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‘Did you ever doubt it?’ Lavender asked, as her voice started to crack. ‘Another victim of the Ripper?’
‘No, no – it doesn’t have to be. Absolutely not,’ I said, too hastily. She was getting married in the castle and I didn’t want anything to spoil her day. Not even my feud with Joe. ‘It’s probably a suicide: single people get very lonely at this time of year.’
‘Speaking from personal experience?’ she quipped.
I turned my head, not willing to let her see just how close she was to the truth on both counts.
Chapter Two (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)
Lothian and St Clair W.S.Saturday 22 December, 8.30 a.m.
‘Do you have a death wish, girl?’
Lord MacGregor shook his head in disgust and threw the weekend paper down on my desk. A silver foil container tipped over, scattering cold chicken and fried rice everywhere.
‘That,’ he continued, pointing to the offending article, ‘is professional suicide.’
Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I refused to turn round. I knew what my grandfather was referring to, and I didn’t want to face his anger. Maybe it had been a foolish move on my part; even he’d acknowledged I’d been keeping my nose clean and avoiding trouble until now. Plus I hated disappointing him, which was something I seemed to have a knack for.
‘What do you think about this?’ He picked up the article again, and threw it down in front of Lavender. She clapped her hands sarcastically.
‘Very dramatic,’ she said. ‘Maybe that’s where Brodie gets her antics from.’ Looking directly into his eyes she added: ‘They do say the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.’
Using her hand she cleared away the debris of my last night’s meal and threw it in the bin.
‘Seriously,’ said Lord MacGregor, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Seriously, you’re a well-matched pair of drama queens!’ Lavender snorted and sat down in my seat, opening the offending article out in front of her.
Lawyer Could Force Judges to Declare They AreMasons
‘So you asked a judge if he was a Mason.’ Lavender rattled the newspaper noisily before placing it down on the desk again. ‘I hate to say it … but His Lordship has a point.’
Lavender had been told by my Grandad to call him by his Christian name, but she refused. He was now known to everyone in the office as His Lordship. Initially, it was her way of getting at him, but now they were allies. He had won her over and he was giving her away when she married Eddie on Christmas Eve.
I kept my back firmly to them; I wasn’t turning round to face their torrent of abuse, especially now I had admitted to myself they were right. The case had called six weeks ago in Edinburgh Sheriff Court, but we were still waiting for the judgement to be issued. Anyway, the action on the Castle Rock was revving up, and the rubber-neckers were gathering at the barricade.
‘We discussed this.’ Lavender inserted her face directly in front of me. ‘Are you stupid? It’s not just your livelihood on the line.’ I could feel her hot breath on my neck. She grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me round to face her; I didn’t feel it was a particularly good time to suggest she should perhaps be a little calmer on her wedding day. The consequences of my actions to Scots law were immense. If I was right, the decisions of every judge who was a Mason could be called into question if any party to the case was also a member of the Masonic Lodge.
It all boiled down to the fact that judges are supposed to be impartial, whereas Masons, by their oaths, have sworn to favour their brethren. If the ruling in this case was in my favour, the Edinburgh bar would be eating out of my hand, all bets were off, and lawyers could appeal a decision they didn’t like. Their fees would increase, and it would be new Mercedes all round. Of course, if it went against me – which, let’s face it, was likely – then the judges would really put the boot in. Lav was afraid that fees would go down but Grandad was pissed because he had ambitions for me to be a judge – and I’d just made that even more unlikely.
Lord MacGregor nodded approvingly at Lav, just wishing he’d had the courage to be so forceful – but my grandfather was too afraid of losing me; our relationship was too new and tentative for him to risk such behaviour.
My grandfather.
We had been reunited for just over two years. Weird is not the word for us lot – we make the Addams family look like the Waltons. Lord MacGregor, Grandfather to me and a retired High Court judge to everyone else, had rescued my birth mother Kailash from his son’s clutches. He continued to support her, even after she was charged with the murder of his only child. And if that isn’t Jerry Springer enough for you, my mother’s a dominatrix: a high-class one, very wealthy, but a dominatrix nonetheless. These are the family members who have the temerity to be annoyed when I make questionable decisions …
I kept up a wall of silence. It was the advice I would give to my clients. Say nothing – you can only hang yourself with your tongue. Lavender was persistent.
