Broken Hearts

Lord Hunter took another sip. The cocoa was having the desired effect and he felt sleepy and relaxed. There was no way he could change the past; the secret had remained hidden for twenty years and the chances that it would surface now were remote. The more sleepy he got, the more he convinced himself of this.

The cocoa grew cold as the new Lord Chancellor fell asleep in the chair.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_25893f30-b465-51f9-b3d9-3f4e1e1c3d35)

DI Duncan Bancho rested his head on his cluttered desk and lightly banged his forehead off it until an unpleasant ache made him stop. The pain took longer to come than it had the last time–or the time before that. He knew that he was pathetic; his life was shit, no money, no promotion and no sex. It was the latter that was really bothering him just now. Peggy had been his last serious fling, and that had been disastrous. Actually, disastrous didn’t even come close. The lies and betrayal had cut him deeper than he cared to admit. Well-meaning friends tried to set him up on blind dates, but he wasn’t a man who enjoyed sex with strangers. He missed the dull, domestic routine: sitting in on a Saturday night with a carry-out pizza and a cheap bottle of plonk watching crap telly with someone he liked would be his idea of heaven.

Bancho acknowledged that his current attitude was affecting the team; even the assistant chief constable had pulled him in for a pep talk. Given that the actual words were, ‘Pull your fucking socks up you miserable bastard, you’re getting on everybody’s nerves,’ he wasn’t too sure how helpful it was, but he had to recognize that things were bad. He needed to socialize more, extend the hand of friendship to his colleagues, and all that bollocks. The detective pushed back his chair and wandered out to the operations room to grab a coffee. He put a smile on his face, which he hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt–otherwise it would frighten those of a weak disposition.

The chatter in the operations room didn’t stop when he walked in the door–that was always a good sign. He wasn’t an official weirdo yet. His colleagues were hard at work and looked just as tired as he felt; a few of them even raised their heads and nodded in his direction. Bancho straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. PC Tricia Sheehy didn’t look too shabby in this light and, even in his miserable state, he had started to notice that she was the one thing that was keeping him going at work. Sometimes the thought of her even cut a few seconds off his banging-head-on-desk routine. She poured him a cup of tar-black coffee out of the percolator.

‘Where’ve you been hiding?’ she asked as she tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear. She was medium height, medium to look at, but with a spark in her brown eyes that penetrated his deadened senses–a bit.

‘Bancho! The ACC wants you to call,’ shouted a secretary.

Bancho didn’t acknowledge her. He sipped his coffee and continued to look at Tricia Sheehy.

‘I said, where have you been hiding? You deaf?’ Tricia asked again.

‘He says it’s important,’ the secretary bawled even louder this time. ‘And I thought he sounded like he actually meant it.’

‘I heard you’ve already been in to see the boss this week…you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You best go–sir,’ said Tricia. She briefly placed her hand on his arm to emphasize that he needed to move, and a quick tingle spread through his body.

Bancho refilled his cup and took it back to his office, which seemed to have got dirtier and lonelier in the five minutes he’d been in the ops room. He put his feet up on the desk, opened the bottom drawer, took out a chocolate digestive biscuit and dialled the ACC.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, no preamble necessary between the two men, who knew that formalities only wasted time in the real world.

‘Another one’s turned up.’

Bancho stared into space. Christ.

‘His name is Alan Pearson, thirty-six, he was a mortgage broker,’ said the ACC.

‘Suicide then? Money problems?’

‘Well, that would be bloody convenient, wouldn’t it, Bancho? But why the hell do you think I’d be calling you about that? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. This is yours now; you and your bloody fancy training sessions in America need to come to the fore, my man. Get this solved, sorted, ended, whatever you want to call it–fast.’

Bancho got over his quick bout of wishful thinking and asked, ‘MO? Is it the same as the others?’ If so, this was the third in the series of killings.

