Broken Hearts
When a corpse is found with its heart removed, the media is quick to resurrect the name of one of Scotland’s most infamous murderers. But when the chief suspect claims he is being framed, it’s up to Brodie McLennan to find who is really responsible – and fast…Evil has arrived in Edinburgh. When a man's corpse is found with its heart expertly removed, the gruesome keepsake prompts police and the media to resurrect the name of one of the country's most infamous killers - Romeo.This twisted modus operandi is identical to a twenty-year-old case, that of Brendan Fallon and Renee Richardson; two ten-year olds found guilty of kidnap, murder and mutilation. But having served their time, the killers were released under new identities and the case was put to rest. Until now…Are the Romeo killings beginning again or is a copycat on the loose? The authorities hope so - otherwise the evidence points to a cataclysmic error in judgment two decades before.Unorthodox defence lawyer, Brodie McLennan, is drawn into the investigation when she is hired to defend wealthy Dr Graham Marshall, who claims to be being blackmailed and wrongly identified as the Romeo killer. Who would be trying to frame him, and what is their motive?Brodie soon becomes trapped in a case where dangerous secrets from the past mean that nothing, and nobody, can be taken at face value. Ultimately, she must risk everything she has to defend a client who may be a victim . . . Or a monster.
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GRACE MONROE
Broken Hearts
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
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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
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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
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.
