Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  Praise for Claire MacLeary

  “Crime fiction has a new stellar voice in Claire MacLeary. Cross Purpose is feisty, funny and darkly delicious.”

  Michael J Malone

  “A dark devious delight, definitely one to watch.”

  Neil Broadfoot

  “A terrific crime debut with an unlikely crime-fighting partnership that sets it apart from the rest. Takes the reader on an emotional roller coaster. Unsettling at times, even uncomfortable, but compelling to the end.” Theresa Talbot

  Cross Purpose

  Claire MacLeary

  Contents

  Praise for Claire MacLeary

  Cross Purpose

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I

  Maggie

  They stood, side by side, not speaking, Maggie barely breathing.

  ‘When you’re ready.’ Detective Inspector Allan Chisolm indicated the floor-length curtains.

  Maggie watched, her stare unwavering, as the DI drew the curtains apart. Through the glass of the viewing window, she could see the body. It lay on a metal gurney. Maggie had expected a marble slab. A plinth, perhaps. Something more solid, anyhow. She looked down at the uncovered face of the body that lay there. Nothing could have prepared her for that face. It was black and blue all over, mottled here and there with blotches of yellow. The thick, dark hair she loved was combed in a parting she didn’t recognise, the sharp blue eyes blinkered by ink-stained lids. The facial expression was bland. Not tortured in its death throes, as she’d expected, but flattened somehow, all its humanity stripped out.

  She stood there for some minutes, rigid, her breath gradually misting the glass. Then, ‘George!’

  Maggie splayed her fingers across the window, let her head fall forward until she could feel her forehead come into contact with the glass. She longed to drum her fists upon its unyielding surface, butt it with her head until it shattered, battle her way through the opening until she could be with him once more. If only she could come up close. Hold his hand in hers. Please, God. Just one last time.

  ‘Mrs Laird, can you confirm this is your husband?’

  She turned. ‘Yes.’

  Silently, the man standing alongside acknowledged her response.

  ‘Can you give me a moment?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not permitted…’

  She fixed him with a furious glare.

  Maggie Laird had been to Queen Street many times, but never to the morgue. That morning, she’d expected Bob Duffy to receive her. The DS was, after all, the one who’d responded to the shout. But this guy Chisolm was a complete stranger. She’d heard he’d been drafted in. New broom and all that. Maggie seethed. A day like today and they couldn’t even send a kent face.

  ‘Is Alec Gourlay about?’

  The inspector raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘He said he’d have a word once…’

  The DI nodded. ‘I’ll ring through.’ He retreated down the room.

  Maggie slid onto the nearest chair. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying to blank out the images that were fighting for space in her head. She’d heard George describe in graphic detail the layout of the mortuary: the stark little viewing room. Beyond that, the investigation room. The post-mortem room with its grey walls, its impermeable flooring, the two stainless-steel cutting tables in the centre. She shuddered as she pictured her husband laid out naked in the dissection room.

  She sat, mouth agape, lungs working overtime in the airless space. Maggie spread her knees, then let her head drop between them, clasped clammy hands at the nape of her neck. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before she raised her head. The small space was sparsely furnished. Two charcoal upholstered chairs. Against the far wall, a teak-effect trolley was laid with an embroidered tray-cloth. On it sat a box of paper tissues and a bunch of artificial pink roses in a bulb vase. Somebody had made a bit of an effort.

  She heard muffled footsteps approach. Was aware of the door opening quietly, then closing again.

  A familiar voice. ‘Give us some time, will you?’

  Then Chisolm. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’

  Maggie felt a light touch at her elbow.

  The pathologist bent over her. ‘Are you all right?’

  She raised her head. ‘Alec,’ she summoned a feeble grin. ‘I can’t honestly say I’m pleased to see you.’

  He was a small man, not more than five foot seven or eight. And wiry, with sharp cheekbones, a hooked nose and dark, darting eyes. Like a little bird, Maggie thought, that first time they were introduced. Alec dressed, always, in the same outfit: ancient, baggy sports jacket with patches on the elbows, Tattersall check shirt and threadbare cords. More like an out-of-work academic than a surgeon. His light brown hair was thinning at the temples, his haircuts erratic and never good. But looks belied, for he had a rigorous mind and a fearsome reputation for working to exacting standards. Maggie had been intimidated when they met first but, over time, she had warmed to him. For, behind the brusque manner, she had come to realise that Alec Gourlay was a thoughtful and sensitive man.

  Now she was grateful for his presence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he took hold of her hand. ‘I’d have come earlier, only…’

  Brusquely, she cut in. ‘Why is George here?’

  ‘The death was sudden, and the attending GP wasn’t too keen to sign it off.’

  ‘Will there have to be a post-mortem?’

  Gourlay let go of her hand. ‘Depends. But seeing as George was already on heart medication, I’ll probably get away with a visual examination.’

  ‘Who decides?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘A favour, then, Alec – a few minutes alone with him.’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t be done.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The mortuary operates under Council jurisdiction.’

  ‘Still, you must carry some clout.’

  He regarded her warily. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then please?’

