Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  I couldn’t deny it. He was right. I had led a charmed life to date. Although my father had forsaken me before my birth, my mother Mary McLennan moved mountains to give me the future she thought I deserved.

  Mary was born in a fishing village in the north east of Scotland. It bears no importance to my life, except for one stroke of good fortune: its proximity to Gordonstoun, the school for the Royals.

  Gordonstoun provides nine free places to children from the surrounding fishing villages. Mary McLennan lied and cheated my way into one after primary school was over. It wasn’t easy. I was an outcast, but, over the years as I saw my peer group take up soul-destroying jobs or sign on the dole, I was grateful for every time she shouted at me and made me study.

  I never quite understood her passion, to push me up the social ladder, because she was perfectly content with her own life. It just wasn’t good enough for me. Mary worked two jobs to give me the finest. I promised I would repay her selflessness one day.

  We were both cheated. If there is a God, He saw fit to deny her greatest wish–to see me graduate Suma Cum Laude from the Law Faculty at the University of Edinburgh.

  Dying from the cancer running rampant throughout her body, doctors were unable to control her pain. Delirious with morphine, she repeatedly begged my forgiveness, crying over and over again that I was meant for better. Without seeing me graduate, she would never know that she had achieved what she dreamed of. I had reached my potential. I had succeeded. Mary was a humbling mother in many ways, and the root of my addiction to work, I freely confess in moments of introspection, came from being a slave to her ambition for me.

  My reverie was shattered as Jack Deans grabbed me by the shoulders. He swung me round, directing my eye line to the car that had just pulled up outside Lord Arbuthnot’s home. An ancient two-seater Morgan roadster. Racy, with maroon and silver paintwork. The driver parked on the kerbside, directly in front of the house. Flouting the yellow lines he ignored the parking bays where we were. Obviously not an Evening News reader. Jauntily, a tanned old man jumped out with a spring in his step, which belied his years.

  ‘I thought I told you, Brodie,’ said Jack. ‘You’ve got to keep your eyes open.’

  He paused before whispering:

  ‘I was wondering if he’d show up.’

  NINE

  Jack Deans was going to be tight-lipped about this one until he alone decided it was time to speak. This man was obviously important, not merely because of Deans’ reaction, but because of the aura he had about him and which even I could sense from my vantage point amongst the bushes.

  My heart played knock and rattle with my chest. I knew this man from somewhere but I couldn’t say where. He stopped at the foot of the steps, his back unbowed with age, and his hair silvery white. We were feet from him, as I tried to blend in with the shadows of the hedge.

  Turning in our direction, as if aware that he was being watched, he looked hard. Intense blue eyes pierced out of his tanned, weather-beaten face. If eyes are the windows of the soul, his was icy cold. At best he could be described as purposeful.

  No resident of Scotland had skin like that. This man had clearly lived abroad for years–so how did I know him? Pedigree hung about him, like mist at dawn. Surely only mourners would darken the doorstep of the deceased today–but on this man, no trace of grief showed. Breeding had strengthened his upper lip.

  Jack Deans was still silent as the man turned on his hand-made leather brogues and walked up the stairs. The door was open before he arrived. His appearance was evidently expected. The door had swung open, as if by some ghostly hand; the person opening it remained unseen. Deftly, the old man disappeared inside.

  I felt a gnawing at my insides. I ached to know who he was. Shamefully, I was willing to trade anything. My voice was high and excited as I spoke.

  ‘Right, Deans, spill. If you want any inside information, scoops, whatever, now’s your chance. Tell me who he is.’

  ‘Calm it, Brodie. Don’t be so impatient. Or so desperate. It’s not your most attractive feature.’

  Since childhood, I have found it impossible to believe that patience is a virtue. My right boot tapped a salsa rhythm on the cobbles beside my bike. When anxious, I fidget. Jack Deans was enjoying my discomfort, although he seemed at a loss to understand my urgency.

