanation for his tardiness. He had made arrangements to meet up with Fishy at the Pleasance as he had to review some comedy shows for the Sundays, so it looked as though Joe and I would have to tag along. Lost in thought I struggled to keep up with them as we crossed the bridges that link the New Town with the Old.

  The Pleasance, which nuzzles in the shadow of Arthur’s Seat, was packed with London media types in heavy glasses, and drunken tourists of all ages looking for a good time. It’s part of the University of Edinburgh taken over as a huge comedy venue during August; the three of us entered its cobbled courtyard via the old stone archway. Within the courtyard I could just see Fishy struggling through the crowd carrying a tray laden with pints sloshing everywhere as the throng jostled him. He must have been expecting us to come with Deans–how much had they already discussed? How much did Deans know, and how much had Fishy revealed?

  Pushing through the crowd towards the long trestle tables, I was taking no prisoners. It was my intention to prepare the strategy, which could, and hopefully would, save my life, and I needed a seat to be able to do it.

  Fishy placed a pint in front of me, and Glasgow Joe removed it.

  ‘She’ll be needing what little wits she has, so, until this is over, no more alcohol.’ At least Joe was joining me in my enforced sobriety; he replaced my pint with a can of Diet Coke.

  ‘I think we can speak freely here.’ Jack Deans spoke first. I was sure he was referring to the venue; he appeared to take it for granted that we would trust one another. I wasn’t quite so sure, and I wasn’t about to let my secret crush on him loosen my tongue.

  ‘I’m glad you’re saying that we’ll speak freely, Jack, because, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve been holding things back from me–as usual.’

  ‘It’s natural to feel a little paranoid in your situation, Brodie.’

  Red rag to a bull time. Telling me–telling any woman–that she was a bit paranoid was as good as asking if she was having her period. I wanted to ask if he would be laughing and joking if he’d been asked to defend someone who had tried to ruin him, been attacked, left for dead, and drawn into a paedophile’s murderous wank-fest. I went for the other option–try to make him feel bad on a personal level.

  ‘But you made me feel like that even before I knew about the threat. I’m not paranoid, Jack–I just know too many shitbags.’

  Deans’ silence condemned him. He was definitely withholding information from me, I could tell from his body language.

  The photo album lay on the table between us. I laid my arm across it proprietorially; there was no way Deans was getting to see the contents without telling me what he knew.

  He leaned across, and whispered in my ear.

  ‘Did you ever wonder why you had risen so high in such a short time, Brodie?’

  It was a rhetorical question, for he barely had time to draw breath before he began again.

  ‘I have. I’ve often wondered how dirt with a degree–no offence meant–is the rising star of the Scottish Bar. Even getting a traineeship at Lothian & St Clair should have been beyond you. I’ll bet Roddie Buchanan secretly despises you. Ok, you’re bright…but you needed the high profile cases and since I’ve watched you get above your station, I’ve wondered just who has been opening doors for you. Have you ever asked the same questions, or are you just so bloody sure of yourself that you assume it’s all talent and hard work?’

  Jack Deans was too close to the mark; the only thing he got wrong was that Roddie’s scorn was open, not secret. Calmly, I removed his hand from my shoulder while he continued to talk.

  ‘Either way, and in case you’re intere
sted, I haven’t figured out who your invisible benefactor is yet.’

  ‘Break it up, you two,’ interrupted Fishy. ‘We’ve got a big enough fight on our hands. First of all, I’d like to bring you up to date on what I did today. The official files are gone–and I don’t think they’ll turn up anytime soon–so I contacted Frank Pearson and tried to pull a few strings for old times’ sake.’

  Fishy looked smug, ignorant of the fact he was heading for a fall. I just sat back, and watched who would deliver it. As it turned out, it was Jack Deans who exploded.

  ‘You stupid bastard–do you realise what you’ve done?’

  It was another rhetorical question; Deans obviously thought he had all the answers. He leaned back gathering his energy for the next onslaught. Disconcertingly, I was more aware of how good-looking he was. Even at times like this I could find a moment to curse my father; if a man was mad, bad or sad I was attracted to him. But a man who was emotionally unavailable to me was best of all, and Jack Deans had thrown down his gauntlet.

