Читать книгу Blood Lines - Grace Monroe - Страница 15

Chapter Nine

I walked in and realised that I’d kill for a cup of tea.

It hit me hard that I had no one to make it for me.

I slammed the front door shut in disappointment. The noise ricocheted off the old walls, and drew my attention to the damp patch on the ceiling. I meant to get a man in to see to that. I’m sure Tanya would say that I needed a man for a lot of things, as long as I didn’t put my trust in them.

Black tea didn’t hit the spot I wanted it to. Cup in hand, wandering through the hallway to the drawing room, I was uncomfortably aware of the dust lying on the thick Georgian skirting boards. Even the smell of the house was unlived-in. I wondered for a moment if I needed a housemate. The company would be welcome and the money would help keep this old pile of stones habitable. I just didn’t need one anything like the last. Fishy had more than put me off flatmates for a while.

The doorbell rang.

I placed my empty mug down amongst the other dirty dishes on the coffee table. The bell continued to ring. Whoever wanted to see me was impatient. Was it Joe or Jack? Either would be welcome. But the face I saw when I opened the door wasn’t one I’d hoped for.

‘Are you Brodie McLennan?’

‘Christ, Duncan, you know I am – what game are you playing today?’

‘Brodie McLennan – I am arresting you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure Act.’

‘Is this a joke, Duncan? What are you talking about? On what grounds could you possibly arrest me?’

I tried not to raise my voice because I didn’t want the neighbours to hear. This wasn’t the kind of area where the polis came calling.

He ignored me and went through the routine.

‘You are not obliged to say anything. If you do say anything, it may be taken down and used against you in a court of law.’

‘Can’t you at least come in and say your piece?’ I fought the tears.

‘Get your shoes, Brodie.’ He’d given up looking at me when he spoke.

‘Duncan – can’t you be reasonable?’

‘I’ll come in – while you get your shoes.’

Detective Inspector Duncan Bancho stood silent and stony-faced whilst I put my bike boots back on.

‘It’s a few years since I’ve been here, Brodie, but this place has gone downhill,’ he said. I got ready and walked down the stairs with Bancho. I sat like an automaton in the back of the police car, mercifully unaware during the journey to St Leonard’s.

Sergeant Munro was on the front desk. Did that man ever go home? He was restrained and businesslike as he took my details. I even saw a spark of pity in the his eyes. Then I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t afford to lie down and let DI Bancho kick me.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ I asked, as I sat down on a hard plastic chair in the interview room.

Duncan nodded curtly at his colleague. ‘Detective Constable Margaret Malone will be assisting me today,’ Bancho informed the tape machine.

DC Malone smiled across at me. She looked as if she must have put weight on recently; either that or she had shrunk her shirt in the wash, because the buttons were straining fit to burst. Her wispy blonde hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she looked more like an air hostess for a budget airline than WPC Plod.

‘Call me Peggy,’ she said as she reached over and shook my hand.

Peggy responded to Bancho’s unspoken put-down.

‘What? It’s not as if she’s your average criminal. She’s entitled to be treated with a bit of civility.’

Duncan’s eyes flickered with anger, but interestingly he said nothing. Peggy, on the other hand, lifted her chin and looked up into his eyes. It was obvious that she had just put him back in his place and I couldn’t help but smile.

Peggy Malone bent over the table, her tight black skirt clinging to her. Duncan Bancho stared at her, entranced, probably hypnotised by the hip–waist ratio of the creature in front of him who was fiddling with his recording device. I gratefully watched this domestic tableau, because it meant that he was ignoring me.

Bancho walked up and down, towering over me. He left for five minutes but it seemed like an eternity.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Peggy broke the silence and smiled at me.

‘She’s getting nothing at the moment,’ said Bancho, walking back in.

‘Are you two playing good cop, bad cop with me?’ I asked.

Peggy smiled again.

