Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘No leaks. And that goes for the rest of you. It’s vital we keep control of the flow of information.’

  Maggie Has a Wobble

  ‘What the blazes are they doing in there?’ Maggie smothered a huge yawn. It had been over two hours since she’d snapped the man enter the house and there had been no sign of movement in the upstairs bedroom. She prayed they weren’t dug in in front of the television or, God forbid, having a romantic supper.

  And where was his car? He must have parked round the corner, she surmised. The new estate of swanky detached houses wasn’t yet on any bus route. She cast a glance at the estate agency brochures which graced the car’s front sill – her raison d’etre, should her prolonged presence on this quiet road be remarked.

  Maggie sneaked a nibble of the cereal bar she kept in the glove compartment for such occasions. She didn’t dare follow it up with a swig of water from the bottle in the central console. She’d been bursting for a wee for the past hour. She chewed resolutely, making the mouthful last, but the sticky slivers of cereal only stuck to her mouth. Maggie experienced a sudden twinge of conscience. It was the second time that week she’d had to leave Colin a microwave meal.

  She’d clock the guy’s car on the way home, she resolved. Maggie had noted the make, colour and registration number that last time, when the pair had met for a quick lunchtime smooch at Hazelhead. She sighed heavily. They were such a thankless slog, these divorce cases. Hours of dogged observation. And for what? Getting divorced was far too easy, in Maggie’s opinion. Time was, you made your bed you lay on it. Then again – she thought of Wilma – there were no winners, she knew. Still, needs must. She reclined the seat a fraction, stretched her legs, rotated her ankles in turn.

  The sky was fading to flannel grey and Maggie nodding off when a light snapped on in an upstairs room. She lunged for her camera, just in time to catch a female figure draw the curtains. She fancied she could make out the shape of a man standing behind, his arms encircling the woman’s waist. Didn’t matter, she thought, as she clicked furiously. If they were upstairs for long enough…

  She settled down to wait.

  x

  ‘You’re not looking too hot.’ Wilma sat in Maggie’s dining room, a cup of black coffee on the table in front of her.

  ‘Bittie tired,’ she raised a pasty face. ‘Didn’t get to my bed till gone midnight.’

  ‘Thought you were babysitting Colin.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘What’s he been doing until after midnight on a school day?’

  ‘Homework.’ Wilma shrugged. ‘That’s what he told me, anyhow.’

  Maggie caught her breath. She’d no idea what her son got up to any more. ‘If you are going to babysit, Wilma, you’ll have to be firmer with him.’

  ‘Well, thanks a bunch. You come swanning in at all hours and I get nothing but the third degree.’ She offered a wan smile. ‘You don’t exactly look sparkling either.’

  ‘Neither would you be if you’d been sitting in a car half the night.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘Yours. For hounding me into taking on the business.’

  ‘No, pal, yours for letting the client talk you into it. You’re a soft touch, Maggie Laird. I thought we’d agreed you’d steer clear of surveillance.’

  ‘We did, only…he was such a poor soul.’

  ‘I thought you said he was good-looking,’ Wilma teased. ‘Did you fancy him, like?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was desperate, that’s all.’

  ‘If he was that desperate why didn’t he go himself? Catch them in the act?’

  ‘Because the guy was the wife’s personal trainer. Built like a tank.’

  ‘So you decided to take him on instead?’ Wilma rolled her eyes. ‘Maggie Laird, you’re some woman.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d be that size when I took the job on.’

  ‘And when you said you were going on a wee job,’ Wilma retorted, ‘I didn’t know you were going to come in at all hours.’

  ‘That’s as long as it took.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to tell me how it went?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I parked the car like you said, watched the guy go in, waited till the light went on upstairs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I sat there for seven hours. Well, it felt like seven, but when I checked my watch it was only six and a bit. Then…’ She slumped back onto the settee. ‘I came home.’

  ‘But that’s great!’

  ‘Great? Is that how you’d describe it? Sitting in a cold car for hours on end with damn all to eat or drink? I couldn’t even go to the bathroom.’

  ‘You’d have managed if you were desperate.’

  ‘Managed? How?’

  ‘Cooried doon behind the car.’

  ‘Wil-ma,’ Maggie shrilled. ‘I’d never be so desperate I’d wee in the street.’

  Wilma grinned. ‘You might yet. Anyway, I could have given you a hand. Done a shift, like.’

  ‘And how were you to know I was stuck there?’

  ‘Simple. You could have phoned.’

  Maggie turned her head away.

  ‘Well?’

  She turned back. ‘I forgot my mobile,’ she said in a sheepish voice.

  ‘Maggie,’ Wilma’s eyes were wide. ‘You daft sod.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You took some happy snaps?’ Wilma hesitated. ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘As instructed,’ Maggie summoned a smile.

  ‘Good on you, kid. If we’ve got that in the bag, that’s another case sorted.’

  ‘But that’s just it.’

  ‘Christ,’ Wilma rolled her eyes, ‘you didn’t forget to give the client our Terms of Business, did you?’

  ‘No. He had them already. I checked. It’s just…well…when I agreed to take on the agency, I never imagined it would be like this: creeping about like a criminal, hiding away like a…a…voyeur.’

  ‘A what?’ Puzzled look.

  ‘A spy.’

  ‘But isn’t that what we are?’

  ‘Up to a point. But it’s so unsavoury, sharing people’s most intimate moments. It’s like we’re in bed with them.’

  Grins. ‘We should be so lucky.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘But that’s life, Maggie.’ Wilma’s voice was tender.

