Broken Hearts

‘How does that help?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d prefer it was some ugly bloke cutting me up rather than one who I was going to embarrass myself about. I’d want to know he knew what he was doing rather than just been making himself look good.’

‘He does,’ said Dina, ‘he knows exactly what he’s doing. But where’s the harm in having someone who you wouldn’t kick out of bed?’

‘Who wouldn’t you kick out of bed?’ asked Rochelle, an Amazonian New Yorker who was one of Kailash’s newest acquisitions. Kailash had been on a bit of a spree lately, bringing in quite a lot of new workers, and I liked this girl a lot–she still seemed as if she was in control, as if she could walk away from this life any minute. ‘If they pay enough, they get to stay even if they look like…’ She paused. ‘A shitey arse. Right?’ Kailash had an international operation. Listening to this United Nations of whores always made me laugh: it was like foreign footballers on the telly suddenly coming out with Glaswegian accents just because they’d been at Celtic for a month. ‘This guy? Your mom put me in touch with him when I first got here,’ she told me. ‘I knew a few surgeons back home who were okay with working girls, but this one–he’s actually a nice guy. Doesn’t want to turn us all into porno lookalikes–looks at what you’ve got and makes it even better.’

‘What’s he like off duty?’ asked Dina.

‘Arrogant,’ I said.

‘The best surgeons are…Why has he retained you?’ Kailash asked. ‘You don’t do commercial work.’

‘I don’t think it’s commercial.’

‘Well, you don’t do medical negligence cases either,’ she said.

‘For the sort of money he’s offering, I could learn. Anyway, I don’t know what his exact problem is and if I did I wouldn’t tell you…client confidentiality,’ I said. All I knew was that Marshall had seemed to hint that it would be a criminal charge. ‘I’m sorry I wrecked the dinner. Was Connie disappointed?’

‘Yes, she was, but she’ll get over it. She’s all drama and hormones just now anyway.’ I looked closely at my mother when she said this, but there was no sign of resentment. I was born when Kailash was only thirteen–she hadn’t had the luxury of being a stroppy teenager like my half-sister Connie.

‘What about you? Do you forgive me?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got work to do,’ Kailash answered. ‘Good luck with Dr Marshall.’ She planted a cold kiss on my forehead, giving me a taste of my own medicine. Kailash was a harsh disciplinarian–it was the quality she had built her fortune on. I should have known better than to break the golden rule–family, family, family. But, if this was my family, they were all telling me one thing–I shouldn’t judge Marshall too quickly. These girls weren’t stupid, they could read people, and he seemed to have their vote. I had my own little research group here. I could only assume that Marshall was about to be sued by a client for some sort of malpractice and, if he had fucked up someone’s face or whatever, they must be even richer than him, given the amount of money he’d offered me. This might be interesting after all.

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_7c280e48-0604-54e5-adac-0e5e5668c847)

She knew that the body had been found by now and she assumed that the police were treating it as a serial case. Actually she could only ever make assumptions about what the police would do. All she knew for sure was that they were stupid. That they screwed up. That, even when they had a cast-iron case, they still got things wrong.

She needed to leave them in no doubt.

Ever since she had got here, she had known that this was where it would end. The years of waiting, of being used and being treated like a victim–it all stopped here. There were things that she couldn’t get out of her mind, images that wouldn’t go away, but these days she had other pictures to put in their place. When you knew what you were doing (as she undoubtedly did), there was a comfort to be found in killing. She felt that she had found her purpose in life–and God knows she had needed one for so very long.

There were those along the way who had helped her to get to this place, and they were often good people. They had no idea that they were assisting her to do what she needed to do, but they were part of it, nonetheless. However, there were others, of course there were others, who had been the real impetus. She thought about it for a moment. She had no way to describe what had been done to her. There were no words. There were no emotions. No one could understand. No one could empathize. But it had happened. It was done. Now, all she could do was make sure that the payment was exacted from the right place.

She had her methods by this point. There had been a lot to organize and it had taken a while to do it, but she was exactly where she needed to be. She thought back on the three men already dead at her hands. She laughed to herself, a low, soft noise that made her seem gentle and warm. She had read all of the books on how to do this, on how to avoid being caught, and on what killers do. She couldn’t believe that some of them kept mementoes, trophies. She had all of that in her head. She had nothing against those men as such–yes, she hated them, and had taken their lives, but it wasn’t personal. What on earth could she have taken from them? They were just symbols in themselves. Was she expected to fill her handbag with cufflinks? Locks of hair? Photos of them in their final moments? She had what she wanted from them–their bodies, their deaths; and the absolute knowledge that they had helped her.

