Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘The footman,’ Ryan echoed.

  ‘Ah dae the deals.’

  ‘An ah keep tabs on the punters.’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘An the filth,’ Ryan added.

  ‘Christ, aye. It’s nae the neebours we hiv tae worry aboot in this dump, it’s that fuckin community bobby.

  Outside the Box

  Communication Services International turned out to be a scruffy asphalt yard housing a single tatty Portakabin.

  NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY

  Maggie contemplated the padlocked gates. There was no sign of life. Sod it, she cursed under her breath. She’d spent the previous evening glued to the second-hand laptop she’d asked Colin to source for her, laboriously typing in search terms and cross-checking data. She’d hoped to gain entry before close of business but, in the maze of small roads that crisscrossed the vast industrial estate, it had taken a precious hour of her time to find the place.

  The sky was streaked with grey. She pressed her face against the gates. To the rear of the Portakabin, a car was just visible. Maggie clocked it as an Audi A6. With Colin’s input, she was becoming something of a car buff. Her spirits rose. Someone might be there after all. They sank again when she saw that the cabin was in darkness, its window obscured by a blind.

  The assignment related to a claim for unfair dismissal by the manager of a mobile phone shop whose employment had been terminated on the grounds of gross misconduct. From its audit process, the company knew its employee was on the take: significant quantities of high-value goods had been vanishing into the ether. But without the phones themselves or a paper trail relating to their disposal, they couldn’t prove it. When internal enquiries by the organisation’s management proved fruitless, the agency had received a discreet approach.

  Going by the demarcation lines she’d set, Maggie shouldn’t have been involved in the case. She’d only stepped in because Wilma had been offered a lucrative double shift at the hospital. Her neighbour had already made significant progress: sussed out the interior of the man’s home – Maggie hadn’t dared ask how – produced a 2012 car registration number and a photograph of an orderly, nigh empty, garage. Only the previous day Wilma had turned up a suspect invoice and possible address. Now, Maggie eyed the stout mesh fence that surrounded the premises. Fat chance. That fence had to be eight-feet high. Not a hope in hell of getting over it. What would Wilma do, she wondered? Ram the gates, she thought wryly.

  Think outside the box! She prowled the perimeter, looking for a way through. Finally she found it, a buckled section at ground level. For once in her life, Maggie gloried in her petite size. She crouched. Worked with both hands to ease the wire upwards. Slung her bag across her body and wriggled underneath. She was partway across the open ground when she spotted a gleam of light. Maggie stopped in her tracks. Narrowed her eyes, zooming in on the cabin window. Blinked. Might be just the waning sun reflecting off the glass. Gingerly, she crept forward. Another tiny flash. Bingo! She tiptoed towards it, wincing as her shoes crunched on the yard’s rough surface.

  Maggie was within twenty metres of her target when she heard the sound: a low growl at first, followed by a whine. She followed it to a space below the cabin. Stood stock still. Nothing happened. The animal must be chained up, she surmised, otherwise it would be out here, going for her. Heart thudding, she resumed her forward momentum. Two growls, louder this time. ‘Shush,’ she whispered, more in hope than expectation, as two large heads appeared, ears pricked. Two wet pointed snouts nosed the air. Two jaws gaped, tongues lolling.

  Maggie made the lee of the Portakabin. The Alsatians were pawing the ground, now, straining at whatever tethered them. ‘Shush,’ she mouthed again. She wondered why they weren’t barking. So much for keeping guard dogs. Perhaps they’d been sleeping. Or maybe – wry face – like her, they were new to the job. Crouching, she ran her eyes over the car’s number plate, committing it to memory. She’d check it later against Wilma’s notes, which were safely stowed in her bag. Maggie straightened, then pressed an eye to the exposed corner of the window. A man was seated at a desk, his back to her. With one swift glance, she filed a description. With another she memorised the scene. On the floor around the desk were stacked boxes – boxes of what looked very like mobile phones.

  Get the evidence! She fumbled for the zip of her bag, extracted a small camera, held it up to the window. She’d only managed to fire off a couple of shots when her mobile trilled. Idiot! Maggie watched in horror as the man leapt up from the desk, knocking his chair over, and made for the door.

