Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  ‘It’s hard to describe him, Brodie–I keep my sources close to my chest. Never know when someone might start asking hard questions about me, so I like to keep them on side.’

  He watched me to see if I was buying this story, but his body language checked out. Unless he was a psychopath, and nothing would surprise me just now, then he was telling the truth.

  ‘How do you know that all the files have been recovered–except this album?’

  ‘I’ve lived with the consequences of that break-in for longer than I care to admit–my life has been put on hold.’ He turned towards Fishy. ‘Now, does that sound familiar? I know it’s their standard operating procedure–destroying your reputation is always the first hit. In my case they said I was a falling down drunk–who’s going to believe a guy like that? You’ve had some of that treatment too, Plod, haven’t you? What was it? Traffic division and promotions stalled? Well–unless you’re keeping something from us, you’ve been bloody lucky. You’ve still got your reputation.’

  ‘How can you say he’s been lucky, Jack?’ I exploded. ‘How selfish can you be? You were a drunk, you are a drunk–they were right with you! But Fishy’s the brightest graduate recruit they’ve ever had. Spit it out, Fishy–you had dreams of becoming the youngest Chief Inspector they’d ever had. This must have ruined that for you?’ I looked at Jack Deans as I spoke to my friend: ‘Tell that supercilious bastard that he isn’t the only one with dibs on hardship round here.’

  ‘Aye, Plod,’ interfered Jack Deans, ‘what screws are they turning? Traffic division is a nice wee rest not a death sentence. And no promotion? Unless you know the right handshake you were never in line for that in the next decade anyway. What have they really done? Banned you from the Jaffa cakes for a month? Said you can’t get freebies off the tarts down the docks until after Christmas?’

  Fishy looked uncomfortable and I felt it. Just as much, I hated the idea that he would tell me anything new with Jack Deans sitting there. What could be so bad that he hadn’t told me before?

  ‘There is something,’ he began. ‘Brodie, I’m so sorry, I know I should have told you, confided in you, but it’s been so hard. You haven’t been around, and I just can’t get past this. Can’t get past it at all.’

  ‘Past what, Fishy?’ He ignored me and sat with his head in his hands, staring at the wooden bench in front of us.

  ‘Fishy? Answer me. How bad can it be? I’m a bloody lawyer! We can either deal with it or we can sue–those are great options. Tell me what it is and we’ll choose the best one.’

  ‘The word on the street is that I’m a beast, Brodie. You got an option that’ll wash that away?’

  My eyes flicked towards Jack Deans. This was scurrilous beyond words, and obviously the true explanation behind Fishy’s insomnia. ‘Beast’ is criminal slang for a sex offender. The only honour I have ever found amongst thieves is that they take any opportunity to assault sexual perverts with a predilection for children.

  ‘What grounds do they have for saying that?’

  ‘Grounds, Brodie? Grounds?’ asked Fishy. ‘They don’t need any fucking grounds. Coppers start ratting that one of their own is a paedo and grounds don’t mean shit. No smoke without fire and all that.’

  Hot fat tears welled up in my eyes and my voice trembled. I wanted to weep at the unfairness of it all.

  ‘But, Fishy,’ I said, desperate to fix this, like I thought I could fix everything. ‘We can tackle this. They don’t have any proof–they can’t have any proof because there isn’t any. They have to put up or shut up–and the shutting up has to come with a resumption of full responsibilities, consideration for promotion, and an apology with all traces of their allegations removed from your files.’

  Jack Deans reached out, and squeezed Fishy’s shoulder. I was touched by his gesture and it struck me that Fishy seemed to appreciate what Deans had done more than what I had offered.

  ‘Fishy–forget about no smoke without fire; we can fix this. Now, tell me where to start? Is there anything I need to know that would affect a case?’

  Still holding him by the shoulder, Jack softly repeated my question. ‘Sturgeon–is there anything else we need to know? Anything Brodie needs to know?’

  ‘They caught my credit cards in a sweep of internet paedophile sites.’

  Fishy’s voice cracked with emotion, he bit down hard on his lip to maintain composure. I watched as a small droplet of blood formed where his tooth had succeeded.

