Dark Angels (18 page)

‘But you made me feel like that even before I knew about the threat. I’m not paranoid, Jack–I just know too many shitbags.’

Deans’ silence condemned him. He was definitely withholding information from me, I could tell from his body language.

The photo album lay on the table between us. I laid my arm across it proprietorially; there was no way Deans was getting to see the contents without telling me what he knew.

He leaned across, and whispered in my ear.

‘Did you ever wonder why you had risen so high in such a short time, Brodie?’

It was a rhetorical question, for he barely had time to draw breath before he began again.

‘I have. I’ve often wondered how dirt with a degree–no offence meant–is the rising star of the Scottish Bar. Even getting a traineeship at Lothian & St Clair should have been beyond you. I’ll bet Roddie Buchanan secretly despises you. Ok, you’re bright…but you needed the high profile cases and since I’ve watched you get above your station, I’ve wondered just who has been opening doors for you. Have you ever asked the same questions, or are you just so bloody sure of yourself that you assume it’s all talent and hard work?’

Jack Deans was too close to the mark; the only thing he got wrong was that Roddie’s scorn was open, not secret. Calmly, I removed his hand from my shoulder while he continued to talk.

‘Either way, and in case you’re interested, I haven’t figured out who your invisible benefactor is yet.’

‘Break it up, you two,’ interrupted Fishy. ‘We’ve got a big enough fight on our hands. First of all, I’d like to bring you up to date on what I did today. The
official files are gone–and I don’t think they’ll turn up anytime soon–so I contacted Frank Pearson and tried to pull a few strings for old times’ sake.’

Fishy looked smug, ignorant of the fact he was heading for a fall. I just sat back, and watched who would deliver it. As it turned out, it was Jack Deans who exploded.

‘You stupid bastard–do you realise what you’ve done?’

It was another rhetorical question; Deans obviously thought he had all the answers. He leaned back gathering his energy for the next onslaught. Disconcertingly, I was more aware of how good-looking he was. Even at times like this I could find a moment to curse my father; if a man was mad, bad or sad I was attracted to him. But a man who was emotionally unavailable to me was best of all, and Jack Deans had thrown down his gauntlet.

‘I’m dealing with fucking amateurs…’ he said disgustedly. I could see Fishy about to answer him, and then wisely, at the last moment, shut up.

‘If that book you’ve told me about is part of what I think it is–and your mate is as thick as you are–then you’ve just signed his death warrant.’

The colour bled from Fishy’s face. Jack Deans was right, and that was more important than Fishy’s hurt feelings.

‘Christ, we’d better get hold of the poor sod,’ said Glasgow Joe, springing into action after watching the show in silence since it began. He took the Procurator Fiscal’s mobile and home numbers from Fishy. Before
he left the cobbled courtyard to make the phone calls he looked at Jack Deans.

‘Don’t let her out of your sight until I take over again–it’s not too shabby a job, Deans.’

It was an order, and one that was obeyed immediately. As Joe vacated his seat, Jack Deans slipped in beside me. He knew what mattered, and this was more important than their pissing-against-a-wall boy’s niggling.

Deflated, Fishy watched Joe with his swinging kilt walk away–so did most of the women and half the men in the crowd. Deans brought him back to the moment.

‘There’s no room for error here, Sturgeon–let me see what you’ve been sitting on for the last six months.’

Fishy pushed the album in front of him. Jack Deans let out a moan even before he had opened it.

‘I’ve heard about this,’ he said, as I wondered what story lay behind that innocent statement.

Jack Deans normally protected his sources. I watched as he stroked its leather bound cover–if I wanted more information out of him then I would have to make him feel as if we were on the same wave-length. I have always been fascinated by mentalism, old stage acts that pretend they can read the minds of an audience. My interest had led me to America and India in the past to study with old practitioners before their knowledge was lost. Most modern psychological techniques have their roots in magic; it was written in the old grimoires that if you copied a virgin’s breathing and then tightened your anus, you captured her soul. I loved that
sort of stuff, one day thinking it was nonsense, the next believing it was the truth of the world. There was definitely some useful information in what I had learned. I doubted that Jack Deans was a virgin, I certainly hoped not, but I knew that if I mirrored his body movements, his subconscious mind would believe that we were, in the widest sense, ‘soul mates’. I didn’t bother to clench my anus as that seemed a tad extreme, but I did wait for my actions to take effect before posing my next question.