‘What planet were you on?’ she asked, poking me in the back with her finger.
‘When is it ever a good idea to ask a policeman if he’s a Mason?’ she continued.
I shrugged noncommittally.
‘Then you have to take it one step beyond the bounds of good taste …’
Lavender rolled her eyes and half turned to face Grandad.
‘… and suggest the judge cannot be impartial because he, like the police, is also a Mason!’
This conversation was embarrassing. I had been posturing in court like a little bantam hen and now that the heat of the battle was over I had to agree with them. It’s all well and good to have nice legal points, but it didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. I stepped out of range of her finger, and turned to face them.
I caught sight of myself in the wall-sized mirror that Grandad had installed so I could practise my jury speeches. Sticking my left hand on my hip, I walked forward, looking more like one of Kailash’s girls on a very rough day than a lawyer.
‘Consider the well-known penalties of the Entered Apprentice who vows to keep Masonic secrets under penalty of having his throat cut, or his tongue torn out and buried in the rough sands of the sea.’ I coughed for dramatic effect and held their eyes, just as Grandad had taught me. I could see he was impressed.
Lavender laughed in my face. ‘What a pile of crap,’ she said. ‘You know that’s just for effect – them and you – trying to make folk think that they’re all mysterious. It’s rubbish, Brodie – but it’s rubbish that you shouldn’t mess with, given how many top people seem to believe in it.’
‘Well – why do they say it if they’re not going to carry out the threat? Anyway, the Crown Office is issuing a written opinion, and it brought our client one step closer to a “not guilty”.’
I walked up to the mirror, not waiting to hear her reply. God, I looked terrible. I started to examine my saggy chin; when did those wrinkles appear? My so-called office assistant approached me. Her eyes were blazing, and holding my gaze she said, ‘You’re selfish, Brodie – it’s going to hurt when you have to think of someone else.’
‘That sounds like a threat,’ I said.
‘No – it’s a promise.’
Chapter Three (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)
Girls’ Changing Rooms,The Meadows’ Pavilion, EdinburghSaturday 22 December, 2 p.m.
It was hard to remain silent and he held his breath as he crouched low on the lid of the toilet seat. The girl in the next cubicle was called Rosie. He had heard another girl call for her and now he held the name to him. She sang a well-worn Christmas song under her breath and The Watcher smiled, imagining the song was for him. Certainly, this was shaping up to be his best Christmas so far.
For three weeks he’d staked out the changing rooms, and now he’d won a prize. Not that his previous visits were wasted – no, he’d put his time to good use. As he stared out through the peephole he’d prepared earlier, he reflected on just how good. Rosie continued singing as she washed her hands. The Watcher was pleased. Hygiene was important to him – too important, some people thought; but, as his mother always said, ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’
Standing on her tiptoes, in a pink padded Playboy bra with matching knickers, Rosie leaned over the basin and applied a thick layer of lip gloss. She opened her mouth wide and ran her pink pointy tongue over her teeth. The Watcher shivered. Rosie hurried through to the main changing area. She was running late, so discarded her underwear as she went, throwing it over a railing. She removed her bra and put on a sports version. Bending over, she balanced on one leg, and pushed her foot into her football shorts. They had built-in underwear, so she had not put on her knickers, but he felt an irrational sense of disappointment in the girl. Perhaps her morals were not all they should be. And The Watcher didn’t like that; he didn’t like that at all.
‘For God’s sake, get a move on – do you want to miss the kick-off?’ A disembodied voice chivvied them all along, but Rosie was the only one he looked at. The voice was likely to be that of a chaperone, given that the whole of Edinburgh was on red alert with all the terrible things that were going on. If truth be told, it was making things difficult – but not impossible – for him.