  ‘No, Maggie.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She clutched at his sleeve. ‘For me?’

  ‘Not even for you.’

  ‘For George, then?’

  Gourlay brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘That’s a cheap one.’

  ‘I know.’ She turned away.

  There was a long silence, then, ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  x

  Maggie leaned against the door frame. She blinked hard. Squared her shoulders. Moved forward. By the side of the trolley, she stopped.

  She reached out. With the flat of her hand, she gently smoothed his chilled brow. With one forefinger, she traced the outlines of that strong face: nose, cheeks, jaw. She pressed trembling fingertips to chapped lips. Cupped small palms over bruised eyelids.

  For a few moments she stood, immobile, striving to summon in her mind the warmth, the vigour, the musky man scent of the George she had known. Then she clambered onto the metal gurney and covered with the length of her body her husband’s corpse.

  Wilma

  Wilma eyed Ian’s plate of egg and beans. ‘Sorry about the dinner.’

  ‘Nae bother,’ he grinned, shoveling in another forkful.

  ‘I’ve had some day.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s th
at?’

  ‘Me an’ Maggie Laird had to go into town first thing. Husband dropped dead yesterday.’

  Ian’s hand hung half-way to his mouth. ‘George Laird next door?’

  ‘Aye. Police came knocking. Did you not hear them?’

  ‘No. Must have been out for the count. But,’ he frowned, ‘how did you manage to get involved?’

  ‘She’d to identify the body.’

  ‘Didn’t they offer to send a car?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. And the garage had just rung to say her own needed work.’ Wilma’s bright blue eyes stood out like gobstoppers. ‘Woman came running round here in a right paddy.’ She paused for effect. ‘I was near as bad. Grabbed my keys and was out of here. By the time I got to Queen Street I was fair wrung out.’

  ‘Still, you’d have got parked at the door.’

  ‘At Police HQ? You’re joking. There’s no bloody way I was going to sit out front under those bastards’ noses. I’d to go round the block I don’t know how many times. It’s all double yellows round there.’

  ‘So where did you end up?’

  ‘Nipped up a wee ramp round the back.’

  ‘Wil-ma,’ Ian tutted, ‘isn’t that where they keep the CID pool cars?’

  ‘Could be. It was all big Vauxhalls, right enough. But I never saw a soul the whole time. Just as well. Maggie was in there for ages.’

  ‘You didn’t go in with her, then?’

  ‘I did offer. Not that I was keen, mind. I’ve seen enough of that sort of thing up at the infirmary. But Maggie was having none of it. Poor-looking wee soul she was, too. Most I could manage was see her back home, make her a cup of tea. You should have seen the house an all. It’s not as if she’s even been left comfortable. That kitchen, must have been years since it was fitted. And the suite in her sitting room…like something your granny would have brought in.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Not even your granny.’ Wilma sighed. ‘Wish I could do more for the woman.’

  ‘She’s got family, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Lot of use them kids will be. Daughter’s away at uni. And that boy of hers, he’s at thon glaikit stage, nae use to man nor beast.’

  Ian set down his knife and fork. ‘You’ve a big heart, Wilma, but you’ve enough on your plate without nosing into other people’s business.’

  ‘Nosing? Is that what they call it round here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The toffs.’

  ‘Toffs?’ Ian spluttered. ‘In Mannofield? Now, if it was Rubislaw we were living in, or Bieldside, or…’

  ‘You know what I mean. They’re stand-offish around here. Keep themselves to themselves. Not like in Torry, where you’d get a news on the stair, meet a body the street…’ Her words tailed off.

  ‘It’s mebbe a wee bit quieter,’ he conceded.

  ‘Quieter? It’s bloody dead.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a good thing?’

  Wilma’s back stiffened. ‘Don’t you start, Ian Harcus.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ he changed tack, ‘Maggie Laird’s got family. And George was a copper, wasn’t he, until all that business?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, isn’t it true what they say – that coppers look after their own?’

  ‘Not in this case,’ she countered. ‘By the looks of it, anyhow.’

  ‘Wil-ma,’ Ian’s face darkened, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, you involving yourself in Maggie Laird’s problems. End of.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just told you why not. And besides, you’ve your work to go to, and there’s this house to run.’

  ‘What about the house?’ Wilma regarded her husband with hostile eyes. ‘Is it your dinner that’s bothering you?’

  ‘Dinner?’ Ian looked down at his congealing plate of food. ‘No, the dinner’s braw.’

  ‘Now you’re being sarcastic.’

  ‘And you’re being daft.’

  ‘Daft now, is it?’

  ‘Wil-ma…’

  ‘Don’t you “Wil-ma” me.’

  ‘Och,’ Ian came back, ‘there’s no arguing with you when you’ve got a drink in you.’

  Bugger! So he’d smelled it on her. And she’d only had a swallow to steady her nerves. Wilma jumped up from the table. ‘A couple of beers and I’ve got a drink problem?’