‘Tell me how you’ve heard of it?’ I asked, expecting an answer and getting one.

‘On 7 May 2001, there was a break-in at Fettes.’

His voice was slow, and measured; I sensed trust in his eyes. Fettes is the central police headquarters in Edinburgh. Located in an expensive suburb, it is situated opposite the boarding school of the same name that Tony Blair attended.

Jack was too slow for Fishy, who interrupted.

‘That’s right, a group of protestors from the Animal Liberation Front broke in and sprayed graffiti on the walls–but nothing was taken.’ Fishy smiled at me, seeking acknowledgement that it was good to have someone on the inside. But when all was said and done he was a policeman, and they were sensitive about the embarrassing break-in.

Jack Deans shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

‘That’s the official line, Thick Boy–or should I say the official lie.’ I had learned from my limited dealings with Jack that you had to let him tell his tale in his own style–rambling. Journalists tended to be thwarted
storytellers. I was certainly frustrated listening to it unfold, like Fishy I wanted him just to cut to the chase.

‘It wasn’t protestors from the Animal Liberation Front. The thieves did steal files–all of them have been recovered except one, and I think this,’ he tapped the photograph album loudly, ‘is part of the missing file.’

He drank long and deep from his pint before continuing.

‘That’s why I was late, Brodie–I was afraid to come. Afraid of what might happen if I got involved again.’

I found myself warming to him as if we had a deep connection. Abruptly, I pulled myself up. The mirroring of the breath works two ways, and my subconscious mind was starting to believe Deans was Prince Charming.

‘Just get it over with and tell me what you know about this album.’ I was of the same opinion as Joe; apologies would be no good to me if I were dead. I had noticed that Deans still hadn’t opened the album up yet to look inside.

‘After the break-in there was a rumour that it had happened. Of course, officially, nothing had gone wrong.’

‘You can understand that…it doesn’t make us look very good if our headquarters is breached.’ Fishy was understandably trying to defend his colleagues, yet I found myself bridling.

‘Quite.’ Jack was terse and off hand. ‘I received a call–from a source…’ Jack was uncomfortable and mindful that Fishy was a cop. He thought long and hard before he spoke again.

‘The source informed me that a break-in had occurred–and that it was most definitely not a protest over animal welfare. He told me that files had been taken and directed me to a rubbish bin where he had left some photocopied papers of the files.’

Giving forth that information was noticeably tiring for him, as if he were about to release a burden held onto for too long. Taking a long slow deep breath he began again.

‘The papers that I saw talked about this album. I’m not sure whether my life would have been easier if I had it back then–but I’m damn sure I wouldn’t be sitting here with you today.’

The PA system crackled and announced the comedy show that Jack was there to review. In spite of the fact that it was one of the most sought after tickets in town, none of us budged. The need to know more rooted me to the spot, and I moved as the pack shifted around us.

We were the only silent grouping in the courtyard–it took several gulps of Guinness before Jack was ready to talk again.

‘I had to be very careful regarding the laws of libel…’ He looked at me accusingly and I knew what he was wanting–contrition. He had been one of the journalists involved in the Roddie Buchanan debacle. I didn’t think of that as my attacking Jack because I had sued the newspaper not the individuals involved. It looked as though he had different ideas.

‘At least you still have enough blood in you to look shamefaced, Brodie McLennan.’

‘Jack–I apologise to no man; or even half-men like you that I feel quite sorry for. I was doing my job and
I’d do it again–anyway the break-in at Fettes was
before
Roddie’s case.’

He ignored me and continued.

‘The article that I turned in was nothing more than a news report detailing the break-in; it said nothing about the papers or missing files.’

Under his breath, he added, ‘Thank God.’

He went on. ‘Anyway, before it was even published, I was arrested by the Serious Crime squad. They detained me for six hours and then I was released, pending a formal complaint.’

Rolling his head round I could hear the bones in his neck snap; it wasn’t attractive but somehow he still was. A battle scarred war-horse: I was falling for all the stories, and he was laying it on thick.