  ‘That’s serious shit, Brodie,’ Deans said, turning to me. ‘All they need to do is leak that to the tabloids–you’ll be crucified,’ he added to Fishy. Shaking his head as he envisioned the furore he couldn’t resist gilding the lily, ‘Plod the Perv; Paedo Cop Named and Shamed; Paedo PC faces Perv Charges. It’s piss-easy–and great stuff for any hack. They’d hound you out of Edinburgh.’

  Deans wasn’t exaggerating. Even the Capital’s respectable church going citizens approved of mob rule and public castration where paedophiles were concerned.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of support, Deans,’ said Fishy. ‘Does it matter at all that it isn’t true? Safest way in the world just now to ruin a man’s reputation–and how much bloody evidence is needed? Sod all. The fact that the police claim to have evidence that my credit card was used to download images of kiddies being abused for my sexual kicks is going to get a damn sight more coverage than the alleged beast saying “it wisnae me.”’

  He turned to direct his next words to me. ‘It’s not true, Brodie. I’ve never been on any of those sites, not even for work. I’ve never worked in that unit, never even seen any of that bloody sick shit.’

  ‘Have you been mugged recently, Fishy?’ I asked. ‘Has anyone attacked you and you’ve thought nothing was stolen?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Brodie,’ interrupted Deans. ‘Get back to your Miss Marple books. If someone wants to nick a credit card they just do. They don’t need piss-poor pretend muggings–they could get his details from his rubbish.’

  ‘Maybe some bastard stole it out of my locker?’

  ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to us, son. It’s that easy to get someone’s details nowadays that it’s hardly even worth spending the brain time going through the options of where it was–someone wanted it, someone got it. That’s enough for just now.’

  Jack Deans looked at me to back him up. Too late I reached out to touch my hurting friend, wishing I’d thought of it first. Gratefully, Fishy clasped my hands.

  ‘You’ll be next, Brodie–if they think that you are a danger to them, they’ll set out to destroy your credibility,’ warned Jack.

  ‘That sounds like a threat, Jack. And who is this cloak and dagger “they” anyway?’

  ‘When will you realise I’m not the enemy?’

  Straightening his spine he raised himself up to his full seated height. His blue eyes were like forged steel and looking from one to the other of us he appeared to be doing a final sizing up, for a split second I thought he would leave. I realised then that I needed his particular abilities to survive. I vowed to be more courteous to him if he stayed. Making silent promises of improved behaviour is a habit of mine; I’ve learned to my cost that rarely do I keep them.

  ‘Ok. We’re in this together.’ His voice was decided. Relief flooded through me.

  ‘And who are “they”? All in good time, Brodie. When I spoke earlier I made them sound invincible, but there is one person who always manages to beat them at their own game.’

  His pint was finished, and he reached out to finish Glasgow Joe’s Diet Coke.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Moses Tierney.’

  The Coke spurted from my mouth, hitting Fishy on the face, brown droplets dripped from his nose and chin as I spoke again.

  ‘Moses Tierney? A boy in a long coat with more make-up than is healthy but not the brains to match. Moses Tierney? He’s an idiot.’ I rubbed self-consciously at one of the marks on my back.

  ‘Is he? Think about it, Brodie�
��we all know he’s shady yet neither he nor any of his gang is ever brought to court. I’ve spoken to Procurator Fiscals who have put case after case up marked for prosecution only to have them returned marked “no pro”’.

  Fishy was wiping my spit, and the Coke from his face but he was nodding vigorously. I could not allow my personal dislike for the boy to interfere with my judgement, and Deans was, unfortunately, right.

  ‘I just find it hard to accept that Moses Tierney is some kind of criminal mastermind. I’ll ask Frank Pearson about it when we see him, when Joe gets back.’

  I didn’t hear Glasgow Joe creep up behind me. He startled me with his reply.

  ‘You’ll be a long time waiting, Brodie hen. I’ve done everything I can to track down Pearson. Unfortunately…’

  Joe’s voice trailed off mid sentence, and I could sense that he felt as I did.

