They were into everything, but, strangely they were never caught, or, at least, never brought to trial. Urban myths existed about their cases being returned to the police marked ‘No Pro’, no matter what they were accused of. The ‘Dark Angels’ were, for some reason, not to be prosecuted. It was a source of speculation in the bar common room as to how they escaped detection. It certainly was not the case that they blended into the background.
In the centre of the pack, their leader, Moses Tierney, stared at me sullenly. Moses was his real name, not a carefully chosen brand addition like everything else to do with his gang, and he was born during a brief period in his mother’s life when she was junk free. I had heard that she called him Moses because he was to be her deliverer. Predictably, this wasn’t to be, and after his mother’s death, Moses was taken into care. Her only legacy to him was an overactive imagination and a flair for the dramatic. I had never observed Moses Tierney at court, nor had I glimpsed the ‘Dark Angels’ in daylight before, but I knew who he was, who they were. My gaze locked with that of Moses; he had the stare of a wolf, with pale grey, dark ringed eyes. In all this commotion, he held my attention. I suddenly felt as if he were presenting the Dark Angels to me–he wanted me to see them. To his gang, he was their Messiah, and I had to concede he had kept them out of trouble–so far.
‘Charismatic, isn’t he?’ Jack Deans had sneaked up on me again. ‘Are you wondering why they’re here?’
This time, I nodded in answer. ‘I think we all are.
What’s brought them out of their hidey holes at this time of the day?’
I was fixated on the Dark Angels. As I stood watching them, as one, they all stared at me, lifted their walking canes and raised them towards me. Almost in salute. There was no danger in their action. They then turned and slowly filed away.
‘That answers it,’ resumed Jack Deans. ‘They came for you.’
I pulled my eyes away from the bizarre homage in front of me and shot round to face Deans. ‘Are you enjoying baiting me? Winding me up about Kailash and now about Moses Tierney?’
‘I feel that’s a trick question, Brodie,’ he answered. A part of me knows you want me to say “No” and be gallant and mindful of your feelings and all sort of pish like that. But another part–roughly ninety-nine per cent–wants to ask you if you’re officially off your fucking head? Of course I’m enjoying it. You’re squirming, you have no idea what to do–I’d have to be, at the very least, a practising lawyer not to get any pleasure out of that. ‘And you get a lovely wee blush to your cheeks when you’re mad at me.’
‘Anything else you want to add before I leave with a highly satisfying picture of me kicking your bollocks from here to Princes Street?’ I asked.
‘Oooh, you been getting ideas from your client?’ Deans mocked. ‘No, I’m pretty much done–I’m happy with my lot.’
I moved towards the sanctuary of the revolving court doors–not quickly enough, as I could still hear Deans shouting something about how he preferred what I’d been wearing last night to my court attire.
Kailash Coutts was waiting for me in the cells. She looked like an exotic caged beast, completely out of place. Pacing backwards and forwards, she was ‘motoring’. Distressed prisoners do this, but my senses didn’t indicate that she was troubled. Her brow seemed to be furrowed, quite an achievement given the amount of Botox in there, as she muttered under her breath.
Something was wrong though. Kailash was immaculately dressed. Someone had brought her in a fresh set of couture clothes. The way the accused presents themselves is crucial to the outcome of a case. Generally, the better looking you are, the more chance you have of being found innocent or receiving a lighter sentence. But Kailash was an unusual case; she was turning the theory on its head.
‘I never thought I’d have to say this,’ I started, ‘but you look too…’ I was fighting for a tactful way to say it.
‘Expensive.’
Obligingly, Kailash finished my sentence.
‘Absolutely!’ I nodded, foolishly believing she might go along with my ideas. It was pretty unusual for a lawyer to have to tell a prostitute client they looked too tasteful–in this case, Kailash just seemed too good for her surroundings and I was worried the judge might be completely thrown. Murdering whores don’t often look like Halle Berry taking the day off to meander down a catwalk.
In return, and with brutal honesty, Kailash looked me over. I had brought my bike to court so that I could park. I’d worn my leathers and changed into a suit in the agents’ room. A well used high street label, my court wear looks even worse crumpled, but it usually suffices. Looking down, I could see some of my buttons were in the wrong holes, giving me an odd rumpled effect. As usual, my striped blouse was unironed. With regard to my shoes, it is sufficient to say that I could not see my face in them. In my favour, my legs were smooth and tanned although bare legs in court is deemed inappropriate in some quarters.
‘Take a look at yourself,’ she sneered as I tried to pretend there wasn’t a problem.
‘You are a professional,’ she informed me. ‘A woman of some importance, and you are dressed like…Well, you are dressed like…’ she couldn’t quite bring herself to spit the word out, and I wondered what descriptive term could possibly make a tart sound as though it was the filthiest word in the dictionary.
Kailash’s French manicured fingers stroked her flawless complexion, as she searched for the proper insult.
I tried to help.
‘A student. I look like a student. I’m always being told that.’
‘No,’ she said, wagging her index finger back and forth, as if no student ever looked that bad. She gave up on the put-down, there was clearly nothing awful enough to describe me–and continued the lecture.
‘Brodie, you are unique. How many people have escaped from their upbringing? Truly escaped? You are educated, which is rare where you come from. You are respected–to an extent, but it is still an achievement. And Brodie,’ I could have sworn her voice softened, but I could have been misled by the fact that I was starting to wonder just how she had managed to Google me while in St Leonard’s, ‘you are beautiful, no matter how much you try to deny it.’ I’ve read that if you can speak at the rate of a human heart, you can sell anything. Kailash had that gift and I needed to fight her mesmerism.
Her voice returned to normal. ‘We must work on your image.’
I struggled past the image of me striding into court à la Julia Roberts, styled by Stella McCartney, with a Nobel Prize in one hand and an Oscar in the other. It was hard to decide which fantasy was best, so I went for reality instead.
‘No, Kailash. Right now, we work on your defence.’
Worryingly, I was beginning to notice that Kailash was doing everything she could to avoid talking about what had actually happened. We hadn’t yet had the conversation I have with most clients, where I spend my time trying to get them to shut up. She already knew I didn’t want to hear that she had murdered Lord Arbuthnot, but this was deeper than that. No one pleads guilty to a charge of murder. It is simply not worth it, because there is only one sentence: life. If she told me she was guilty, it would make my job impossible, but she was being even quieter about it all than it usually required.
‘The three defences to murder that apply to you are…’
Kailash stood impassively in the corner smoking an imported cigarette. I