Blood Lines Part 27

Subject: Who else is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g us?

Hi Perplexed, The answers are as follows: a) The knife in the photograph is, as you guessed, mine. It is known as a whinger specifically designed to be the length of a man's gut from navel to spine. It is a MacGregor family heirloom, another wonderful legacy from my father.

b) It is in my possession because it always belongs to the heir apparent. The family legend is that whoever takes the whinger into battle is invincible. Ha b.l.o.o.d.y ha. Until recently, i.e. last week, it was in my cutlery drawer. It's marvellous for paring vegetables with. I can confirm I have no other weapons of ma.s.s destruction if I had I would use them on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who planted that evidence.

c) I don't know how the whinger is now in the Crown Office productions. There has been no break-in to my home. The only person I can think of who could have planted the evidence would be DI Bancho.

Brodie x.x.x I pressed the send b.u.t.ton and we all waited.

'I phoned Joe and told him what's happened,' said Lavender. 'He's on his way.'

'You take too much on yourself sometimes; most secretaries would say, "I hope you don't mind ..." or "Is it all right if I ..." but not you. Lavender knows best.' I couldn't help snapping at her.

Eddie jumped off the chair; he hated confrontations. It didn't take a psychic to figure out that there was one coming this way very soon.

'You need Glasgow Joe, Brodie. I need Joe. Thank G.o.d he's on his way.'

'Joe this, Joe that do you know he's s.h.a.gging Bridget Nicholson?' I screeched at her.

Eddie's ears p.r.i.c.ked up and he broke the habit of a lifetime he got involved.

'I don't believe Joe is s.h.a.gging that woman.'

'Is that right, Eddie? Well, sadly your love antennae aren't too sharp because I saw him in her house.'

He puffed. 'Not even if I saw him in her bed would I believe it she's not his type.'

Eddie was stalwartly defending Joe. Why did he inspire such loyalty? I hated to admit that I was jealous.

I was relieved when Frank's email came through.

From: Frank Pearson

Sent: Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 2.55pm

To: Brodie McLennan

Subject: s.h.i.t

What about that new cleaner you were so b.l.o.o.d.y pleased about?

Send me details now what contractor was she from? Will do a police background check.

Frank x.x.x Lavender began, 'I've got the cleaner's details in my computer next door. Maisie who cleans for me is off on holiday next week and I thought it would be handy to use your new girl rather than an agency. I'll send them straight through to Frank as he'll need to contact Fresh as a Daisy for all the personal stuff on her.'

Lavender left my office to go next door. Her mood had immediately lifted now that she had something to do. Eddie and I faced each other, wondering what to do next.

He decided on the easy option. 'I'll make a fresh cup of coffee it sounds as if we'll all need our wits about us.'

Eddie shut the door between my office and outside. It was odd, that door was never closed. I put my hand on the bra.s.s handle to open it again, then I checked myself obviously they wanted privacy. Maybe he was advising her to leave whilst she still had a job. It's far easier to get another job when you have one.

My paranoia was running riot.

'How's it going?' A voice said as the door opened.

Eddie hadn't wanted privacy for himself; it was for Joe. He must have seen Joe park the bike outside and he scampered. Joe was still pulling his helmet off as he walked into the office; he must have run upstairs.

Dressed all in black leather biking gear, he looked like a gorgeous Darth Vader with more of a face, obviously. He wore a Liberty silk scarf round his neck, pale pink with delicate flowers. Far from detracting from his stinking manliness, it added to it.

I reached up to feel it.

'Why are you still wearing that old scarf? She wasn't your greatest fan, you know.'

He ran Mary McLennan's best Sunday accessory through his fingers.

'I know I just wanted to have her near. We had our own understanding, Brodie. Your mother knew me inside out and she held me to a standard that I can't meet. When I wear a bit of her, at least I try.'

I wanted to cry at the thought of my mother. Instead, I sat down at the computer. Frank's reply was in. Joe leaned over me; a delicious concoction of peppermint chewing gum, fresh summer air, bike oil and sunshine. I sniffed long and deep and openly. He looked down at me, puzzled.

From: Frank Pearson

Sent: Tuesday, 23 August 2005, 3.09 p.m.

To: Brodie McLennan

Subject: More s.h.i.t

Brodie, Have just checked out what Lavender sent through.

No Agnes McElhose living at Muirhouse Green, Edinburgh. There is a Robert Burns who resides there.

Robert, or Bobby, Burns is well-known in this office, and not because he has a famous name.

Have you ever seen him?

Daft question. Obviously not, I suppose, or you'd know a bit more about your new cleaner. It gives me no pleasure to say this, Brodie, but this is all shockingly s.e.xist of you. Tut tut. Did you just a.s.sume all cleaners were women?

Bobby Burns, the one who you seem to think is Agnes, lives at 252 Muirhouse Green.

Have Googled and Agnes McElhose is the name of a girlfriend of the 'real' Rabbie Burns. The poet nicknamed her Clarinda and she named him Sylvander. She was a married lady and, un usually for Burns, the relationship was platonic.

Our Bobby Burns has a warrant out for his arrest for escaping from Saughton Prison. A female social worker went in on a visit, he attacked her and nicked her flowery coat and high heels. None of the guards gave him a second glance; mind you, he's not bonny. Stupid gets, shouldn't be letting them watch Silence of the Lambs for ideas, though.

The good news is Bridget Nicholson is not his employer, she is his lawyer.