  It wasn’t unfortunate–it was a bloody tragedy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I had woken up morose after a fitful night. I was worried about Frank Pearson, and knew I had been bothered by dreams of him during the few bits of sleep I had snatched. I knew that we would need to do something today, and that I needed to go to Frank’s flat with Joe, but I had stress and discomfort surging through my system–and it needed a get-out clause.

  Unfortunately, my morning run did nothing to lift my mood. I had stayed too long in the freezing shower, and I still felt chilled from it.

  When I’m stressed, I cook. Unlike a lot of people who use the same outlet, I tend to eat it all as well. I was making porridge using my mother’s spurtle which had belonged to her mother before her. Generations of McLennan women had been unable to make porridge without it. Joe had just informed me that I could not make porridge with it. His opinion was worthless–he was a Sassenach who thought that sprinkling sugar on his porridge was a good idea, when any fool knew that salt was the one true way.

  The mucky looking substance bubbled in the pot, spattering out drops of burning oats–even at the kitchen stove I was in danger of being injured. Luck wasn’t with me at the moment.

  ‘The post’s arrived.’

  Joe dragged me out of my reverie as we ate–I was engrossed in the newspaper, looking for clues without knowing what I was actually searching for. With beginner’s luck, I found a self-congratulatory interview from the officer in charge of Operation ‘Bluebird’. He confirmed that officers sweeping US child porn sites for credit cards had pulled out the names of over 1000 Scottish residents. Amongst the professions listed were teachers, civil servants, social workers and a serving police officer. ‘The net was closing in,’ he said, and, listening to the beating of my own heart, it felt like a prophecy.

  Walking slowly towards me, his mouth tightly shut, Joe offered me a brown envelope. He looked tired. His hair was coarse and tousled. Roughly he pushed it back from his forehead and in the harsh morning light, I noticed the greyness of his complexion that bore the scars of many battles, most of which I’d romanticised as he never told me any bloody thing. He’d received over a hundred stitches in his face over the years, and although the American surgeons had done a magnificent job of reconstruction, his right eye was pulled down at the side which meant that when he was not smiling, he looked cruel. Like a killer.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this–no stamp, hand delivered.’

  It was addressed to me and I moved to take it from him. I’d been losing track of the days but it hit me–it was Sunday. There shouldn’t be any post.

  He jerked back and punched the wall with his fist. ‘Brodie–those bastards were here in the night.’ He put his hand under his armpit, ignoring the blood seeping out over his white shirt.

  I moved again to take my envelope.

  ‘Piss off–you’re not getting your mitts on this. I’ll get Fishy to check it out. The fewer people that touch it the better.’

  He left the kitchen and went into the bathroom, ostensibly to wash his wound, but clearly going to open the letter, assuming that it was a bomb.

  In his youth, at the tail end of the conflict in Northern Ireland, Glasgow Joe had been recruited through a Catholic boys’ club, and trained as a gunrunner for the IRA. While with them, he had been trained in Gadaffi’s PLO camps, a somewhat alternative student exchange, and it seemed obvious that he would have explosives training, even though we hadn’t discussed it–like most things.

  It was this tuition that led to the charge that forced him to leave Scotland. Joe had never adequately explained how he managed to come home for my mother’s funeral. I had my doubts but I was so glad to see him I kept them to myself. During his time in America I suspected that he was still working for the IRA. There were parts of himself that he had to keep a secret from me so that we could still be friends. We were in denial but it had served us well so far.

  As I waited with my ear pressed against the door, I could hear him rummaging around. The clock in the hallway ticked one hundred times before he emerged, looking drained and emotionless. When I saw him it startled me for a second time.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He ignored me and my throat tightened into a ball. Tripping on his heels, I followed him into the drawing room.

  ‘Sit down a minute while we look at this.’

  Silence followed as Joe struggled to find the words. Fidgeting, I threw myself down beside him on the large cream sofa, the cushions creating a valley in which we collided. The envelope hung limply in Joe’s hands that were placed between his open legs, resting on his sporran. I grabbed it from him, and he released it without a fight.

