Grace Monroe - Dark Angels

Had the Marx Brothers suddenly been arrested, dragging in Laurel and Hardy with them? Had Tommy Cooper come out of cryogenic hibernation to announce a new career in law enforcement with Ricky Gervais and John Cleese as his loyal sidekicks? Or had some fat sweaty bastard of a useless copper just tried–in vain–to score a lame point against someone who wouldn’t shite on him if he paid Kailash rates? Whatever the reason, St Leonard’s erupted with joy at the witticism launched into posterity–Anderson wouldn’t be able to move for bacon butties and Irn Bru for the rest of his shift given the joy he had bestowed on his colleagues with his pathetic introduction. I vaguely recalled our last meeting–a police assault case involving some wealthy young pro-hunt protesters. I won, although the verdict owed more to the judicial loyalties of the bench, than any great legal point on my behalf. Every dog has its day, and this was Sergeant Anderson’s. His young posse were enjoying his bravado, especially the ones who had also received a tongue lashing from me when they had appeared in the witness box.

Just as I was trying to boost myself with the facts of my incredibly superior existence and immaculate professionalism, I caught sight of my reflection in the plate glass windows of the station. Normally, my best feature is my hair; at the moment it looked like the stuffing that escapes from horsehair settees. Dark auburn curls had turned to frizz with the help of the damp night air and my motorbike helmet. The rain and spray from the roads had soaked through my leather jacket, leaving me no alternative but to remove it. I should have known better. I was wearing my favourite t-shirt, soft, grey, and very worn. The kind of garment you wear to bed when your mum says you look a bit peaky. Unfortunately, in this scenario, I don’t have the sort of cleavage which makes a police station full of men look away. They didn’t like me personally and they hated what I stood for–but all that could be forgotten amidst the amazing revelation that I possessed breasts. Sergeant Anderson’s moment of glory was stolen as an entire cop shop launched into a communal wet-t-shirt fantasy. It could be worse, I told myself, before remembering that the belt buckle holding up my leather trousers bore the Harley legend: ‘Born to Ride’.

As I followed Sergeant Anderson to the staircase door leading to the cells, I tried to block out the hilarious comments being lobbed my way. There was no denying that I enjoyed the attention that came from being a court lawyer when it suited me, and on my terms, but tonight, going into whatever lay in front of me, I could do without anyone’s eyes and remarks. In fact, I’d have paid good money for an uptight Marks and Spencer suit and button-down shirt. I didn’t exactly look the picture of legal respectability, or the embodiment of my infamous claim to fame as youngest solicitor advocate in Scottish legal history. Still, no matter that I could hide behind all sorts of professional titles such as Writer to the Signet (alongside Sir Walter Scott, no less)–in this place, I was the lowest of the low: a lawyer and a woman. Even my client could probably expect better treatment than me. God knows what she would make of my appearance–actually, she’d probably think that she was being visited by one of her peers, and not a very good-looking one at that. Alongside wondering how Kailash Coutts would interpret me, I also briefly thought of what my mother would say–discomfort made me shut that voice off pretty sharpish.

Sergeant Anderson and I formed the start of a cavalcade as we moved down into the bowels of the station. We weren’t alone for long–passing by offices, we were joined by their occupants on spurious errands. They all wanted to see it. To witness the showdown between myself and Kailash Coutts.

How would I react to meeting with the woman who was accused of killing another member of my profession?

How would I react to meeting the woman who had asked for me by name to represent her even though we had nothing but a history of mistrust and deceit?

How would I react to meeting the woman I had always suspected had called the papers to set up Roddie Buchanan and almost ruin me in the process? Although I was Roddie’s junior partner, under Scottish law, I was jointly and severally liable for the debts of our entire firm. This meant that the creditors could come to me for the money had the scandal ruined Lothian & St Clair. I, in turn, would have had to sue Roddie to see a penny of that money ever again. It was a close thing. The scandal and gossip arising out of the Kailash Coutts debacle threatened the very existence of the firm. Clients were bleeding away. Our overheads, mostly high spec offices in Castle Terrace, were prohibitive, and the bank had called in our overdraft. Unpredictably, the last moment change of heart from Kailash Coutts saved us. By signing the spurious affidavit about Roddie’s single rather than dual bollocking, she gave me the ammunition to raise the defamation action.

As our motley crew continued downwards to the cells, the smell assaulted me. I felt myself gagging. The noises from behind the locked steel doors made me think of Bedlam. Ruby the turnkey shuffled towards me. I always thought of Ruby as symbolic of this place–nothing was quite right, but there was enough of a superficial attempt to make outsiders think everything could hold together just a bit longer. Thirty denier black tights attempted to cover her gnarled, varicose veined legs. They failed. Her peroxide blonde hair had the vague look of something that had seen a hairdresser once, but the visit had resulted in locks the texture and consistency of a scouring pad. It was in a very fashionable style–for the 1950s, which was approximately the last time any man had considered her attractive.

Her real name was Jean, but she always seemed like a Ruby to me in honour of the bright red lipstick she slashed over her gash of a mouth. To be honest, I had been torn between naming her ‘Ruby’ or ‘Blue’–the latter would have been equally appropriate in recognition of the two slabbed cakes of eye shadow adorning her drooping lids. Ruby was oblivious to her failings, but she eyed me up as if I was something she had trodden upon in the street. Obviously, I did not fit her notion of glamour. Fag ash hung from her mouth and keys at her side. Deftly she fingered the collection, recognising every one by touch alone. She unlocked the door–I had never noticed any of them creak before, but when a small crowd is silent, holding its breath, every little noise is exaggerated.

The door swung outwards from the twelve-foot cell, briefly obscuring my vision. Epinephrine was surging through my body, heightening my senses, so that I became aware of a scent, delicate and sweet, dancing towards me.

I had been taken aback when I saw Kailash Coutts in the flesh for the first time.

There are women whose eyes meet for a moment, and, although they are not friends, they know each other. Instantaneously, they sum one another up, their eyes flicking from hair to shoes, and for a second their souls unite. When I met her, I thought: I could be friends with you. We are women at the height of our respective professions, daily we fight men to get on top. In my case it was, thankfully, only figuratively.

I recalled the bald details given to me about my client: Female, forty-one years of age, mixed race. Those empty words didn’t come close to describing her, the photographs I had seen didn’t do her justice.

Kailash Coutts was a woman gifted by nature–and what nature didn’t give her, she went out and bought. And she certainly knew where to shop. Her long, black hair fell glossily to her shoulders, as she turned to look at me it rippled like a waterfall. A few seconds in her presence and I wasn’t sure whether the voice inside my head sounded like Mills & Boon or Loaded.