‘Do you want us to inform anyone that you are here?’ Her voice was quite posh, obviously well-educated – probably from a good girls’ school. What had made her join the police?

Normally, this was the stage when I got a call from my clients.

‘No. No one.’

I was too ashamed.

‘Well, everyone probably knows already – you know what the jungle drums are like when they get a piece of news as tasty as this one.’

Duncan spoke this time, glad to stick the boot in. Peggy looked as if he had personally slapped her. Either she was really excellent in her role as the good cop or she was in the wrong profession.

‘If they’re talking about me they’re leaving some other poor sod alone.’ I feigned a bravado I wasn’t feeling; even I could hear the crack in my voice.

Bancho sat down opposite me. After explaining who was present and the date and time, he threw a newspaper at me, an updated version of the story that Kailash had read out.

‘So? Cattanach is missing. What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Jesus, Brodie – I thought you were supposed to be bright? Cattanach was investigating you in particular – in fact everyone at the Law Society is saying that you were the piles in Cattanach’s arse.’

‘Cattanach had it in for me because of Bridget Nicholson – everyone knows she hates me.’

Peggy watched me intently; maybe they were a good team after all.

‘Cattanach’s a professional – you’re kidding yourself if you expect anyone to believe that you were being investigated for no other reason than Cattanach’s girlfriend doesn’t like you.’

It did sound petty and unlikely, even to my ears.

‘Where were you on the fourth of August?’

Strangely enough, I knew the answer to that question.

A smug smile broke out on my face.

‘I was at the MacPherson Clan gathering in Newtonmore, with my grandad and another three thousand people.’

‘Your grandfather? What was a MacGregor doing at the MacPherson show?’

‘He’s friendly with the clan chief.’

‘Oh, as he would be – well, don’t expect me to be influenced by your high-ranking relatives. He’s no better than you.’

Obviously, Duncan Bancho was angry at my cast-iron alibi. I stared him out and leaned back in my chair. He would have to release me soon, unless he was simply being a bastard.

‘Switch that damned thing off and go and get us some tea,’ Bancho shouted at Peggy, who clearly responded to him when he was masterful.

The door clicked behind her. Duncan and I were left facing each other. The ghost of my ex-flatmate, Fishy, hung between us. Duncan was wearing well. Expensive haircut, the right amount of product in his light brown hair, and a carefully sculpted beard that screamed too desperately ‘I’m an individual’.

‘Still biting your fingers, I see.’

The skin around my nails was broken and raw. Mechanically, I pulled them back and hid them under the table. I was annoyed at giving him the upper hand. We were at war – psyching one another out.

‘You’ve got a dick and a brain, Duncan, but only enough blood to run one at a time. What do your superiors say about you and Miss Moneypenny?’

‘It’s none of their fucking business and it’s certainly none of yours. You never change.’

‘You’re right, I haven’t changed – when did your beard go grey?’

‘Piss off. It’s a goatee.’

‘Bit sensitive about your facial hair there, Duncan.’

He leaned over the cheap table and spoke into my face. Little flecks of spit landed on my cheeks.

‘Don’t think I’m impressed by your family connections – the MacGregors were cattle thieves and blackmailers. You come from criminals and nothing’s changed, no matter how you dress it up.’

My first thought wasn’t to wonder how he knew about all that, but of how much he knew about my father? Had Fishy said anything about him, or about me? I was on the back foot; sometimes I should just learn to shut up. After all, it’s what I told my clients.

‘I think if you look at the clan motto it says, “My race is royal”.’

‘It can say anything it bloody wants, Brodie. Doesn’t mean it’s true.’

‘You know me, Duncan. Do you really think I could be capable of disposing of Cattanach, or anybody else for that matter?’

‘You did a really good job of stitching up Fishy and he was your friend – what would you do to someone who was threatening your career, your livelihood, your dreams? Your work is all you’ve got, Brodie. Now tell me, if you were in my position, wouldn’t you wonder?’

