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.
She loved how he looked when they were having sex. Staring at him, with his arm muscles supporting his full weight, she couldn’t care less about whether or not she was getting what she wanted or needed. Instead she wondered how they looked together–what other people would think of them if they could see them at this moment.
Kelly Adams thought a lot about the opinions of others. She lay on her back beneath him and did what she could to satisfy Dr Graham Marshall’s every desire. Her jet black hair (straight out of a bottle) fanned out on the pillow, just as she’d arranged it. She lifted her legs higher round his shoulders as he growled and shut his eyes. Kelly was out of breath; this was bloody hard work, but it was worth it. She watched his body for signs that he was close to orgasm; every sinew in his neck tightening as he strained before the collapse came and he took his body out of hers. As his face came to rest on her shoulder, she made a few dramatic groans herself and gave quite an impressive shudder. To be honest, she’d never had an orgasm anyway, so she wasn’t quite sure how it should be, but men always appeared quite satisfied with what she’d learned from DVDs and magazines and friends. She wasn’t bothered–as long as he’d enjoyed himself, and as long as she could get him to herself, what else mattered?
Graham Marshall lay for a moment and listened to Kelly’s heart race with her exertions. His nose wrinkled at the smell of her deodorized sweat interlaced with too much sweet perfume. He stroked her skin lazily and peered across her thighs at the clock on the hotel bedside table. It was one in the afternoon. Marshall sat bolt upright and threw his feet onto
