Dark Angels Page 4

  I looked over to see what was keeping her so busy.

  ‘You could at least wait until I left the room,’ I said.

  ‘You’re showing no signs of going,’ she retorted, unashamedly rifling through my briefcase. ‘You’re so untidy–don’t you realise I have to try and make some sense of all this scribble?’ She pulled my notes closer to her face.

  ‘Kailash Coutts?’ Her eyes narrowed in contempt.

  ‘I knew we were desperate to get clients, Brodie, but I didn’t for one moment think things were this bad.’

  ‘How do you think I feel? I’ve been up half the night because of that woman.’

  Why didn’t you say “no,” then? You’re the one who’s prostituting yourself if you can’t say “no”.

  ‘I tried–but Roddie wouldn’t let me. Well, his wife had some say in it too.’

  ‘I hope that sounds as pathetic to you as it does to me,’ she retorted.

  ‘Look at me, Lav–look at my life.’

  ‘You haven’t got one–you work all the time trying to dig yourself out of a hole caused by Kailash Coutts. A hole that’s getting bigger. We’ve got one jury and three summary trials plus the custodies to be covered in Edinburgh today, and it could all blow up in our face because of that woman. Again.’

  ‘Well, here come the cavalry.’

  I could see movement through the glass panel in my office door.

  In they trooped.

  Robert Girvan–smart and sharp as any bankrupt could be. He had a restricted practising certificate because his senior partner had messed up the firm’s accounts and, like me, Robert was jointly and severally liable for the debts. He was my warning. If at any time I felt like bunking off, I thought of Robert and a shiver ran down my spine. We both knew that was why I gave him work.

  Danny Bishop–nice guy shame about the face. He was scarred from his cheek to his chin. Legend had it that he went out with his client’s girlfriend and was offered the choice–his balls or his face. Most people knew that although he had chosen the latter, the experience had taken his balls anyway.

  The trainee was following him, smart-suited and relatively eager, she wasn’t to know that they all looked the same to me; even the ones who were pretty much my own age.

  Trailing up the rear, both physically and metaphorically, was David Bannatyne. He had his own firm until he left his wife and developed a habit of picking up young men and taking them home only to find that they had loaded his gear into his car and driven off into the sunset without him.

  These were my Ronin, the ones who were going to save the day. In spite of their personal problems, if you could actually get them into court, they had a flair not often found in the more clerical amongst us.

  They perched their backsides on any available ledge and looked at me expectantly. As was usual, Lavender handed out the coffee before I dispatched the files and instructions for the day’s work. I started with the trainee.

  ‘HMA v Marjorie Pirie; it’s a High Court trial. Donnie Dunlop has already been instructed and he appeared on the last date in court–it was continued from the fifth of June because a crucial prosecution witness went into premature labour. It’s straightforward. Just do exactly as counsel tells you and don’t bad mouth the judges to the client.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ the youngster protested.

  ‘A friend of mine agreed with a divorce client that the Sheriff was a bastard for giving his wife an interim aliment settlement of £250 per week.’

  ‘So?’

  David Bannatyne shook his head and got up to refill his coffee.

  ‘Have you never heard of murmuring a judge?’ he asked.

  The bemused trainee shook her head.

  ‘Well, it’s a criminal offence–a judge can say anything they want to you, but if you make any smart remarks back, inside court you’ll get done for contempt, outside court, it’s called murmuring.’

  ‘Thanks, David–I’ve put you down for the jury trial. It’s on the list for today but it’s unlikely to start. I think, as usual, they will have a number that will plead. This won’t–inside the file I’ve put a list of recent cases. Andy Gilmore was stopped by police–they searched his car because it was messy with CDs–and they thought the CDs were stolen. In the course of the search they discovered cocaine–it was an illegal search because it’s arguable that they didn’t have justifiable cause to stop and search in the first instance.’

  ‘Cheers, Brodie–take it you thought I was the man for this case because I could argue that my car is messy?’ He pulled the file from my outstretched hands–a smile curled round his lips.