  ‘Impressive old bloke, isn’t he?’ he teased me as I nodded assent.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know who he is. He was a fighter pilot during the war…’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t around then, and an obsessive interest in military history seems to have passed me by,’ I answered. ‘So, if you could get your self-importance out of a place where the sun doesn’t shine, maybe it wouldn’t kill you to actually tell me who the old codger is?’

  Jack Deans stared at me.

  ‘You don’t even recognise him?’

  It was a question to which he expected an answer. I was not prepared to give him any insight into what the sight of this old man made me think–I didn’t quite know myself, other than the vague sense of recognition.

  ‘Of course I do, Deans. It’s just that I so enjoy our never-ending verbal sparring that I thought I’d keep begging you to tell me just for fun.’

  ‘It’s Lord MacGregor,’ he revealed.

  ‘The old Lord Justice Clerk?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way, yes. Personally, I think his role as father of the murder victim is more important.’

  I wouldn’t have recognised him from court because he retired from the bench long before I was called. The only thing I knew about his career was that some still said he had retired too young and that the Law of Scotland had suffered as a result of his lack of influence.

  The need to know how I knew him still gnawed at me. A traffic warden passed his car, stopped to look at it, then, magically moved on. I was still puzzling over this. Edinburgh wardens are mean and vindictive, and generally deserve their press coverage. I personally had never witnessed one walk away from such easy pickings.

  Speaking of easy pickings, I turned my attention back to Jack Deans.

  ‘Why were you surprised that he turned up? Surely, a father-in-law would be the first one to comfort the widow.’

  ‘I wasn’t surprised,’ he sounded huffy, ‘I just said I wondered if he would. There’s a difference. I like to keep an open mind on all things.’

  I snorted before snapping, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just tell me what the score is here.’

  Resigned, he spoke. Slowly at first, as if trying to formulate it all in his head.

  ‘They fell out years ago. I don’t think they were ever close. No one knows what the cause of the argument was but Lord MacGregor refused to sit on the bench with his own son.’

  Jack Deans chewed on the end of his pen, trying to formulate his own answer.

  ‘The members of the Enlightenment wouldn’t get involved, wouldn’t even try to sort out the mess and old MacGregor resigned.’

  I ignored the way Deans had managed to bring his conspiracy theories in again and asked: ‘Was Lord MacGregor involved in the law at all after that?’

  ‘No,’ answered Deans. ‘He severed his ties and left the country, although he did keep his flash pad in town. He was a widower, so he took to wandering the globe. Finally, he settled in Thailand, and I understand he married again and has a young family.’

  The lives some people lead. At his age, I would have thought he was more in need of a pipe and slippers than a mail-order bride. It was all interesting enough, but still didn’t explain where I knew him from. I waited anxiously for Lord MacGregor’s exit from the house.

  ‘There was only one connection that Lord MacGregor kept up,’ added Deans.

  I turned to face him, but he toyed with me like a game show host pausing to increase the suspense. I moved away, keen not to let him see my interest in this matter.

  Eventually he gave in.

  ‘The only link that Lord MacGregor maintained was his post as governor at Gordon
stoun School.’

  Looking at me in anticipation, he continued:

  ‘Coincidentally, he severed that tie the year you left.’

  Again with his conspiracy theories.

  This time trying to drag me in.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jack, it’s not unusual for old boys to remain in touch with their schools. Some judges even take their judicial names from their school house.’

  Jack Deans cut me short.

  ‘He went to Eton.’

  I couldn’t think about this latest piece of information. The black-painted front door was opening, the brass lion knocker looked positively menacing. It seemed as if nothing was happening, and an inordinate amount of time passed between the opening of the door and the eventual emergence of Lord MacGregor. He walked out of the house alone.

  ‘Interesting. I would have thought if that pair had buried the hatchet, then Lady Arbuthnot would have seen him to the door,’ commented Deans.

  ‘Perhaps she’s too upset by her recent bereavement to move.’

  ‘You obviously don’t know Bunny MacGregor. Appearances count for everything. Even in death.’

