Читать книгу Dark Angels - Grace Monroe - Страница 7

Edinburgh, Monday 16 August 2004

The fact that it was raining outside came as no surprise for two reasons. Firstly, this was Edinburgh. Secondly, it was the arse end of ‘Fringe Sunday’, one of the highlights of the summer festival in which all weather forecasts could be shortened to one phrase: pissing down.

I had fallen asleep to the persistent downpour, to the sound of water drumming on the Georgian window-panes of my flat. I like the rain; it comforts me–which is handy given that I’ve chosen to live in Edinburgh. That comfort was short lived.

As night disappeared into the misty first hours of Monday morning, the dream came again. I saw an unformed face in the dying embers of my bedroom fire, a face I knew, but did not know.

I came back from sleep quickly and stared blindly into my darkened room. The dream was quickly slipping and I didn’t really know what had pulled me from it until the telephone rang again. I groped until I found the receiver. I knew the form–no one ever called you in the middle of the night with good news. Callers only think your sleep can be disturbed by death, police at the door, or work. In my case, it was often all three. People often like to think that lawyers can’t sleep because they are so bothered by the ethical dilemmas of their work–the boring reality tends to be that the bloody phone won’t stop ringing no matter the time of day or night. ‘Brodie McLennan?’

‘Yes?’ I reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on as I answered the call. It was 1.00a.m. My heart was puncturing my ribs, a combination of late-night coffee, unbroken sleep for as long as I could remember, and the anticipation that comes from a straightforward phone call that rarely gives any indication of what the next case will involve.

‘Sergeant Munro here, St Leonard’s Police Station.’ Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any worse. Munro was a copper with an unnatural love of paperwork and a continuing, oft expressed, feeling that ‘wee girls’ shouldn’t be doing big men’s jobs. I was most definitely a wee girl in his eyes, and probably taking bread out of some poor bloke’s mouth by playing at lawyers while I waited for my natural calling of having babies and getting myself suitably chained to a nice shiny kitchen sink.

‘What can I do for you, Sergeant Munro?’

‘We have a woman in custody, Miss McLennan,’ he informed me as if I would be astounded. He also seemed to emphasise the ‘Miss’ part of his sentence a bit too heavily. I was knackered and I was pissed off already–how should I react? ‘Gosh, really Sergeant Munro? Someone in custody, you say? At the police station? That sounds awfully exciting. Sorry though, I’m too upset about not being married to be able to do anything about it.’ Thankfully, Munro was in official mode, so there was no time for anything but the sound of his voice.

‘We’re about to charge her with murder, but she asked us to inform you. She was quite specific about that. Asked for you by name, Miss McLennan. You’d better come now because we want her processed quickly.’

Munro always wanted anything that involved processing done quickly. It was a moveable feast though, and it generally got ignored.

‘Did you hear me, Miss McLennan? It’s vital that your client get processed as quickly as possible.’ There was the slightest hint of hesitation in his voice. ‘We want her to appear later today. How soon can you get here?’

She was probably a screamer. They wanted her out quickly because the noise was interrupting their telly-watching down the station. Or she was that drunk that the stench of vomit was getting too much.

‘Yes, I heard you, Sergeant Munro. Quick, quick, chop, chop. You haven’t told me my client’s name yet though.’

I sat on the edge of my bed, pencil poised over a yellow legal pad. Did he hesitate, or did I imagine it?

‘Female, mixed race, forty-one years old.’

I scribbled the details as he went on.

‘A taxi driver had found the alleged suspect with the body of the deceased. The nameless male victim was pronounced dead on arrival at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Are you taking all of this down, Miss McLennan?’

I wanted to butt in with: ‘No, I’m thinking about recipes and marrying policemen, Sergeant Munro,’ but managed to keep quiet.

‘Miss McLennan, will you be here shortly? Miss McLennan?’

‘I’ll be in to the station, Sergeant Munro, as soon as you give me my client’s name.’

There was definitely hesitation this time.

In retrospect, I wish it could have gone on for longer.

‘You may be familiar with the name, Miss McLennan,’ he said.

‘Coutts. Your client is Kailash Coutts.’