  ‘What am I doing today?’

  Danny Bishop looked tired, he was in his early fifties and, although the scar had faded, time was pulling the left side of his face down faster than the right giving him an odd lopsided grin.

  ‘A two cop breach–in the district court.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  I turned to face Robert Girvan who was looking at me expectantly.

  ‘You’re going to be watching my back in Edinburgh-Sheriff court–I’m covering the custodies.’

  He looked at me as if to question whether that was everything–I knew that I should warn him that all hell could break loose around me, but somehow I couldn’t find the words.

  ‘The two summary trials are pretty straightforward. Smile at the fiscal and see if you can get them both put in the same court. One is a breach of the peace. My client assures me the witnesses won’t turn up.’

  Robert winked at me. ‘That’s the kind of trial I like.’

  He liked it because I still paid him for a full day in court.

  ‘And the other?’ He waited with interest.

  ‘The other one is solicitation–Maggie Jones giving a client a blow job in his car.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Brodie, why are we taking this to trial?’

  A grimace flickered across his face. I hadn’t fancied doing this trial either but Maggie was a ‘good client’, namely she was a heroin addict who did anything and everything to fund her habit. Repeat business was always handy.

  ‘Okay, Brodie, tell me the defence to this one–please don’t say it was because she didn’t swallow.’

  Our humour at anytime of the day is black or lavatorial–preferably both.

  ‘No, it’s not–better than that, Rob. The arresting officer didn’t see any money change hands–so our argument is that she wasn’t soliciting, she was doing it for fun.’

  ‘Terrific–at this point I’d like to state it’s me who has to make that argument in court, not you.’

  ‘Trust me,’ interrupted Lavender. ‘Brodie would rather be making any spurious point than what she’s got to do today.’

  My eyes locked with hers, daring her to say anything more. As usual she ignored me.

  ‘Well–you’re not saying anything and they’ll find out soon enough. Brodie, in her wisdom, is representing Roddie’s whore.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Robert. ‘Not Kailash?’

  Lavender nodded.

  Robert stood up. He tilted his head and spoke softly.

  ‘Why?’ is the last thing he said as he left for court.

  I had stopped asking myself the same question–I was already in too deep.

  SIX

  At around 9.45a.m., Edinburgh Sheriff Court resembles ‘Paddy’s Market’. Squalor and clamour abound, as young men with cheap suits and even cheaper tattoos scramble for justice. At the same time, lawyers with overdrafts and considerably more expensive suits clamber for clients–it’s hard to work out who is more desperate.

  Preoccupied, I pushed my way through the throng. Journalists jostled with juvenile delinquents, and all of them seemed to want a piece of me.

  ‘Hey, Brodie!’ A young man, proudly sporting a tattooed blue line across his neck with the immortal words ‘CUT ME’, called out to me. ‘I’m thinking of changing my lawyer.’

  Tattoo Boy knew that the press were here to see me and he wanted to be
part of the action. Young men like him are known as ‘dripping roasts’, highly prized at the Edinburgh bar for being cash cows. Their criminal activities, and subsequent trials, bought most of the Mercedes cars parked outside court. I didn’t like to turn down such a plea as his, but I had other things on my mind. For one, Jack Deans was bearing down upon me.

  ‘I hope you’re not feeling as bad as I am, Brodie.’ His voice sounded rough, like heavy-duty sand paper. I was feeling dreadful and he was always guaranteed to bother me one way or another. I’d ignore him. That was always classy.

  ‘So, Lord Arbuthnot is no more,’ Deans mockingly intoned. ‘How does it feel to be representing his killer? Real step up the old career ladder there, eh?’ I kept ignoring him, this time because I had no answer, not for Jack Deans or myself.

  BBC Scotland moved in to the gap that had opened up as I moved away from Deans. I had no comment for them either. Disconcertingly, I heard a reporter describe me on camera as the rising star of the Scottish bar. For how much longer, after I’d dealt with this corpse of a case, they didn’t deign to tell me.

