Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘You think I might be able to help?’ she asked gently.

  Kieran raised his head, but didn’t look at her. ‘Willie says you’re married to a policeman.’

  ‘I was married to a policeman.’

  ‘You divorced, then?’

  The lad’s tone was so matter-of-fact, Maggie felt a sharp pang of sadness. She remembered how shocked she’d been when she first started at Seaton to discover how few of its pupils actually lived with two parents.

  ‘No, Kieran, I’m not divorced. My husband was in the police force, but he’s dead now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ she prompted. ‘I thought it was me you wanted to talk to.’

  ‘It was, but…’ For an instant, the boy’s clear grey eyes met Maggie’s own.

  ‘What?’

  In the background, a bell shrilled.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Kieran turned away.

  Craigmyle

  The Hollywood Café in Holburn Street was seventy years past its sell-by-date. Maggie pushed the door and went in. The interior was cramped, the front shop bisected by a glass counter, behind which old-fashioned sweetie jars were arrayed on tall shelving, the seating area to the rear crammed with high-backed booths. She peered into the gloomy interior. Her spirits sank. There was nobody there.

  She turned on her heel. Thought the better of it. Turned back. She rose on the balls of her feet and craned her neck. At the very rear, the top of a dark head was only just discernible. Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. She should have realised. See without being seen – wasn’t that what George always said?

  ‘Jimmy?’ She advanced down the aisle between the booths. Just as she’d given up hope of getting a result from her visit to the nightclub, Craigmyle had got in touch.

  Keeping his head down, the man rose halfway to his feet. He wasn’t as she remembered: leaner, shaven-headed, a rash of dark stubble on his jaw. ‘Maggie?’ He grasped her hand. ‘Good to see you.’ Jimmy Craigmyle slid back into a corner.

  She dropped onto the banquette opposite. It was upholstered in scarlet leather, discoloured and torn, the rents crudely patched with curling strips of carpet tape. The place even smelled disconsolate, a sad amalgam of floor cleaner, stale chip fat and old smoke.

  ‘Can’t say the same,’ she worked to keep her voice even.

  ‘No, well. I’m really sorry. That business…’

  ‘I looked for you at the funeral.’

  ‘I was there,’ Craigmyle said. ‘How could I not? Nipped in at the back,’ he continued. ‘Ducked out before the crowd. Thought, in the circumstances…’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘We were buddies, George and me. You know how it is in the Force.’ He scrunched his face. ‘I might not have been who he’d have picked. But you get stuck with someone, you learn to rub along.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Good turnout, wasn’t there? Did George proud.’

  Maggie’s mouth turned down. She could picture, still, George’s unadorned coffin. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I left my number at the club because I need you to tell me about Brannigan.’

  ‘That cunt?’ Craigmyle put a hand to his mouth. ‘Sorry. What about him?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because I’m trying to clear George.’

  ‘Why now? I mean, wasn’t the time for action back when…’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I’ve myself to blame for that.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Oh,’ she grimaced. ‘That’s ancient history. Let’s just say I’m hell-bent on restoring my husband’s good name.’

  ‘And how d’you propose to do that?”

  ‘I’ve taken on the agency, for a start.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No. Deadly serious.’

  ‘And how’s that going to help?’

  ‘Pay the bills, for one.’ A tight smile played on her lips. ‘Plus I hoped, if I’m honest with you, Jimmy, it might give me some ideas.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘How to conduct surveillance, investigate…’

  ‘Listen, Maggie,’ her companion leaned across the table. ‘Leave that sort of stuff to the professionals.’

  ‘Like who? I hope you don’t mean the police force, Jimmy Craigmyle, because it didn’t do a damn thing to vindicate George.’

  ‘Like me,’ Jimmy countered. ‘Look, I know George was never that sold on me. Saw me as a bit of a fly man. As for you? I know fine well you never liked me.’

  ‘That’s not…’

  ‘No need to deny it. Not now we’re in the same boat, you and me.’

  ‘Same boat?’ Maggie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Near as,’ Craigmyle insisted. ‘Wife threw me out. She’s put up with me for years, but having to resign like that was the last straw.’

  Maggie grimaced. ‘At least you’ve got a wife.’

  ‘Lot of use that is. She doesn’t pick up my calls. Won’t let me see my kids. Started off OK, but now it’s any excuse.’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Don’t know if it’s too late for the marriage, but I’d do anything to get my kids back. That’s the reason I’m working in Windmill Brae.’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘Thought I wouldn’t be able to land anything better than a bouncer’s job,’ Craigmyle threw her a bitter look. ‘That’s what they all think. Down Queen Street, anyhow. And I’m happy for them to think that way. Lets me get on with the business in hand.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I might not be the man George Laird was,’ he flexed his arms, ‘but I’m determined to nail that wee bastard that ran rings round the pair of us.’

  ‘Bobby Brannigan?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘The club…’

  ‘I was gutted when the barman said it was your night off.’

  ‘Belongs to a guy Gilruth.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie winced. ‘His reputation precedes him.’

