Dark Angels (17 page)

Chambers Street Museum is a vast, red sandstone edifice built by the Victorians. To get to its revolving doors, you have to climb a myriad of steps–maybe that’s what puts the lawyers off. Within its hallways I have enjoyed many contented hours, at all stages of my life. As a child with my mother, I would spend long periods dangling my hands in the sizeable fishponds, trying to entice the Carp and the Koi fish to nibble at my fingers. When I was older with Glasgow Joe, the fascination with the fishponds remained, but this time
we were intent on collecting the coins from the bottom. Later, as a graduated law student it was a stone’s throw from Old College, and I sought a respite from professional exams within its peaceful, tranquil walls.

Fishy was waiting for us in the café. After Maggie’s enormous spread I couldn’t eat a thing; Joe suffered from no such inhibitions. He went off to get haddock and chips, and an espresso for me.

‘You look very smart,’ I said, commenting on his navy, pinstriped court suit. He was obviously about to give evidence.

‘What time is the trial starting at?’

A look of fury covered his face.

‘The accused pled guilty just before lunch, so, there’s another wasted day.’

There wasn’t much I could say to that, I had done the same thing myself too many times before. We sat in uncomfortable silence waiting on Joe: whatever Fishy had to say, he obviously didn’t want to have to repeat it.

Joe finally arrived, and we all squeezed round a table that was far too small. His elbows kept nudging Fishy as he worked on his meal, and I watched Fishy’s irritation grow. Pushing himself back from the table he began to speak.

‘There’s no easy way of saying this…the files that I saw six months ago have been removed from central filing. The records department maintain they’ve been lost for years, ever since the move from the annexe to the main building.’

‘But that’s not true, you handled the files, you saw them,’ I interrupted.

‘Well, their computer records back up the lie. I didn’t want to make too much fuss–the lower the profile we keep on this the better.’

I thought of Glasgow Joe’s escapades this morning, and was not surprised when he refused to make eye contact. Joe left the table on the pretext of obtaining salt for his chips.

‘I’m sorry, Brodie,’ said Fishy. ‘All we’ve got to go on is this.’

He pulled the photograph album out of his briefcase. If I had the choice I would never look at that bloody album again, but choice was exactly one luxury I didn’t have. I made a mental note to try to avoid the pictures of Laura Liddell until I felt stronger. This proved to be impossible.

‘I think it’s in chronological order, starting on the back page.’

I could feel Fishy watching me intently, as I reluctantly followed his instructions.

‘Have you no idea who sent you this…this fucking atrocity?’ I shivered as I used my fingers to open the book; the pages were sharp, cutting into my fingertips.

‘I’ve already told you; it just arrived in the post.’

I turned my attention to the first item. It was a series of newspaper clippings, yellow and brittle with age. I handled them carefully to avoid disintegration. But the newspaper articles did not refer to the murders, instead they gave details of a newborn baby thrown into the sea and washed up on Portobello beach in November 1976.

In the run up to Christmas, the discarded baby
caught the imagination of the townsfolk of Portobello, and they determined that the child would not suffer a pauper’s grave. Local businessmen set up a fund, to commemorate the baby’s short life.

‘Sickening isn’t it? Their mawkish sentimentality determines that a dead baby needs a six foot marble angel on its grave, but five miles along the coast they wouldn’t have given two bob to keep a vulnerable kid like Laura Liddell safe.’

Joe was back with his salt and we let Fishy rant. I was thinking of Maggie Liddell–no one is more maudlin than her and I’d have placed good money on the fact that she had contributed twenty-eight years ago.

The angel on the grave was a marker, a symbol of hope and decency when life is callous. Fishy still had to learn. You couldn’t solve all of the world’s problems; you have to start with the ones that you find on your doorstep.

There was another article relating to the baby. The police were looking for its mother in case she needed medical help. Such was the public furore that the wretched woman, who must have been beyond desperate to throw her baby away, would have been charged with infanticide if they had ever caught her.

The local newspaper had devoted two pages to the erection of the angel. There were tales of local primary schools running jumble sales, women’s guild selling crocheted pram covers; it appeared that all the neighbouring communities had contributed.

‘Look closely at the photographs.’

I stared and stared–what was I looking for?

