by Grace Monroe
Following Malcolm’s instructions I headed off to meet Moses en route to the police station. The Christmas lights were up in George Street and it was quite a show, classier than the Blackpool illuminations – I didn’t like to admit it, but they always made me feel good. Moses Tierney, leader of the Dark Angels gang, and my most important client, had opened a new club there. I walked into Susie Wong’s and saw him immediately. As usual he was dressed in full-length black leather coat, leather trousers, black silk shirt and handmade boots. He was leaning on his ebony walking cane surveying the scene when I got there. He raised his cane in salute to me but kept his eyes firmly on the queue. Very few people in Edinburgh know he is the owner; they dismiss the presence of the Dark Angels as the hired muscle, but Moses is shrewd. I’d never underestimate him.
‘Have you got Malcolm’s pills?’
‘They’re just coming.’
The burglary skills of the Dark Angels come in handy sometimes.
‘Business is good,’ I commented, shaking my hair, trying to get the knots out of it. Moses turned to me and said, ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ before turning away. I followed the line of his eyes. A large queue had formed outside the club where two young Dark Angels were out of uniform. The Dark Angels were a brand. They marketed fear in the city, instantly recognizable from their platinum-white hair and ashen skin. Both sexes wore black from head to toe, including nail varnish. Mascara was optional for the men; immaculate grooming was not. They scared lots of people, but I loved them. Moses had looked after me for years – many of them without me knowing it – and, along with Kailash, had saved my life. He wasn’t a criminal to me; he was a guardian angel.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked. Moses didn’t reply: too busy directing operations. It was a game that we often played – I had to see if I could figure out his scam, even although we both knew that, as soon as I did, I’d have to leave. It was bound to be illegal. I scrutinized the two Dark Angels. They were beautiful – but that was generally the case. The boy was around seventeen and wore a 1920s evening suit, with tails and a white tie. A battered brown leather suitcase was open on a table. It contained his props. He pulled out two scimitars. To prove the sharpness of the swords, he went up to a man in the crowd. Grasping hold of the man’s tie in one slashing movement, he cut it in two. The man’s face fell and the crowd stepped back uneasily. They all agreed it was sharp.
‘He’s going to fix the guy’s tie, isn’t he?’ I was nodding in Moses’ face as I asked.
‘No.’ Moses turned his mouth down and shook his head.
‘That tie is silk, Moses – you can’t let them go around destroying customers’ clothes. In case it hadn’t occurred to you, it’s bad for business.’ My tone of voice was getting higher. Grandad was coaching me to speak low and slow like Ingrid Bergman, but right now I was doing a fair impression of Betty Boop.
‘Do you really think I’d let someone as ugly as that in my club? Anything that happens in the queue will only be to punters that the bouncers won’t let in.’ Moses laughed, as if I was the one who had lost my marbles. The performance was hypnotic. The magician’s assistant had ignored the cold and was wearing a pink tutu. She looked like a malevolent Tinker Bell. It wouldn’t be fair to say that all eyes were on her colleague, because she was a beguiling sight. It was true that eyes, particularly male eyes, were on her, but they definitely weren’t watching the hands that were picking their pockets. It was just as well they wouldn’t miss their wallets until they tried to pay for the taxi home.
‘Here.’ Moses handed me a bottle of pills, which he’d just been given. I shuddered. The news that I was buying drugs would be all over the ‘steamie’; Moses’ reputation as the main supplier of ecstasy was well known. I wanted to rattle them and shout ‘angina pills’, but who would want to believe that?
I’d seen enough. I was tired of the generic Christmas music that was pumping out of the open door of the club and, as usual, Moses’ addiction to crime disheartened me. ‘There’s no need for that petty theft,’ I told him. ‘You’re making enough from your legit businesses.’ I moved to put my helmet on.
‘How do you know what’s enough? Do you have any idea how much it’s cost me to put this place together?’ he said, shrugging his shoulders as if speaking to a child. ‘The fucking smoking ban has made it impossible to turn an honest buck.’ We were staring at the hapless smokers as they talked, huddled around an ineffective patio heater. ‘Even the brothels have been hit – has Kailash not told you?’ He looked into my face, expecting confirmation.