‘That wasn’t the worst of it–the article was never published. I was sacked for…shall we say,
spurious
reasons.’

‘I heard you were fired because you drank too much.’ Fishy was on the attack now.

‘For Christ’s sake man: I always drank too much. I’ve never met a newspaper man–or woman for that matter–who didn’t. Well, none of the ones I’d trust.’

Jack Deans didn’t sound angry at Fishy’s comments, just resigned. Maybe he’d tried to justify this part of the story too many times before.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’ve never really had serious work since then, which was why I had to resort to working on the “Daily Tat,” but your Ladyship put paid to that.’ He lifted his pint of Guinness, and raised his glass to me.

‘I’ve always been curious; how did you get that story?’ I made eye contact with Jack Deans, and held his stare, every part of me looking for a lie. There was none but that didn’t mean that his answer didn’t surprise Fishy.

‘Kailash.’

The word that said it all.

I composed myself to cross-examine Deans. As the condemned, I felt I had that right.

‘Who tipped you off about the photocopies of the files?’

‘As I’ve said, it wasn’t the Animal Liberation Front.’

Jack Deans was trying to be difficult, but I could teach classes on obstinacy. I gave him a look that hopefully indicated I would let Glasgow Joe beat it out of him if necessary.

‘Jack, I didn’t ask you who it wasn’t. I want answers–I want them now.’

His eyes looked down to his left; he was recalling and formulating facts. Some minutes elapsed before he spoke, but I can find unknown patience when waiting on a reply.

‘It’s hard to describe him, Brodie–I keep my sources close to my chest. Never know when someone might start asking hard questions about me, so I like to keep them on side.’

He watched me to see if I was buying this story, but his body language checked out. Unless he was a psychopath, and nothing would surprise me just now, then he was telling the truth.

‘How do you know that all the files have been recovered–except this album?’

‘I’ve lived with the consequences of that break-in for longer than I care to admit–my life has been put on hold.’ He turned towards Fishy. ‘Now, does that sound familiar? I know it’s their standard operating procedure–destroying your reputation is always the first hit. In my case they said I was a falling down drunk–who’s going to believe a guy like that? You’ve had some of that treatment too, Plod, haven’t you? What was it? Traffic division and promotions stalled? Well–unless you’re keeping something from us, you’ve been bloody lucky. You’ve still got your reputation.’

‘How can you say he’s been lucky, Jack?’ I exploded. ‘How selfish can you be? You were a drunk, you
are
a drunk–they were right with you! But Fishy’s the brightest graduate recruit they’ve ever had. Spit it out, Fishy–you had dreams of becoming the youngest Chief Inspector they’d ever had. This must have ruined that for you?’ I looked at Jack Deans as I spoke to my friend: ‘Tell that supercilious bastard that he isn’t the only one with dibs on hardship round here.’

‘Aye, Plod,’ interfered Jack Deans, ‘what screws are they turning? Traffic division is a nice wee rest not a death sentence. And no promotion? Unless you know the right handshake you were never in line for that in the next decade anyway. What have they
really
done? Banned you from the Jaffa cakes for a month? Said you can’t get freebies off the tarts down the docks until after Christmas?’

Fishy looked uncomfortable and I felt it. Just as much, I hated the idea that he would tell me anything
new with Jack Deans sitting there. What could be so bad that he hadn’t told me before?

‘There is something,’ he began. ‘Brodie, I’m so sorry, I know I should have told you, confided in you, but it’s been so hard. You haven’t been around, and I just can’t get past this. Can’t get past it at all.’

‘Past what, Fishy?’ He ignored me and sat with his head in his hands, staring at the wooden bench in front of us.

‘Fishy? Answer me. How bad can it be? I’m a bloody lawyer! We can either deal with it or we can sue–those are great options. Tell me what it is and we’ll choose the best one.’

‘The word on the street is that I’m a beast, Brodie. You got an option that’ll wash that away?’

My eyes flicked towards Jack Deans. This was scurrilous beyond words, and obviously the true explanation behind Fishy’s insomnia. ‘Beast’ is criminal slang for a sex offender. The only honour I have ever found amongst thieves is that they take any opportunity to assault sexual perverts with a predilection for children.