‘Jesus, Brodie, look! Is that who I think it is?’ Glasgow
Joe poked the paper excitedly. ‘It is! God, she looks good–she looked like that when I first met her.’

I removed Joe’s finger to get a closer look. Sure enough, in the background at the raising ceremony stood a woman I couldn’t fail to recognise.

My mother.

A shiver ran through me. Mary McLennan, still slightly plump after giving birth to me, stood in the fashion of the time with her hair-piece piled high upon her head. She did look well, but, more than that, she looked sad. I wasn’t surprised–after five miscarriages, I was her last hope to become a mother, and cruelty towards children was something that was beyond her ken.

‘No!’

The exasperated word hissed through Fishy’s pursed lips.

‘I wouldn’t have recognised your mother. I didn’t know her when she was a young woman.’ Fishy sounded impatient.

‘Look again. Look at who I was showing you in the first place.’

This time he pointed, directing my eye to the appropriate image. Amongst the list of dignitaries, Mrs Bunny MacGregor, wife of the late Alistair MacGregor QC, Lady Arbuthnot.

‘Christ–that’s some coincidence,’ said Joe.

I felt my face tighten with anger and Fishy looked the same.

Coincidence is a word you use when you can’t see who’s pulling your strings.

The clock that sits on top of the Balmoral Hotel resembles Big Ben. It has four faces with one clock face always five minutes fast. It showed eleven o’clock now. The hotel once belonged to the railway and the management wanted to ensure that the passengers were punctual. As a student I worked at the Balmoral as a chambermaid. I started work late and left early according to whichever face suited my needs. As I waited on Jack Deans, I had time to reflect upon the fact that now I was the one who needed at least four faces.

‘Admit it, Brodie, he’s stood you up.’

Glasgow Joe was striding up and down Princes Street, edgily dodging the admiring tourists trying to take his photograph; I was loathe to admit he was right.

Raging, I tried to salvage the situation. Grabbing Joe’s arm, I crossed the street to the locus of the murder. Standing beneath the statue of Wellington on a horse, I retraced Kailash’s steps. Observing the bronze in all its detail, I conceded that from a purely professional point of view this impressive beast would
captivate her–in laywoman’s terms, he had a huge whanger.

Unusually for Edinburgh during the Festival, the air was warm. Typically, the ambience was European street life, with performers on every corner–except one. Not a soul was standing outside the gents’ toilets Kailash had claimed Lord Arbuthnot had visited in the moments before his death.

I sent Glasgow Joe in to ensure that the coast was clear for me to enter. Despite the fact that I was still standing at the horseman, I could hear Joe kicking toilet doors open and shrieking:

‘Get out of there ya dirty old poofter–does your wife know you’re in here?’

Joe’s sentiments cut through me like a hot knife in butter; at least it proved that, had Lord Arbuthnot been in the toilets, he would have heard the screaming Kailash. Following in the wake of Joe’s tirade, like rats leaving a ship (rats with their flies undone mostly), men of assorted ages ran out. I wanted to shout apologies to them but they sought anonymity, quickly slowing to a walk once they were safely away so as not to draw attention to their identities or activities.

Though deserted outside, it appeared to me that the toilets were one of the busiest venues in town–that being the case, someone else would surely have heard Kailash scream?

Glasgow Joe guarded the entrance.

‘Sounded to me as if you were unnecessarily harsh there, Joe.’

‘Some stupid old bastard thought Christmas had
come early when I walked in–you can guess the rest.’

Joe was righteous with indignation, inflamed by the fact that his suitor was a minister.

Victorians took their sanitation seriously–their moral codes were a bit dodgier and had probably laid the groundwork for the man of the cloth who’d just tried to jump Joe in a public lavvy. They had built the toilets underneath Princes Street, away from the noses, and prying eyes, of the citizens. I walked down the steep spiral staircase; the steps were narrow and Glasgow Joe moved slowly trying to accommodate his galumphing great feet.

The walls were lined with bottle green glazed tiles, cracked with age. At dado height the tiles were narrow, and formed a raised rope pattern. Above that line white oblong tiles increased the sense of height and theatricality; by the time I reached the urinals I was anticipating a spectacle. The dark teak water closets were substantially built, and there was plenty of room to accommodate a party of two. Original Thomas Crapper high cistern toilets were still in situ. It was actually a place with a good deal of atmosphere if you ignored the two matters of what it was for, and what generally happened there.

