Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  The corridor at the bottom is a dark one. Deep in the bowels of Parliament House it saw no natural daylight. The ceiling is low, and the walls seemed to come in to meet me. I forced my eyes to the floor, concentrating on the red runner carpet. Dog-eared in places I could see the hessian backing.

  Outside the Octagonal Room I hesitated.

  The Octagonal Room is clearly so called because it is in the shape of an octagon. Dark panelled wood covers the walls so it feels mysterious and clandestine. Bookshelves line the panels; every copy of Punch ever published is housed there. Large Georgian windows reach from floor to ceiling; tiny lead panes form diamond patterns.

  The light had gone but I could see that one of the eight chairs that sat around the octagonal table had been pulled out.

  My stomach fell as I looked harder at the occupant of the chair.

  He sat on it quietly and rested his hand-made black brogues on the table.

  Not a care in the world.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Somerled Buchanan. Roddie’s oldest nephew, and one of the slickest bastards that ever walked the earth. Except that he wasn’t a bastard. He was, in fact, son and heir to one of the Highlands’ most extensive estates, one of the few estates still in Scottish hands.

  ‘Still recognise me then, Brodie?’

  Somerled didn’t speak with a Scottish accent, for he had been educated at Ampleforth, the Yorkshire school rich Scottish Catholics sent their sons to once Fort Augustus Abbey had been closed.

  Silence reigned as we drank in every detail of one another. Expelled from school for smoking dope, he was a disappointment to his mother who had named him after an ancestor who was one of the greatest Celtic heroes; the original Somerled was given the title of Lord of the Isles for himself and his descendants. The Lord of the Isles considered himself above the Kings of Scotland for his lineage was older–and that was part of Somie’s problem. In a prototype brat camp, he had been sent to New Zealand to a sheep farm to reform his character. I doubted it would have worked–and I probably wouldn’t have wished it any other way.

  Somie’s hair was black like coal, with veins of white through it. Deep lines crinkled round his eyes as he smiled at me. The sun’s rays weathered his face, and hard work had honed his body in the fourteen years since we had last met. Love can do many things but never underestimate the power of hate–like a strong electric current it ran wildly through my veins. There was no doubt for me that they were two sides of the same coin.

  ‘You look good–I always knew you would grow into your face.’

  He gave a small laugh; glancing over me he stood up to offer me his hand. I hesitated. His palm was large and calloused. It hung in midair for a long time–under normal circumstances it would have been embarrassing.

  ‘You still have eyes like a wild cat, Brodie–bronze with little flecks of gold that flash when you’re angry…like now.’

  He was still laughing at me. I could feel his breath warm and pepperminty on my face. Taller and broader than the last time I had seen him, if I held myself back, I’d still have to say he was the most gorgeous creature I’d seen in years.

  Taking off his black jacket, he placed it on the back of the chair. My eyes flicked appreciatively over his body, taking in the way his shoulders narrowed into his waist. Looking uncomfortable in his grey striped trousers, he sat down on the chair again and pulled me to him. Feeling the pressure from his fingers on my waist, I was forced to acknowledge that he had beautiful hands, even with calluses. I abhor small, sweaty, soft hands on a man–Roddie’s hands are like that; too many men in the law have hands like that, but Somerled was a different type of man altogether.

  We continued to stare at one another, while he held me by my waist. Neither of us looked away. It was like a game, the first one to do so would be the loser. Neither of us liked to lose, and I was already one set down. Looking into his eyes had an unfortunate effect. I felt familiar unwanted stirrings. It wasn’t him I told myself; it was simply a physiological effect. Looking into another human being’s eyes stimulates the feelings of love. When couples first meet they gaze into each other’s eyes eighty per cent of the time. Newborn babies fix their eyes on their mothers to establish a bond. I was rambling in my own mind, trying to assert some control over myself. I know these things, because court work is a psychological drama. Knowledge is power.