  ‘I’ve managed to inveigle my way in,’ Craigmyle lowered his voice. ‘Been biding my time. Keeping my nose clean. I don’t have the run of the place. Not yet. But there’s this back room…’ He met her gaze. ‘Something’s going on in there, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Drugs, you mean?’

  ‘That, and the rest. I’m convinced if I can crack that, I can rubbish Brannigan’s testimony.’

  ‘But you’re an ex-cop, Jimmy. Surely they’re…’

  ‘Suspicious?’ he sneered. ‘No feckin way. A cop? Yes. A bent cop? Come on in, the water’s lovely. I could be useful to them, don’t you see?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Maggie nodded.

  ‘And if I can get that wee bastard to admit he perjured himself in the witness box, there’s a chance we could get the case reopened.’

  ‘Oh,’ she felt light-headed all of a sudden. ‘And both your names could be cleared, you and George.’

  Craigmyle snorted. ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about that. My name was mud before any of this ever happened. No. All I want is to see my kids again.’

  ‘But it’s not just Brannigan’s testimony that caused the case to collapse. There was the interview. George said…’

  ‘The tape that got turned off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence, then, ‘I’ll hold my hands up to that.’

  Bingo! Blood rushed to Maggie’s head. Finally, she’d made a breakthrough. Still, she’d need more than a simple admission. ‘You switched it off?’ she probed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Instinct. It’s the only way, sometimes, to get these people to op
en up,’ he offered a crooked grin. ‘And the rest is history.’

  ‘But why didn’t George…’

  Her companion grimaced. ‘Loyalty, I suppose.’

  Maggie’s voice rose. ‘Misguided loyalty, if you ask me.’

  Craigmyle gripped her wrist. ‘Pipe down. We don’t want to be seen together.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ his voice was soft. ‘Fair enough, Maggie, what you just said. Do you think I don’t feel guilty, George taking it on the chin for me?’

  ‘Guilty enough to stand up in court and testify to switching off that tape?’

  ‘First things first,’ he parried. ‘There’s a way to go before we get to that.’

  Can this man be trusted? Maggie debated whether to go straight to Queen Street with his confession. But she needed more. And if he could be a conduit to Brannigan, uncover evidence on the drugs front…

  ‘What did you tell me you wanted to achieve?’ Craigmyle asked.

  She drew a deep breath. ‘Justice for George.’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to succeed, you and me, we’ll have to stay on the same page. Agreed?’

  Play along. With some reservation, Maggie nodded.

  ‘So you’ll keep me posted on any developments?’

  ‘Yes. You?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ He paused. ‘I’m making progress at the club.’

  ‘You are?’ Her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘But it could take a while. Months. Years, even.’

  Her spirits sank again. ‘As long as that?’ She collected her thoughts. ‘What about Brannigan?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Hasn’t shown his face.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  He shrugged. ‘No bloody idea.’

  One More Thing

  The Incident Room was alive with activity: people making and taking phone calls, a printer spewing out paper. On the far wall, whiteboards bore maps and diagrams and photographs.

  ‘Right, folks,’ Detective Inspector Allan Chisolm strode into the room. From under one arm, a bulging case file protruded. The DI drew out a chair at the head of the table. He threw the file down on the table with a thwack. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ He called everyone to order.

  ‘Sir,’ Douglas Dunn slid smartly into a seat. Susan Strachan took in the artfully tousled dark hair, the hint of stubble showing on the weak chin. Smarmy little bastard, she thought, from her stance by the window. It was another grey day, heavy clouds lowering over the city’s skyline. Fair matched her mood. Dunn was closely followed by Dave Wood, who licked the sugar off his fingers as he demolished the last of a breakfast doughnut. Brian Burnett unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down. Susan picked up the sheets of paper that had fallen onto the floor by the printer. She stacked them in a neat pile and laid them on the big table, taking care to keep a comfortable distance between her own chair and that of Douglas Dunn.

  ‘Where’s Duffy?’ The question came out like a bullet.

  ‘Chasing up Forensics,’ Brian replied.

  ‘OK,’ the inspector opened the folder in front of him. ‘First, let me give you the good news.’ He paused. ‘We have formal ID. The bad news is we have damn all else. Let’s start with an update from you, Burnett, on the victim’s associates.’

  ‘Sir. Strachan and I went out to Hillhead. Three flatmates: two girls, one boy. One swotty type, one yah and a weirdo.’

  ‘Tell me about the weirdo.’

  ‘That’s one for Strachan, sir.’

  ‘Dominic Elwen?’ Susan pulled a face. ‘Unproductive, I’m afraid. We checked the guy out thoroughly, and…’ She shrugged. ‘Agreed he’s a complete geek, and he does look a bit odd. Plus…’ She looked pointedly at Douglas Dunn. ‘He doesn’t seem to have a clue how to behave around the opposite sex. But, in my view, he’s harmless. It’s just hard luck on both sides he got billeted with Lucy and Melissa.’

  ‘Boyfriends?’

  ‘None currently.’ Susan’s mind turned to Lucy Simmons: a girl who had come to Aberdeen with high expectations, and whose life had ended. Ended on a cold, hard slab in a bleak, dark graveyard. She focused her thoughts. ‘Lucy had broken up with a long-term boyfriend in Surrey. Seems not to have formed any other attachments.’

