Читать книгу Broken Hearts - Grace Monroe - Страница 21

After some more ladylike bedroom action, I was on my way to a routine visit of the cells in St Leonards, a courtesy call on the flotsam and jetsam I call my clients who were picked up on a variety of charges. None of them was particularly serious, and they could have been handled by Lavender’s husband, Eddie Gibb, who also worked in the practice, but I needed time to think about the consequences of my lust-driven actions of the night before. Glasgow Joe had a meeting at the casino with Kailash, and our business commitments and lack of sleep meant that we both had an excuse to leave the flat quickly without talking about anything in any more detail–that was par for the course with us, and the fact that we had almost seemed to be getting somewhere in the early hours of the morning didn’t really mean anything; I was sure we’d be back to square one next time we met. And I was sure that I would get the blame for it.

The streets were deserted as I kicked the Fat Boy into life, turning left up the hill to Hanover Street where the black top was as shiny and black as Moses Tierney’s nail varnish. It meant only one thing; any cobbled road in Edinburgh would be as slick and dangerous as if it were covered in ice. A quick mental calculation meant I would have to take a detour through the Grassmarket. The Grassmarket is a half-trendy area filled with boutique hotels and expensive restaurants, but for years it was the haunt of the hopeless alcoholics, down-and-outs, and the homeless. A few shelters for these men and women are still there, and they manage to stop the area gentrifying into what it wants to be. It’s not a bad place–there are some nice shops and clubs, but I wouldn’t want to hang around there at night any longer than I had to, outside of Festival weeks. There are usually cops hanging around, though, so I stopped at a red light, even though there was hardly anyone about to potentially run over. As the engine idled I looked around, remembering it was Kailash’s birthday soon. I was trying to squint into the window of the cashmere shop. I had to shake my head at what I saw, not quite able to believe it.

Dr Graham Marshall was the last person I expected to witness wandering through the entrance door of the Mission hostel. I was so shocked the bike wobbled beneath me, and for a sickening moment I thought I was going to lose control. Last time I came off the bike I broke my arm–I couldn’t afford to let that happen again. Lavender would kill me, for starters.

What on earth was Marshall doing here? He was hardly homeless, or the do-gooder type, and, unless there was more money in begging than I’d ever imagined, he wasn’t going to pick up any new patients by hanging around here. Not only did I want to know why he was here, I needed to talk to him. The morning had come with a lot of questions I wanted answering. Despite last night’s activity with Joe, I had woken up needing to get more information on my new client. I was still burning to know how the hell he’d got the firm’s bank details for one. I parked the bike. What I had to say to Marshall would only take a minute; nonetheless I put the lock on the front wheel, remembering my own concerns about the place.

A man and a woman stood on the steps outside the hostel smoking thin roll-ups. The man seemed to be wearing every piece of clothing he had ever found; none of it fitted, and a grey overcoat tied with a piece of string covered it all. Black dreadlocks hung around his shoulders, and on top of his head was a big Jamaican knitted beret. His age was indeterminable, his face covered by a salt-and-pepper beard, but he smiled at me and pointed to the bike. Harleys were a great icebreaker. The woman held a tin of super-strength lager in her hand. She was the size of an undernourished ten-year-old, but in spite of the abuse she’d clearly been through, her body had a youthfulness to it. I have to admit that my jaw slackened when she revealed a completely toothless grin. I smiled back at them and moved inside the door, where heat and the smell of food hit me. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether I’d made a mistake. It was incredibly unlikely that Marshall would be here–but there also weren’t many men who looked like him in Edinburgh, so who could I have possibly mixed him up with? No, it was Marshall I had seen, and I needed to find out what he was up to.

‘If you’ve two hands and are ready to use them, come in. If not, stop cluttering up my lobby,’ a Leither shouted from inside the Mission. The owner of the voice, a wizened pensioner in an oilcloth apron, smiled at me and held out her hands. She looked as tough as leather but her eyes were calm and contented. ‘Ina Gibbon,’ she said, and touched my elbow as if she wanted to share her world with me.

My nose wrinkled at the smell of the place. I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of this, but I did need to speak to Graham Marshall. I allowed myself to be taken to the kitchen. Industrial-sized vats of soup were being mixed by this thimble-sized woman; she was struggling, so before I’d even had time to remove my leather jacket, I started stirring the ham and lentils. I expected her to ask what the hell I was doing there, a stranger in this world, but she took a different tack after having a good look at me, maybe also just a bit pleased that she had another pair of hands in the place, however temporarily.

‘What’s your name, hen?’ she asked.

‘Brodie. Brodie McLennan.’

‘Brodie? What kinda name is that?’ I smiled again, not really knowing how to answer such a question, and waited for a moment when I could ask about Graham Marshall. A shadow of recognition passed across her face before she smiled back at me. I wasn’t prepared for what came next. ‘Brodie!’ she chortled. ‘Oh, aye. I only remember one wee lassie with that name. Wis your mother Mary McLennan from the flats?’

Ina Gibbon had managed to link our worlds after all. Everybody in Leith knew my mum, and the flats where I’d lived. And the fact that my mother had chosen to name me after the tea factory that could be seen from our window had been a source of amusement to everyone as I was growing up. I nodded. ‘A very nice woman, your mother…what brings you down here, Brodie?’ she asked, suspicion still written all over her face. ‘You’re no’ a journalist, are you?’ she asked.