  The public space in front of the courthouse was even more crammed than usual. Everywhere, people mixed cheek to jowl, everywhere, that is, except for one tiny corner. This wasn’t just a piece of ground–this was territory. It belonged to the Dark Angels. Instantly recognisable, their garb was almost a marketing strategy. Long black leather coats. Peroxide white hair worn long and poker straight for the girls, spiked crew cuts for the boys. Black hats, and short black painted nails were obligatory for both sexes, as were the silver-topped black walking sticks they all carried. Their skin was alabaster white, as if they would shrivel in the sun.

  They were into everything, but, strangely they were never caught, or, at least, never brought to trial. Urban myths existed about their cases being returned to the police marked ‘No Pro’, no matter what they were accused of. The ‘Dark Angels’ were, for some reason, not to be prosecuted. It was a source of speculation in the bar common room as to how they escaped detection. It certainly was not the case that they blended into the background.

  In the centre of the pack, their leader, Moses Tierney, stared at me sullenly. Moses was his real name, not a carefully chosen brand addition like everything else to do with his gang, and he was born during a brief period in his mother’s life when she was junk free. I had heard that she called him Moses because he was to be her deliverer. Predictably, this wasn’t to be, and after his mother’s death, Moses was taken into care. Her only legacy to him was an overactive imagination and a flair for the dramatic. I had never observed Moses Tierney at court, nor had I glimpsed the ‘Dark Angels’ in daylight before, but I knew who he was, who they were. My gaze locked with that of Moses; he had the stare of a wolf, with pale grey, dark ringed eyes. In all this commotion, he held my attention. I suddenly felt as if he were presenting the Dark Angels to me–he wanted me to see them. To his gang, he was their Messiah, and I had to concede he had kept them out of trouble–so far.

  ‘Charismatic, isn’t he?’ Jack Deans had sneaked up on me again. ‘Are you wondering why they’re here?’

  This time, I nodded in answer. ‘I think we all are.

  What’s brought them out of their hidey holes at this time of the day?’

  I was fixated on the Dark Angels. As I stood watching them, as one, they all stared at me, lifted their walking canes and raised them towards me. Almost in salute. There was no danger in their action. They then turned and slowly filed away.

  ‘That answers it,’ resumed Jack Deans. ‘They came for you.’

  I pulled my eyes away from the bizarre homage in front of me and shot round to face Deans. ‘Are you enjoying baiting me? Winding me up about Kailash and now about Moses Tierney?’

  ‘I feel that’s a trick question, Brodie,’ he answered. A part of me knows you want me to say “No” and be gallant and mindful of your feelings and all sort of pish like that. But another part–roughly ninety-nine per cent–wants to ask you if you’re officially off your fucking head? Of course I’m enjoying it. You’re squirming, you have no idea what to do–I’d have to be, at the very least, a practising lawyer not to get any pleasure out of that. ‘And you get a lovely wee blush to your cheeks when you’re mad at me.’

  ‘Anything else you want to add before I leave with a highly satisfying picture of me kicking your bollocks from here to Princes Street?’ I asked.

  ‘Oooh, you been getting ideas from your client?’ Deans mocked. ‘No, I’m pretty much done–I’m happy with my lot.’

  I moved towards the sanctuary of the revolving court doors–not quickly enough, as I could still hear Deans shouting something about how he preferred what I’d been wearing last night to my court attire.

  Kailash Coutts was waiting for me in the cells. She looked like an exotic caged beast, completely out of place. Pacing backwards and forwards, she was ‘motoring’. Distressed prisoners do this, but my senses didn’t indicate that she was troubled. Her brow seemed to be furrowed, quite an achievement given the amount of Botox in there, as she muttered under her breath.

  Something was wrong though. Kailash was immaculately dressed. Someone had brought her in a fresh set of couture clothes. The way the accused presents themselves is crucial to the outcome of a case. Generally, the better looking you are, the more chance you have of being found innocent or receiving a lighter sentence. But Kailash was an unusual case; she was turning the theory on its head.

