LITMIR.BIZ

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have learned that where men are concerned flattery gets you everywhere, and Jack Deans was no exception. He softened as he looked at me (and I softened as he softened–to my shame).

      ‘You’re quite right, darlin’–and there’s no telling what trouble a rookie like you could get into if I wasn’t there to help.’

      I ignored him–again–and continued to watch Lord MacGregor. Pushing myself further back into the large privet hedge, I felt confident enough to ogle him. He seemed in no hurry to leave as he squinted his eyes, blocking out the August sunshine. Perched on the top step, he kept watch, and instinct told me he was waiting for someone. The heavy red velvet curtains in the house twitched several times. The unseen observer was also clearly wondering what Lord MacGregor was up to.

      Jack Deans inclined his head towards Lord MacGregor.

      ‘His relationship with his son was always troubled. Did you know he was expelled from Eton?’

      ‘Who? Lord MacGregor?’ I asked.

      ‘No, Lord Arbuthnot. He was officially given the chance to leave, so that he could get into another school, but rumour has it that it was serious.’

      ‘Serious? In what way?’

      I had any number of friends who should have been expelled from school, but it’s very hard to turn away twenty thousand pounds a year.

      Lord MacGregor was pacing back and forth now. He was obviously not a man used to being kept waiting. A cloud of darkness shifted across his face and, momentarily, I felt sorry for his son. I would not like to cross Lord Gregor MacGregor of MacGregor.

      Centuries seemed to fade, and I could see him in the role of war chief. Perhaps I should find out about his record in World War II. After all, he was not a man who had mellowed with age. Now glancing at his watch, the famous Highland temper glowed red, under his already sun darkened skin.

      ‘Are you listening to me, Brodie?’

      I bit down hard on my lip.

      ‘Lord Arbuthnot was expelled when he was fifteen. For being a peeping tom.’

      ‘What? I thought it was something awful or murky or at least illegal. He was just a bit of a teenage perv? If snooping on women getting dressed or on couples having it off makes young men criminals, I can retire now. On top of that, what relevance can you–even with your bloody conspiracy theories–think that pretty straightforward adolescent behaviour has on his murder decades later?’

      ‘Well, the Jesuits would have disagreed. They believed you could tell the character of a man at seven.’

      I repeated the old adage back at him.

      ‘Give me the boy until he is seven, and I will show you the man. But the Jesuits weren’t in charge in this instance, Jack. And from what I know, it would take more than a bit of schoolboy high jinks to get them to chuck out a blank cheque. For the sake of political correctness, let’s assume the theory applies to the female members of the human race too. Do you want to know what I was like at seven?’

      I didn’t wait for him to answer.

      ‘Fixated on my mother, terrified she would leave me, and clandestinely longing to lead a cloak-and-dagger life like Deacon Brodie. I was a psychiatric case in waiting. Hormones levelled out and now I am the delightful, normal vision of womanly perfection you see before you.’

      Silence fell between us, until Jack spoke again.

      ‘Christ, look who’s coming.’

      Moses Tierney was sauntering up the street. A child of the shadows, he spotted me immediately. Raising his cane once more in acknowledgment, I marvelled at his grooming. Black nail varnish must show every chip, but his was immaculate. White blond hair, dyed, spiked and gelled to perfection.

      Moses walked up the steps of the Heriot Row house. He and the father of the deceased greeted one another like old friends: two dapper gentlemen together.

      Lord MacGregor placed his arm around Moses’ shoulder in a gesture of support. Together they stood in front of the Georgian panes, staring at the twitching curtains. Whoever was behind them did not come out to acknowledge this silent vigil. Lingering for what seemed to be ages beneath the windows, I was perplexed.

      Lord MacGregor was, in effect, harassing his daughter-in-law. And he was doing it alongside the individual who had been pointed at by Kailash Coutts that morning as the real cause of Lord Arbuthnot’s death.

      Jack Deans nudged me overzealously in the ribs.

      ‘What do you make of that, Brodie?’

      ‘I don’t know–unless there’s a problem with the will or inheritance. No matter what the sum involved, death brings out the worst in the relatives. Old families have their inheritance rules laid out from way back. Probably the MacGregors are governed by the law of primogeniture. Primogeniture is a feudal law, it means only the eldest son can inherit. And the dead man has died childless. It’s a fight in the waiting.’

      My lecture was shattered by the sound of their leather soled heels, crunching, as the two men turned to face me. Dread cracked through me like a whip and weakened my legs. I moved onto Awesome, the leather bike seat feeling comforting beneath me. I moved faster than I thought possible, thrusting my empty cup at Jack Deans. I jumped up, whamming my foot onto the kick-start, and Awesome roared into life. The noise of the engine momentarily stopped Moses Tierney and Lord MacGregor in their tracks.

      I drove from Heriot Row, faster than the law allowed.

      I moved from the land of the living, to a place of death–and I welcomed the change.

       TEN

      I rarely see dead people. I try everything I can to avoid it, but when faced with the inescapable I do as I’m told. And this was something I had been told to do.

      ‘Stand aside, Ms McLennan. Unless you are intent on performing this autopsy for me.’

      On the word of the pathologist, I threw myself back against the wall. Squat and easygoing, he required space in which to manoeuvre his considerable girth. Gowned in green surgical robes, he edged past me, buttocks rubbing against the side of the wall. He held his gloved hands aloft: the tips of his fingers were already bloody, as if he hadn’t been able to wait and had already been poking about in the body before we arrived.

      Professor Patterson, police pathologist and holder of the Chair of Forensic Medicine at Edinburgh University, was now in his sixties. Born with a port wine stain that smudged over half his face, including his right eye, most of his life he had endured the nickname ‘Patch’.

      Patch was always picked last in games as a child, but he didn’t mind, rationalising that he wasn’t exactly a born athlete. Yet, even in the classroom where he had shone, he wasn’t favoured. Frustrated by this treatment, he turned to his studies and graduated as a doctor. Highly sensitive and intuitive, Patch Patterson recognised as a junior registrar that his patients were frightened by his appearance. A resilient boy from the Western Isles, he embraced the only branch of medicine where his patients could not judge him–the study of the dead. Patch had been my Professor of Forensic Medicine at university, and had also taught Frank Pearson too. He kept people at a distance, but when he liked you, he made it obvious in his own way–he had always been kind to me as a student, and, despite the fact that he sometimes still treated me like one, he had continued his kindness towards me in my professional life.

      The body, still covered by a sheet, lay on the table, not two feet away from me. Ironically, I had never been this close to the man underneath while he was alive. In life, red silk gowns trimmed with white ermine proclaimed his status. Now, I was doing my best not to stare at the toe tags dangling from the veined blue feet with the usual collection of bunions and corns.

      Unsurprisingly, the morgue had a distinctive odour, the stale stench of death no amount

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