Rosie refused to leave yet. She stood in the messy, deserted changing room, swivelling around looking for something, for someone. Looking for him perhaps? A smile cracked his face. He was the last person she’d want to find. Holding his breath, he then exhaled as the sound of her boot studs disappeared into the distance. The Watcher noted with regret that she had stopped singing.
Turning, he stared out of the hole he had cut in the thick frosted glass. Rabbit wire on the outside of the pane obscured his vision but he could see well enough. Well enough to note that Rosie kept glancing back at the changing pavilion. A cold chill of fear ran down his spine as she started to run full pelt to the man.
The Watcher knew who he was by reputation, and he knew that he should be afraid of him – but the path he had chosen did not allow for changes simply because there were obstacles. The big man in a kilt had his arms around Rosie, giving her a pep talk, dispelling her fears. Maybe the big man wasn’t that tough – it was good to know that he wasn’t infallible.
He had come to see someone else, he’d hidden overnight in the changing rooms and it had finally paid off. He’d waited three weeks to see her. The first week she’d had a knee injury, the second was an away game, but the third time was a trick. The girl was skinny; some people might say she looked undernourished. The Watcher didn’t fancy her chances of survival – she would be kicked off the pitch when the game started.
Actually, that could be a problem. The Watcher didn’t want her marked. That wasn’t part of his plan and his plan had been very carefully constructed. He was proud of the attention he paid to detail. A feeling of instant calm came over him as he watched her win the toss. This was going to be her lucky day. The girl was skinny and leggy – she might be ungainly but she was fast. Too fast? Would it be a problem? What if she got away from him? That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
He’d have to recheck his calculations; she couldn’t weigh more than five and a half stones. Too much anaesthetic could kill her, too little and she could escape. His plan did not allow for a runaway.
The big bastard was talking to Brodie McLennan. The Watcher knew who she was – in fact, if he was ever caught, he’d call for her to represent him. He shrugged off that thought – he wasn’t going to get caught. He was too clever for that. Patience ran in his blood and his genetic code told him: if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. But he needed to move now – the girls had gone, the game was starting. The Watcher wanted to run but there was no crowd to lose himself in. Take a deepbreath, relax.
That was why he had waited for her – she was worth waiting for.
He forced himself to walk slowly out of the changing pavilion unseen. A mother stood on guard fifty feet away, leaning against a tree having a sly fag – she smiled at him as he passed.
In these godless times, who takes any notice of a priest?
Chapter Four (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)
The Meadows, EdinburghSaturday 22 December, 2 p.m.
There was no escape from the relentless weather. Snow lay on the ground and the driving rain was turning it to slush. My face was numb and the shoes I was wearing were soaking wet. This was, quite undoubtedly, a huge mistake. What the hell was I thinking of when I agreed to spending a Saturday afternoon at a football match? Not even a proper one at that?
It was barely noticeable, but Glasgow Joe seemed to nod in my direction. Lavender elbowed me in the ribs. ‘See,’ she hissed, giving him an extravagant wave, ‘he’s willing to make up.’ Ignoring her, I turned my head to the wooden pavilion where a ragtag bunch of girls was snaking out of the dressing rooms. Their legs were already purple by the time they reached the touchline where, jumping up and down, they tried to get warm. They all seemed to shout towards Glasgow Joe, clamouring for his attention. The clever ones gave up and turned to Eddie instead. A wise move if they were trying to get tips – Eddie could educate them on every Scottish football move ever seen, whereas Joe, well, I’d seen Joe play. Even as a boy he was reminiscent of a giant redwood on the pitch, although he was handy to have in defence as long as you didn’t expect him to actually run with the ball. Eddie was the soccer coach for this bunch. He’d learnt early on that if he wanted to pretend he was coaching Inter Milan rather than this lot, then he’d have to supply doughnuts to keep their attention.
I dragged my thoughts away from Eddie and Joe to look at the kids on the pitch. To me it seemed obvious – there was one girl who was different, one girl who drew your eyes towards her. Thirteen years old and with the look of Bambi; she could have been made out of pipe cleaners. She appeared to have brought her own valet, Malcolm. He lied about his age. I reckon he was pushing sixty, and he was my mother’s ‘Girl Friday’. He looked after Kailash, he looked after me, and now it seemed he had another chick under his wing.