I couldn’t explain to him about Fishy in case I gave too much away. Another thing I had to thank Kailash and my father for. There was no way he could or would know the full story – how embarrassing for them that the boys in blue hadn’t noticed a psychotic paedophile serial killer in the canteen. They weren’t the only ones though – I’d shared a flat with him during the whole episode and had still thought he was innocent. Really, me and the cops were on the same side when it came to Fishy – he’d stitched us all up – but they’d never admit it.

‘Are you going to release me now?’

‘No.’

‘You know you have nothing on me – unless you’re saying that Lord MacGregor, the ex-Lord President, was my accomplice in murder.’

‘Who said anything about murder?’ Bancho asked.

‘Come off it, no one thinks Cattanach has simply had a hissy fit and walked off in a huff.’

‘I’m not releasing you, Brodie – you’re in for the full six hours. And then who knows?’

‘Are you threatening to stitch me up?’

‘Well, you believe that little bastard – what does he call himself?’

‘The Alchemist.’

I finished his sentence for him, even though I remembered it was something he’d always hated.

‘Yeah – you believe him. I’m bent, aren’t I?’

‘I don’t believe him …’

He didn’t give me a chance to finish.

‘You don’t believe him? Then why are you persecuting me and spreading it round the Sheriff Court that I fitted him up? That I planted evidence on him?’

A fine film of sweat beaded his top lip, and for some reason I thought of Tanya Hayder. An overwhelming hunch told me not to irritate him. I had painted myself into a corner and I had to find a way out. Bridget Nicholson had obviously overheard my conversation with the Alchemist and had wasted no time in causing further trouble for me.

‘I don’t believe him, but that’s not my job. My job is to investigate his defence. He’s entitled to a defence.’

Wheedle and cajole, those were my instructions to myself.

‘Do you sleep well at nights?’

‘Very well.’

I lied. It just slipped out; I had meant to agree with him. Anything to get home and wash the smell of desperation that clung to these walls from my hair. He shook his head and circled me.

‘When you were a little girl did you dream of representing scumbags like Bernard Carpenter?’

I didn’t reply.

‘You lawyers are all the same – authorised pickpockets.’ ‘It’s my job,’ I shouted after him as he closed the door, leaving me alone with his insults, which naturally I replayed. I objected to being called a legalised thief. I worked within the system. It was how things operated. In the last two years of practising law I had come to think of it in a straightforward way. The law was a bulky, decrepit engine that dragged in individuals, ruined their lives and wasted their money. I was just an engineer. I was a specialist at going into the engine, repairing things and taking out what I needed in return.

I had fallen out of love with the law. The law-faculty philosophy about the merits of the adversarial method, of the weighing scales of justice, seemed like shit to me now. There were too many hopeless cases, too many miscarriages of justice, too many vested interests. Something had changed for me. I used to believe in the law more than anything; I’d lost a part of myself when that changed. My quest for truth had recently been abandoned. The law was not about justice. It was about arbitration, amending and stage management. I didn’t deal in guilt or blamelessness, because everyone had done something wrong. This fact was of no consequence, because every trial I took on was laid on shifting sand. A case built by worn-out and poorly paid drudges. The police didn’t have the time or staff. They made mistakes. And then they papered over those mistakes with lies. My trade was to strip the paper and find the cracks. To insert a crowbar into those cracks and open them. To make them so wide that the case fell apart, or my clients slipped through.

Much of humanity thinks of my type as the devil incarnate. But they are wide of the mark. I am a slippery seraph. I am the true dark angel, necessary to both sides. I think of myself as an engineer, but I am more important than that. I am the oil and I allow the cogs to keep turning. I help keep the engine running.

But, more importantly, I hate to lose.

The Alchemist’s case would change things.

For me.

For Bernard Carpenter.

And certainly for Duncan Bancho.

After all, I had nearly six clear hours to focus on his downfall.