  He looked at me conceitedly, and I, for one, was getting heartily sick of this game playing.

  ‘Jack, I didn’t know we were in a competition. I’m a lawyer remember, not some half-bit hack trying to steal your crown.’

  I have learned that where men are concerned flattery gets you everywhere, and Jack Deans was no exception. He softened as he looked at me (and I softened as he softened–to my shame).

  ‘You’re quite right, darlin’–and there’s no telling what trouble a rookie like you could get into if I wasn’t there to help.’

  I ignored him–again–and continued to watch Lord MacGregor. Pushing myself further back into the large privet hedge, I felt confident enough to ogle him. He seemed in no hurry to leave as he squinted his eyes, blocking out the August sunshine. Perched on the top step, he kept watch, and instinct told me he was waiting for someone. The heavy red velvet curtains in the house twitched several times. The unseen observer was also clearly wondering what Lord MacGregor was up to.

  Jack Deans inclined his head towards Lord MacGregor.

  ‘His relationship with his son was always troubled. Did you know he was expelled from Eton?’

  ‘Who? Lord MacGregor?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Lord Arbuthnot. He was officially given the chance to leave, so that he could get into another school, but rumour has it that it was serious.’

  ‘Serious? In what way?’

  I had any number of friends who should have been expelled from school, but it’s very hard to turn away twenty thousand pounds a year.

  Lord MacGregor was pacing back and forth now. He was obviously not a man used to being kept waiting. A cloud of darkness shifted across his face and, momentarily, I felt sorry for his son. I would not like to cross Lord Gregor MacGregor of MacGregor.

  Centuries seemed to fade, and I could see him in the role of war chief. Perhaps I should find out about his record in World War II. After all, he was not a man who had mellowed with age. Now glancing at his watch, the famous Highland temper glowed red, under his already sun darkened skin.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Brodie?’

  I bit down hard on my lip.

  ‘Lord Arbuthnot was expelled when he was fifteen. For being a peeping tom.’

  ‘What? I thought it was something awful or murky or at least illegal. He was just a bit of a teenage perv? If snooping on women getting dressed or on couples having it off makes young men criminals, I can retire now. On top of that, what relevance can you–even with your bloody conspiracy theories–think that pretty straightforward adolescent behaviour has on his murder decades later?’

  ‘Well, the Jesuits would have disagreed. They believed you could tell the character of a man at seven.’

  I repeated the old adage back at him.

  ‘Give me the boy until he is seven, and I will show you the man. But the Jesuits weren’t in charge in this instance, Jack. And from what I know, it would take more than a bit of schoolboy high jinks to get them to chuck out a blank cheque. For the sake of political correctness, let’s assume the theory applies to the female members of the human race too. Do you want to know what I was like at seven?’

  I didn’t wait for him to answer.

  ‘Fixated on my mother, terrified she would leave me, and clandestinely longing to lead a cloak-and-dagger life like Deacon Brodie. I was a psychiatric case in waiting. Hormones levelled out and now I am the delightful, normal vision of womanly perfection you see before you.’

  Silence fell between us, until Jack spoke again.

  ‘Christ, look who’s coming.’

  Moses Tierney was sauntering up the street. A child of the shadows, he spotted me immediately. Raising his cane once more in acknowledgment, I marvelled at his grooming. Black nail varnish must show every chip, but his was immaculate. White blond hair, dyed, spiked and gelled to perfection.

  Moses walked up the steps of the Heriot Row house. He and the father of the deceased greeted one another like old friends: two dapper gentlemen together.

  Lord MacGregor placed his arm around Moses’ shoulder in a gesture of support. Together they stood in front of the Georgian panes, staring at the twitching curtains. Whoever was behind them did not come out to acknowledge this silent vigil. Lingering for what seemed to be ages beneath the windows, I was perplexed.

  Lord MacGregor was, in effect, harassing his daughter-in-law. And he was doing it alongside the individual who had been pointed at by Kailash Coutts that morning as the real cause of Lord Arbuthnot’s death.