  ‘I’m dealing with fucking amateurs…’ he said disgustedly. I could see Fishy about to answer him, and then wisely, at the last moment, shut up.

  ‘If that book you’ve told me about is part of what I think it is–and your mate is as thick as you are–then you’ve just signed his death warrant.’

  The colour bled from Fishy’s face. Jack Deans was right, and that was more important than Fishy’s hurt feelings.

  ‘Christ, we’d better get hold of the poor sod,’ said Glasgow Joe, springing into action after watching the show in silence since it began. He took the Procurator Fiscal’s mobile and home numbers from Fishy. Before he left the cobbled courtyard to make the phone calls he looked at Jack Deans.

  ‘Don’t let her out of your sight until I take over again–it’s not too shabby a job, Deans.’

  It was an order, and one that was obeyed immediately. As Joe vacated his seat, Jack Deans slipped in beside me. He knew what mattered, and this was more important than their pissing-against-a-wall boy’s niggling.

  Deflated, Fishy watched Joe with his swinging kilt walk away–so did most of the women and half the men in the crowd. Deans brought him back to the moment.

  ‘There’s no room for error here, Sturgeon–let me see what you’ve been sitting on for the last six months.’

  Fishy pushed the album in front of him. Jack Deans let out a moan even before he had opened it.

  ‘I’ve heard about this,’ he said, as I wondered what story lay behind that innocent statement.

  Jack Deans normally protected his sources. I watched as he stroked its leather bound cover–if I wanted more information out of him then I would have to make him feel as if we were on the same wave-length. I have always been fascinated by mentalism, old stage acts that pretend they can read the minds of an audience. My interest had led me to America and India in the past to study with old practitioners before their knowledge was lost. Most modern psychological techniques have their roots in magic; it was written in the old grimoires that if you copied a virgin’s breathing and then tightened your anus, you captured her soul. I loved that sort of stuff, one day thinking it was nonsense, the next believing it was the truth of the world. There was definitely some useful information in what I had learned. I doubted that Jack Deans was a virgin, I certainly hoped not, but I knew that if I mirrored his body movements, his subconscious mind would believe that we were, in the widest sense, ‘soul mates’. I didn’t bother to clench my anus as that seemed a tad extreme, but I did wait for my actions to take effect before posing my next question.

  ‘Tell me how you’ve heard of it?’ I asked, expecting an answer and getting one.

  ‘On 7 May 2001, there was a break-in at Fettes.’

  His voice was slow, and measured; I sensed trust in his eyes. Fettes is the central police headquarters in Edinburgh. Located in an expensive suburb, it is situated opposite the boarding school of the same name that Tony Blair attended.

  Jack was too slow for Fishy, who interrupted.

  ‘That’s right, a group of protestors from the Animal Liberation Front broke in and sprayed graffiti on the walls–but nothing was taken.’ Fishy smiled at me, seeking acknowledgement that it was good to have someone on the inside. But when all was said and done he was a policeman, and they were sensitive about the embarrassing break-in.

  Jack Deans shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

  ‘That’s the official line, Thick Boy–or should I say the official lie.’ I had learned from my limited dealings with Jack that you had to let him tell his tale in his own style–rambling. Journalists tended to be thwarted storytellers. I was certainly frustrated listening to it unfold, like Fishy I wanted him just to cut to the chase.

  ‘It wasn’t protestors from the Animal Liberation Front. The thieves did steal files–all of them have been recovered except one, and I think this,’ he tapped the photograph album loudly, ‘is part of the missing file.’

  He drank long and deep from his pint before continuing.

  ‘That’s why I was late, Brodie–I was afraid to come. Afraid of what might happen if I got involved again.’

  I found myself warming to him as if we had a deep connection. Abruptly, I pulled myself up. The mirroring of the breath works two ways, and my subconscious mind was starting to believe Deans was Prince Charming.