Her silver sparkly laces were untied; on cue, Malcolm came mincing to the rescue. The girl ignored him – but the opposition didn’t. Jeering, they laughed and pointed, as a wave of panic came over me. I knew what was going to happen. The Penicuik girls were strong and sturdy – even in a fair fight, Eddie wouldn’t stand a chance, and they had the girl with the Lurex laces in their sight.
‘God, it’s cold; doesn’t she feel it?’ Lavender shivered as she dragged me round to the other side of the football pitch. They were all there by now – Glasgow Joe, Kailash, Eddie, Malcolm, even Grandad, sitting on his shooting stick drinking hot coffee from a flask. As soon as I sniffed the caffeine I increased my pace. We all stood there, mesmerized, as the girl moved into action. As expected, she was captain of her team – unsurprising, because it was she who supplied the manager, the coach, and the strips, courtesy of Lothian and St Clair. The Penicuik captain towered over her as they tossed the coin, shorts flapping around the waif’s thin legs as she watched the coin spin – and won. Placing her boot on top of the ball, she ‘sorted’ her long hair; it was the most beautiful shade of auburn you could get outside of a bottle. I was only a little jealous. Holding it in place was one over-the-top pink fabric rose; I suspected Malcolm’s influence. I caught Kailash’s eye and we both shuddered. The girl wasn’t going to last two minutes.
We were wrong.
She ran in and out between the legs of the larger girls like a whippet. Taking them by surprise, she made a break and ran down the wing, scoring within the first minute. Grandad was on his feet screaming with pride – and probably heading for a heart attack at this rate. Who would give Lavender away then? The girl was running down the pitch, punching the air in victory; she lifted up her shirt to kiss it, revealing to everyone her thermal vest. Malcolm’s doing again, I thought. I could see the Penicuik girls looking, conferring, deciding how to get her. This time there would be no mistakes, no mercy.
My little sister, Connie Coutts, was going down.
Kailash was chewing on gum, her jaws mashing together furiously. I had never seen my immaculate birth mother indulge in anything so common. She caught me watching her out of the corner of my eye. ‘It’s hellish,’ she whispered. ‘I hate watching her – I’m a bag of nerves,’ she shrugged, as if being here, this whole scene, was the most natural thing in the world, but I knew her history and how much it had taken to get us all here.
Connie was berating her team-mates for not passing the ball, her face red with indignation, exertion and the energy of being a thirteen-year-old. My heart almost stopped as soon as I had the thought and made the connection. Kailash had been thirteen when she had given birth to me. Uncharacteristically, I placed my arm around her.
‘It would have been harder to watch me when I was that age.’ I squeezed her tightly to me, trying to make light of what had kept us apart since the day I was born and for many, many years afterwards. ‘I was shit.’
‘And selfish,’ butted in Glasgow Joe. ‘Always really selfish.’ He looked at me. ‘With the ball, I mean.’ I knew exactly what he meant.
‘Deciding to talk now, are you? Well, don’t bother sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’ I bridled, instinctively raising my chin. All the mothers were ogling him so we had an audience. He was wearing his kilt. The wind swung it round his legs, and the mums who’d seen the size of his feet were praying the wind would blow it higher.
‘Aw ref – are you fucking blind?’ Eddie shouted. I turned, following his line of vision, and, surprisingly, my attention was instantly there. Connie was down. Mud spattered her face and was mixed with the blood pouring from her nose. It looked like it must hurt like hell. She clenched her teeth around her mouth guard, keeping the hot tears away. Kailash started to run, but Malcolm placed an arm in front of her chest, barring her. She watched him run onto the pitch instead, healing bag in hand. Kailash remained quiet and a deep furrow creased her brow.
‘He spoils her, you know,’ I said to Kailash.
‘He’s allowed to. He raised her. Anyway, look who’s talking. I hope you haven’t gone overboard with a Christmas present? I’ve already warned Moses and Joe.’