Privacy was a problem; there was a gap of ten inches between the floor and the wood. If you were so inclined, it enabled you to count the number of feet thereby discerning the amount of occupants, and perhaps having a wee look if viewing was more your thing than participating.

In recent times police have been known to place
surveillance units on such toilets. To get round this, visitors make sure they carry high-priced carrier bags with them to such venues. The ones from posher stores are better able to withstand the wear and tear rather than a cheapie from Asda. As I investigated the scene, I found it difficult to imagine the Lord Arbuthnot I knew standing with a Harvey Nichols shopping bag getting a blow job in a bog.

If this had been one of the last places he had visited before he died, what did it mean? Obviously he laid himself open to blackmail, but if Kailash was blackmailing him she wouldn’t want to kill that source of income.

The sound of footsteps came dancing down the stairs. The little man with the weak chin was crestfallen when he spied me before he spotted Glasgow Joe. I acknowledged him with a nod before leaving the almost empty toilets. I carried his sense of disappointment and the smell of the cheap pine cleaning fluid with me as I reached street level with Joe at my side.

Jack Deans was waiting for us when we reached daylight.

‘I don’t like to be kept waiting,’ Glasgow Joe snarled at Jack Deans.

‘Well then, you shouldn’t get distracted by your hobbies,’ Deans nodded in the direction of the toilets. ‘Anyway, I thought I was meeting Brodie, not you–if I had known, I’d never have bloody bothered anyway. “Hairy-arsed wideboy shags scum in public khazi” isn’t much of a headline.’

‘Better than you usually manage,’ answered Joe, clenching his fists, itching for a fight.

I was only half-listening to them. They had done this dance before, many times. What really bothered me was how much I was going to tell Jack Deans. I realised just how little I had told the reporter already–our trip to and from Cornton Vale had been pretty much silent, and I hadn’t even told him anything by way of thanks for how he had helped look after me when I was recovering from the attack. I had a decision to make–was he trustworthy enough to receive full disclosure? In my heart it was a decision I wasn’t ready to make but I was concerned that others had made it for me.

Deans offered no explanation for his tardiness. He had made arrangements to meet up with Fishy at the Pleasance as he had to review some comedy shows for the Sundays, so it looked as though Joe and I would have to tag along. Lost in thought I struggled to keep up with them as we crossed the bridges that link the New Town with the Old.

The Pleasance, which nuzzles in the shadow of Arthur’s Seat, was packed with London media types in heavy glasses, and drunken tourists of all ages looking for a good time. It’s part of the University of Edinburgh taken over as a huge comedy venue during August; the three of us entered its cobbled courtyard via the old stone archway. Within the courtyard I could just see Fishy struggling through the crowd carrying a tray laden with pints sloshing everywhere as the throng jostled him. He must have been expecting us to come with Deans–how much had they already discussed? How much did Deans know, and how much had Fishy revealed?

Pushing through the crowd towards the long trestle tables, I was taking no prisoners. It was my intention to prepare the strategy, which could, and hopefully would, save my life, and I needed a seat to be able to do it.

Fishy placed a pint in front of me, and Glasgow Joe removed it.

‘She’ll be needing what little wits she has, so, until this is over, no more alcohol.’ At least Joe was joining me in my enforced sobriety; he replaced my pint with a can of Diet Coke.

‘I think we can speak freely here.’ Jack Deans spoke first. I was sure he was referring to the venue; he appeared to take it for granted that we would trust one another. I wasn’t quite so sure, and I wasn’t about to let my secret crush on him loosen my tongue.

‘I’m glad you’re saying that we’ll speak freely, Jack, because, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve been holding things back from me–as usual.’

‘It’s natural to feel a little paranoid in your situation, Brodie.’

Red rag to a bull time. Telling me–telling any woman–that she was a bit paranoid was as good as asking if she was having her period. I wanted to ask if he would be laughing and joking if he’d been asked to defend someone who had tried to ruin him, been attacked, left for dead, and drawn into a paedophile’s murderous wank-fest. I went for the other option–try to make him feel bad on a personal level.