a level of comfort that most women could only manage with a pair of Crocs. Kailash Coutts was a product. She had created herself after her early years were ruined by others. Raped as a child, left for dead by one of my father’s minions after she gave birth to me in chains, my mother had found strength from God knows where, and she had turned what men had used her for into her fortune.
‘So, what did he do for you?’ I asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer.
My mother stared at me as if I’d just asked the last time she’d picked her nose and eaten it. ‘For the girls,’ she said, ‘I’ve used him for the girls. He’s discreet and he treats them well.’
‘And he’s gorgeous,’ said Dina, one of Kailash’s favourites, a tiny little redhead from Dublin.
‘How does that help?’ I asked. ‘I think I’d prefer it was some ugly bloke cutting me up rather than one who I was going to embarrass myself about. I’d want to know he knew what he was doing rather than just been making himself look good.’
‘He does,’ said Dina, ‘he knows exactly what he’s doing. But where’s the harm in having someone who you wouldn’t kick out of bed?’
‘Who wouldn’t you kick out of bed?’ asked Rochelle, an Amazonian New Yorker who was one of Kailash’s newest acquisitions. Kailash had been on a bit of a spree lately, bringing in quite a lot of new workers, and I liked this girl a lot–she still seemed as if she was in control, as if she could walk away from this life any minute. ‘If they pay enough, they get to stay even if they look like…’ She paused. ‘A shitey arse. Right?’ Kailash had an international operation. Listening to this United Nations of whores always made me laugh: it was like foreign footballers on the telly suddenly coming out with Glaswegian accents just because they’d been at Celtic for a month. ‘This guy? Your mom put me in touch with him when I first got here,’ she told me. ‘I knew a few surgeons back home who were okay with working girls, but this one–he’s actually a nice guy. Doesn’t want to turn us all into porno lookalikes–looks at what you’ve got and makes it even better.’
‘What’s he like off duty?’ asked Dina.
‘Arrogant,’ I said.
‘The best surgeons are…Why has he retained you?’ Kailash asked. ‘You don’t do commercial work.’
‘I don’t think it’s commercial.’
‘Well, you don’t do medical negligence cases either,’ she said.
‘For the sort of money he’s offering, I could learn. Anyway, I don’t know what his exact problem is and if I did I wouldn’t tell you…client confidentiality,’ I said. All I knew was that Marshall had seemed to hint that it would be a criminal charge. ‘I’m sorry I wrecked the dinner. Was Connie disappointed?’
‘Yes, she was, but she’ll get over it. She’s all drama and hormones just now anyway.’ I looked closely at my mother when she said this, but there was no sign of resentment. I was born when Kailash was only thirteen–she hadn’t had the luxury of being a stroppy teenager like my half-sister Connie.
‘What about you? Do you forgive me?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ Kailash answered. ‘Good luck with Dr Marshall.’ She planted a cold kiss on my forehead, giving me a taste of my own medicine. Kailash was a harsh disciplinarian–it was the quality she had built her fortune on. I should have known better than to break the golden rule–family, family, family. But, if this was my family, they were all telling me one thing–I shouldn’t judge Marshall too quickly. These girls weren’t stupid, they could read people, and he seemed to have their vote. I had my own little research group here. I could only assume that Marshall was about to be sued by a client for some sort of malpractice and, if he had fucked up someone’s face or whatever, they must be even richer than him, given the amount of money he’d offered me. This might be interesting after all.
She knew that the body had been found by now and she assumed that the police were treating it as a serial case. Actually she could only ever make assumptions about what the police would do. All she knew for sure was that they were stupid. That they screwed up. That, even when they had a cast-iron case, they still got things wrong.
She needed to leave them in no doubt.
Ever since she had got here, she had known that this was where it would end. The years of waiting, of being used and being treated like a victim–it all stopped here. There were things that she couldn’t get out of her mind, images that wouldn’t go away, but these days she had other pictures to put in their place. When you knew what you were doing (as she undoubtedly did), there was a comfort to be found in killing. She felt that she had found her purpose in life–and God knows she had needed one for so very long.
There were those along the way who had helped her to get to this place, and they were often good people. They had no idea that they were assisting her to do what she needed to do, but they were part of it, nonetheless. However, there were others, of course there were others, who had been the real impetus. She thought about it for a moment. She had no way to describe what had been done to her. There were no words. There were no emotions. No one could understand. No one could empathize. But it had happened. It was done. Now, all she could do was make sure that the payment was exacted from the right place.
She had her methods by this point. There had been a lot to organize and it had taken a while to do it, but she was exactly where she needed to be. She thought back on the three men already dead at her hands. She laughed to herself, a low, soft noise that made her seem gentle and warm. She had read all of the books on how to do this, on how to avoid being caught, and on what killers do. She couldn’t believe that some of them kept mementoes, trophies. She had all of that in her head. She had nothing against those men as such–yes, she hated them, and had taken their lives, but it wasn’t personal. What on earth could she have taken from them? They were just symbols in themselves. Was she expected to fill her handbag with cufflinks? Locks of hair? Photos of them in their final moments? She had what she wanted from them–their bodies, their deaths; and the absolute knowledge that they had helped her.
Since she had arrived here, it had all been so easy. These men, they all thought their needs were so important. Each of them so easy to spot. She always looked for particular cars–single businessmen were no use, she needed to make sure that they were guilty beyond her own certainty. Bigger cars, expensive cars, but ones with baby or booster seats. Little triangles on the back saying ‘baby on board’. Mr Men sunscreens that had been rolled up but were still identifiable. Good men, good fathers. Making sure their children were safe, happy and provided for. And while they themselves were away from home, what was wrong with a few minutes of downtime?
Every businessman in every city in the country knew where to go. If they didn’t, there were websites to tell them. There had always been so much publicity about the red-light district in Edinburgh that it wasn’t hard to find. Even if the girls had been moved around a bit, it didn’t take much to discover where. The drugs were everywhere, too. Edinburgh had changed. There used to be less dependency amongst the prostitutes in the capital than in other cities, but in the last couple of years it had got as bad as anywhere. Cheap rates for everything. That worked well for her on two levels. She could get heroin easily and for next to nothing. And because she was clean, good looking and articulate, she appealed to the better class of punter as soon as he rolled down his window.
The