  My breath was coming short and quick, but I felt almost sedated as I pulled another photograph out of the envelope–was I the local depository for all the weird pics hanging around Edinburgh these days? I had only taken out a corner before I recognised it–the original hung in my hallway.

  It was my graduation photograph. The three of us beamed out at the photographer–me, Fishy, and Frank Pearson. We were all smiling, grinning with achievement–only now Frank had a noose scribbled around his neck in black felt-tip pen, R.I.P. scribbled across his body.

  ‘Well?’

  I couldn’t answer Joe. What was I going to do? What could I say? I was drowning in shit, and kept getting kicked back into it. I couldn’t scream, because I didn’t have anything loud enough within me. What could I possibly say or do?

  I heard my mother’s voice. ‘Stop whining, Brodie, and stop talking to yourself. Get on with it–and fight like hell’s furies.’

  I reached into Joe’s sporran taking out his cigarettes and matches. He watched as I leaned back and lit up. Psychologists say that subconsciously smokers don’t believe they have a future. I remembered this and in one swift movement rose and threw the cigarette into the unlit fire.

  ‘Frank–I don’t just know where he lives,’ I said, ‘I know which neighbour keeps his spare keys too–he told me during a drunken heart-to-heart one night that his unrequited love on his downstairs neighbour had only resulted in him asking her to water his one plant when he was away. And that took three years.’ Despite everything, we both suspected there was nothing to be done and it wasn’t a house call I relished. As I saw it I had no choice. If I believed Fishy, I couldn’t leave it to the police. I had to go there myself.

  ‘Why do you think they sent us the photograph?’ asked Glasgow Joe. ‘Was it a warning or are they gloating?’

  ‘Come on, Joe–you’ve been in tougher situations than this, but you need to accept that this isn’t your fight. Hell, I don’t even think it’s my fight. But it seems whoever touches these photographs is sucked in and destroyed. Walk away, Joe–I want to take my own chances. And in answer to your question–the bastard’s gloating.’

  I slammed the door shut leaving him inside. I ran so fast, and hard along the road that my chest ached. I didn’t just run to get to Frank quickly, I ran to escape the demons on my back. It wasn’t too far to walk to his flat but it was definitely too far to sprint. I leaned over the gutter, and vomited
from my exertions. The sourness of my porridge as it revisited my mouth made me wonder if the Sassenach’s were right to wallop in sugar.

  A hand grabbed my hair and yanked my head up. Yellow stomach acid dribbled off my chin. The sound of my own retching had obscured the noise of Glasgow Joe’s trike. A surprisingly clean linen handkerchief wiped my face. He still held my hair even though he knew that it was hurting me. Turning my head so that I was forced to look him in the eye, he spoke slowly:

  ‘It’s over when I say it’s over, Brodie.’ Roughly, he pushed my head away.

  We left the trike where it was; it wasn’t a day to be announcing our arrival.

  ‘Are you sure this guy’s a lawyer?’ Joe asked. I had run from my townhouse in Cumberland Street, and turned left in the direction of Leith heading for Broughton Street. Frank Pearson was a public servant, and his annual salary was probably less than I would receive for Kailash’s case. The discrepancy in wages was reflected in our homes. Entering the nasty smelling common stairwell, I wondered why people kept cats if they hadn’t heard of cat litter. Struck by the gloominess, Joe gesticulated to the smashed stair light. The covering of the light was heavy duty Perspex; it had taken some force to break it.

  Frank Pearson lived on the first floor. We tried to climb the stone steps in silence but it was a waste of time given that we’d already announced our arrival by rattling on the door of the keeper of his heart to get the keys. Still Joe and I continued like piss-poor spy recruits–I held my breath as our feet scuffled up the stairs. Trying to lighten my weight, I held onto the mahogany banister and pulled myself up. A cat meowed on the top floor. We stopped until a door opened and the cat went in.

  Outside Frank’s door there was a simple name-plate. We’d wasted our time with the keys; the door hadn’t been forced open. It was 9.30a.m. and whatever had happened looked like it had occurred the day before. It was unlikely that the assailant was lying in wait, unless he had a monumental bladder and great belief in the human spirit.