  Pulling me again, this time I was unbalanced, and I landed on his lap. Lifting my legs he placed one either side of him. For Somie the years of childhood friendship, and more, made him feel entitled to act in this familiar fashion. For me, it was more basic. I tried to ignore his growing erection.

  ‘You know, Brodie, it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t contact you. I couldn’t write to anyone for sometime–Roddie screened all of my correspondence.’

  I flushed. So Roddie did know more about me than I wanted him to–had he sent Somie here to get his own back on me for this morning?

  ‘You could have sent a message through Mariella,’ I replied.

  ‘Don’t fool yourself–my little sister is a bitch. She was always jealous of you.’

  ‘I know about the bitch part, but the jealousy is a new one. At school, she was forever pointing out to me that I was only there on a scholarship funded by your grandfather–I was the outsider: the scrubber she called me because my mother had a cleaning job.’ Angry tears filled my eyes–the nastiness that lies between girls can still cut deep years later.

  ‘I was only fourteen, Somie,’ I whispered.

  ‘You were nearly fifteen.’

  ‘I was fourteen.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t much older, Brodie.’

  He waited a few moments before saying, ‘We knew what we were doing. We knew exactly what we were doing. We were starting from the same place and we both wanted the same thing. You weren’t a victim, Brodie–you were my equal. You’ll never be a victim.’

  I bit my tongue to stop myself from telling him everything that had happened recently. I wanted to tell Somie, but I didn’t want to tell Roddie Buchanan’s nephew. I distracted myself by paying attention to what was happening. Undoing the buttons on my jacket, Somerled slid it from my shoulders, and laid it carefully on the polished walnut table. Betrayed by my body, I wondered if the dead girls had felt the same. Placing the palms of his hands over my already erect nipples, he moved them lightly, slow circular movements on my thin white silk shirt. My head fell back and my eyelids lowered as I gave in to what I wanted. Placing my arms around his neck, he fumbled with the small pearl buttons at the front of my shirt.

  ‘Why so many? I take it you weren’t expecting anything like this?’ His voice was low with lust.

  ‘Let me.’ I took over and undid them all.

  ‘It was all you last time, Somie.’

  ‘Brodie McLennan–that’s not how I remember it.’

  ‘It’s not how you choose to remember it. How do you think it happened?’

  ‘I was in the library at home, bored, looking through my great grandfather’s photographs. My sister and her friends were running upstairs. You were tailing after them as usual, being excluded. I felt sorry for you. They always left you out.’

  ‘So you were being kind when you asked me in to the library?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought you might want to see my great grandfather’s photographs.’

  ‘So…it was educational?’

  ‘It depends on your definition of education–my grandfather was a dirty old bastard–those snaps were pornographic; artistic but pornographic none the less.’

  I stared coldly at him. Did he know he was bringing things into my mind that I was trying to push away? How much was he aware of? I had loved Somerled but never entirely trusted him. That hadn’t changed with the passage of time.

  ‘In my defence,’ he began, ‘I had just turned fifteen–and everyone knows that boys mature more slowly than girls.’

  ‘I was a virgin,’ I spat out at him.

  ‘So was I,’ he answered.

 
; ‘You didn’t tell me that before.’

  ‘All boys like to pretend that they are Jack the Lad.’

  ‘You lied, Somie–you lied about that, and everything else. Those photographs were obscene.’

  The castle at Dunmore housed one of the finest collections of Victorian erotica in the world. The family was ashamed of Somerled’s great grandfather’s predilection for photographs of naked young women. The problems had really started when he pretended he was a camera pioneer and had taken the young girls up to his studio. There was nothing the families on the estate could do. The cottages were tied, and he was the Laird.

  ‘When I entered the library I did it innocently; you asked me to sit on your knee so that we could look at the pictures together–because there was no other chair.’ My voice was hot with indignation. I even sounded to myself as if I was protesting too much. Only a fool would fail to see that my body was responding in a completely different way to my words, and Somerled was no fool in these matters.