  The Alsatians were barking in tandem now. She did a speedy about-turn, stowing the camera as she sprinted across the open yard. Halfway across she lost a shoe, stooped to retrieve it.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  She squinted over her shoulder. The Portakabin door was wide open, illuminating the scene: the man bent double, fingers working feverishly to loose the dogs. Maggie ran on, shoe in hand, the jagged ground sending stabs of pain into her stockinged foot. Her eyes raked the fence, trying desperately to relocate her entry point. She’d almost made it when the dogs came nipping at her heels.

  Go on then

  Kym shrugged into her coat. ‘That’s me away.’

  ‘No worries.’ Fatboy looked up from his usual position on the settee.

  In the doorway, she hesitated. Fatboy had proved generous this while back, slipping her a pack of fags, palming her the odd note, sometimes putting a few pills or a bit of weed her way. And now the big guy was holding the fort on a regular basis. Kym couldn’t believe her luck. Still, she had a twinge of conscience. ‘The bairn… You sure it’ll be all right, me leaving him on his own?’

  ‘He’s not on his own. I’m here. And don’t worry, I know what to do.’ Over the weeks he’d been frequenting the flat, Fatboy had got the hang of what little routine there was: the plastic cups of watery juice halfway through the morning, the jam sandwiches at lunch, the biscuits in the afternoon. There were naps on Kym’s bed for the wee ones, pink spoonfuls of Calpol for the gurny ones. The rest of the time the kids just seemed to sit there, bug-eyed in front of the telly. Idly, Fatboy wondered what else Kym dosed her charges with as well as Calpol. He dismissed the thought.

  Kym grinned. ‘Right enough.’ She’d made up her wee one’s feed. And it’s not as if the bairn would know the difference. As for the other kids, it wasn’t as if Fatboy was a complete stranger to them. Or under age or anything. Actually, Kym thought, as she pulled the front door behind her, she was doing them a favour. A bit of male company would do them good. For she knew fine that few of the children that darkened her door had a man in the household. Christ, Kym’s own kids had never seen hide nor hair of their fathers. Yes, she reassured herself – a stint with Fatboy would be way better for them kids than sitting parked in front of the telly. A big fella like that, he’d be able to have a bit of rough and tumble with them. All to the good, Kym snickered to herself as she made her way towards the lifts. Tire the bastards out.

  Fatboy half reclined on the settee. He’d been watchful at first, as he went back and forth to Kym’s flat. He might pass the odd person in the entrance lobby, share the lift with someone. Or if the lift was broken – as it regularly was – he might have somebody try to chum him up the stairs. The beauty of it was, he had a wee chortle to himself, you rarely saw the same face twice. Even the kids that were dumped at Kym’s for ‘minding’ seemed to turn over with some regularity. Now, Fatboy paid scant attention to the people he passed on the stair, or to the hire vans that often sat outside on the forecourt, for he suspected that the removals he witnessed day and daily would be supplemented by scores of moonlit flits.

  He took a long toke on his spliff. Watched the sweet smoke-stack waft lazily towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face. This new arrangement was going to work out just fine. Willie Meston’s idea – taking his trades off the street –
was ace. Who was going to finger Fatboy in a fucking high rise in Seaton? He smirked. The pigs were probably sitting down Queen Street on their fat arses right now, congratulating themselves that they’d run the dealers off the streets. Well, they’d done that right enough, and the change of venue hadn’t harmed Fatboy’s operation one bit. Quite the reverse. Willie was doing good trade, and takings had risen steadily since the new setup became known. Now they were no longer out in the open, the druggies were able to take time over their purchases. That in turn gave Willie the opportunity to up his sales. And it must surely be the icing on the cake that his business could be conducted out of the biting wind that whistled round the walls of the tower blocks and the rain that slashed across the tarmac in horizontal sheets.

