by Grace Monroe
Grandad kissed me good morning, smelling of expensive gentlemen’s cologne, the type that was probably in vogue in the 1940s. His eyes glittered and he clapped his hands excitedly; he couldn’t wait to get down to business. He had made it clear that the only thing better than walking Lavender down the aisle would have been to have me on his arm – under the strict proviso that he approved of my choice of groom, of course. Everyone knew that would never happen.
‘Did Joe phone you yet?’ Grandad asked.
‘No.’ I narrowed my eyes, suspicious of his motives. It was no secret that Grandad liked Joe, but not enough for me to marry him – again. ‘Have you heard the news this morning?’
‘Er, yes,’ I answered. ‘Why?’
‘Not the stuff on the radio or TV – the real stuff. According to Joe, they’ve caught the Ripper – it was too late to catch the morning edition of the papers and they’re trying to keep the media circus in check until after the indictment hearing.’
‘Why did he call you?’ Eddie Gibb asked Grandad. ‘No disrespect, Your Lordship, but you’re hardly bosom buddies.’
‘No offence taken, Eddie,’ Grandad beamed, his ancient yellow teeth glinting. ‘DI Bancho asked for my phone number – quite rightly Joe wasn’t prepared to give it to him without checking with me first.’
I looked at him quizzically – he really was muscling in on my life. I coughed, inviting him to explain further. Lifting an eyebrow, he turned and faced me. His look told me he wasn’t used to being questioned, silently or otherwise, but on this one occasion he would do what I wanted. Arrogant old bastard.
‘This case has to be handled correctly. Bancho cannot allow trial by media – if the press isn’t tightly reined in, then the case could be dropped if the defence demands a mistrial.’
‘So Bancho has finally succeeded,’ Danny whistled through his teeth.
‘Don’t be so sure. After all, it’s Bancho we’re talking about – I’m willing to take a bet he’s got the wrong man, and that he won’t care too much as long as he gets a conviction,’ I said.
‘Don’t be so hard on him. Bancho’s a better cop than you give him credit for – if he was such a dunderheid, Brodie, Lothian and Borders police wouldn’t have sent him to Quantico on that profiling course,’ Eddie said.
‘Profiling my arse – how hard can it be if they sent Bancho? What are they going to say? That the perp is single, Caucasian, a white-collar worker approaching forty who lives with his mother?’ I said, looking around for support. I didn’t find it in their eyes. ‘I take it back – he lives with his redheaded mother.’ I smiled and sarcastically threw a tenner on the table. ‘Put your money where your mouth is,’ I told them.
Danny McCabe laid a ten-pound note on the desk, as did Lav. ‘I’ll bet it’s a woman,’ she said. ‘Only a woman is smart enough to have escaped detection for so long.’
‘I hate to disagree with you, darlin’ – but serial killers are overwhelmingly male and of European descent,’ said Eddie, throwing in another tenner. ‘But my money’s on Bancho.’
‘Eddie’s right … it’s a man and he’s white, he hates women and he’s pretty much killing in his own ethnic group, but Bancho has made a mistake if he tries to impose archetypes on this guy – you need to be open. The Ripper is a thrill seeker because he’s playing with the media and he’s targeting prostitutes, so he could be on a mission to exterminate certain types from society,’ I said. ‘The red hair thing is creepy. I think he does live with his redheaded mother.’
‘You’ve more money than sense, the lot of you,’ Grandad sounded off, but he was right. We weren’t exactly model profilers. ‘And you have other things to be thinking of today,’ he emphasized, looking at Lavender. She sniffed in the background and pointed to her watch. It was 8.45 a.m. and she wanted us to be the first lawyers at the Sheriff Court. Eddie threw my court gown to me. I caught it and lifted the two files Lavender had laid out. I was going to walk to court with Eddie, then I had to meet Kailash, Lavender, Connie and Malcolm at the Sheraton hotel. I was already imagining myself in the spa, lying back in the Jacuzzi, quaffing champagne. I knew that Kailash had other ideas though. Malcolm was a fabulous stylist and my mother wanted us to look our best. She didn’t have any formal photographs of Connie and me together, and this was her chance. I was halfway out of the door when the phone rang. Lavender’s face fell; reluctantly she raised her arm and curled her index finger. I took the receiver from her.
