boy for one or two of our illustrious politicians, allegedly. Got a flat on the Crombie Estate. Works at an illegal sex club down in Leith. No known religious denomination.’
‘We should probably start at his flat, check that out and see if we can find anything about friends or acquaintances who might know anything about the ‘Fallen Angels’, whatever they are.’ answered Tait eagerly, looking between Cruickshank and Bentley. Cruickshank nodded in encouragement but Bentley was still looking through the file, deep in thought.
‘Sounds like the right course of action, doesn’t it Bentley!’ prompted Cruickshank, raising her tone.
Bentley looked up, distracted. ‘Yes. Sorry, yes, that’s the right thing to do. We need to go to his flat, on the Crombie Estate .’ he emphasised the words ‘Crombie Estate’, seemingly replaying them over in his mind.
‘Would you like to share your thoughts with us Bentley? What really works well as a Detective is sharing hunches, or suppositions with your colleagues.’ Cruickshank reproached.
‘Sorry Ma’am, it’s totally unrelated, the names of places just stirred a few thoughts. Remember the case a few weeks ago down in Northumberland, where we handed over our files on the Michael Angus murder?’
‘Yes, absolutely tragic. Still no further forward in finding out who did it. Still no closer to finding Rebecca Angus either.’ Cruickshank answered.
‘That’s just it, the thing niggling in my mind. Rebecca Angus. She lived on the Crombie Estate as well. And if it were just that you would say, so what. But she was also a part of the BDSM sex scene in Leith, and her favourite club was the same one our Elvis worked at: Sodom and Gomorrah.’
Chapter 8
Something has changed. I’m not sure what, or when, but I know it has changed.
The first thing I ever remember about my life is as vivid to me today as it was, quite literally, on the day I was born. When I say vivid, what I really mean is blurry. But the memory of those first blurred images, white wimples floating like whispered wraiths above my new born head, their near silent susurrations more pronounced in my mind than the incessant shrill of the other new born babies around me, are still so vivid. It’s not that I remember everything instantly. It’s just that I don’t seem to forget anything. At the time I didn’t know what a wimple was. I didn’t know that the Nuns were speaking Italian. I had no idea that I was in an incubator. For all I knew, the myriad of tubes sticking out of me were appendages the same as the tiny, five fingered hands which fascinated me for hours. But I can take myself back there, back to that memory and relive every moment of it.
Some people might call it a gift. I often wondered if Jacob inherited it.
I am lying on the floor of his bedroom, looking up to the nightlight shining off his twirling mobile as it slowly turns above his cot to the theme tune of Pinocchio. In his short life, I did this most nights I was home, putting my hand up through the bars of the cot and either feeling his pulse, or resting it on his chest and feeling his heart beat. It was the only way I knew he was alive. I would lie and talk to him about what I had seen that day. Cars, trees, animals, people. Not what I had done, but what I had seen. I would read to him from Pinocchio and then when I had finished I would just lie there and wonder how much he understood. I would try and see the world through his eyes, from his perspective.
I look straight up, not wavering my eyes at all. Jacob couldn’t, so I don’t. I don’t know that he could hear, I have to assume he couldn’t, so I mentally block out the sound of the mobile. Just see the characters gently bobbing up and down as it turns. But then I know his pupils never dilated, so I have to wonder if he could differentiate darkness and light.
‘We should probably start at his flat, check that out and see if we can find anything about friends or acquaintances who might know anything about the ‘Fallen Angels’, whatever they are.’ answered Tait eagerly, looking between Cruickshank and Bentley. Cruickshank nodded in encouragement but Bentley was still looking through the file, deep in thought.
‘Sounds like the right course of action, doesn’t it Bentley!’ prompted Cruickshank, raising her tone.
Bentley looked up, distracted. ‘Yes. Sorry, yes, that’s the right thing to do. We need to go to his flat, on the Crombie Estate .’ he emphasised the words ‘Crombie Estate’, seemingly replaying them over in his mind.
‘Would you like to share your thoughts with us Bentley? What really works well as a Detective is sharing hunches, or suppositions with your colleagues.’ Cruickshank reproached.
‘Sorry Ma’am, it’s totally unrelated, the names of places just stirred a few thoughts. Remember the case a few weeks ago down in Northumberland, where we handed over our files on the Michael Angus murder?’
‘Yes, absolutely tragic. Still no further forward in finding out who did it. Still no closer to finding Rebecca Angus either.’ Cruickshank answered.
‘That’s just it, the thing niggling in my mind. Rebecca Angus. She lived on the Crombie Estate as well. And if it were just that you would say, so what. But she was also a part of the BDSM sex scene in Leith, and her favourite club was the same one our Elvis worked at: Sodom and Gomorrah.’
Chapter 8
Something has changed. I’m not sure what, or when, but I know it has changed.
The first thing I ever remember about my life is as vivid to me today as it was, quite literally, on the day I was born. When I say vivid, what I really mean is blurry. But the memory of those first blurred images, white wimples floating like whispered wraiths above my new born head, their near silent susurrations more pronounced in my mind than the incessant shrill of the other new born babies around me, are still so vivid. It’s not that I remember everything instantly. It’s just that I don’t seem to forget anything. At the time I didn’t know what a wimple was. I didn’t know that the Nuns were speaking Italian. I had no idea that I was in an incubator. For all I knew, the myriad of tubes sticking out of me were appendages the same as the tiny, five fingered hands which fascinated me for hours. But I can take myself back there, back to that memory and relive every moment of it.
Some people might call it a gift. I often wondered if Jacob inherited it.
I am lying on the floor of his bedroom, looking up to the nightlight shining off his twirling mobile as it slowly turns above his cot to the theme tune of Pinocchio. In his short life, I did this most nights I was home, putting my hand up through the bars of the cot and either feeling his pulse, or resting it on his chest and feeling his heart beat. It was the only way I knew he was alive. I would lie and talk to him about what I had seen that day. Cars, trees, animals, people. Not what I had done, but what I had seen. I would read to him from Pinocchio and then when I had finished I would just lie there and wonder how much he understood. I would try and see the world through his eyes, from his perspective.
I look straight up, not wavering my eyes at all. Jacob couldn’t, so I don’t. I don’t know that he could hear, I have to assume he couldn’t, so I mentally block out the sound of the mobile. Just see the characters gently bobbing up and down as it turns. But then I know his pupils never dilated, so I have to wonder if he could differentiate darkness and light.
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