Broken Hearts

‘Arrogant bastard,’ I hissed at the phone. There was no way I could refuse the fee. High-profile trials like the Kenny Cameron case were all very well but, even though I made a fair whack out of legal aid, they didn’t pay the enormous overheads the firm carried. The cases that did were more mundane: a two-cop breach of the peace or an assault that I could farm out to another lawyer in the firm. I grabbed the phone and left a message for Kailash to stop her heading for the restaurant until my meeting was over.

‘I’m out of here,’ Lavender said, already putting on her coat, which was struggling to contain her baby bump. ‘I wonder what he wants,’ she said; a smile crossed her lips knowing she would be the one to type up my file notes. Nothing from the next meeting would be beyond her knowledge.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_53a562ea-2d68-5f85-9b5f-0951d87ff885)

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 that if you agreed to act for me you could have the fifty thousand pounds consultation fee and put the rest in the firm, account as a retainer.’ This time there was no smile on his face. I said nothing. ‘I may not need your expertise–one can only hope–but if I should, then I would expect you to drop everything and act on my behalf.’

‘Do you have a case outstanding?’ I asked, unable to stop myself from trying to find out more.

‘I’d prefer not to discuss the potential legal action until it happens. You do have my sincere apology if there was anything about this whole business that you might have found distasteful. Do we have a deal, Ms McLennan? One thing I can assure you of, if I am charged I am innocent.’ He held out his hand again. I’d cooled down and needed to think about this second chance, not that I wanted him to know that.

I imagined Lavender’s face–and words–if I turned down this much money.

And Kailash.

And Grandad.

And the other partners.

Shit, shit, shit.

‘Deal.’ I shook his hand.

When the door closed behind Graham Marshall, I waved the cheques in the air and did my victory dance. I was slightly disgusted at myself for being bought, but I was also delighted that things might be on more solid ground with the firm. And, as Marshall had said, he might not even need me–in which case, it would be the easiest fifty grand I’d ever made.

The office clock showed it was late–there was probably no point in going to The Vineyard. I picked up the phone and called Kailash. I didn’t even get to speak before I heard her imperious voice snap, ‘It’s late. Get over here now. Another wasted evening.’

She closed the phone on me and I sighed deeply. I didn’t want to go to my mother’s but I knew I had to. Kailash would still have been working, waiting for my call. Glasgow Joe took care of the casino, so I would have to break bread with my mother in her Danube Street brothel. Did all families work this way? I wondered, knowing the answer full well, even as I thought of the question.

There was something much more obvious on my mind, though–who in God’s name was Graham Marshall? I couldn’t help but think he must be guilty as sin if he was offering me this much cash for an appointment without being accused of anything. That wasn’t the lawyer in me talking–that would be the thought of any sane individual faced with a well-known figure and a stash of money being thrown at her. Now, all I had to do was wait and see exactly what it was I would be expected to do.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_8ed40b57-a163-53a3-bed3-5b4ea28fd000)

The door was no different to any of the other respectable doors in the road. It was painted a conservative black in accordance with planning regulations, and the brass plate beside the bell gave the number of the house but not the identity or occupation of its inhabitants.

Thankfully.

When I parked the bike outside it I was in a good mood again. The cheques from Graham Marshall were in my pocket and I was certain they wouldn’t bounce. I had Googled Marshall before I left the office and his fame was more widespread and greater than even Lavender had led me to believe. The man was world famous. He operated alone in a small private hospital in Edinburgh; celebrities and the filthy rich came here from all over the world, just to be nipped and tucked by him. I had decided that it was a good sign that he chose me; my reputation was known amongst the criminal fraternity but he was an outsider. Naturally I was curious about the nature of his potential case–not to mention his manners–but many professionals and businesses retain legal firms for all sorts of reasons. The mistake ‘respectable’ people often make when getting into trouble is to instruct one of the big-name commercial firms, who may be excellent at drawing up a lease, but don’t know their arse from their elbow when it comes to court work.

