by David Ashton
He lifted his cup. ‘The mysterious East.’
She raised her cup in reply to his toast. They drank.
McLevy sighed. This was as near heaven as he would ever get.
Jean watched him through lowered lids, she did not cleave to direct scrutiny. Although he had leapt up quick enough when he spotted Mulholland on the street, he was looking tired. His eyes were sunken, and that animal ferocity, never far away and so much part of his nature, seemed at a low ebb.
She remembered the moment so long ago when he lay on the tavern floor, with Henry Preger about to kick his face into pieces. She had winked at the spreadeagled young constable, in provocation or in sympathy who knows, but McLevy came off that dirty planking like a madman.
Jean often wondered if that beating had not contributed to Preger’s death some years later. Along with the arsenic the man had unwittingly ingested.
No matter. Preger had been an evil vicious swine. He had put her out on the streets scarcely a bairn, and abused her as pimp, lover and partner.
That night he had met his match in McLevy, and, in Jean, his nemesis.
As the inspector slurped his coffee, she further considered.
Indeed there was a madness to McLevy which the fraternity recognised and respected. He was mortal enemy, but he also shared a wild spirit. Hers, in particular.
Though if she ever broke the law to achieve a wicked end, he would have her in the cells quicker than a judge’s spurt.
But he’d have to catch her first. He knew it. And she knew it. This moment, though, they could appreciate each other for what they were. Coffee hounds.
The whores were giving the bawdy-hoose a springtime clean, their shouts and laughter echoing from inside. A series of thwacks shook the air where Francine, heavy cane to hand, knocked hell out of a dusty carpet laid across the washing line while Lily knelt at her feet, making a crown of daisies.
‘Strong arm, that girl,’ the inspector noted.
‘Years of practice,’ Jean replied.
The giant Angus, scythe to hand, was lopping through a thicket of tall thistles. All grist to the mill.
His daughters, the Dalrymple twins, each to a window, shook out some white sheets. It was a sight to behold.
A quite different vision emerged from the side door as Hannah Semple peered out into the light.
‘Do we have any call for bananas?’ she cried.
‘What did you say, Hannah?’ Jean shouted back; she surely had not heard the woman correctly.
‘Bananas!’ Hannah bawled out impatiently, holding the fruit aloft. ‘I found a bunch under one o’ the beds.’
‘Are they ripe?’
‘It would appear so.’
Jean considered.
‘I think the best thing,’ she pronounced, ‘is to throw them into the scaffie cart. Skins or not, you wouldn’t want to trust their previous employment.’
‘Aye. Right enough,’ said Hannah. She scowled when she saw who was sitting with her mistress at the table. ‘You behave yourself, McLevy. Ye’re not in the station, now!’
The door slammed shut.
Another cup was poured, the aroma of the coffee mixing with the faint sweet scent of the early blooms. Amongst her other attributes, Jean Brash had green fingers.
She indicated a newly planted shrub which had yet to show its wares. ‘Maiden’s blush,’ she murmured. ‘It will flower in summer. Blue-grey.’
McLevy took a deep breath and marvelled at his experience of life.
Not long ago he had stared death in the face and now he was looking at a beautiful, if morally flawed, specimen of femininity.
But whatever Jean’s faults, at least she wouldn’t be trying to lure him into a situation where he got his guts chopped up by an axe. He winced.
The lacerations on his stomach sustained from the encounter, despite his disclamations to Lieutenant Roach, still pained him. It had been touch and go.
‘I have it on good account, you were the hero of the hour,’ remarked Jean, who heard everything, eventually.
‘That’s the tale,’ said McLevy. ‘But one thing I may tell you for true. Sadie Gorman’s death has been avenged. And the wee dollymop as well.’
‘So all has ended in a blaze of glory,’ Jean murmured.
His face clouded over.
‘No. There is still one mystery. And I am still bound to a promise.’
They sat quietly together while a few insects took precarious flight and Lily laid her circlet of white daisies on Francine’s black hair.
Innocence can be found everywhere but the opposite is also readily available.
Good and evil. Entwined together. In the dance.
Copyright
This ebook edition published in 2011 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
First published in 2011 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd
Copyright © David Ashton 2011
The moral right of David Ashton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
ebook ISBN: 978–0–85790–032–6
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