  Wearily, Ian met her eye. ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m away to my bed.’

  x

  Wilma lay in the dark. Her thoughts turned to Maggie Laird, lying on the other side of the party wall. End of – Ian’s words resounded in her head. That wasn’t like him. He was such a pussycat, her new husband: ran her to Asda to do the big weekly shop, carried the stuff in for her. He was handy round the house an all. Not that they could afford to do much. Not yet, what with the mortgage payments. Wilma could set anything down in front of him, too, and he’d eat it without a murmur. Mind you, he’d dug his heels in over drawing the bedroom curtains. She’d always preferred them open, ever since she was a small child. But of course that was because… Forget it, she rebuked herself sharply. She wasn’t sure whether her husband’s preference arose out of modesty – Ian was a bit funny about showing his “bits” – or whether he really did sleep better in the dark. Wilma thought it a bit weird, a man being coy like that about his privates, for she knew from experience that fellas were forever whipping their dicks out: seeing how far they could pee up against the wall of the bike sheds at school, jumping in the showers together after football fixtures, lining up the way they did in men’s urinals. And when it came to women, how they couldn’t wait to wave their willies about. Still… In the dark, Wilma chuckled. Ian might be old-fashioned when it came to stripping off, but once she got him going he was brand new.

  She heard the toilet flush. Heard the bedroom door open and close. Heard her husband undress, the mattress springs yield as he got into bed. Decisively, she turned her back and slid down further under the duvet.

  For a few minutes she lay still, then Wilma felt Ian’s arm creep around her waist. She’d already decided he wouldn’t be up for it, what with his six o’clock start and the row they’d had at dinner time. Now, she felt his body mould to hers, his hard-on worm its way up the back of her nightie. She uttered a little grunt of satisfaction. No call for Viagra there.

  Wilma felt a surge of warmth between her thighs.

  She wouldn’t make waves about Maggie Laird.

  Not yet, anyhow.

  She’d bide her time.

  Fatboy

  Fatboy stood on the corner of the Castlegate. His runner was late. Fatboy scowled. He got royally pissed off when his runner didn’t show up on time. Rain started to spit. He stamped his feet. Pulled his hat down over his eyes. Retreated further into the shadow of the close mouth. He’d have one more fag. Fatboy fumbled in his jacket pocket. On days like these, he wondered what he was doing there when he could be sitting in comfort at home.

  Situated at the east end of Union Street, the Castlegate encompasses an expansive square containing the castellated Citadel, built on the site of the medieval Aberdeen Castle, the Mercat Cross and the Gallowgate, where the city’s public hangings were once held. Fatboy rued the day he’d picked the place for a rendezvous. It was way too open, for one thing. Next to the courts. Within spitting distance of police HQ. And getting far too crowded, these past few months. Too many other dodgy trades going on.

  Fatboy lit up. Took a long drag. Exhaled slowly. He watched as the smoke drifted upwards, savouring its acrid smell. He shifted from one foot to the other. Maybe it was time to move on, find some other kind of deal. After all, it had been almost a couple of years.

  He’d rolled his first stick at school. There was no problem getting hold of the stuff. It came from a van at the school ga
tes along with the Coke and the crisps and the other junk food. Fatboy had kept up the connection. Started to deal in a small way: friends, friends of friends, a bit of weed, a few poppers. And it had grown from there. As sales rose, he’d been passed up the supply chain, managed to squeeze costs. The profits funded Fatboy’s lifestyle: the amusement arcades and the online gambling and the rest. It was easy money. He curled his lip. Easy, that is, if your runners were reliable. And this one wasn’t. Not any more. In fact – Fatboy inhaled deeply, blew out a stream of smoke – he was becoming a bit of a pain. He wondered if maybe the guy had developed a habit. A real habit. Happened to so many of the stupid fuckers. Fatboy didn’t want to know about any of that. Had enough savvy to realise that if he stuck to the recreational stuff, kept to the one small patch, he’d be safe enough. Wouldn’t encroach on anybody else’s territory. Wouldn’t step on any toes. Because you wouldn’t want to do that. Fatboy shuddered. Not in Aberdeen. He’d had one frightener already. Scared the shit out of him. That’s when he’d taken up with Mad Mike. Kept Fatboy out of sight, his trades below the radar.

  ‘You Fatboy?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ He glowered down at the small boy.

  ‘Ah’m askin,’ Willie Meston shot back, undeterred.

  Fatboy looked him up and down. He was a scrawny kid: sandy hair cut in a No.2, pallid skin, blue eyes below an eyebrow piercing.

  ‘What the fuck’s it to you?’

  ‘Ah wis telt tae find Fatboy.’ Willie Meston craned his neck at the big lad standing up the close.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Ah’ll tell ye that once…’

  Fatboy grabbed the kid by the shoulders of his denim jacket. He hauled him upwards until Willie’s feet were dangling in mid-air. ‘Don’t you fuck with me, you mingin wee bastard,’ he spat, ‘or I’ll flatten your face so fast even your mammy won’t recognise you.’ He set Willie down on the pavement again.

  The boy made a show of straightening his jacket, then he spoke. ‘Ma da sent me.’ The voice didn’t carry quite so much conviction this time.

  ‘Your da?’ Fatboy leered. ‘And who would that be?’