Broken Hearts. Grace Monroe

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      Dr Graham Marshall drove down Lothian Road where, on his left, Edinburgh Castle, shining black with rain, dominated the landscape. The miserable November weather was keeping the shoppers at home and off Princes Street, but a busload of Japanese tourists was decanting at the Caledonian Hotel. Waiting at the traffic lights, he could smell the sugar from the doughnut kiosk. His lips crumpled in distaste as a fat scaffolder stuffed fried dough into his mouth. Graham hated obesity. It was just one more thing on his list of likes and dislikes; a long list. The lights changed just as the radio reporter began the lead story on the two o’clock news; he turned left and headed towards Haymarket.

      ‘This is Tony Baxter at Edinburgh High Court speaking with Brodie McLennan, defence agent for Kenny Cameron, who has just been acquitted of murdering his wife…Miss McLennan, why do you think the jury accepted the defence of battered husband syndrome with regard to Kenny Cameron?’

      ‘The jury returned a not guilty verdict simply because they heard the evidence…’ said a clear, educated Scottish voice. ‘Mr Cameron was hospitalized four times by his wife’s temper. A battered wife rightly gets a great deal of sympathy but there are a significant number of men who are subject to domestic violence.’

      ‘If that’s the case, why don’t we hear more of it?’ asked the reporter.

      ‘The “henpecked” husband is as much a joke as the mother-in-law…these men not only suffer at the hands of their spouses but their plight is wrapped up in shame.’

      ‘Not everyone would agree with you, Miss McLennan. Some women’s groups are angry at this decision, saying that you’ve set back the cause of zero tolerance by twenty years. One group said that this decision is simply a return to the days when it was assumed men had a right to hit their wives–because now, if they do, they can claim it is self-defence.’

      ‘Violence is violence, Mr Baxter, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, your argument is muddled in the extreme. Mr Cameron’s wife threw a pan of hot chip fat over him in a drunken rage. She had a metal umbrella and the tip of it had been sharpened. Her usual practice was to stab him with it if he didn’t work fast enough. I could list many more instances, but it sounds to me as if your mind has already been made up.’

      ‘Miss McLennan, Kenny Cameron beat his wife to death with a hammer–and he never denied that. Some people are saying that he walked free today because of a clever lawyer’s tricks.’ Listening to the radio, Marshall could hear the sharp intake of breath from the lawyer. When she spoke again there was no disguising the iciness of her tone.

      ‘It was a simple decision for the jurors to make once they understood how repeated beatings affect the human mind. This isn’t about gender, this is about violence, and I’m sure every women’s group in the country will be more than happy to educate you about that if you have some spare time, Mr Baxter.’

      To his credit, the reporter didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ve been critical of the Crown Office for taking this prosecution from the start. Do you think they would have prosecuted a woman in these circumstances?’

      ‘I think they would have accepted a plea of culpable homicide…but today I’m pleased they didn’t offer it.’

      ‘Miss McLennan, you’ve had a string of high-profile victories in recent years–how do you handle your celebrity?’ The car filled with the deafening silence of dead air before Brodie McLennan replied in a softer voice, ‘Trust me, Tony, I’m run off my feet visiting clients in Saughton Prison and jointly managing a law firm…life’s too hectic to think about anything else. Thank you so much for your time and interest.’

      His mobile phone bleeped to indicate an incoming text as he turned the radio off. Christ, he thought, Kelly again with her desperate clinginess–he hated that sort of woman, but they were just so easy to get. What would she be offering now? When would she get it into her thick skull that women like her had absolutely nothing to offer? They thought that sex was such a bargaining tool, but they had never realized that Graham Marshall had sex with himself, not with them–they were just there at the same time, and by far the less interesting partner. As soon as he parked, the message shone: Ur sins will catch up with u. Rag Doll pub in 1hr or i go to papers

      This must be her idea of intelligence. Laughable really. Marshall shuddered at the spelling rather than the content of the text, and flipped the phone closed. He sighed wearily before switching the mobile off and putting it in the glove compartment. What was this? Did Kelly think he was going to become the perfect boyfriend because she was pretending she knew things about him? She knew nothing. A scalpel held to her in a hotel room, a bit of rough sex in the afternoon; she probably thought the papers would be lining up to take her picture if she went public.

      As he walked towards his office, he reflected on why she was doing this now. He knew that the few words, the few gestures he did make that she could interpret as ‘warm’ were enough–no doubt she had visions of them sharing dinner with his parents, choosing an engagement ring, having babies. It was slightly intriguing to wonder whether she was actually willing to play the game a little–had she involved someone else? Was silly little Kelly trying to get what she wanted? The thought that she might have told someone else about them set Marshall thinking about other possibilities. It could be a blackmailer after easy money. It wouldn’t be the first. He’d had dealings with greedy men before and he wasn’t the one who came off worse. However, this time he suspected it was nothing more than Kelly Adams thinking she could make him do whatever she wanted. Really, the notion that calling his wife would be a disaster was laughable. Still, some credit was due to Kelly–she’d recovered rather quickly from the blubbering mess he’d left in the hotel room not so long ago. He had been working hard, so he called his secretary to postpone his afternoon appointments until later that week. A few easily rescheduled sessions would give him the chance to relax with a drink anyway. He rubbed his temples for a few moments, and collected his thoughts before turning the car round and heading back into town. He had time to play.

       Chapter Four

      The afternoon trade at the Rag Doll was brisk, but it didn’t hide the fact that it was a down-at-heel drinking den that Dr Marshall wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. The regulars turned to stare at him as he entered the gloomy pub–for a moment he wondered whether it had been a good idea to park the Porsche outside. The owner of the bar was a huge man in a kilt who was hardly making the atmosphere friendlier as far as Marshall was concerned. He heard a customer refer to the man as Glasgow Joe; he was still behind the bar, not serving, just keeping his eye on the place, keeping his eye on Graham. It made Marshall uneasy; what was he looking at? Surely his money was the same as anyone else’s, so why did the huge man keep looking at him–was he a friend of Kelly’s? Is that why she’d asked to meet here? Was he in on all of this with her? Marshall told himself that he was an intelligent man, that there was no point in thinking of things that were probably nowhere near the truth. If Kelly was behind this, it was very straightforward. She just wanted money to make her feel better.

      He ordered a sparkling mineral water and took it to the table in the furthest corner from the door where he could see the comings and goings of the pub, switching his mobile back on as he sat down. Despite the stern talking-to he had just given himself in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel a wariness as he realized that the man he had heard called Glasgow Joe continued to look at him. Marshall tried to concentrate on the near-naked pole dancer who shimmied like a bowl of jelly to some vaguely identifiable Seventies disco nonsense. All of the other tables were empty; what customers there were in the place were crowded around the stage, and, unlike him, they didn’t seem to have to feign interest in the stripper. She wasn’t attractive СКАЧАТЬ