‘We don’t talk about her business,’ I said, tightening my lips to give him a warning look; sadly, subtlety is lost on Moses.
‘Illegal brothels are setting up everywhere,’ he said, as if hoping I’d be sympathetic. He was so wrong, but as usual couldn’t read my face, so continued. ‘They’re bringing in girls from Thailand, Poland, Romania. Sex slaves, Brodie – the bosses don’t pay them a penny!’
‘What do you want me to say? You want my sympathy? Is that it? All brothels are illegal in Scotland, Moses, not just the new ones – the fact that they get called saunas doesn’t give them any legitimacy.’ He looked at me blankly; morality wasn’t something he could understand.
‘You should take an interest, Brodie; after all it’s your inheritance. Well, yours and Connie’s. What have you got her for Christmas?’
He wasn’t remotely interested in what I’d bought Connie for Christmas – which was just as well: he was too interested in his own gift. ‘I’ve imported the latest games console from Japan – it isn’t even out here till next autumn.’
‘Great. I hope it isn’t knocked off,’ I said churlishly. He tried to look hurt – and failed miserably. Moses was anxious for me to go, a sure sign he was up to something. I held my breath and watched where he was deliberately not looking. Then I spied them, just around the corner where a smaller queue had formed in front of Blind Bruce and a new member of the gang. I winced as I looked at Bruce – he, and his sightlessness, were kept around as permanent reminders of what happened to Dark Angels who crossed Moses. He had deliberately blinded Bruce after he had questioned the authority of the Dark Angels’ leader, cut out his eyes as easily as peeling a banana.
‘Who’s that?’ I pointed to the new guy.
‘He’s the chemist.’ The fact that Bruce was now the one holding the street drugs only emphasized that he was an expendable – probably the most expendable – member of the gang. Moses Tierney has a flair for the dramatic, one that’s shared by the rest of the Dark Angels.
‘What’s his name?’ Moses was staring in the opposite direction, which was interesting – maybe he was embarrassed about selling drugs on street corners after all. ‘You know,’ I continued, ‘I’m not going to give up; and if he keeps standing there, I’ll be representing both of them, him and Blind Bruce, in court tomorrow anyway.’ Moses looked disappointed. He was hiding something – we were both sure I didn’t want to know, but it had gone too far now.
‘If I tell you, will you go?’ he asked, and I nodded. ‘His name’s Cal.’ I sniggered and flicked my eyes over the new guy. There was something different about him; for a start I could see the roots of his ginger hair, but he was also wearing a Breitling watch which, from where I was standing, looked authentic. I was surprised to see that he wore handmade brogues, of the type that Grandad wore. Odd.
I had to go. As I opened the throttle along George Street I felt as if strange eyes were upon me. I tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling and hoped that I was just picking up on the air of panic in the city.
Perhaps I had just outstayed my welcome.
Chapter Eight
George Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1.25 a.m.
He stopped whistling to himself when he saw her – he knew it was her even before she took her helmet off. When she shook her curls free, he felt that she was toying with him but he was still mesmerized. His jaw was tight and his neck stiffened. He’d show he
r and then she’d be sorry.
The Christmas lights shone on her face and The Watcher was pleased that Brodie no longer looked tired or edgy. He hoped this situation would continue. Nothing wrong with a false sense of security – he needed a few more days to bring his plan to fruition. The thought of his plan excited him.
Her long auburn hair spilled around her shoulders in a whirl of tendrils. He cursed the fact that she was wearing her leathers but he could still imagine her body underneath them. He had a very good imagination.
He sniffed the cold night air – just on the periphery he imagined he could smell her. It felt as if she had been talking to that delinquent forever. What did she see in him? Didn’t they know what time it was? It was way past a good girl’s bedtime. A slow smile broke out on his face and reached his eyes. Tapping his fingers on the lamppost he bit his lip to cool his impatience – it was not yet his time.