  Yes, he conceded, this new arrangement suited everybody. He and the girl had come to an understanding: he’d palm her enough to purchase a bevvy, she’d return the favour by giving Fatboy and Willie the run of her place. They’d be safe enough there. For a while yet, anyway. Safe to cash up, to sort out stock, to plan for the next session.

  A slow grin spread across Fatboy’s face. Kymberley Ewen’s setup might be shite, but he could sit in relative comfort and safety while the wee Meston bastard did his bidding elsewhere. And if things did turn sour, well, there were plenty more tower blocks in Seaton. Plenty more folk who’d be willing to give him the run of their place in exchange for a few bob.

  ‘Gonna gie us a toke?’

  Fatboy opened his eyes. One of the wee boys was perched alongside him. ‘What did you say?’

  The lad pointed to Fatboy’s spliff. ‘A toke?’ he offered a gap-toothed grin.

  Fatboy couldn’t believe it. Still, he had to hand it to the wee fella, for cheek if nothing else.

  He passed the spliff into a chubby hand.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he grinned.

  Don’t Let it Be Him

  A red light was winking angrily on the telephone as Maggie came through the front door. She stretched out a forefinger to the answering machine. Pressed ‘play’. She hoped to hear a familiar voice, but all Maggie could hear was a long tone, disembodied, like a foghorn at half kilter, followed by a sharp beep. There was silence. She wondered if the caller had thought the better of it and hung up. She got a lot of that these days: callers whose courage deserted them at the very last minute, folk who decided they didn’t want to deal with a woman. She could see that was going to be a problem, particularly in macho Aberdeen. She waited for a few moments, then bent over the machine and depressed the ‘stop’ button.

  Maggie made her way down the hall. Behind the kitchen window, the sun sat low, casting tiger stripes across the sky. The garden was unkempt, the vegetable patch sprouting with shot cabbages, the grass ragged at the edges, the borders choked with old vegetation. She sighed. More expense. Dejected, she set her bag down on the worktop. Her spirits always soared when the agency got a new enquiry. Now, she felt a sharp stab of disappointment. With Wilma’s help, she’d put in some serious groundwork since the day she’d picked up those files from George’s office. And business was building steadily, but she couldn’t afford to let up.

  Get on with it. There was a pile of paperwork waiting to be tackled. And no Colin. He’d asked to stay over with a friend. Now she came to think on it, he’d been doing an awful lot of that lately.

  ‘Hello-o?’ Wilma turned her key in the back door. She no longer bothered to knock. ‘I saw the light on. How’s you?’

  ‘Fine. I’m not long in.’

  ‘Well, I won’t hinder you. I just came round to see if you knew about that young lassie found dead at St Machar? Heard it on the news.’

  Maggie gasped. ‘Poor soul.’

  ‘D’you reckon she was done in?’

  ‘Doesn’t follow.’

  ‘Oh, but they said…’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ there was real bitterness in Maggie’s voice, ‘you don’t want to believe everything you hear.’

  ‘But the telly…’

  ‘Wilma, you have to stop jumping to conclusions. We need to be the embodiment of probity, especially now we’re supposed to be private investigators.’ Maggie felt herself flush. In the light of her recent escapades, that was rich.

  ‘You an your fancy words.’ Wilma experienced not the slightest twinge of conscience. ‘Betcha it was some wanker from Seaton Park.’

  ‘Seaton Park? What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Well, they’re saying the quine was a student.’

  Dear God! Alarm bells went off in Maggie’s head. After years of showing contempt, Colin had lately taken an interest in the opposite sex. She’d even unearthed a men’s magazine one morning when she was changing his bed. She’d been shocked at the time. Reassured herself that sort of thing was tame compared with what was available on the internet. The incident did make Maggie wonder, though: what else her son was keeping from her? If he was still skipping school, for instance? And if he was, what exactly did he do all day down the other end of town? Her mind ran away. What if this poor girl was one of the students he hung out with? What if he’d chatted her up? Gone into the graveyard? Made a clumsy overture? Been rebuffed? Calm down, woman. You’re tired, that’s all.