‘Connie has enough stuff without getting more of it in a couple of days,’ I said, keeping an eye on what was happening on the pitch as I spoke. Relief washed over me. Connie’s Christmas present was a worry. It was too late for eBay and there were only two and a half shopping days left. I suspected that Joe and the crew were well organized, but I wanted to get her something special too. Perhaps now I could just pretend that I was more thoughtful by getting her a chocolate Santa and a bag of satsumas, making sure she didn’t get all materialistic. On the pitch, Connie was shrugging Malcolm off, back on her feet with a glint in her eye that suggested revenge was going to be sweet.
I could see Joe standing on the sideline like a silent assassin, giving the ref one of his special looks. I had come to know that look well over the last six months – it was unpleasant, to say the least. It told you in no uncertain terms you had fallen short of the mark, and no one blamed the ref when he succumbed to crowd pressure and pulled out a belated red card.
When I say no one, I’m not being strictly accurate. The girl’s father made a move to complain but backed down shamefully quickly when Joe pulled himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. Glasgow Joe’s creed was written all over his face – no one messed with his girls. Kailash, Connie and Lavender are certainly in the gang; I’m not sure about myself these days.
Eddie and Joe ran along the pitch shouting tactics, encouragement – and taunts – when necessary. I’d seen managers and coaches receive touchline bans for less in the real world, but the officials here turned a deaf ear in spite of opposition protests. I wondered if Connie knew what was going on. She seemed oblivious, running herself ragged chasing a dirty ball on a muddy field; the enjoyment she was obviously getting was a mystery to me.
‘Joe’s got the trike,’ Lavender said, sidling up to me with the last of the coffee in the top of the thermos flask to warm my frozen fingers. ‘Connie and Joe are going Christmas shopping. I wish I’d thought of that … I still don’t know what to get her. I want it to be special – the first time that she really has everyone around her.’
I was always touched by the way Lavender had adopted my family as her own. Even Connie, the ‘newest’ member, was to be her flower girl.
Kailash had kept the existence of my half-sister Connie (then at boarding school in Switzerland) in the dark until she was sure that she and I had a chance of a relationship. I think she was right to do that really – apparently, most mother and adult-child reunions don’t have fairytale endings. Our bond is not one you’d find in a Disney movie but we rub along – although sometimes it feels more like grating. When Connie was finally brought into the picture, it actually made things easier. I had more of a family now than I’d ever dreamed of, even when I still thought that my adopted parent Mary McLennan was my birth mother and Kailash Coutts was just another pain-in-the-arse client I had to defend.
Joe edged nearer to us as his eyes scanned the skyline. In the distance, the hill of Arthur’s Seat was barely visible because of the low-lying cloud. He huddled into us close before pulling a rolled-up newspaper from his pocket. ‘Brodie, it’s time to stop being so daft,’ he said. I raised my eyebrow – in my mind, he was the one to blame and I most certainly hadn’t been in on any daftness. ‘Seriously, Brodie, there’s things going on that … well, things just don’t feel right.’ If I’d expected an emotional outpouring, I was disappointed. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, going back to the newspaper. It was the afternoon edition of the one we’d discussed in the office; the dead girl stared out at us from the front page, demanding justice.
‘Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?’ Joe asked, staring over his shoulder.
‘Joe – you might have red hair but you’re not the Ripper’s type: your family jewels rule you out,’ I replied.
‘I’m glad you remember, Brodie, but I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever feel you’re being watched?’ he asked again. His face was weary and I no longer wanted to laugh. A cold trickle of sweat dribbled down my spine.
A primeval sense of wariness had me on edge. Joe was still scanning the horizon, and he wasn’t looking at the weather. I knew better than to laugh at him or dismiss his instincts. He held on to my arms, pinning them down at my side. The cold wind carried his scent to me and, as always, I cursed myself for responding. He noticed me involuntarily pressing up against him but said nothing. If I needed any convincing he was serious, that was it.
Pride comes before a fall, I know, but I shrugged him off. I didn’t know how to handle the new Glasgow Joe, the one who could resist me. I stomped round to the other side of the pitch; I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know Joe was watching me.