A pretty girl like Brodie McLennan shouldn’t be left alone in a city like this when the Ripper was on the loose. A discreet laugh escaped his lips. Passers-by probably wondered what his private joke was, but it would remain private; that was the whole point of secrets. The Watcher liked secrets.
The Harley growled into life but she didn’t drive off. He was torn; it bothered him when she talked to Moses Tierney but at least he knew where she was. The Watcher knew that Tierney wanted her to leave; he kept looking over Brodie’s shoulder as if he was expecting someone he didn’t want her to see. When she finally did leave, The Watcher would have to find her again and that wasn’t always easy. He held his breath as he saw her drive off into the night. Resentment tightened the knot in his stomach – he couldn’t follow her yet.
Five minutes passed before Tierney’s mystery guest showed up. The Watcher wasn’t pleased. The rumble of a bike engine had quickened his pulse for a moment. She’s come back. But it wasn’t Brodie. Glasgow Joe got off his trike and started snooping.
The Watcher disappeared into the shadows to wait.
Chapter Nine
St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1.35 a.m.
St Leonards police station was aglow. The artificial Christmas tree twinkled as its lights flashed on and off – it was enough to cause a punter to have an epileptic fit. As usual my timing was impeccable. I was parking the Fat Boy just as the meat wagon arrived with its cargo of petty criminals, herded up from the city streets. Normally, it’s a wonderful opportunity to score new business, but Sergeant Munro was hovering and I knew he would do anything to thwart me. Did that man never sleep?
The lager louts were drunker than usual, filled with Christmas cheer and all manner of illegal substances; there were many well-kent faces in the crowd.
‘Brodie, darlin’ – you look beautiful! Gies a kiss for ma Christmas!’ I could always rely on wee Billy Palmer for an arrest and a compliment; the effect of the latter was shattered seconds later when he threw up in the gutter. The other prisoners laughed and jeered.
‘Better out than in, son, that’s what I always say,’ said Sergeant Munro. Billy Palmer lifted his head and wiped his face on the sleeve of his grubby hoody. Ever the gallant, he blew me a kiss – he used the hand which had L.O.V.E. tattooed on the knuckles.
It was a right rogues’ gallery tonight. I’d represented most of these wasters at one time or another over the years. Shuggy McAllister was dragged along by Sergeant Munro – right through the diced carrots and custard or whatever it was that had been in Billy’s stomach. Shuggy was a small-time crook who had ideas above his station, and was fussy about his appearance. Lifting his foot, he tried to wipe the sole of his shoe on Billy Palmer’s back.
‘Palmer – ya dirty wee bastard!’ McAllister shouted. ‘D’you ken how much these fuckin’ boots cost me?’ The officers in charge weren’t expecting it. McAllister broke free and kicked Billy Palmer full in the face. There was a crack, and then the sound of a jaw breaking carried far into the night. It was always like that; the atmosphere could turn on a five-pence piece. It was always wise to watch your back.
‘I’m sorry – I didnae mean it, man!’ Billy Palmer screamed his apology through bloodstained teeth as he cowered in the gutter. His eyes held mine, beseeching me to get him out, but he was already on bail so it was Christmas in Saughton Prison for him. I didn’t think Santa would bring him anything other than another beating from Shuggy McAllister.
The situation was quickly under control. The noise had alerted Malcolm who had been inside the station keeping warm. Sergeant Munro had made him a cup of tea. Their association went back years, to the times when Malcolm himself was getting lifted for lewd and libidinous behaviour. Malcolm teetered out on the toes of his patent pumps, watching where he stepped and ignoring the fracas – it was nothing he hadn’t seen many times before.
‘Honey! You came!’ In the best tradition of a drag queen he extended his arms and hugged me, holding on as if he’d never let go. I didn’t mind; he smelled a lot better than Billy Palmer.
‘Come here,’ I said to him gently. ‘Let me see what damage that bastard has done this time.’ I pulled Malcolm under the nearest streetlamp. Gingerly, I touched his blacked eye. ‘What’s this – has your mascara run?’ I ran my fingertips over his swollen lips; tears of shame filled his eyes.
