Dark Angels

‘Presumption rarely leads to the truth, Ms McLennan, and when you assume facts, you are invariably led on a wild goose chase.’

Patch smiled at me condescendingly.

‘What evidence do you have that Ms Coutts was not a perfectly ordinary child?’

‘It was you who taught me, Professor, that aberrant behaviour in adults has its roots in childhood.’

‘How very Freudian of you, Brodie, but the aberrant behaviour you have accused your client of–is it murder or prostitution?’

Frank Pearson stared at me like the adversary he was. I had forgotten he was there. At university he was so insignificant. Obviously the Fiscal’s office had honed his wits. I stared at him with a new respect.

‘Who’s the deviant?’ I asked, trying to regain lost ground. ‘The man who pays ten grand to get his arse whipped, or the woman who does it to him?’

‘I guess we’ll have to ask Roddie Buchanan that one,’ sniggered Frank. He caught himself quickly, clearly recognising it was inappropriate to be laughing as he stood over Lord Arbuthnot’s naked corpse.

‘If I may continue…’

Patch spoke sternly as if addressing two school children. He switched on his tape recorder and spoke clearly.

‘Although, the entry wound is small…observe the jagged edges of the lesion…it would appear to be consistent with a blow from a broken glass…the downward serration…would indicate the glass was propelled from above the carotid artery…severing it immediately…the assailant was left handed…and strong.’

Patch switched off the tape recorder. He never did that. It was against the standard operating procedure.

‘In view of the deceased’s position and status, details of this autopsy must be held under the strictest security.’

He looked shiftily around. Clearing his throat he continued.

‘It has been proposed that the Lord Advocate may place a one hundred year banning order on some of the papers in this case.’

‘They can’t do that. It’s a murder trial.’ Frank Pearson sounded outraged.

‘They did it with the Dunblane Report initially,’ I reminded him. ‘They had no good reason to do that, and it would have remained sealed unless some people had fought to get it changed.’

‘Brodie, they didn’t have a trial there. Thomas Hamilton was shot dead after he massacred those children.’ Frank Pearson had forgotten himself, and was leaning across Lord Arbuthnot’s body. I was wincing at the sight of it, but we court lawyers love a good argument. The rights and wrongs get lost in the fight.

‘Thomas Hamilton was a paedophile. As far back as 1968 if talk is to be believed. Police officers had been questioning his right to run boys’ clubs for years. In particular, in 1991 a police report said he should be prosecuted for the way he ran his boys’ clubs, and his gun licence was revoked. But the report was returned marked “no-pro.” No prosecution by the Fiscal’s service, Frank, because, according to some–nonsense conspiracy theorists in your eyes, I’m sure–in the reports three other people were mentioned: two Scottish politicians and a lawyer.’

Frank Pearson glared at me as I continued to shout at him across the cadaver.

‘The Fiscal’s office didn’t prosecute, Frank. And on 13 March 1996, Thomas Hamilton walked into Dunblane Primary School and shot sixteen children and a teacher…with a licensed gun.’

I was so incensed, I was almost frothing at the mouth. The brutality of those murders had shocked the world but especially Scotland. Nothing like it had ever happened before or since, but I couldn’t understand the link here. Why was I being told the same thing might happen with my case as had happened with Dunblane? Lord Arbuthnot’s death didn’t justify a cover up just because he was a pillar of the establishment.

‘Why does this need to be confidential?’

Patch turned to look at me. He seemed relieved that I had finally asked the question which needed to be spoken.

‘I understand that someone–I don’t know who–will have a “watching brief”.’

I could tell that Patch would have felt more comfortable discussing such matters privately. Guilt stabbed at me. Like Fishy, he had been neglected by me. I figured he felt he had to speak to me now, or he might not get the chance again until the trial. It wasn’t a wise decision. A watching brief meant overseeing how events unfolded, and if anything untoward were to come out then the individual given it would have to act. What form that action would take, I had no idea. A watching brief certainly explained Sheriff Strathclyde’s extraordinary behaviour at the judicial examination.

Kailash Coutts was a powder keg, and everyone knew that she would not go down alone–as long as she didn’t take me with her, I felt I could cope.

The whirr of the blade and the crunch of bone brought me back to reality. Patch had switched the tape-recorder back on and was cutting through Lord Arbuthnot’s ribcage. Snap, snap, and he was in. Stealthily, like a burglar, he reached inside, droning on into his microphone. I preferred not to listen, concentrating instead on blowing air onto my heated face.

Scales were on the bench beside him. He plucked the still heart out of the body and placed it to be weighed. The ancient Egyptians believed that after death, your heart was weighed against a feather; if your heart was heavier you were not admitted to heaven. They understood that you had to receive joy and give joy, and they believed you should be rewarded or punished accordingly. To my fanciful eye, Lord Arbuthnot’s heart looked heavy on those scales. He didn’t give or receive joy from his father. Had he shared such an emotion with anyone else in his life?

‘I hardly knew the man in life–I didn’t like him then and I certainly don’t like him after dissecting him.’

Patch sounded disapproving and it snapped me back to attention. It wasn’t hard to breach his moral code because of the strict tenets of his religion. In fact, it was a surprise to me that he tolerated my behaviour, although he did often say it was because I knew no better. I was sure that wasn’t a compliment.

‘As I said before, to have saved this man’s life would have been so straightforward. It turns out it was only a question of time anyway.’ None of the condemnation had left Patch’s voice.

I followed him to the metal side table where he had placed the heart. Scalpel in hand, he progressed with the dissection, shaving slivers from the heart. He stained the shavings and invited us to look down the lens.

Chivalry has no place in law. Frank Pearson moved forward to examine the slide first. Nervously, he cleared his throat, and again he coughed. Either he didn’t know what he was looking at or he was reluctant to say.