‘Hello?’
‘Brodie McLennan?’ I knew it wasn’t St Leonards; as far as I knew they didn’t employ any policemen with American accents. ‘Adie Foster here.’
I may never have met Adie Foster – but, like everyone else in the country, I’d heard of him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lothian and St Clair W.S.
Monday 24 December, 8.45 a.m.
‘Ms McLennan – Lucas Baroc suggested I call you.’
I wanted to whistle. Lucas Baroc had, a few years ago, won the European Footballer of the Year award and was playing out the twilight years of his career in Edinburgh. He may have been at the end of his professional life, but he was still in a class above the ‘talent’ we generally put on a pitch – not only was he the leading goal scorer in the Premier League, he was also (and more importantly) drop-dead gorgeous. I’d got him off a drink-driving charge earlier in the year. Baroc had originally appeared, and pleaded not guilty to the charge. A date was set for his trial, but he was playing in Europe and ‘forgot’ to turn up at court for an intermediate hearing. The sheriff issued a warrant for his arrest but didn’t discharge his original trial.
As soon as Baroc was back in the country I arranged for him to appear, but it was after the trial date. New dates were fixed for the trial but I decided to attack the competency of the charge. I appealed to the High Court on the basis that the original trial had not been discharged, therefore when it was not called in court on the appointed day it had fallen – the Appeal Court found, in our favour, that Baroc could not be tried for the charge of drink-driving.
The case brought me a lot of publicity, not only because it involved Baroc, but because, potentially, it affected thousands of criminal cases in Scotland – it also led to the accusation that I set guilty people free. And Adie Foster fitted into all of this because he owed me for keeping his star striker’s licence.
‘Lucas Baroc recommended me,’ I repeated loudly for Eddie’s benefit. He had been as sick as a pig when I had appeared for Baroc, who played for an ‘enemy’ team. Eddie’s greatest love, behind Lavender, was Hibs football team. He would have made sure Baroc had gone down if he’d been representing him.
‘That’s correct. Lucas – he was very pleased with the result of his trial. Your name was bandied about quite a few dressing rooms – in the nicest possible way, of course,’ Adie Foster laughed.
‘Well, we can certainly schedule an appointment after Christmas, Mr Foster,’ I said.
‘Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all, Ms McLennan,’ he said calmly. ‘I need to see you today.’ His voice was low and brooked no opposition. His tone said that Adie Foster was a man who was used to getting what he wanted – he had married a rich woman, turned her millions into their current fortune, and clearly thought that everyone else should jump when he said so. Her family came from oil money. He was one of the first investors in the North Sea fields. Most of his money now came from oil reserves in Tatarstan in Russia and he had businesses all over the old communist countries of the Eastern bloc. His construction company was rebuilding Bosnia, which was why he had so many football players in his team from that part of the world. I looked across and saw Lavender’s face. She was giving me the evil eye; I turned my back on her. There was no way I could take on a new case today – unless …
‘Unfortunately, Mr Foster, I’m matron of honour at a wedding this afternoon,’ I started to say. Lavender poked me in the back and hissed, ‘Unfortunately?’
Coughing, I began again. ‘I am totally committed to t
his wedding – you have to understand that, if I did agree to meet with you, it would be at great personal sacrifice.’
Lavender stood on my foot. I placed my hand over the receiver. ‘You’re on my toes,’ I whispered. ‘It hurts.’
‘I know,’ she replied, ‘and I haven’t even started yet.’
‘I understand. If there’s anything I can do for you – please don’t hesitate to ask, Ms McLennan. This matter is very close to my heart,’ he drawled. I thought there was a great deal an American billionaire could do for me; however, there was one thing in particular that only Adie Foster could do for me, and was the reason for me sacrificing my toes to Lavender.
‘Well, now you happen to mention it …’ A smirk crossed my face as I anticipated Connie’s face on Christmas morning if this worked out. ‘I have a thirteen-year-old sister who is football mad – the ideal present for her would be to run out onto the turf at Easter Road as a mascot for Hibs. I was bidding in the Hibs’ auction but I was unsuccessful.’