SO WHY IS SHE RISKING HER CAREER TO SHAFT YOU, BRODIE?.

Leaving the office now you can get me on my mobile.

Frank x.x.x 'Tell me you didn't?'

I could think of at least a hundred things that I would rather not tell Joe at the moment, so I kept silent.

He didn't.

'Tell me you didn't employ someone you'd never seen or met? Tell me you didn't give them a key and that you weren't always out when they were there? And tell me you didn't do all that with a notorious waster?'

My one overture of friendship to Bridget Nicholson and I hand her the keys to my house, whereby she promptly sets me up.

I looked at Joe, remembered that I had seen him in Bridget's house, and knew that although she had taken everything from me, it still wasn't enough to satisfy her hatred.

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

'It's gone.'

'What's gone?' asked Joe.

My finger was raking about in my purse, pushing the mounds of copper pennies back and forth so hard I thought the nail on my index finger would be bruised.

'The white stone that Tanya Hayder gave me years ago when she was in Cornton Vale. I always thought that if I had it, she might come out okay, and so would I.'

'You don't need me to point out that you've got more to worry you than losing a b.l.o.o.d.y pebble.'

'It's not the stone itself, Joe. I know she probably bought a packet of them in a supermarket. It's the fact that it feels like an omen.' I was on the back of Joe's bike, travelling down to Muirhouse to see if we could get our hands on Bobby Burns.

Lothian Road was already busy; the rush hour was getting earlier all the time. The air was warm and balmy and, not for the first time, I thought that being on a motorbike was the only way to travel round the city. I had my arms around Joe's waist and he felt thinner. Had he been working out? For her? I leaned against him. His leather jacket was pliable and expensive. I could almost see how it could become a fetish. Bridget b.l.o.o.d.y Nicholson crossed my mind. Again. A pang of jealousy cut through me.

We were stopped at the traffic lights beside the Caledonian Hotel. It was the perfect opportunity to talk, but I didn't take it. If Bridget Nicholson was capable of framing me, what else was she up to? Had she turned Joe against me? Even though he was there, I still felt that the world was against me. I would have put money on that being impossible only a couple of days ago, but now I suspected she was a lot cleverer than I had given her credit for.

I saw our reflection in Fraser's shop window, scattered amongst the silver mannequins in expensive dresses and outlandish shorts. What story would people make up about us as we pa.s.sed? Honeymooners on a biking tour of Scotland? It did not look as though it would be out of the question, I kidded myself.

Joe had left his Harley behind. Today, we were on his Honda Blackbird, top speed 190 miles per hour. Whatever Joe had decided he was going to do, he intended to get us there fast to do it. We turned along Queen Street, which had almost entirely been taken over by lawyers' offices. Turning left at the traffic lights, we headed towards Stockbridge; the cobbles would be easier with the bike's thick, sticky tyres. As luck would have it, we were again stopped by a red light, which helped my voyeurism. This time I couldn't keep my eyes away from the house in Heriot Row which had been my father's home. It had not been sold after his death because his widow Bunny was still alive, albeit locked up in a secure private mental hospital.

I'd been born in that house and, after Bunny's death I would probably inherit it. Not something I relished or looked forward to, although the news of Bunny Arbuthnott's death would come as a welcome relief.

I held on even tighter to Joe as we followed the cobbled road round to the left and pa.s.sed Royal Circus, a beautiful Georgian semi-circular development that would rival any architecture in Britain. Crossing Raeburn Place, I started to pray. We were uncomfortably near to Ann Street and I wasn't yet ready for a confrontation with Bridget Nicholson. I buried my face in Joe's jacket. He misunderstood my intentions and nuzzled back. When had he turned into a s.l.u.t? I fumed all the way along Stockbridge, past the pram shop and the premises of expensive interior designers.

Turning right at the traffic lights we moved up past Fettes Police Headquarters and the school where Tony Blair had been a pupil in his youth. The allotments beside Inverleith Park were busy with gardeners harvesting the fruits of their labour. Maybe that's what I was doing too.

We didn't speak all the way up Ferry Road. There was no awkwardness, though; our bodies were too used to each other to feel ill at ease. What did I expect from this meeting ahead of us? I'd been around criminals for long enough to know that Bobby Burns wouldn't be struck by a pang from his conscience as soon as we walked in the door, and offer to go straight round to the police station and confess. Whoever was running this operation seemed to be able to wield more clout and fear than Glasgow Joe or Moses. But, much as I wanted to believe it, I found it difficult to see Bridget Nicholson in the role of Mrs Big. However, the reason I was on this little jaunt was because I'd underestimated her previously, so perhaps I best wise up sharpish.

The bike drew to a stop outside the entrance to a block of flats. Four in a block, covered in graffiti, it looked as downtrodden as its neighbours. Unsurprisingly, none of these council houses had been snapped up.

'Are you coming in?' Joe asked.

'If you expect me to stay outside and keep an eye on your bike, you're mistaken.'

'I didn't mean that. I meant professionally it might not look too good.'

'Thanks for thinking of my CV but from where I'm standing, my career can't slide much further down.'

I followed him into the stairwell. It smelt sour, unpleasant, and reeked of the stench of human urine. I trod carefully over the debris of discarded chip papers. In the corner I heard a rustle, and my imagination immediately came up with images of rats nibbling on half-eaten cheeseburgers.

Joe banged on the door. 'Open up!' He looked over his shoulder but took no care to be circ.u.mspect; his reputation would buy him all the discretion he required.