  ‘Like now, Brodie? Back then you saw there was one over by the window–you just pretended. You were the one who led me on.’

  I placed my hand over his mouth, burning at the memory. He kissed my neck, and walked his fingers up my thighs.

  ‘Christ, Brodie, you’re wearing stockings. What kind of woman wears stockings in court?’

  ‘The sort that thinks there won’t be someone sticking their hand up there uninvited–and that if it is welcome, there might be a bit of reciprocal appreciation.’

  ‘Even the last time we met, you reeked of sex, Brodie.’

  ‘I’ve told you–I was fourteen.’

  ‘It was two days before your birthday.’

  I was surprised he remembered.

  ‘You just keep saying you were fourteen to make me look bad–and you the innocent in all this. I’m telling you, Brodie–I’ve slept with a lot of women since, but I’ve never met any who were as ready as you were that day.’

  Slipping my fingers onto his lips to silence him again, I started to undo his tie, placing it on the table.

  ‘Let’s make a pact, and forget what happened all those years ago,’ I said.

  ‘What if I don’t want to forget?’ Somie replied. ‘I thought it was one of the most character forming experiences of my life.’

  ‘It shaped my personality too.’ I choked on bitterness and anger. Then I felt him kiss my neck, and the room swam for a bit as I indulged my baser self. I could feel his breath on my ear, and it sent shivers down my spine.

  ‘On top of that, Brodie, you’re conveniently forgetting we had sex again that night.’

  I reached over to the table lifting his green and blue striped silk tie. Opening his shirt I ran my hands down his chest, the small hairs catching on my fingers. His pectorals were hard and developed. I could see his six-pack had no covering of fat. Holding his tie in my hand, I spoke softly into his ear.

  ‘We disagree over what happened back then, Somie–but let me give you something now you’ll remember for the rest of your life.’

  Somie’s eyes widened, his pupils were dilated, he was having difficulty restraining himself.

  ‘If you don’t wait…if you move in any way to satisfy yourself…then I’ll walk out of here.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ His voice was husky. Kissing, he held me tightly as I fought to stop losing myself in him. Holding his hand in mine, I pushed it effortlessly behind his back; soon his other one joined it. A knowing smile flicked across his lips. Using a reef knot I tied his hands to the chair (for the first time I was glad about the sailing lessons I was forced to take). Playfully, he pulled his hands but he was stuck fast. Reaching down I tackled his belt, slipping it easily from its notch; Somie closed his eyes to savour the experience as I pulled his trousers to his feet.

  We kissed, he held me tight, and I lost myself in him until I strapped the belt round his ankles, fastening him tight. I stood up, and he waited expectantly for my next move.

  ‘Why did Roddie send you?’ I adjusted my clothing; my back was to him as I modestly sorted myself.

  ‘He asked me if I could bring you this package,’ he nodded over his shoulder to a brown paper package on the table. The chair rocked as Somie moved, a flicker of comprehension lighting his eyes.

  ‘Did you ask Roddie why he didn’t give it to me himself?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did.’

  ‘And?’ I said impatiently.

  ‘And he said that he’d had enough of you for one day–and since I was at Parliament House would I give it to you?’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Right now, Brodie, I find it all too easy to see how you could upset people.’

  His face was flushed as he struggled against his bonds; ignoring his plight I ripped the paper from the parcel, and let it stand. A black Gucci handbag, twelve inches long with a pebble leather shoulder strap, and the distinctive GG monogrammed fabric. This bag was so expensive that ordinary mortals had to rent them from the internet or buy cheap copies from Ingliston Market. The owner of this bag was no chav; this was the real deal. There was only one woman I knew who would have the money and inclination for this sort of thing in her wardrobe.

  ‘Why did Roddie give you Kailash’s handbag? Kailash’s stolen handbag?’ I picked it up, without remorse, and hit him across the face with it. Poking it into his chest, I spoke again.

