Читать книгу Dark Angels - Grace Monroe - Страница 12

At around 9.45a.m., Edinburgh Sheriff Court resembles ‘Paddy’s Market’. Squalor and clamour abound, as young men with cheap suits and even cheaper tattoos scramble for justice. At the same time, lawyers with overdrafts and considerably more expensive suits clamber for clients–it’s hard to work out who is more desperate.

Preoccupied, I pushed my way through the throng. Journalists jostled with juvenile delinquents, and all of them seemed to want a piece of me.

‘Hey, Brodie!’ A young man, proudly sporting a tattooed blue line across his neck with the immortal words ‘CUT ME’, called out to me. ‘I’m thinking of changing my lawyer.’

Tattoo Boy knew that the press were here to see me and he wanted to be part of the action. Young men like him are known as ‘dripping roasts’, highly prized at the Edinburgh bar for being cash cows. Their criminal activities, and subsequent trials, bought most of the Mercedes cars parked outside court. I didn’t like to turn down such a plea as his, but I had other things on my mind. For one, Jack Deans was bearing down upon me.

‘I hope you’re not feeling as bad as I am, Brodie.’ His voice sounded rough, like heavy-duty sand paper. I was feeling dreadful and he was always guaranteed to bother me one way or another. I’d ignore him. That was always classy.

‘So, Lord Arbuthnot is no more,’ Deans mockingly intoned. ‘How does it feel to be representing his killer? Real step up the old career ladder there, eh?’ I kept ignoring him, this time because I had no answer, not for Jack Deans or myself.

BBC Scotland moved in to the gap that had opened up as I moved away from Deans. I had no comment for them either. Disconcertingly, I heard a reporter describe me on camera as the rising star of the Scottish bar. For how much longer, after I’d dealt with this corpse of a case, they didn’t deign to tell me.

The public space in front of the courthouse was even more crammed than usual. Everywhere, people mixed cheek to jowl, everywhere, that is, except for one tiny corner. This wasn’t just a piece of ground–this was territory. It belonged to the Dark Angels. Instantly recognisable, their garb was almost a marketing strategy. Long black leather coats. Peroxide white hair worn long and poker straight for the girls, spiked crew cuts for the boys. Black hats, and short black painted nails were obligatory for both sexes, as were the silver-topped black walking sticks they all carried. Their skin was alabaster white, as if they would shrivel in the sun.

They were into everything, but, strangely they were never caught, or, at least, never brought to trial. Urban myths existed about their cases being returned to the police marked ‘No Pro’, no matter what they were accused of. The ‘Dark Angels’ were, for some reason, not to be prosecuted. It was a source of speculation in the bar common room as to how they escaped detection. It certainly was not the case that they blended into the background.

In the centre of the pack, their leader, Moses Tierney, stared at me sullenly. Moses was his real name, not a carefully chosen brand addition like everything else to do with his gang, and he was born during a brief period in his mother’s life when she was junk free. I had heard that she called him Moses because he was to be her deliverer. Predictably, this wasn’t to be, and after his mother’s death, Moses was taken into care. Her only legacy to him was an overactive imagination and a flair for the dramatic. I had never observed Moses Tierney at court, nor had I glimpsed the ‘Dark Angels’ in daylight before, but I knew who he was, who they were. My gaze locked with that of Moses; he had the stare of a wolf, with pale grey, dark ringed eyes. In all this commotion, he held my attention. I suddenly felt as if he were presenting the Dark Angels to me–he wanted me to see them. To his gang, he was their Messiah, and I had to concede he had kept them out of trouble–so far.

‘Charismatic, isn’t he?’ Jack Deans had sneaked up on me again. ‘Are you wondering why they’re here?’

This time, I nodded in answer. ‘I think we all are.

What’s brought them out of their hidey holes at this time of the day?’

I was fixated on the Dark Angels. As I stood watching them, as one, they all stared at me, lifted their walking canes and raised them towards me. Almost in salute. There was no danger in their action. They then turned and slowly filed away.

‘That answers it,’ resumed Jack Deans. ‘They came for you.’

I pulled my eyes away from the bizarre homage in front of me and shot round to face Deans. ‘Are you enjoying baiting me? Winding me up about Kailash and now about Moses Tierney?’