  ‘Just get it over with and tell me what you know about this album.’ I was of the same opinion as Joe; apologies would be no good to me if I were dead. I had noticed that Deans still hadn’t opened the album up yet to look inside.

  ‘After the break-in there was a rumour that it had happened. Of course, officially, nothing had gone wrong.’

  ‘You can understand that…it doesn’t make us look very good if our headquarters is breached.’ Fishy was understandably trying to defend his colleagues, yet I found myself bridling.

  ‘Quite.’ Jack was terse and off hand. ‘I received a call–from a source…’ Jack was uncomfortable and mindful that Fishy was a cop. He thought long and hard before he spoke again.

  ‘The source informed me that a break-in had occurred–and that it was most definitely not a protest over animal welfare. He told me that files had been taken and directed me to a rubbish bin where he had left some photocopied papers of the files.’

  Giving forth that information was noticeably tiring for him, as if he were about to release a burden held onto for too long. Taking a long slow deep breath he began again.

  ‘The papers that I saw talked about this album. I’m not sure whether my life would have been easier if I had it back then–but I’m damn sure I wouldn’t be sitting here with you today.’

  TWENTY

  The PA system crackled and announced the comedy show that Jack was there to review. In spite of the fact that it was one of the most sought after tickets in town, none of us budged. The need to know more rooted me to the spot, and I moved as the pack shifted around us.

  We were the only silent grouping in the courtyard–it took several gulps of Guinness before Jack was ready to talk again.

  ‘I had to be very careful regarding the laws of libel…’ He looked at me accusingly and I knew what he was wanting–contrition. He had been one of the journalists involved in the Roddie Buchanan debacle. I didn’t think of that as my attacking Jack because I had sued the newspaper not the individuals involved. It looked as though he had different ideas.

  ‘At least you still have enough blood in you to look shamefaced, Brodie McLennan.’

  ‘Jack–I apologise to no man; or even half-men like you that I feel quite sorry for. I was doing my job and I’d do it again–anyway the break-in at Fettes was before Roddie’s case.’

  He ignored me and continued.

  ‘The article that I turned in was nothing more than a news report detailing the break-in; it said nothing about the papers or missing files.’

  Under his breath, he added, ‘Thank God.’

  He went on. ‘Anyway, before it was even published, I w
as arrested by the Serious Crime squad. They detained me for six hours and then I was released, pending a formal complaint.’

  Rolling his head round I could hear the bones in his neck snap; it wasn’t attractive but somehow he still was. A battle scarred war-horse: I was falling for all the stories, and he was laying it on thick.

  ‘That wasn’t the worst of it–the article was never published. I was sacked for…shall we say, spurious reasons.’

  ‘I heard you were fired because you drank too much.’ Fishy was on the attack now.

  ‘For Christ’s sake man: I always drank too much. I’ve never met a newspaper man–or woman for that matter–who didn’t. Well, none of the ones I’d trust.’

  Jack Deans didn’t sound angry at Fishy’s comments, just resigned. Maybe he’d tried to justify this part of the story too many times before.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’ve never really had serious work since then, which was why I had to resort to working on the “Daily Tat,” but your Ladyship put paid to that.’ He lifted his pint of Guinness, and raised his glass to me.

  ‘I’ve always been curious; how did you get that story?’ I made eye contact with Jack Deans, and held his stare, every part of me looking for a lie. There was none but that didn’t mean that his answer didn’t surprise Fishy.

  ‘Kailash.’

  The word that said it all.

  I composed myself to cross-examine Deans. As the condemned, I felt I had that right.

  ‘Who tipped you off about the photocopies of the files?’

  ‘As I’ve said, it wasn’t the Animal Liberation Front.’

  Jack Deans was trying to be difficult, but I could teach classes on obstinacy. I gave him a look that hopefully indicated I would let Glasgow Joe beat it out of him if necessary.

  ‘Jack, I didn’t ask you who it wasn’t. I want answers–I want them now.’

  His eyes looked down to his left; he was recalling and formulating facts. Some minutes elapsed before he spoke, but I can find unknown patience when waiting on a reply.