  ‘Admit it–Roddie chose you to do his dirty work because blood is thicker than water.’

  I could feel my heart pounding as if it was bouncing between my throat and feet. Somie would do whatever Roddie told him. I pulled out the contents of the bag.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  He shrugged his shoulders uncomprehendingly.

  ‘This is my practising certificate. What does Roddie plan to do? Phone the police, and tell them I’m withholding evidence?’ I poked him again. ‘Do you know what would happen to me? I would be charged with perverting the course of justice–do you know what that means?’

  I wasn’t getting any answers from him at all.

  ‘Two to five in Cornton Vale.’ My skin crawled at the thought of the cell where Kailash was currently detained.

  The penny had dropped, he nodded his head, and the smile fell from his face. Turning quickly, I held tightly onto the handbag, and ran out of the room, I had to move fast in case I changed my mind. I continued to run up the stairs.

  My only stop was when I paused at Prather’s desk to report a strange noise coming from the Octagonal Room.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘There’s nae flesh so fine but the worms will eat it,’ Patch Patterson pronounced the next morning as he walked up and down his tiny overcrowded office inside the morgue.

  ‘…Your life’s in danger, lassie, why will you not speak to the police? Officially…’ he added, looking around at the assembled gathering.

  Fishy, Glasgow Joe, Jack Deans, the Professor and myself were fighting for air in a windowless office the size of a prison cell. Joe had just come back from the Royal Infirmary after visiting Frank Pearson, and we’d all breathed a sigh of relief at the news that he was going to get through this–whether his reputation would survive intact was another matter. Joe and I may have arrived in time to save his life, but we couldn’t stop hospital staff from passing on information about a PF brought in after auto-erotic strangulation gone wrong. Whoever was behind my attack and Frank’s hanging had either made two mistakes in leaving us both alive, or had meant to leave us completely baffled as to what the message behind all of this was.

  I turned my attention back to my assembled friends, colleagues and other wasters. ‘We’ve already been over it, but I’ll repeat it again if it’s necessary.’ I addressed them as if they were five years old, and a bit slow at that. I moved over to the white board and put up the evidence in the case, perhaps if it was down in black and white the Professor could be persuaded round to my way of thinking.

  ‘The evidence, and events, come from a variety of sources,
but I’m going to list them in chronological order, so far as I can. I’ll also list who was involved, and where their involvement lay:

  23 November 1976 a baby was washed up on the foreshore at Portobello

  3 March 1977 the ceremony to erect the memorial to the unknown infant

  Fact: my mother, Mary McLennan and Bunny MacGregor were both present. Coincidence?

  As I mentioned my mother and Bunny in the same breath, my heart jumped. But I didn’t have the time and this wasn’t the place to go over how unsettled I was.

  ‘Patch, this is where you come in.’ I noticed that his whole face was now puce from tension as I was about to go over the nadir of his career.

  2 July 1980 the first body in the bin bag found 10 October 1985 the second body in the bin bag found

  15 August 1986 the third body in the bin bag found

  5 December 1990 the fourth body in the bin bag–we now know the identity of the fourth girl to be Laura Liddell

  I turned to Patch for confirmation. He nodded and added: ‘The DNA results came through this morning.’

  ‘And that’s the first time you’ve been able to identify a body?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘It’s incredible that you were unable to get anywhere with these cases.’ Jack Deans meant it as a compliment, acknowledging that Patch was one of the finest forensic scientists in the world, but it did not come out as he had intended, and Patch bristled.

  ‘Every pathologist has cases to which he cannot find the answers–in these cases I simply did not have enough body to work with. The bodies were not dissected with any finesse; so, the killer was probably an amateur or a very clever professional hiding his skills. Every crime scene was contaminated, the bodies were badly decomposed, and there were no reports of missing girls.’ He finished defending himself against the accusation that Jack had never levelled, as Glasgow Joe broke the tension.