  ‘No surprises there,’ Dunn sneered. ‘Bet he gave her the heave.’

  Susan pulled a face. ‘You’re a cynical bastard, Douglas. How did you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘Obvious. Girl couldn’t get far enough away.’

  ‘She couldn’t get much further then Aberdeen, I’ll hand you that. You do realise it’s on an even more northerly latitude than Moscow?”

  Prissy voice. ‘Little Miss Know-It-All, today, aren’t we?’

  Susan chose to ignore this. ‘He seems to be out of the equation, anyhow – the ex-boyfriend, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone else.’

  ‘Classmates?’ Chisolm enquired.

  ‘No one in particular.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve established that Lucy did have a mobile. Latest model. Never went anywhere without it.’

  ‘So where is the thing?’ The DI’s fingers drummed on the desk. ‘Somebody must have taken it.’ He turned to Brian. ‘I assume, Sergeant, you’ve been in touch with the girl’s service provider?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Her flatmate provided the number.’

  ‘And had uniform ask round the pubs?’

  ‘As a matter of course.’ ‘Did door-to-door throw up anything, Elrick?’

  ‘Young lad, late teens, seen close to the cathedral gates. Not much in the way of description: dark coloured anorak, grey trousers, black shoes.’

  ‘Christ,’ Wood came to life, ‘can they no give us a break?’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Chisolm ran a weary hand through his hair. ‘What does the description tell us?’

  ‘Grey trousers?’ Dave Wood scratched his head. ‘Not a student?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ the DI concurred.

  ‘Sounds like a uniform of some sort,’ Susan offered.

  ‘Check it out, Elrick. Anything from you on the park itself, Dunn?’

  ‘Sweet FA from Seaton Park, I’m afraid, sir. The miscreants are understandably backward in coming forward.’

  The inspector threw him a thin smile. He cast his eyes round the room.

  ‘Do we have any idea what Lucy Simmons was doing in St. Machar graveyard in the first place? If she’d taken a short-cut from Hillhead through Seaton Park, she’d have come out the main park gates and gone straight down the Chanonry to St Machar Drive. So, given that her body was found at the far end of the kirkyard, my guess is she went in there on purpose.’

  ‘I think it’s connected to the notebook and pencil.’ This from Susan. ‘We know Lucy was artistic. Interested in history. Maybe she wanted to do some research. Write something down. Draw something, even,’ she broke off. ‘You know…like people do brass-rubbings and stuff.’

  ‘Right…’ Douglas jumped in. ‘And then she took a turn…’

  ‘At the tender age of seventeen. Dinna be daft, laddie,’ Dave Wood interjected. ‘More like some evil bastard duffed her up.’

  ‘We don’t have any hard evidence for that,’ Chisolm intervened. ‘Not until Forensics can find a match for the injury to her skull.’

  ‘And how bloody long will that take?’ Dunn this time.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll all have to be patient on that front,’ the DI responded. ‘I’m leaning hard on Forensics as it is.’

  ‘But what about the mobile, sir?’ Wood protested. ‘She could have been mugged for that. Followed out of Seaton Park and…’

  ‘That doesn’t square.’ Susan said her piece. ‘What about the jeans? And the cross in the vagina? What sort of mugger does that to a young girl?’

&nb
sp; There was a bit of eye-rolling around the table.

  ‘Where does that leave us, then?’ Wood asked.

  The inspector furrowed his brow. ‘Waiting – still – for Sergeant Duffy to appear. In the meantime, Dunn, Elrick,’ Chisolm closed the folder on the table in front of him, ‘let’s concentrate our efforts on finding that phone. Find out if anyone has acquired a fancy new mobile recently. All of you, check with your sources, ask around in the pubs. That phone may well hold the key to Lucy’s death. Anything further?’ The inspector looked round the table.

  ‘There’s just one more thing, sir,’ Brian volunteered. ‘Melissa, the flatmate from Hillhead, mentioned Lucy had a bit of a crush – “pash” was the word she used – on one of her tutors. Turns out the Art History tutor is dark-haired and fortyish, which loosely fits the description of the guy who was seen loitering in the Chanonry. I’ve established that he goes by the name of Guy Plumley. Married with four kids. Lives just around the corner in Don Street.’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ Chisolm’s complexion flushed from puce to pink and then purple. ‘We’ve got a university student dead in St Machar graveyard, a tutor she had the hots for living round the corner, and a suspect fitting said tutor’s description seen loitering in the Chanonry, am I correct, Burnett?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And it’s taken you till now to flag up a fucking connection?’

  Desperately, Brian cast around the table. The others sat slouched. Douglas ran his fingers through his carefully gelled hair. Susan wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I did try to get hold of him, sir…’ Brian had delegated the job, but there was no way he was going to land her in it. ‘But turns out he’s a slippery character. Bit difficult to pin down.’

  ‘I’ll give you difficult,’ the inspector seethed. ‘Get someone’s arse down there. Have them ask this lover boy tutor to come in for a chat. But Burnett…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Kid gloves, please. We wouldn’t want to go rubbing up the university the wrong way. And Burnett…’