‘Yes. No sign of a struggle, a syringe filled with pure heroin in the right internal jugular, massive overdose, leading to a coronary…then the heart was removed post mortem. We’ve managed to keep the removal of the heart out of the papers, but it’s only a matter of time. You’re going to have to take over on this one, Duncan, it’s definitely a series.’ The ACC said it in a way that left no room for objection. Bancho swore under his breath, regretting the day he’d ever let Lothian and Borders Police send him to Quantico for a residential course on serial killers. He’d hated it, hated the bloody Americans, all looking as if they’d stepped out of a film with their chiselled jaws and perfect hair, and hated all the serial-killer profiling stuff which he couldn’t see translating to Edinburgh. America was different, too different he thought, the geography, the people–none of it was the same over here; even while on the course, he’d constantly questioned whether there was any point to him being there.

‘Right sir,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘I’ll get the details into the system, see what we can come up with.’ Both men fell silent, sending out an outspoken prayer that the updated version of HOLMES–the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System–would come up with something. Anything.

‘You up to date with the victims so far?’ asked the ACC.

‘Surface details–men in their thirties with good jobs, married with kids. Bodies left in their cars. We’re still checking to see if there is any connection between the first two men. I take it the new one falls into that pattern?’

‘Yes, he does. What about the small stuff on the other two? Do they support the same football team, go to the same bookies, escort agency?’

‘The team are going down those avenues and a million more besides,’ said Bancho, not holding out much hope, given that nothing had been turned up so far. ‘So this is the third body in as many weeks…he’s working fast. We’d better hope he doesn’t accelerate. Forensics is baffled. Even the lab boys are stumped. The bodies are clean except for a stray hair, they’ve analysed it, but whoever it belongs to is not on any database.’

Bancho wasn’t surprised; he knew better than to rely on someone coming up with an instant answer. When this case was solved it would be as a result of legwork and good old-fashioned detective skills, he told himself–no matter what the public thought.

‘I want results before the press know what we’ve got on our hands. Someone out there must know something…You find the bastard. That’s an order, Bancho. Find him quickly.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_fd8bb3f3-9647-5749-b2c6-ebacfe564576)

Edinburgh castle was floodlit. I stared up at it and daydreamed. The night was black, making my reflection in the glass all too obvious–Brodie McLennan, aged thirty and feeling ninety. I glanced across at the huge mirror that took up the wall opposite my desk. Contrary to public opinion, I am not a narcissist, but it was a good idea to be able to practise my court speeches in advance. The mirror was actually the idea of my grandfather, Lord MacGregor, a former Lord Justice Clerk. He had very strict ideas on the standard of pleadings in court and he was determined I would meet his exacting standards, and that meant paying attention to the superficial as well. The fact that he was on a round-the-world cruise with the second wife that I hadn’t yet met didn’t mean that he wasn’t still interfering with my life, even if it was via the presence of the mirror that constantly reminded me of him. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I loved that old man, even if I never told him.

There are events that change the course of your life, and the trial of Kailash Coutts was one. Not only did I find my grandfather but my birth mother. Kailash was charged with the murder of Lord Arbuthnot, Scotland’s top-ranking judge–and my father. She walked free at the end of the trial and they walked into my life. If I wasn’t already screwed up by then, this put the tin lid on it. Kailash had been notorious throughout Scotland, and further afield, for a long time. What was in the public eye was that she was a dominatrix who pretty much ran the sex scene in Edinburgh–she’d probably tell me to emphasize that she ran the classy side, one of the many things she and I disagreed on. Kailash had been involved in a cause célèbre that had almost ruined the firm I worked for, given that one of the senior partners had found himself and his ‘preferences’ splashed across the front page of all the tabloids, thanks to his dominatrix of choice, Kailash again. When she was accused of killing one of Scotland’s top law figures, I was staggered to find myself defending her at her request–however, that paled into insignificance as events unfolded and I discovered she was my birth mother…and that the man she was thought to have killed was my child-abusing, rapist father.

