Blood Lines. Grace Monroe

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       Chapter Ten

      I got through the six hours – of course I did, I had no choice – but I wasn’t left unscarred.

      As usual, I’d started off a difficult morning with a run. However, instead of calming me, I felt awful. I didn’t know what was worse, the nausea or the fear. One threatened to choke me, whilst the other chilled me to my marrow.

      I stood at the river’s edge. The water was an accusing finger curling towards me, searching for me. I felt as if it wanted to touch me, to mark me. My world was collapsing.

      ‘I did this! I did this to myself!’ a voice screamed in my head.

      Those six hours when I was supposed to be plotting Duncan Bancho’s ruin? Well, it didn’t happen. All I saw was my own defeat staring me in the face. There was no help or escape. DI Bancho had made it quite clear that his mission in life was to see me behind bars for the murder of Alex Cattanach. Trouble was, my actions for the past God knew how many months made it look as if I had a pretty good motive. My grandad was right, Kailash was right, even Bridget Nicholson was right to a point СКАЧАТЬ