Since she had arrived here, it had all been so easy. These men, they all thought their needs were so important. Each of them so easy to spot. She always looked for particular cars–single businessmen were no use, she needed to make sure that they were guilty beyond her own certainty. Bigger cars, expensive cars, but ones with baby or booster seats. Little triangles on the back saying ‘baby on board’. Mr Men sunscreens that had been rolled up but were still identifiable. Good men, good fathers. Making sure their children were safe, happy and provided for. And while they themselves were away from home, what was wrong with a few minutes of downtime?

Every businessman in every city in the country knew where to go. If they didn’t, there were websites to tell them. There had always been so much publicity about the red-light district in Edinburgh that it wasn’t hard to find. Even if the girls had been moved around a bit, it didn’t take much to discover where. The drugs were everywhere, too. Edinburgh had changed. There used to be less dependency amongst the prostitutes in the capital than in other cities, but in the last couple of years it had got as bad as anywhere. Cheap rates for everything. That worked well for her on two levels. She could get heroin easily and for next to nothing. And because she was clean, good looking and articulate, she appealed to the better class of punter as soon as he rolled down his window.

The first one? He couldn’t believe his luck. Neither could she. It had been so easy for both of them. When she approached his car, she had expected to be nervous, but there was actually an amazing feeling of calm. She had been without true purpose for so long that this felt like the real thing, as if she was finally doing what she should be doing. His accent was closer to hers than she felt comfortable with, so she’d had to make adjustments there, but she had learned from that point not to be so worried. It wasn’t as if her victims were going to be around to give the police clues. She laughed softly to herself again. Her stomach had lurched at one point–not when she killed him, but when she had to…do what she had to do. The next two were easier. She was getting better, and she’d keep getting better.

Now–now she had to find the next one. Time was pressing on. This had to end.

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_d4354c31-f9e9-5eea-8c00-6cb1051833ac)

I was driving slowly because the rain-soaked cobbles were dangerous, and lack of speed meant my helmet visor was steamed up. By the time I reached Suzie Wong’s in George Street I needed a stiff drink, or six. The weather had forced people off the streets, and even Edinburgh’s premier night spot–as described by its totally unbiased owner–looked deserted.

Music echoed round the cavernous cellar, but the bar staff outnumbered customers. Moses Tierney, club owner and leader of the Dark Angels, looked pissed off at pretty much everything. It didn’t appear my welcome here would be any warmer than at Kailash’s but I was proved wrong very quickly, and not for the first time. Moses waved at me as soon as I came into his line of vision, and pulled a bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

‘I hope that’s not the watered-down stuff you sell to your customers,’ I said, accepting a glass, knocking it back quickly and indicating that I needed an immediate refill.

‘It’s not watered down, Brodie–it’s just a brand no one quite appreciates yet. This is the real McCoy though.’ Moses was celebrating my result in the murder trial. He hated the Boyle family for reasons that were not entirely known to me, so anything that upset his rival, Ma Boyle, was a source of rejoicing for him. A rumble of high heels and raucous laughter weaved into the bar in the guise of a huge hen party. Moses’s eyes lit up. His night had just got even better. Left alone to prop up the bar, I watched the staff spring into action. They shook and stirred sixteen cocktails in record time, which was just as well, because the girls looked as if they would swallow them as fast as the barman could make them. The party would definitely have passed Kailash’s scrutiny test. Spray-tanned to within an inch of their lives, I hated to admit they looked gorgeous, young, and vibrant. It would have taken a good chunk of Dr Marshall’s cheque to have paid for their hair extensions alone, and I wondered how they could afford it–then one glance in the mirror at my own sorry reflection told me that their money had been well spent.

Moses ignored me, continuing his banter with the girls as he filled up my empty glass at the bar. The bottle was almost finished: surely I hadn’t drunk that much? My empty stomach growled and the drunken dizziness hit me like a sledgehammer just as Glasgow Joe walked in. He didn’t acknowledge me. I’m not sure he even had time to notice I was sitting there as the hen-party girls swamped him, sticking their hands up his kilt in a desperate bid to find out if he was a true Scotsman. He didn’t put up a fight. Behind the drinks dispensers were smoky mirrored tiles. I couldn’t avoid my reflection, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. I looked old. My ex-husband looked gorgeous and every girl in the hen party agreed with me. I’d split up with Jack Deans, my sort-of-boyfriend, three months ago, and I was having romantic thoughts about the spin cycle on my washing machine, so the sight of Joe combined with all the champagne I’d glugged on an empty stomach was having quite an effect.

Glasgow Joe was the bad boy from my childhood. I’d hankered after him for years as we both pretended to be just friends, and then I married him in a cheap Vegas ceremony that lasted longer than the marriage itself. I still hankered after him.