‘I feel that’s a trick question, Brodie,’ he answered. A part of me knows you want me to say “No” and be gallant and mindful of your feelings and all sort of pish like that. But another part–roughly ninety-nine per cent–wants to ask you if you’re officially off your fucking head? Of course I’m enjoying it. You’re squirming, you have no idea what to do–I’d have to be, at the very least, a practising lawyer not to get any pleasure out of that. ‘And you get a lovely wee blush to your cheeks when you’re mad at me.’

‘Anything else you want to add before I leave with a highly satisfying picture of me kicking your bollocks from here to Princes Street?’ I asked.

‘Oooh, you been getting ideas from your client?’ Deans mocked. ‘No, I’m pretty much done–I’m happy with my lot.’

I moved towards the sanctuary of the revolving court doors–not quickly enough, as I could still hear Deans shouting something about how he preferred what I’d been wearing last night to my court attire.

Kailash Coutts was waiting for me in the cells. She looked like an exotic caged beast, completely out of place. Pacing backwards and forwards, she was ‘motoring’. Distressed prisoners do this, but my senses didn’t indicate that she was troubled. Her brow seemed to be furrowed, quite an achievement given the amount of Botox in there, as she muttered under her breath.

Something was wrong though. Kailash was immaculately dressed. Someone had brought her in a fresh set of couture clothes. The way the accused presents themselves is crucial to the outcome of a case. Generally, the better looking you are, the more chance you have of being found innocent or receiving a lighter sentence. But Kailash was an unusual case; she was turning the theory on its head.

‘I never thought I’d have to say this,’ I started, ‘but you look too…’ I was fighting for a tactful way to say it.

‘Expensive.’

Obligingly, Kailash finished my sentence.

‘Absolutely!’ I nodded, foolishly believing she might go along with my ideas. It was pretty unusual for a lawyer to have to tell a prostitute client they looked too tasteful–in this case, Kailash just seemed too good for her surroundings and I was worried the judge might be completely thrown. Murdering whores don’t often look like Halle Berry taking the day off to meander down a catwalk.

In return, and with brutal honesty, Kailash looked me over. I had brought my bike to court so that I could park. I’d worn my leathers and changed into a suit in the agents’ room. A well used high street label, my court wear looks even worse crumpled, but it usually suffices. Looking down, I could see some of my buttons were in the wrong holes, giving me an odd rumpled effect. As usual, my striped blouse was unironed. With regard to my shoes, it is sufficient to say that I could not see my face in them. In my favour, my legs were smooth and tanned although bare legs in court is deemed inappropriate in some quarters.

‘Take a look at yourself,’ she sneered as I tried to pretend there wasn’t a problem.

‘You are a professional,’ she informed me. ‘A woman of some importance, and you are dressed like…Well, you are dressed like…’ she couldn’t quite bring herself to spit the word out, and I wondered what descriptive term could possibly make a tart sound as though it was the filthiest word in the dictionary.

Kailash’s French manicured fingers stroked her flawless complexion, as she searched for the proper insult.

I tried to help.

‘A student. I look like a student. I’m always being told that.’

‘No,’ she said, wagging her index finger back and forth, as if no student ever looked that bad. She gave up on the put-down, there was clearly nothing awful enough to describe me–and continued the lecture.

‘Brodie, you are unique. How many people have escaped from their upbringing? Truly escaped? You are educated, which is rare where you come from. You are respected–to an extent, but it is still an achievement. And Brodie,’ I could have sworn her voice softened, but I could have been misled by the fact that I was starting to wonder just how she had managed to Google me while in St Leonard’s, ‘you are beautiful, no matter how much you try to deny it.’ I’ve read that if you can speak at the rate of a human heart, you can sell anything. Kailash had that gift and I needed to fight her mesmerism.

Her voice returned to normal. ‘We must work on your image.’

I struggled past the image of me striding into court à la Julia Roberts, styled by Stella McCartney, with a Nobel Prize in one hand and an Oscar in the other. It was hard to decide which fantasy was best, so I went for reality instead.

‘No, Kailash. Right now, we work on your defence.’

Worryingly, I was beginning to notice that Kailash was doing everything she could to avoid talking about what had actually happened. We hadn’t yet had the conversation I have with most clients, where I spend my time trying to get them to shut up. She already knew I didn’t want to hear that she had murdered Lord Arbuthnot, but this was deeper than that. No one pleads guilty to a charge of murder. It is simply not worth it, because there is only one sentence: life. If she told me she was guilty, it would make my job impossible, but she was being even quieter about it all than it usually required.