I rang the bell and waited, but not for long. Kailash’s staff knew better than to keep a punter hanging around on the doorstep. Malcolm opened the door. He looked well. As usual his make-up was impeccable. His eyes flicked over me and I was found wanting. Helmet hair and unidentifiable squashed things on my leathers meant that I didn’t pass his grooming test. I handed him my helmet and walked in.

‘You’re in trouble,’ he warned as I marched down the Georgian hallway. The brothel (or ‘club’, as Malcolm preferred to call it) was very upmarket, more like a chic boutique hotel than a sex joint. In my mind, no matter what colour the paint job was, it was still a knocking shop. I half turned to face him. Like a child I pulled the cheque out from my inside pocket and waved it in his face. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘She won’t be impressed. Kailash could write you a cheque for twice that amount from her housekeeping and never even notice it was gone.’ He reached out and held my elbow. ‘You only have to ask her, Brodie–she’d love to help you if you need it. She doesn’t want you to struggle like she did.’ Only Malcolm could compare the financial struggles of an Edinburgh lawyer with Kailash’s past. He had been Kailash’s dresser for decades. They’d met in Amsterdam when she was an underage runaway. He patched her up when the punters got too rough, and he was with her when she made the momentous decision to become a ‘top’, the one who wields the whip. I had become acquainted with the world of bondage, domination and sadomasochism when we were reunited.

Malcolm moved ahead of me and removed the thick blue rope that barred the stairs down to the private quarters. I followed him down into the kitchen, where Kailash sat at a substantial oak table surrounded by shiny red Poggenpohl units. A couple of girls, between clients, were at the other end of the table drinking tequila. Kailash poured me a mug of tea and passed it across. I sat down beside her, feeling like something stronger than tea–but having seen the look in her eye, I wasn’t going to ask.

‘So…who is this VIP client, the one who ranks above us?’ she asked immediately.

Kailash had a golden rule–never betray or let down family or friends. It was one that she had only taken to relatively recently, but she was now a true convert. What had happened to and between us in recent years had made her convinced that we would never be apart again, even if we were still learning about each other, but it was hard going at times. Clients and work were way down her list of life’s priorities, and she made that clear to everyone. The girls and boys she employed were the family she’d made herself, so although she spent long hours in her businesses, she didn’t consider it work. I didn’t want to say too much because Graham Marshall clearly wanted discretion, but there was no harm in saying he’d come to my office; besides, he might be a friend of hers. I leaned forward, my voice hushed.

‘Now this is top secret.’ I glanced around at the girls but a flash of annoyance crossed all their faces. In their line of work, they knew how to keep their traps shut. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this unless I give you the say-so.’ The girls nodded. Kailash rolled her eyes and feigned disinterest.

‘Dr Graham Marshall,’ I said.

Even Kailash perked up at the sound of his name. ‘Really?’ She thought for a moment. ‘He’s good, Brodie, very good–I’ve used him.’

My mother rarely spoke about what she’d had done. She was beautiful, and naturally so–but she wasn’t shy about enhancing and investing in what she already had. I looked at her in the warm glow of the real fire in the kitchen. Gorgeous dark hair–but filled out with extensions. Perfect figure for someone in her forties (a damn sight better than mine)–but undoubtedly helped by impossibly pert implants, something Kailash would never deign to speak about directly. A face to launch a thousand fantasies–fantasies that were helped by veneers, acid peels, Botox and plumpers. She was encased in a business suit that probably cost as much as one of the procedures she saw as an investment, and was walking in five-inch heels, looking as if she was enjoying a level of comfort that most women could only manage with a pair of Crocs. Kailash Coutts was a product. She had created herself after her early years were ruined by others. Raped as a child, left for dead by one of my father’s minions after she gave birth to me in chains, my mother had found strength from God knows where, and she had turned what men had used her for into her fortune.

‘So, what did he do for you?’ I asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer.

My mother stared at me as if I’d just asked the last time she’d picked her nose and eaten it. ‘For the girls,’ she said, ‘I’ve used him for the girls. He’s discreet and he treats them well.’

‘And he’s gorgeous,’ said Dina, one of Kailash’s favourites, a tiny little redhead from Dublin.