  Jack Deans nudged me overzealously in the ribs.

  ‘What do you make of that, Brodie?’

  ‘I don’t know–unless there’s a problem with the will or inheritance. No matter what the sum involved, death brings out the worst in the relatives. Old families have their inheritance rules laid out from way back. Probably the MacGregors are governed by the law of primogeniture. Primogeniture is a feudal law, it means only the eldest son can inherit. And the dead man has died childless. It’s a fight in the waiting.’

  My lecture was shattered by the sound of their leather soled heels, crunching, as the two men turned to face me. Dread cracked through me like a whip and weakened my legs. I moved onto Awesome, the leather bike seat feeling comforting beneath me. I moved faster than I thought possible, thrusting my empty cup at Jack Deans. I jumped up, whamming my foot onto the kick-start, and Awesome roared into life. The noise of the engine momentarily stopped Moses Tierney and Lord MacGregor in their tracks.

  I drove from Heriot Row, faster than the law allowed.

  I moved from the land of the living, to a place of death–and I welcomed the change.

  TEN

  I rarely see dead people. I try everything I can to avoid it, but when faced with the inescapable I do as I’m told. And this was something I had been told to do.

  ‘Stand aside, Ms McLennan. Unless you are intent on performing this autopsy for me.’

  On the word of the pathologist, I threw myself back against the wall. Squat and easygoing, he required space in which to manoeuvre his considerable girth. Gowned in green surgical robes, he edged past me, buttocks rubbing against the side of the wall. He held his gloved hands aloft: the tips of his fingers were already bloody, as if he hadn’t been able to wait and had already been poking about in the body before we arrived.

  Professor Patterson, police pathologist and holder of the Chair of Forensic Medicine at Edinburgh University, was now in his sixties. Born with a port wine stain that smudged over half his face, including his right eye, most of his life he had endured the nickname ‘Patch’.

  Patch was always picked last in games as a child, but he didn’t mind, rationalising that he wasn’t exactly a born athlete. Yet, even in the classroom where he had shone, he wasn’t favoured. Frustrated by this treatment, he turned to his studies and graduated as a doctor. Highly sensitive
and intuitive, Patch Patterson recognised as a junior registrar that his patients were frightened by his appearance. A resilient boy from the Western Isles, he embraced the only branch of medicine where his patients could not judge him–the study of the dead. Patch had been my Professor of Forensic Medicine at university, and had also taught Frank Pearson too. He kept people at a distance, but when he liked you, he made it obvious in his own way–he had always been kind to me as a student, and, despite the fact that he sometimes still treated me like one, he had continued his kindness towards me in my professional life.

  The body, still covered by a sheet, lay on the table, not two feet away from me. Ironically, I had never been this close to the man underneath while he was alive. In life, red silk gowns trimmed with white ermine proclaimed his status. Now, I was doing my best not to stare at the toe tags dangling from the veined blue feet with the usual collection of bunions and corns.

  Unsurprisingly, the morgue had a distinctive odour, the stale stench of death no amount of air freshener could mask. Had I been led here blindfolded, I would still have known exactly where I was. The clock on the wall showed that it was 2p.m. At this hour of the day it smelled even more unpleasant.

  ‘Death is the great leveller,’ began Professor Patterson, jovial as ever and keen to chat.

  ‘Always nice to host a reunion.’ Patch gave the welcoming smile of a genial host. ‘I met him several times at functions,’ continued the Prof as he threw the corpse a sideways glance. I was pretty sure I heard him say, under his breath, to the cadaver:

  ‘And a right arrogant bastard you were too.’

  I looked up sharply at Patch. He smiled and nodded in my direction. My eyes met Frank’s over the gurney. Simultaneously, we rolled them upwards. Although it had been several years since we had been in his class, Patch’s irreverent attitude to death could never be forgotten. Nothing, except children, was so horrific or sacrosanct that he wouldn’t make a joke about it.