‘I was going to say that you could do with some leeches – but I forgot you married one.’ Malcolm is a Beaton, a family known throughout Scottish history as healers. As he himself said many times, ‘Life in Glasgow was tough for a pansy.’ He went to Amsterdam and honed his skills, patching up people who preferred not to go to a hospital. That’s how he met Kailash.
It was hard to tell that he was upset, apart from the tears, because his face had been so frozen by Botox and Restylane fillers. Blowing his nose noisily into an immaculate handkerchief – Malcolm prided himself on his whites – he began to speak. I tried to listen, even though I’d heard it all before.
‘This guy has no right to hit you,’ I said, when he drew breath.
‘Brodie, he doesn’t mean it. I probably started it anyway and annoyed him with something I said or did.’ He tapped me on the shoulder, trying to soothe my anger. The more I looked into his broken face, the angrier I got. He’d tried to patch it up with heavy foundation and concealer, but that just made it worse.
‘He’s insulting you, Malcolm, not the other way round. Fat bastard that he is – he’s never been any good.’ I shrugged Malcolm’s hand off me; he had to be made to see that this was unacceptable.
‘I’m sorry for calling you out, Brodie, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. He gets loaded then he loses his temper, that’s all. This time the neighbours called the police.’ Malcolm kept patting his hand on the left side of his chest, checking his heart to see if it was still beating – perhaps he thought it was broken. Pulling his arm, I led him back into St Leonards.
‘Just take a deep breath and relax. I’ll check with Sergeant Munro and maybe they’ll let me see him.’
Sergeant Munro busied himself with paperwork. It was a game he liked to play with me: how long could he ignore the daft wee lassie? He was the only one enjoying it.
‘Sergeant Munro,’ I said, smiling – we may have had a longstanding association but neither of us liked it. I even lifted and lowered my lashes very slowly. I’d read in Cosmopolitan that men find it irresistible; the journalist who wrote that clearly hadn’t come across the good sergeant.
‘Miss McLennan.’ He stared down at the paperwork. ‘Your colleague, one Mr Edward Gibb, has already visited your custodies and you’re not getting to see Billy Palmer for another six hours.’ He smiled ingratiatingly – he liked to smile at me when he was winning.
‘I wanted to check the status of Derek Brown. I—’
He interrupted me, unable to hide his delight; he didn’t even have to check his paperwork. ‘Derek Brown has asked for another solicitor. In fact, he said – wait a minute, I wrote it down somewhere … I quote: “If that miserable bitch Brodie McLennan comes h
ere, tell her I wouldn’t let her represent me if she was the last lawyer in hell.”’ Sergeant Munro grinned but Dismal Derek’s insults were like water off a duck’s back to me. However, I needed to get more information so that Malcolm could sleep tonight.
‘I take it he’s appearing in court tomorrow? Who’s his lawyer?’ If I found that out then Malcolm could speak to them in the morning.
‘Ricky Gordon,’ said Munro.
A snort of laughter came out of my nose. It was quite embarrassing, but must have just been nerves. ‘Ricky Gordon doesn’t do criminal work because of his stutter.’
‘Well, he’s doing it tomorrow – I’d get there early or God knows what time you’ll be out of Court One. I’ll get Malcolm a taxi – he needs his bed,’ he said.
No man is all bad, even Sergeant Munro, but there were a few that seemed to be devoid of anything positive – the Ripper, for one. The atmosphere in the station was tense; all the officers were working overtime trying to catch the Ripper, yet the people in the cells were the usual suspects. A young Polish police officer shouted that Malcolm’s taxi was here. Lothian and Borders police needed foreign nationals as constables to deal with the immigrants – not that I’d ever represented a Polish plumber. I wondered if it was just another PR exercise by the Scottish government.
My nemesis, DI Bancho, appeared, holding the door open for Malcolm. He looked like shit: heading up the investigation into the Ripper murders was taking its toll. I decided it wasn’t just Sergeant Munro who could have his fun – baiting Duncan Bancho always made me feel better.
Chapter Ten
St Leonards Police Station, Edinburgh