My smile fell.
Joe wasn’t staring at me – he was scouting the Meadows.
Hunting for the bogeyman.
Chapter Five (#u7eceafa5-3462-54de-8f93-ee5e50863b62)
Cumberland Street, EdinburghSunday 23 December, 12.30 a.m.
The point of the stiletto blade nicked the underside of my chin. A dewdrop of blood dribbled down my neck. This couldn’t be happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Pure panic controlled my body. I wanted to scream but I was shamefully afraid. The knife meandered down my throat, slicing open the cosy grey tee shirt I loved to sleep in. It had once, in happier times, belonged to Joe. Darkness hid the face of my torturer but I knew who it was, and he wanted me dead.
The pain was slicing through me as he traced spirals with the blade. Opening my mouth wide to scream, a disappointing squeak came out. Gripping handfuls of the sheet, I tried to push myself up the bed. Perhaps if I could sit up, I’d be able to fight back. He second-guessed me and dug the point of the blade into my carotid artery. It danced as my pulse raced. I imagined a slow smile crossing his face. How had he gained entry? I’d recently been robbed and I’d installed new security; they promised me I was as safe as the Bank of Scotland.
I didn’t believe them and I hadn’t shared their faith. The satisfaction of being right did nothing for me. I-told-you-so doesn’t cut it when you’re staring death in the face. I refused to expire pitifully in silence so I shouted for the first person I could think of through the fear – Joe. I knew he wouldn’t make it in time but just saying his name made me feel better. At least I’d found the strength to call on him, I reflected as his name rang out through my bedroom. Then my reality shifted. I woke up. Sweat had drenched the tee shirt but otherwise it was undamaged; just another horrible dream and a lingering feeling that the man I needed wasn’t there.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and my toes landed in leftover pizza. The empty bottles of lager showed me just how much punishment I’d inflicted on my poor body – but I’d live. The phone was ringing in the hall. In an effort to get a good night’s sleep, I’d disconnected the one on the bedside table. Last night had obviously been a night of great decisions. I swore under my breath and trampled on the mound of clothes lying in a heap on the floor, smearing tomato sauce and cold mozzarella cheese on the LBD I’d bought last week from Harvey Nicks. Three hundred and fifty pounds I’d paid in the pre-Xmas sale, and now it looked like a window rag. The phone had stopped ringing. I surveyed the bombsite that was my room. My flatmate (and assistant) Louisa had called me Scrooge and then insisted on setting up a fibre-optic Christmas tree; its garish colours threw a macabre glow on the scene and didn’t add anything remotely positive.
Stumbling across to the dressing table I picked up a photograph. Why hadn’t I just thrown it out? The frame was a plastic snow dome; in the centre of the snowstorm Glasgow Joe had a huge grin on his face as he held me in a bear hug. He smiled like a prizewinner. We were on top of the Empire State building – I should have guessed what was coming when he took me there seven months ago. Bizarrely, Glasgow Joe adores the film Sleepless in Seattle.
Naturally, he’d taken me there to propose.
Again.
Being reasonably sane, I said no – on reflection, I did more than just say ‘no’. My exact reply went something along the lines of ‘when Hell freezes over.’ On the picture, I traced the contours of his face with my finger. It was the closest I had intended to get to the real thing, no matter how much Lavender pushed and shoved. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Joe, or even, God help me, not love him in that way. There were bigger problems this time – Joe wanted a baby. If there was one thing I knew, it was that there was bad blood in me, and that bloodline needed to stop when my candle snuffed.
It wasn’t just the need for a baby that had changed him in the past year or so. Joe’s paternal streak had been manageable until he met Connie – then he’d fallen hook, line and sinker. Nothing but the best for Connie. He was reliving our childhood, except that now he had money. Eddie and Joe had stepped in to manage the football team when none of the fathers would do it, and there was constant bullying until Lothian and St Clair provided the strips. Naturally, Connie had wanted to be sponsored by Joe’s pub, the Rag Doll, but Joe and Eddie didn’t feel that gave ‘their girls’ the appropriate image.