  ‘You’ve got Hillhead here.’ Wilma laid a pencil on the table. ‘The University there.’ She placed a second pencil parallel to the first. ‘Seaton Park’s the obvious shortcut between the two.’ She whacked down a folder in between.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. But what’s the problem? I would have thought the fresh air…’

  ‘Maggie Laird,’ Wilma cut her off mid-sentence, ‘are you honestly trying to tell me you’ve never heard of students being attacked in Seaton Park?’

  ‘Well, I’ve maybe read the odd thing in the paper – somebody getting relieved of their mobile, that sort of thing, but I’d no idea…’

  ‘As for Hillhead…’

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ The minute she opened her mouth, she regretted posing the question.

  Wilma snorted. ‘Just about everything – lousy accommodation, bugger-all facilities, expensive bus fares.’ She harrumphed again. ‘Wrong thing in the wrong place, if you ask me. As for them nobs at Aberdeen University… Bunch o’ wankers. Couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, some of them. Plus there’s been nothing but bother since they built that place.’ She paused for breath. ‘Didn’t your husband ever say anything about Seaton Park?’

  ‘George didn’t say much about anything lately.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, the place is hoatching with junkies, drop-outs, hoodies, you name it. And there’s damn all in the way of lighting. It’s bad enough in the daytime,’ Wilma made a scary face, ‘but I wouldn’t go near the place after dark.’

  Maggie threw a covert glance at her watch. ‘I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘You haven’t seen what I’ve seen up at ARI: broken noses, fractured jaws, knife wounds.’ Wilma was in full flow. ‘I wouldn’t want to go into detail on the sexual assaults.’

  Despite herself, Maggie’s curiosity was piqued. ‘And these happened in Seaton Park?’

  ‘Uh-huh. So if that poor lassie on the telly got done in taking a shortcut from Hillhead, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating, Wilma.’

  ‘That’s you all over, Maggie Laird, looking to see the good in everything.’

  If you only knew. In truth, the first thing Maggie looked to do on meeting someone for the first time was nose out the flaw. Like a ferret after a rabbit. It wasn’t something she was proud of.

  Her lips formed a tight smile. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Would you still be as charitable if it was your daughter lying dead? Oh,’ Wilma bit her lip. ‘Forget I said that.’

  ‘That’s all right. To be honest with you, I’ve had that much on my plate recently, I haven’t had time
to fret about Kirsty.’ Maggie paused. ‘Not till you reminded me, that is.’

  ‘Sorry, pal.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ resolutely, she moved towards the door, ‘I have to throw you out now because…’

  Wilma cupped a hand to her ear. ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sounds like the polis.’

  She pricked her ears. Sure enough, in the near distance there was the distinctive sound of a police siren.

  ‘Wonder what’s up? It’s no often you hear them in this neck of the woods.’

  ‘Oh…’ Maggie’s stomach lurched. Her first thought was the unfair dismissal case. She could hear, still, those Alsatians pounding after her, feel their hot breath at her back. Breaking and entering! She wondered if there were any further charges could be brought. Don’t be daft. A thing like that wouldn’t warrant a siren. She collected her thoughts. ‘They’re probably taking a shortcut.’

  ‘Shortcut?’ Wilma was already rehearsing in her head the yarn she would spin over her wee bit business in Mastrick. ‘It’s a fuckin cul-de-sac.’

  ‘Well, maybe they don’t know that.’

  ‘You’d think they’d know, if anybody bloody would,’ Wilma said. ‘Tossers. Oh,’ she pulled herself up, ‘sorry, Maggie. I forgot.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. If you’ve been married to a policeman for as long as I have…’ She looked pointedly at Wilma, ‘You get used to it.

  The noise of the siren grew louder.

  ‘Bet it’s to do with that lassie at St Machar.’

  Could it be connected with Colin, then? Maggie fought to still the palpitations in her chest. He couldn’t have, surely.

  Louder, the siren wailed, and louder still.

  Maggie’s mind churned. She told herself it was irrational. Still, she said a silent prayer: Don’t let it be him.

  ‘Come on, chum, let’s have a nosey.’

  Wilma gripped Maggie by the elbow and steered her down the hall.