He came up behind me, hooked his finger in the loop of my trousers and whispered, ‘How about you and I get out of here, gorgeous?’ I guess he must have noticed me after all. I swivelled round to face him. Joe was about twice my size when I was sitting, and he had to bend down to speak into my face. He had a broad face with chiselled cheekbones and a couple of faded scars above his brow. Like an old tomcat he wore the marks of previous fights well. His collar-length hair was swept back from his face; a couple of stray grey hairs were obvious at his temple. His skin was clear and tanned and he had a touch of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He was untouchable–nobody who didn’t have a death wish messed with him–and I’d thrown him away on more than one occasion.

God, the drink was getting to me.

Glasgow Joe held my chin with his free hand, and his dark eyes stared into mine. He didn’t blink. They say that people in love stare into their partner’s eyes for eighty per cent of the time–it stimulates the sex hormones. Mine were certainly beginning to stir.

‘There’s a lot to think about,’ I slurred.

‘What’s there to think about? I’m promising you more booze, a carry-out pizza with up to three toppings of your choice, and any sexual position you can think of-within reason.’

‘The pizza sounds good.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, darlin’–you like the sound of the rest of it too.’

‘I need time to think,’ I said, guzzling some more champagne and trying to sound ladylike. The truth was that I would have jumped on Joe quicker than the pizza order would have been ready, but, even in my drunken state, I knew that he didn’t do one-night stands. At least, not with me. Anything more was a scary prospect, at least for me. Every reconciliation we’d ever had had broken down because he’d wanted to get married again, have children, and settle down. The more I learned about my own history, the less likely that seemed to be an option. So I pushed him away. I insulted him and bristled at him. I told him I wasn’t interested in anything but casual sex, and then flaunted Jack Deans in his face. And all the time I was desperate for him.

He could probably see my forehead furrow with all of these thoughts.

‘You’re thinking too much, Brodie,’ he growled, kissing my neck. ‘Let me go over the high points for you–food, drink, sex.’ His finger was still hooked into my trousers. I inadvertently glanced at the door–and that’s how I ended up with Glasgow Joe back in my bed again. As if I didn’t have enough trouble in my life.

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_8fea13c7-922c-5f21-84f1-95cc38b76266)

Kailash keeps telling me that I need to act more like a lady–usually I tell her to piss off (which seems to highlight her point), but sometimes I see what’s she’s getting at. What went on between me and Joe when we first got back to the flat stays between me and Joe. Afterwards? Well, that’s a different matter.

By the time I’d managed to drag myself out of bed, he was snoring softly and the first rays of morning were creeping in through the wooden blinds of my bedroom windows. I crept through to the kitchen, pulling his T-shirt over my head as I walked, smelling everything I liked about him on it. I didn’t know whether to wake my flatmate Louisa up as I guessed she’d probably been listening all night anyway–maybe I should just get the postmortem over and done with. I decided against it. I wanted to keep this to myself, even exclude Joe, just for a little while longer.

When I was with him, when it was just the two of us, everything seemed so right, but as soon as I started thinking about things, I went down the road that had caused us to split up more times than I could count. Where could this possibly lead? I wasn’t the type for settling down. I wasn’t maternal. It would be obvious to anyone who knew the tiniest part of my life history that what I had come from was never going to make me average wife-and-mother material, but the truth was that I did actually have lots of strong women in my life–they just weren’t enough to convince me that I could do what they had done in their own ways.

My mother, Mary McLennan, had been my rock. I had been through the time of worrying whether I was being horrible to Kailash by still thinking of Mary as my ‘real’ mother, but Mary had done everything for me and I missed her more and more as I got older. Kailash? She had given birth to me, and she had saved my life, but she was hardly the perfect Mum. How much of that was my fault, I don’t know. Malcolm had been right when he had said that she would do anything for me, but I still reacted against that. What sort of mother could I possibly be when my own background was so fucked up?

I knew that it was what Joe wanted–was that enough? On top of everything, I’d watched what Lavender and Eddie had gone through last year and it had broken my heart. They had wanted that baby so badly, we all had, and when Lav had had the miscarriage, I had felt so hopeless. Now, every day was a day closer to the baby she was desperate to have–but the pain wouldn’t stop there, would it? She’d be terrified all her life, never knowing if she could truly protect it. I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope with that, and I didn’t know whether I had enough love in me.

Joe wouldn’t give in. He persevered, told me we were made for each other, and I wanted to believe him so badly–and every so often we fell back into bed again. Were we going to follow that pattern forever? This was part of it–me, alone in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, thinking about things too much and being torn between those thoughts and yet wanting to just think about how much I…loved him. I did. I loved him. I’d be buggered if I’d tell him, though.

‘You thinking about me?’ came the voice from behind my left shoulder.

‘That you, Louisa?’ I asked, refusing to let myself soften at his words.

‘No offence–but do I look or sound like that weird wee lassie? Nice weird wee lassie that she is,’ Joe answered.

‘Want a coffee?’