Broken Hearts

GRACE MONROE

Broken Hearts

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Grace Monroe 2009

Grace Monroe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847560469

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007331635

Version: 2018-06-18

To Auntie Theresa who made this world a little better.

Maria

To Paul for being so splendid.

Linda xx

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

PART ONE Edinburgh November 2008

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

PART TWO London November 1988

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

PART THREE Edinburgh November 2008

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

The middle of a November night in Scotland is rarely a happy time. For any poor sod in a PVC miniskirt and corset standing in an Edinburgh alley waiting for a punter, it was even worse. The wind was whistling down the Shore and right up her backside, even through her thermal knickers and the thin coat she had thrown on top of her outfit.

It had better be worth it.

She knew how to protect herself, but this weather was wearing her down. It looked as if she wasn’t the only one who was affected–the streets were quiet, particularly lacking the type of man she was looking for. She’d seen a girl who looked to be no more than fifteen disappear with an old bloke about ten minutes ago. You’d think that the ancient ones would rather be at home having a cup of tea than spending the gas money on a quick fumble with an underaged girl. She laughed quietly to herself. Not her type. Not her type at all.

She wanted a nice car, with the heating on full blast, and a bit of comfort while she did what she had to do. Classy car; classy guy. She laughed quietly again. The ice moon actually suited her purpose, even if she was freezing. She could see almost everything right down the Shore to the Docks. If she had moved a few hundred yards, the Queen’s old yacht Britannia would have been in her line of vision from just beyond where lights from the local restaurants glimmered on the Water of Leith. During the day, and all through spring to autumn, there were swans swimming there. She remembered this from an earlier visit to Edinburgh, but, wisely, they were at home tonight as well.

A car engine revved in the distance, creeping towards her. There was ice on the cobbles where she stood and the punter was obviously a careful man, which she could see both in the way he was driving in the treacherous weather and the manner in which he was scanning the women. A thought flew into her mind–maybe he was too careful. She screwed up her eyes; she didn’t want to be stopped by any of Lothian and Borders’ finest. Mind you, the cops in Edinburgh were tolerant of vice girls, and the official line claimed that they had ‘created a safer environment’. She’d read in the local paper that the residents weren’t quite so broad-minded and the flat owners around the gentrified area were no doubt less than happy to be part of this safety campaign for whores. She’d have to go on gut feeling–you couldn’t tell a cop by looking at him, and you couldn’t tell whether any man was going to be fit for the purpose until way beyond the stage when it was too late to turn back.

The Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb. She teetered along in her heels to the window–it wasn’t the latest model, but it was close enough. Salesman probably. Away from home, away from the wife, needing a bit of recreation and able to justify that it’s meaningless. She saw in him what she was looking for–what she needed. She threw open her coat and gave him a look at what was on offer. ‘Evening, darling,’ he grinned after rolling down his side window, letting her feel the warmth away from the streets behind her. She smiled back and wiggled her way round the front of the car to the passenger door.

Inside, it smelled of stale sweat and cloying pine air freshener. The back seat was littered with empty crisp packets, a discarded boy’s football boot and a teddy wearing a Newcastle United strip. She smiled at him again as if she hadn’t noticed, as if his treachery didn’t turn her stomach. She needed him as much as he needed her. More.

Locking onto his eyes, she ran through a quick menu, making sure that the prices hovered somewhere between a bargain and a promise of satisfaction. She didn’t want to be too cheap or he might suspect that she was a beginner; she didn’t want to be too expensive or he might prefer to take his business somewhere less pricey. It was a balancing act, and the customer needed to get the sense that his luck was in. She offered a lot for twenty quid, and gave the excuse that it was a cold night.

Price agreed, she and the punter drove off; he was headed for a secluded spot where they could conduct their business unobserved, or so he told her. She wasn’t frightened; her heartbeat was slow and steady, and her mind was focused. He seemed to know what he was doing. Experienced. Been here before. Good. A smile creased her face as she stroked her handbag. In another life, given different circumstances, she might have been married with children. She might have been the one waiting at home for this balding lump of lard as he risked everything.

The car drew to a halt on a deserted road that ran alongside the Docks; no CCTV that she could see. A fine film of sweat had broken out on his brow; his breathing was heavy and expectant. He leaned in to kiss her and she got a whiff of fabric softener from his shirt. Some woman cared for him. She recoiled from the image as she shoved him back into the driver’s seat and leaned over. Her hand reached for the zip on his suit trousers. It wouldn’t take long. A few quick strokes and hopefully she wouldn’t have to go any further. She smiled as she pumped away at him–but his eyes were closed and he was paying attention to nothing but the actions of her left hand.