‘I take it you would settle for her being our mascot on New Year’s Day when my team meets them?’ he clarified.
‘Yes,’ I said, wincing, knowing full well that this would be difficult. The team mascot would already have been picked so some other kid would have to be bumped for Connie to take the place. Still, it was our first Christmas together, and I wanted to get her something she’d always remember.
‘Consider it done. I’ll get my secretary to courier you the details. Now, as to how you may help me, Ms McLennan. I’ve just been advised by a … friend … in the force that my son Thomas is appearing at Edinburgh Sheriff Court this morning. I don’t have any details of the charges. My son has never been in trouble with the police before. He’s a second-year mathematics student at Yale but his course allows him to study at a foreign university for a year. He chose Edinburgh. Naturally, his mother and I will both be there this morning.’
‘If he’s appearing from custody then he won’t be coming up from the cells until noon – they might be earlier today, though; everyone wants finished for Christmas,’ I told him as Lavender shoved a note in front of me. I’m getting married this afternoon – or had you forgotten? ‘It’ll be fine,’ I mouthed back at her. It would be an in-and-out job and I’d get there to the wedding in plenty of time. Of course I wouldn’t make it to the Sheraton, which was where my dress was, and there was the added difficulty that Malcolm wouldn’t be there to do my hair, but I liked the natural look, even if Kailash and Lavender didn’t, and someone else could always pick up my frock.
There was, of course, another difficulty. Thomas Foster was an adult and therefore entitled to choose his own lawyer. No matter how much Mr Foster wanted me to represent his son, it was down to Thomas, not his dad. Actually, the best-case scenario would be that Thomas had already instructed someone else, leaving me to buzz off to the Sheraton at the prearranged time having bagged the best Christmas present ever. I still believed in Christmas miracles – when I had to.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Custody Cells, Edinburgh Sheriff Court
Monday 24 December, 9.55 a.m.
Thomas Foster sat huddled on a bench in the corner of a solitary cell. He had been separated off from the other inmates – in deference to his father’s position, I assumed.
The noise in the cells is always jarring – small-time criminals shouting out to their lawyers, friends or enemies, an undercurrent of violence that could spill out at any moment – yet Thomas maintained his poise and wore a hawk-like look of self-control.
The walls of the cell were white, flecked through with every colour under the sun and some suspicious brown marks, which I couldn’t imagine were anything other than shit. It wouldn’t have come from Thomas Foster. He had the kind of movie-star good looks only rich, well-nourished Americans can possess; they didn’t make maths students like that when I was at Edinburgh University, I thought to myself.
Sergeant Davidson and I stared in at him through the tiny peephole in the thick steel door. I thought he was unaware of our presence until he stood up, walked to the door, and stared straight at me.
I stepped back.
The air was warm; smelly with the fug of fear. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face. Nothing was as it seemed. I’d assumed Thomas Foster was up on some student prank. Sergeant Davidson was a man of few words, and he also took it for granted that I knew all about Foster. Who else would turn up to represent a billionaire’s son knowing fuck-all about the case? Actually, quite a few probably – the nature of the work is such that we’re often called upon to improvise. It wouldn’t be the first time Eddie had a trial file then got caught up in court, or the trial was heard early, and I had to go into court knowing nothing but the client’s name. It’s not comfortable. The choice is that, if a lawyer isn’t there to represent a client, the lawyer gets found in contempt of court.
‘Open it up,’ I said to Sergeant Davidson. He didn’t ask me why no one had been to see my client last night; he didn’t ask why our names were not against his as he came in. This was a breach of procedure and I was surprised that he didn’t pick up on it.
‘I said I didn’t want a lawyer,’ came Foster’s voice. He had a soft Californian drawl that I recognized from Hollywood, not real life.
In fact, he was a dead ringer for Leonardo DiCaprio, which was strangely unnerving.