The mirror showed me that I had inherited his looks and her brains. It wasn’t as disastrous a combination as it sounds at first–Kailash was one smart cookie. Long dark auburn hair hung in curls–or rats’ tails, depending on the weather–around my shoulders. I didn’t have the usual redhead’s complexion because Kailash is mixed race and I had taken some of her skin tone. None of her dress sense, though, as she constantly informed me. In her words, I looked a bloody mess. A wave of self-consciousness flooded over me as I peered at the espresso stains on my blouse. I was a messy eater; it’s why leathers were so right for me.

The buzzer sounded.

‘Brodie? A Dr Graham Marshall is on the phone and he says it’s urgent,’ said Lavender. She was in the third trimester of a much-wanted pregnancy and she sounded exhausted. I was surprised she was even answering calls–she had suffered from morning sickness so badly that she rarely made it out of the ladies’ these days. She had been grasping on to the fact that all the books her husband Eddie read assured them both that most women kissed goodbye to the nausea and vomiting once the first three months had passed. Lavender always did have to be different, though–and, at nearly seven months, it looked as if she might be one of the unlucky few who was going to throw up for the whole time. I felt sorry for her–but, after watching her and Eddie go through the misery of a miscarriage last year, I was secretly giving thanks every day she was sick as it meant she was still carrying that precious baby.

‘Make an appointment for him, Lavender.’

‘He says it’s urgent.’

‘Too bad. They always say that, as well you know. I’ve got a family dinner tonight and if I’m late Kailash will kill me.’

‘He really did sound as if it was urgent this time,’ she answered. ‘Anyway–don’t you recognize the name? He’s that plastic surgeon. He’s very good. Apparently.’ I know that Lavender–and Kailash–thought I should know every mover and shaker in the city, but recognizing the names of plastic surgeons was surely taking things a bit far? Unless there was an implication that I might need an appointment myself.

‘It’s always urgent,’ I repeated. ‘What’s it about?’

‘He won’t tell me.’

Dr Graham Marshall just went up in my estimation. Lavender was the nosiest person I’ve ever met, and if he’d managed to keep his reason for needing an ‘urgent’ appointment from her, he might be intriguing.

My watch showed that it was six o’clock and I had to be at The Vineyard for seven thirty. Kailash could do everything except cook, so we tried whenever possible to make her take us to restaurants. If I saw Dr Marshall, it would mean I wouldn’t have time to change and Kailash would give me a bollocking. No, it wasn’t worth that. This meal meant a lot to her–when Grandad got back from his cruise, she and my half-sister Connie were all going off skiing, so it was the last time I’d see them for a while. I still felt pretty pissed off that I couldn’t go due to work pressures and money worries. If I missed the meal, too, I’d pay the price.

‘I collected your dry cleaning–it’s behind my desk,’ said Lavender. It wasn’t the first time she’d read my mind; one quick glance told me my shoes were scuffed but I’d get away with it. I knew that if Lavender was thinking ahead then she’d already decided I should talk to this man.

‘Okay, put him on.’

‘Ms McLennan, thank you for taking this call. When does your secretary leave?’ I felt the hackles on the back of my neck rise. I could say things about Lavender, just as she could (and did) about me, but I’d be damned if I’d let anyone else. She wasn’t some daft secretary to be bundled away on a client’s whim. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive,’ he continued. ‘It’s simply that a man in my position can’t be too careful.’

‘Dr Marshall, I can assure you that anything said within these walls is safer than in the Bank of England.’ I knew that for a fact, because in a former life Lavender Ironside had hacked into the bank’s files. It was why she’d changed her name and moved to Scotland–I think that the bank here had so far been saved from her expertise.

‘Ms McLennan, give me an appointment tonight and I will pay you fifty thousand pounds. If I agree to hire you, I will give you a retainer of a great deal more.’

I was speechless. I hated to be bought for money because it reminded me of Kailash’s business, but a quick glance at Lavender’s face as she listened to the man on speakerphone let me know which way the land lay. She was nodding furiously, daring me to say no.

‘Six thirty will be fine, Dr Marshall. Do you know where my office is?’

‘Yes,’ was the brief reply before the line went dead.