He certainly didn’t notice as her right hand slipped into the back seat to the handbag lying on the passenger side beside the seat-belt clip. Her fingers slipped into the bag as he wriggled with delight, panting heavily and moaning some woman’s name inaudibly Stupid bastard; two-faced, hypocritical slime-bag. As she leaned in closer to his face, she could have sworn he was puckering up for a kiss.

What he got instead was a syringe filled with pure heroin.

His eyes widened in surprise as she pushed the plunger down, filling his right jugular. He started to struggle, but she knew that there would be no surprises here. He just had to wait it out. As did she.

She opened the passenger door and stepped outside. Taking a battered cigarette from her pocket, she drew in a lungful of smoke that warmed her chest. Blowing rings into the freezing night air, she knew that the man inside the car would be struggling to hold on to life. She heard a noise and assumed that it came from his death throes as his arms flailed against the driver’s window. He was guilty, guilty, guilty. There wasn’t an innocent bone in his body. Married, obviously. Or at least living with someone who cared enough to make sure a capful of fabric softener had been thrown into the washing load. A parent, obviously. Or at least with a kid in his life so close to him that football training and kicks around the park were part of normal life. And what was he doing behind their backs? Screwing around. Messing everything up. He deserved what he got. He did. And there were plenty more like him.

Glancing at her watch she felt irritated; he was taking too long. She opened the door and reached over the passenger seat. He had stopped thrashing and his eyes were closed, his breath shallow and laboured. But…he was still breathing. She didn’t have time for this. Reaching into the back seat she dug her nails into the soft fur of the teddy; shoving it into the man’s face, she held it against his mouth and nose, and waited–until any sign of life was gone.

Good.

Glad that was over, she started on the real work. She delved into her bag again, this time pulling out an ultra-sharp boning knife and poultry cutters. She rifled through his CD collection, quickly looking for something that meant nothing to her, something to muffle the sound of bones shattering, before realizing that heavy music coming from a parked Merc could arouse suspicion, even in a quiet street near the Docks.

She cracked through his ribs. She was proud of her strength. Strategic planning aided her attempts every time. Still, both were means to ends. Plunging the boning knife in, she severed the superior vena cava and neatly removed the organ. She double-bagged it in cling film and popped it into her handbag.

Stepping outside the car, she reached into her bag, lifting out a handheld car vacuum. Her work here was almost done. She reached into her bag again. With her thumb and forefinger she removed a hair, a single hair, from inside a plastic freezer bag.

She left it where she was sure even those idiots from the identification bureau would be sure to find it.

The sooner the better.

PART ONE Edinburgh November 2008

Chapter One

‘Have you reached a verdict?’ Judge Neil Wylie asked the five women and ten men of the jury.

Show time.

I breathed deeply and steadied myself. I always hated this bit, this time in a trial where everything you’ve worked for hangs in the balance. If I was to live up to my reputation as some sort of Ice Queen, I had to keep my act going–but it was hard when I was bricking it. I stared unblinking at the jury box, thanking God for my poker face and Boots for the six inches of make-up that was hiding any emotion that might be lurking there. In truth, all I wanted was someone to hold my hand and tell me I’d done well and that everything would be fine. I’d be as well hoping for Santa to make an early appearance.

To keep my hands busy, I pretended to scribble down notes on the yellow legal pad in front of me. It had been a long, tiring murder trial, but this moment was where everything was so exciting yet so terrifying. It was out of my control and I hated and loved that feeling. Would I have changed anything? Would I rewrite the script if I could? What if I’d fucked it up? My mind was flooded with all the little things I could have done better. There was also a part of it that was trying to remind me of all the things I’d done well. Really well. My mother’s voice wanted to sneak in there–Mary McLennan wouldn’t want me to get too confident in case I was heading for a fall. My mind was a busy place.

A stout, pigeon-chested woman in her mid-fifties struggled to her feet. With her beige hunting gilet, green tweed skirt and reading specs hanging from a gold chain round her neck, she was a perfect advert for Horse and Hound. I rechecked the chart I’d drawn up two weeks ago during jury selection. This was Miss Agnes McPhail, breeder of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. My stomach tightened a bit–I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the thought of Miss McPhail as the foreman. She was only on the jury because I had run out of challenges. I remembered the old adage that dog owners end up looking like their pets–well, she must have been housing a few mutts that looked like well-skelped arses. The sound of the odd nervous cough was the only noise as the court macer took the verdict from Miss McPhail and handed it to the judge. I couldn’t take my eyes off the white sheet of paper. The judge unfolded it as I studied his face for a telltale sign. There was none. He was as good as me at this lark.