‘The three defences to murder that apply to you are…’

Kailash stood impassively in the corner smoking an imported cigarette. I prayed she was listening to me. This was all a damn sight more important than taking me for a makeover.

‘Alibi. That means it wasn’t you. You were somewhere else when the murder happened. It helps if you have a credible witness to back you up.’

Fleetingly, I wondered if she knew any credible witnesses. To be openly associated with Kailash Coutts was social, and professional, suicide. A cold, slow, shiver ran down my back, like an ice cube meandering down my spine. I was in that category now.

‘Then, there’s self defence,’ I continued. ‘But, you are only allowed to use reasonable force, and in your case it might be tricky, given that it is the Lord President who’s dead.’

Kailash raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if I did not know my own profession. Regrettably, she might be right.

‘Lastly, and it’s difficult, is the defence of accident. That means you were there. You were the cause of death. But it was a mishap.’

Kailash said nothing. The clock on the cell walls showed 10.30a.m., as a disembodied voice called me over the tannoy.

‘Brodie McLennan to court six.’

A young police officer rattled the bars of the cell.

‘You’re here,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘Sheriff Strathclyde is on the bench. He’s waiting for you.’

Standing straight to catch his breath, he blocked my exit. I pushed past him, running at full pelt out of the cells, my black gown flying as he called after me.

‘By the way…he’s been on the bench since ten.’

With barely a nod to Kailash, I ran and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the entrance of the court. My adversary for this morning, Baggy Sutherland, lurched against the doorframe. He had a droopy hangdog look that comes from a lifetime of disappointments. Gifted in court, when he was sober, he could bring a tear to any juror’s eye. His black court gown was in fact green with age. On occasions when I had forgotten mine, his was the only one left hanging in the agents’ room. Wearing Baggy’s gown was like putting on the mantle of Elijah.

‘You’re in trouble.’ Baggy stopped me, and started pulling at my gown. I had no time for pleasantries, I pushed forwards, but he wouldn’t let me go.

‘It’s on inside out,’ he offered by way of an explanation for the mauling which was taking place. Rather deftly, for a man with tremors in his hands, he removed my gown, and turned it right side out.

‘The mood that old bastard’s in, he’d do you with contempt for wearing it that way.’

Baggy was serious. Sheriff Strathclyde had a severe problem with me–even before I acted for his wife in their divorce action. He could find me in contempt of court for anything, even my clothes. I would win it on appeal, but he still had the power. I was anxious to do nothing to offend him.

I could almost hear his breath as I walked in. Sheriff Strathclyde is small, very angry, and with a body shape that favours a toad. I intended to walk straight in and proceed with business. He, of course had other plans. He wanted me to suffer. His ball-like face, which looked as if it had been chewed by a large dog trying to remodel its own arse, signalled red for danger.

All heads, but one, had swivelled to watch my entrance. Kailash looked intently at the bench. She had taken the direct route from the cells, and had arrived much faster than I could.

‘How kind of you to find the time to join us today, Ms McLennan.’ Sheriff Strathclyde’s voice was chilly, deep, and rich, the product of a very expensive education.

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t find you in contempt of court,’ he spat at me. ‘Right now.’

‘Well, how about the fact that you have absolutely no right to?’ I countered. ‘I was consulting with a client on a very serious charge.’

It took about a second for me to realise this wasn’t quite the approach I should have gone for.

‘No right, no right!’ Purple in the face, Strathclyde looked as if he were about to explode.

‘No right!’ he continued. ‘It’s my court! I can do as I please! Anything! I can do anything!’

Raising himself up to his full height, he leaned over the bench. For a moment, I thought that he would topple onto me. I was squaring up to him. This day was getting worse with every passing minute and he was a bully. Anyway, surely he wouldn’t respect obsequiousness?

‘Find me in contempt,’ I challenged him, ‘and I will appeal you straightaway.’

No judge likes to have his or her decisions appealed. I had my pen poised noting down every word he said.

Strathclyde was well acquainted with the appeal procedure. He knew that judicial words spoken in anger did not go down well over the road in Parliament House.

Disdainfully, he flicked his manicured hand in my direction. Feeling more relief than I would ever admit, I took my seat in the well of the court, opposite the Procurator Fiscal.

This case, in technical lawyer speak, had all the makings of being a Right Royal Bastard.