I walked past him and sat down, careful to wrap my gown around me. You needed to be vigilant. A fair percentage of my clients carried nasty diseases that they weren’t afraid to share. Looking at Thomas Foster’s unblemished tan skin and bright blue eyes, I was willing to bet he was clear, but old habits die hard. As I reached into my briefcase for a pen and pad, I had time to reflect – it was unusual for me to see a prisoner in the police cell and not out in the agents’ area.
‘Brodie McLennan,’ I said, holding out my hand – which he didn’t take.
‘Ms McLennan, whilst I do not wish to appear rude, I do not require the services of a lawyer. There has been a mistake, which will soon be cleared up.’ His voice was soft and a bit seductive. A random thought flew through my head – was I too old for him? Maybe, but he seemed so polished that he was more grown-up than me, and he was a looker.
‘Well, you might not require my help but I need yours,’ I told him. ‘Your father has agreed that my little sister can be the football mascot at the Ne’erday match – on the condition I came here to see you today.’ I scratched my head before putting on my most winning smile and said: ‘Now, I’m a busy woman – contrary to what people in here will say, I don’t need to press-gang clients, so why don’t you just sit down and tell me what the score is so that I can decide if you need my help or not?’
His eyes opened. He smiled. ‘She really likes soccer that much?’
I nodded.
‘Well there’s no accounting for taste,’ he said as he half turned and swept the bench with his fingers before he sat down. Leaning on his knees he stared at his Italian handmade shoes. ‘They’ve taken my belt and laces,’ he said, mostly to himself, before placing his hand in his waistband and holding it out. ‘The belt I can understand – but what the hell can anyone do with a pair of laces?’ he asked.
‘You’d be surprised,’ I said, ‘but that’s protocol for any prisoner. They assume that they all want to attempt suicide – why would they think that about you?’
‘Why not? Do you think being brought up in a wealthy family stops pain? Maybe the guys here have got it right,’ he said.
I flinched. God, that was a bit quick, I thought. I didn’t sign up for psychobabble, just a quick present for Connie; I needed to come clean otherwise we’d get nowhere. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been charged with unless you tell me. I won’t find out until the papers are served on you later this morning. I have a wedding to go to, and much as Connie would love to be a mascot, I really can’t let my best friend down by wasting my time here when I should be throwing confetti.’
I think he understood about a qua
rter of what I said. ‘Only one per cent of people in the world have an IQ over one hundred and thirty-five – Einstein’s was just over a hundred and sixty – mine is a hundred and eighty. What’s yours?’ he asked.
‘I don’t need to prove myself – I certainly didn’t graduate from charm school,’ I told him. ‘But you will get out of here faster if I stand up for you in court, because I’m going to beg and plead with the prosecutor to take my cases first on account of the wedding. Every other lawyer will be doing that too, though, as they’ll all want off for Christmas, and you, my friend, will be left sitting until last. So what I say is, use that genius IQ of yours – you can sack me once you’re out. How does that sound?’
I watched him intently. A tiny frown appeared between his eyes. Fuck it. I wasn’t going to sit and read his emotions – I had better things to do with my time. I got up and moved towards the door.
‘I behaved like a dork,’ he said, behind me. ‘I’m not proud of it – but I didn’t kill her.’
My throat tightened and I stopped stock-still. There was no way this was an in-and-out job. Christ – given what Grandad had said, there was only one murderer up today.
The Ripper.
I looked at Thomas Foster and knew that DI Bancho had made another bloody mistake – on top of that I had placed a tenner on the profile; the only thing I’d got right was that he was white. Thomas wouldn’t hit middle age for at least another twenty years, and, from what I’d seen in the glossy mags, his mother wasn’t even a redhead.
Throwing myself down on the bench, I held his eyes, searching for lies.
‘Tell me about it,’ I commanded.
‘I went to a ball in Edinburgh Castle on Friday night. My partner was a girl called Katya Waleski. It was our first date. I spent some time in Bosnia during the summer holidays – the family firm has reconstruction contracts, and when I have any time off, I travel. I was a token employee, I know that – my presence made no difference so I spent a lot of time moving around Eastern Europe. I picked up a smattering of the languages.’ He didn’t seem ashamed by this – in fact, he seemed downright cocky still.