I stole a glance towards my client, Kenny Cameron. An ugly, skinny wee shit if ever there was one. He was five feet five inches tall and, in his boxers (Christ, what a thought), he tipped the scales at just under nine stones. Cameron stared straight ahead; only the bobbing of his Adam’s apple indicating he was still alive and kicking. He was submissive and reconciled to his fate, as he had been throughout the trial for the murder of his wife, Senga. The only time Cameron showed any emotion was during direct examination, when he explained why he had bludgeoned big Senga to death. When asked to describe how his partner had sustained head injuries, Kenny Cameron began to sweat as he haltingly told the jury about hitting the ball hammer off his wife’s skull, over and over again until he was covered in her brains. When he was finished, his hands shook and his body heaved with great dry sobs. The jury looked a bit green too. I only hoped they still remembered why he had done it.

‘Will the accused please stand?’ Judge Wylie shouted.

My client staggered to his feet. I remained sitting, staring ahead with a lack of emotion that was very hard work indeed. The press would be watching for any sign of weakness, to see if the Ice Queen was melting.

‘In the case of Her Majesty’s Advocate against Kenny Cameron, the verdict reads as follows: We, the jury, being duly empanelled and sworn, do find the accused Kenneth Michael Cameron, not guilty…’

The courtroom erupted. I couldn’t hear the rest of the verdict because of the din. One of big Senga’s sisters screamed obscenities while Billy Boyle, festooned with chunky golden necklaces and a Benidorm tan, tried to jump into the well of the court to stand up for the innocence of his dead sister. Ma Boyle’s eldest son held my eye as he was beaten back by a police officer. To be honest, I didn’t know who Boyle was coming for–Kenny Cameron or me. My client clearly thought it was him and collapsed in the box. The two court policemen standing guard by his side rushed to give him first aid. It was basic stuff–a quick, harsh slap on the face to bring him round. I made my way to Kenny knowing that he had won the battle but lost the war.

‘Calm down,’ I ordered in a voice much calmer and steadier than it should have been, given that I was dictating to Scotland’s first family of crime as much as I was to Cameron; they could hear me as clearly as he could. ‘Just relax…everything is going to be okay.’ The lie slipped out of my mouth and I put my arm protectively around him as the Boyles looked on. Someone tapped my shoulder. I half turned. Ranald Hughes, the prosecutor, handed me a glass of lukewarm tap water. He was ten years older than me, a senior member of the legal hierarchy who had been assigned what had looked like an open-and-shut case. Politeness was bred into him, and as an officer of the court he would want to do his bit to restore order and behave appropriately towards a lady. ‘Would this be of any use?’ he asked, looking doubtful. I took the glass and handed it to Kenny Cameron. Ranald Hughes watched my client sip the water. When the colour returned to Kenny Cameron’s face, it was time for the prosecutor to speak, which he did in the tone of a Church of Scotland minister.

‘Mr Cameron,’ he said, ‘the law must be seen to be done.’ He coughed, drawing himself up to his full height to deliver the abbreviated sermon. ‘I prosecuted you because no one can take the law into their own hands.’ I was itching to tell the prosecutor to raise his voice because Senga Cameron’s family still looked nasty, but that was pretty normal for them. I was out of luck just when I needed someone other than me to be loud and noticeable–maybe it was my imagination, but Hughes seemed to say the next bit in a whisper, so much so that I had to strain my ears to listen. He drew in like a conspirator, but not until he’d checked over his shoulder to gauge the distance of the Boyles, who by now were fighting with the police and refusing to leave court. They probably felt right at home, given how much time they spent there as a matter of course. ‘But I also want you to know I don’t think your wife had any right to treat you the way she did, and if you had overcome your fear of ridicule and shame then you would never have ended up in Edinburgh High Court, my man.’

Ranald Hughes coughed, nodded in my direction, turned on his heels and left for the judge’s chamber–well out of the way of any trouble. I, on the other hand, had to push through the melee of Boyles and journalists. As Kenny Cameron’s friends and supporters made cautious moves towards us, I put my hand out to him. He shook it. He looked and probably felt like a sick fish. His mob was no match for the Boyles. ‘I hope you can put this behind you, Kenny.’ I held his eyes. ‘Get on with your life. Everyone deserves a fresh start.’ Through gaps in the crowd I could see Senga Cameron’s mother, Ma Boyle, point in the direction of me and Kenny and draw her finger across her neck. She was a sly cow; no one else saw it. Nodding in my direction, she allowed the policeman to escort her out of court. Now that the verdict was in, and the trial was over, the lawyers were redundant. Ranald Hughes and the prosecution team came back into the empty court to collect their papers. He shrugged his shoulders in sympathy. ‘A Pyrrhic victory I fear, Miss McLennan.’ I smiled. I had a reputation to maintain, as did all lawyers–society would surely crumble if I’d fallen at his feet and started crying, telling him that he was right; but we both knew that he was.

I wouldn’t get out of this without paying a price of some sort.