Monday, 10:05 p.m.
IT WAS a truism known to every woman over the age of twenty-five, Brontë O’Brian thought wryly as she gazed down through the large observation window at the man standing below her in the forecourt of ED7 ambulance station. There were two types of men in the world. There were the dependable men, the reliable men, the men who—if you had any sense—you settled down with, and then there were men like Elijah Munroe.
‘He’s quite something, isn’t he?’ Marcie Gallagher, one of the callers from the Emergency Medical Dispatch Centre, observed wistfully as she joined her.
‘So I’ve heard,’ Brontë replied.
And not just heard. She knew exactly how tall Elijah Munroe was—six feet two—how his thick black hair flopped so endearingly over his forehead, how his startlingly blue eyes could melt ice, and how his smile always started at one corner of his mouth, then spread slowly across his face, until every woman—be she nineteen or ninety—was lost.
‘Unfortunately, Eli doesn’t do long term,’ Marcie continued, and Brontë nodded.
She knew that, too. She knew that for a couple of months every woman Elijah dated walked around on air, completely convinced he was The One, until one morning with a smile—always with that smile—he was gone.
‘I’m surprised one of his ex-girlfriends hasn’t skewered him with a surgical instrument,’ she observed, and Marcie shrugged.
‘What reason could you give? It’s not like he promises he’ll stay. He’s always upfront about not being into commitment.’
‘Very clever.’
‘Honest, surely?’ Marcie protested.
No, clever, Brontë thought firmly, as she noticed that Elijah Munroe had been joined by the head of ED7 ambulance station, George Leslie. Very clever indeed to always be able to get exactly what he wanted by appearing to be upfront and on the level, but then she’d never thought Elijah was a stupid man.
‘Only a leopard who never changes his spots,’ she muttered under her breath, but Marcie heard her.
‘You know him?’ she said, curiosity instantly plain on her lovely face, and Brontë shook her head quickly.
Which wasn’t a lie. Not a complete lie. Elijah having dated three of her ex-flatmates before just as quickly dumping them hardly qualified as knowing him, especially as the one time they’d met in Wendy’s hallway he’d walked straight past her without a word. A fact which still rankled considerably more than it should have done.
‘We’re all eaten up with curiosity, wondering who he’s been dating for the past couple of months,’ Marcie continued. ‘Normally we find out within twenty-four hours, but he’s been remarkably coy about his current girlfriend.’
Coy wasn’t a word Brontë would have used to describe Elijah Munroe. Rat fink, low-life, scumbag…Those were the words she would have used but she had no intention of telling Marcie Gallagher that.
‘It’s quarter past ten,’ she said instead. ‘I’d better get down to the bay.’
‘Can you find your own way there?’ Marcie asked. ‘I’d take you myself, but…’
‘You need to get back to EMDC for the start of your shift.’ Brontë smiled. ‘No problem.’
And Elijah Munroe wouldn’t be a problem either, she told herself as Marcie Gallagher hurried away. So what if she was going to be shadowing him around the Edinburgh streets for the next seven nights, watching his every move? She was thirty-five years old, knew exactly how he operated, how many hearts he’d broken, and that knowledge gave her power.