  ‘I never thought I’d have to say this,’ I started, ‘but you look too…’ I was fighting for a tactful way to say it.

  ‘Expensive.’

  Obligingly, Kailash finished my sentence.

  ‘Absolutely!’ I nodded, foolishly believing she might go along with my ideas. It was pretty unusual for a lawyer to have to tell a prostitute client they looked too tasteful–in this case, Kailash just seemed too good for her surroundings and I was worried the judge might be completely thrown. Murdering whores don’t often look like Halle Berry taking the day off to meander down a catwalk.

  In return, and with brutal honesty, Kailash looked me over. I had brought my bike to court so that I could park. I’d worn my leathers and changed into a suit in the agents’ room. A well used high street label, my court wear looks even worse crumpled, but it usually suffices. Looking down, I could see some of my buttons were in the wrong holes, giving me an odd rumpled effect. As usual, my striped blouse was unironed. With regard to my shoes, it is sufficient to say that I could not see my face in them. In my favour, my legs were smooth and tanned although bare legs in court is deemed inappropriate in some quarters.

  ‘Take a look at yourself,’ she sneered as I tried to pretend there wasn’t a problem.

  ‘You are a professional,’ she informed me. ‘A woman of some importance, and you are dressed like…Well, you are dressed like…’ she couldn’t quite bring herself to spit the word out, and I wondered what descriptive term could possibly make a tart sound as though it was the filthiest word in the dictionary.

  Kailash’s French manicured fingers stroked her flawless complexion, as she searched for the proper insult.

  I tried to help.

  ‘A student. I look like a student. I’m always being told that.’

  ‘No,’ she said, wagging her index finger back and forth, as if no student ever looked that bad. She gave up on the put-down, there was clearly nothing awful enough to describe me–and continued the lecture.

  ‘Brodie, you are unique. How many people have escaped from their upbringing? Truly escaped? You are educated, which is rare where you come from. You are respected–to an extent, but it is still an achievement. And Brodie,’ I could have sworn her voice softened, but I could have been misled by the fact that I was starting to wonder just how she had managed to Google me while in St Leonard’s, ‘you are beautiful, no matter how much you try to deny it.’ I’ve read that if you can speak at the rate of a human heart, you can sell anything. Kailash had that gift and I needed to fight her m
esmerism.

  Her voice returned to normal. ‘We must work on your image.’

  I struggled past the image of me striding into court à la Julia Roberts, styled by Stella McCartney, with a Nobel Prize in one hand and an Oscar in the other. It was hard to decide which fantasy was best, so I went for reality instead.

  ‘No, Kailash. Right now, we work on your defence.’

  Worryingly, I was beginning to notice that Kailash was doing everything she could to avoid talking about what had actually happened. We hadn’t yet had the conversation I have with most clients, where I spend my time trying to get them to shut up. She already knew I didn’t want to hear that she had murdered Lord Arbuthnot, but this was deeper than that. No one pleads guilty to a charge of murder. It is simply not worth it, because there is only one sentence: life. If she told me she was guilty, it would make my job impossible, but she was being even quieter about it all than it usually required.

  ‘The three defences to murder that apply to you are…’

  Kailash stood impassively in the corner smoking an imported cigarette. I prayed she was listening to me. This was all a damn sight more important than taking me for a makeover.

  ‘Alibi. That means it wasn’t you. You were somewhere else when the murder happened. It helps if you have a credible witness to back you up.’

  Fleetingly, I wondered if she knew any credible witnesses. To be openly associated with Kailash Coutts was social, and professional, suicide. A cold, slow, shiver ran down my back, like an ice cube meandering down my spine. I was in that category now.

  ‘Then, there’s self defence,’ I continued. ‘But, you are only allowed to use reasonable force, and in your case it might be tricky, given that it is the Lord President who’s dead.’

  Kailash raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if I did not know my own profession. Regrettably, she might be right.