Blood Lines - Grace Monroe

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were checking out my arse. I could feel your eyes, Brodie. My bum felt quite hot with your lust.’

      I knew he was joking, but I still felt mortified.

      ‘In your dreams.’

      ‘Yep. What do you want my wise counsel on?’

      I reached out and took his right hand, grasping his wrist with my fingers, intertwining our thumbs. He stepped back as if I had bitten him. I couldn’t tell if it was the frisson of excitement that ran down both our bodies, or if it was the significance of the gesture. More worryingly, I didn’t know which one I wanted it to be.

      ‘Mahabone,’ said Jack.

      ‘I wouldn’t have come to see you if I had a clue what that meant.’

      ‘Okay, it’s part of a Masonic ritual. It’s the Master Mason’s word. It developed in Scotland in the mid-sixteenth century and involves the shake of the Master Mason. It’s also known as the “lion’s paw”; whoever shook your hand like that is pretty high up. He was extending the hand of continuing brotherly love – a bit different to the sort I’d like to extend to you. Did this guy do you a favour?’

      I nodded.

      ‘I thought so. A big one?’

      I nodded again.

      ‘Well, I hope it was worth it, because it might be called in.’

      ‘How many judges are in the Masons, Jack?’

      ‘Who knows how many judges, police officers, tax inspectors or anything are in the Masons? They try to keep their secrets.’

      I had a nasty taste in my mouth. Sure I’d got a great result for Tanya, but at what cost? I was disgusted with myself, using my blood line to oil the wheels of justice, even if I had bought myself some time.

      ‘Jack! Jack! You haven’t finished your story!’

      Some blonde floozy in the corner was jumping up and down trying to get his attention.

      ‘Your bimbo’s wanting you, Jack – and by the glazed look in her eyes, you’ve invested quite a bit in her.’

      ‘Are you going?’

      He stroked my arm, urging me to stay.

      ‘How did you guess?’

      ‘You’re a big girl now, Brodie. You’ll wake up one day and no one will be there.’

      ‘I can always join the Masons,’ I shouted at his back.

      He turned for a moment and looked at me.

      ‘I thought you already had.’

       Chapter Nine

      I walked in and realised that I’d kill for a cup of tea.

      It hit me hard that I had no one to make it for me.

      I slammed the front door shut in disappointment. The noise ricocheted off the old walls, and drew my attention to the damp patch on the ceiling. I meant to get a man in to see to that. I’m sure Tanya would say that I needed a man for a lot of things, as long as I didn’t put my trust in them.

      Black tea didn’t hit the spot I wanted it to. Cup in hand, wandering through the hallway to the drawing room, I was uncomfortably aware of the dust lying on the thick Georgian skirting boards. Even the smell of the house was unlived-in. I wondered for a moment if I needed a housemate. The company would be welcome and the money would help keep this old pile of stones habitable. I just didn’t need one anything like the last. Fishy had more than put me off flatmates for a while.

      The doorbell rang.

      I placed my empty mug down amongst the other dirty dishes on the coffee table. The bell continued to ring. Whoever wanted to see me was impatient. Was it Joe or Jack? Either would be welcome. But the face I saw when I opened the door wasn’t one I’d hoped for.

      ‘Are you Brodie McLennan?’

      ‘Christ, Duncan, you know I am – what game are you playing today?’

      ‘Brodie McLennan – I am arresting you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure Act.’

      ‘Is this a joke, Duncan? What are you talking about? On what grounds could you possibly arrest me?’

      I tried not to raise my voice because I didn’t want the neighbours to hear. This wasn’t the kind of area where the polis came calling.

      He ignored me and went through the routine.

      ‘You are not obliged to say anything. If you do say anything, it may be taken down and used against you in a court of law.’

      ‘Can’t you at least come in and say your piece?’ I fought the tears.

      ‘Get your shoes, Brodie.’ He’d given up looking at me when he spoke.

      ‘Duncan – can’t you be reasonable?’

      ‘I’ll come in – while you get your shoes.’

      Detective Inspector Duncan Bancho stood silent and stony-faced whilst I put my bike boots back on.

      ‘It’s a few years since I’ve been here, Brodie, but this place has gone downhill,’ he said. I got ready and walked down the stairs with Bancho. I sat like an automaton in the back of the police car, mercifully unaware during the journey to St Leonard’s.

      Sergeant Munro was on the front desk. Did that man ever go home? He was restrained and businesslike as he took my details. I even saw a spark of pity in the his eyes. Then I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t afford to lie down and let DI Bancho kick me.

      ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ I asked, as I sat down on a hard plastic chair in the interview room.

      Duncan nodded curtly at his colleague. ‘Detective Constable Margaret Malone will be assisting me today,’ Bancho informed the tape machine.

      DC Malone smiled across at me. She looked as if she must have put weight on recently; either that or she had shrunk her shirt in the wash, because the buttons were straining fit to burst. Her wispy blonde hair was in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she looked more like an air hostess for a budget airline than WPC Plod.

      ‘Call me Peggy,’ she said as she reached over and shook my hand.

      Peggy responded to Bancho’s unspoken put-down.

      ‘What? It’s not as if she’s your average criminal. She’s entitled to be treated with a bit of civility.’

      Duncan’s eyes flickered with anger, but interestingly he said nothing. Peggy, on the other hand, lifted her chin and looked up into his eyes. It was obvious that she had just put him back in his place and I couldn’t help but smile.

      Peggy Malone bent over the table, her tight black skirt clinging to her. Duncan Bancho stared at her, entranced, probably hypnotised by the hip–waist ratio of the creature in front of him who was fiddling with his recording device. I gratefully watched this domestic tableau, because it meant that he was ignoring me.

      Bancho walked up and down, towering over me. He left for five minutes but it seemed like an eternity.

      ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Peggy broke the silence and smiled at me.

      ‘She’s getting nothing at the moment,’ said Bancho, walking back in.

      ‘Are you two playing good cop, bad cop with me?’ I asked.

      Peggy smiled again.

      ‘Do you want us to inform anyone that you are here?’ Her voice was quite posh, obviously well-educated – probably from a good girls’ school. What had made her join the police?

      Normally, this was the stage when I got a call from my

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