Broken Hearts. Grace Monroe

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       Chapter Nine

      Six thirty had come and gone and there was still no sign of Dr Marshall. I stared out the window. Perhaps he was parking his car. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. The wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees as the rain bounced off the pavement.

      I opened the door to Lavender’s room where my dry cleaning hung on wire coat hangers covered by plastic. I rifled through them. Each item was, to be frank, rubbish and, really, I had nothing to wear, pathetic though it sounded. Kailash would have a field day–she’d get to inform me with her superior fashion sense and all-round personal style perfection just where I was going wrong. Deciding that I might as well take the Fat Boy, which was parked downstairs, I threw off my suit and struggled into my leathers, leaving the top button on the trousers undone until they’d eased off a bit. Switching the desk light on, I settled down to go over tomorrow’s court files, but no sooner had I sat down than there was a knock at my office door. A shadow of doubt crossed my mind: recent events had made me wary and, as I recalled Ma Boyle drawing her finger across her throat, the last thing I wanted was an after-hours visit from the Boyles. I tried to settle my nerves. Although my own office suite was deserted, the building was filled with young associate lawyers working overtime trying to make partner. They weren’t exactly hired muscle, but surely their talents could stretch to calling the police if needs be?

      Dr Graham Marshall didn’t wait for me to answer the door, walking in as if he owned the place. I watched our reflections in the mirror and so did he. He was judging me, his eyes lingering on the open button of my trousers, no doubt thinking that he could fix the fat for me for a couple of grand. I tucked my T-shirt in tightly so it was even more obvious that I’d recently packed on a couple of pounds, or ten. I took a sip of the cold black coffee on my desk. If I was going to spar with this one I needed all the energy I could lay my hands on.

      ‘Ms McLennan,’ he said, and held out a manicured hand. His hands were softer than mine, but then he’d probably never changed the engine oil on a motorbike. I noticed ruby cufflinks on his French cuffed shirt and remembered reading that rubies the colour of blood confer invulnerability on the wearer. Tough: he needed me; that much was obvious from the offer of big money and the demand for an urgent appointment. He wore a bespoke pinstriped suit with an immaculate cut and looked like a cover model for Men’s Health. Dr Graham Marshall was incredibly good looking, and he knew it. Damn, he knew that I knew it.

      ‘I was invited to the New Club last Wednesday. Have you been?’ he asked out of nowhere.

      The New Club was a very old, distinguished club where the elite of Edinburgh meet. On Wednesday nights they debate obscure topics. I wasn’t sure what this had to do with whatever Marshall wanted me to help him with, but I had the right answer. ‘My grandfather is a member and I’ve had dinner there many times,’ I said.

      ‘I didn’t see you.’

      ‘I was otherwise engaged last week. I find it filled with irrelevant old men and equally irrelevant ideas, so I don’t go unless I’m dragged kicking and screaming through its hallowed portals.’ I got some pleasure from being deliberately combative.

      ‘Well, on Wednesday they were discussing something rather more relevant: should readers boycott books written by criminals when the proceeds are going directly to families of victims?’ It was getting late and I was in no mood to play his games; then I thought of the fee and remembered the client is always right. I cleared my throat and humoured him.

      ‘I take it that this theoretical book was bought by a publisher not because of the criminal’s talent as a writer but because the reader would believe it was a step-by-step manual of how a crime was actually committed?’

      ‘Oh, obviously. Lord McNair argued that such a book should not be published because of the pain and humiliation it would cause the victims–what do you think?’ The silence was heavy, my stomach rumbled; I hadn’t eaten since midday and my dinner at The Vineyard was on hold.

      ‘I believe in free speech and freedom of the press. I don’t believe criminals should profit from their crimes, but that wasn’t happening with this theoretical case, so the book should have been published.’ I wanted to stop playing games, but I also wanted the fee he had promised me. Marshall smiled at me and nodded before his hand went into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed me a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. ‘Thank you for granting me an appointment, Ms McLennan,’ he said, smiling.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, trying to sound as cool as possible while inwardly wondering if I could possibly hide my glee at all this desperately needed money.

      ‘I’d also be grateful–and I’d imagine you would too–if you would accept this additional sum as a retainer.’ He handed me another cheque–this one was for eight hundred and twelve thousand, two hundred and seventy-two pounds, and sixty-five pence. I stared at it. The amount was bizarre…and familiar. Confusion reigned on my face. Dr Marshall coughed to get my attention.

      ‘It’s the exact amount of the bank overdraft of Lothian and St Clair WS as at close of business last Friday,’ he said.

      ‘How the hell did you get our bank details?’ I asked in a voice much calmer than I expected. Most law firms have overdrafts–expenses are high and client fees can be slow in coming in. The banks are happy to extend credit because they have the deeds of the partners’ houses, but recently Lothian and St Clair had rather overplayed this side of things. Added to a credit crunch and overall financial meltdown, we were in deep shit. I was pissed that Marshall had investigated our finances, as well as being amazed that he’d got through every shred of data protection there was, but, on the other hand, the fee plus the retainer would pay the bank off and maybe I would sleep easier at night. It was a tricky one. I didn’t even want to imagine at this stage what I was going to have to defend.

      ‘No,’ I said, handing the cheque back to him. I never had claimed to have any business sense. ‘No thank you, Dr Marshall.’

      ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry, Ms McLennan. I’m sorry. I thought it was standard business practice to know about a lawyer before hiring their firm, so believed СКАЧАТЬ