  ‘Not my life. I just can’t do it, Wilma. Spying on people. Taking sneaky photographs.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Not any more. I thought I’d be able to carry on George’s business. I talked myself into it,’ Maggie turned a miserable face to her neighbour. ‘Let you talk me into it. I thought I could be strong. For George’s sake. For our children.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘But, now,’ she hiccuped, ‘G-George has gone. And my kids…the problems they’ve had…the way I’ve neglected them this past while…I’ve been frantic with worry. Kirsty and Colin, they’re all I’ve got.’

  ‘Kids…’ Wilma commiserated, ‘they’re a worry are they no?’

  Maggie was weeping now, shuddering sobs that racked her entire body.

  ‘Och, come here,’ Wilma pulled her close, enveloped Maggie in her generous bosom.

  ‘I used to be so positive,’ Maggie struggled for air. ‘But since George died, I’m not sure about anything any more. It’s like, overnight, all my certainties have evaporated. And you’re right, Wilma, what you said the other day: I am feeble, a weakling compared with you.’

  ‘You’re not weak, Maggie, just different. And such a wee scrap of a thing, mebbe the surveillance wisna such a great idea. Why don’t we concentrate on the legals for the time being, pass on as much surveillance as we can? Once we’re down the road a bit there will be no need to knock our pans out on divorce work. It’s way too time-consum
ing for the return. Then we’ll concentrate on the insurance fraud. That’s where the big money is.’

  ‘But, Wilma,’ Maggie protested, ‘we’re not in a position to turn away business.’

  ‘We can fob them off. Say all our operatives are fully engaged at the moment.’

  ‘But that’s a lie, Wilma. The last thing we want to be seen as is dodgy.’

  ‘Dodgy’s my middle name.’ Wilma grinned broadly. ‘Call it creative thinking, if you must.’ She changed the subject. ‘Has that cheque come in from Cowies?’

  Maggie raised a weary head. ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘Talking of cheques, now we’re up and running, we should mebbe jack our prices up.’

  ‘Wil-ma. We can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? “Don’t ask, don’t get,” that’s what I always say. You try getting a quote from another agency and see how much they charge.’

  ‘I suppose. It’s just…making money out of other people’s misery…’

  Wilma’s face creased into a grin. ‘If we don’t do it, somebody else will. It’ll all work out,’ she extended a comforting hand. ‘You wait and see, Maggie Laird, six months from now you’ll be a new woman.’

  ‘Don’t know if I want to be a new woman.’ Plaintive face. ‘I used to be so clear-headed. Going back to my Seaton job…taking on the agency…seeking justice for George. I had it all mapped out. And when I ran down Jimmy Craigmyle I thought I was doing so well. But, then, Brannigan. I’ve hit another brick wall. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, Wilma. What I really want, to be honest with you, is to go back to the way I was before…’ There was a tremor in her voice. ‘All this.’

  ‘Oh, quine,’ Wilma’s face was heavy with concern. ‘Ye ken fine that’s no gonna happen.’

  ‘I s’pose,’ Maggie stifled a sob.

  ‘And right now,’ Wilma heaved herself to her feet, ‘the best thing for the both of us is get some sleep.’

  ‘I’m with you on with that one,’ Maggie followed her neighbour to the front door. ‘Night, Wilma. And thanks…for everything.’

  Wilma turned. In the light from the street lamp she looked almost wistful. ‘Night-night, Maggie.’

  See them Games

  ‘How long have I got?’ Kym stood at the door in her coat: a black quilted knee-length job with a scatter of stains down the front.

  Fatboy eyed the dishevelled figure with distaste. ‘As long as you like.’ Hurriedly, he checked himself. It was critical to keep the slut onside.

  ‘But…’ she hesitated.

  Fatboy smiled encouragement. ‘Just as long as you’re back before teatime.’

  ‘Only…’

  ‘If you’re worried about leaving the kids…’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’ve left out their dinner, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. On the worktop.’

  Fatboy winced. He could imagine. ‘Away you go, then, have a dander in the fresh air.’

  ‘But…’ Nervously, she gnawed on a fingernail.

  ‘Go on,’ he gave her an impatient shove. ‘Trust me. Everything’s under control up here, and Willie won’t have finished his business for ages yet.’

  Kym took her finger out of her mouth. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  She flashed him a nicotine-stained smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’ Exasperated voice.

  Still she didn’t budge.

  ‘Kym, what’s keeping you?’ For a moment Fatboy wondered if Kym had heard about the spliff. His lip curled. So what. Who in hell would believe her?

  Her face clouded over. ‘I’m skint, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Skint? You’re having me on.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But, didn’t you just get paid for…?’

  ‘Aye,’ she coloured. ‘But I’d stuff to get.’

  ‘Stuff?’ He could imagine the liquor she’d have slid down her scrawny throat, that and the dope.

  ‘And my benefit’s not due till the beginning of next week.’

  Fuck. After that first day, when the kids had run amok in Kym’s flat playing their riotous game of Hide and Seek, they demanded a game every time the girl went off on one of her expeditions and Fatboy was left in sole charge. Not that he minded. The time he spent waiting for Willie hung heavy on his hands, if all there was for him to do was sit watching CBeebies with the kids or fiddle with his iPhone. No, Fatboy had his afternoon all mapped out: feed the kids, hour of telly, game or two, bit of slap and tickle.

  ‘If you could mebbe see your way,’ she wheedled.

  He cut her short. ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that.’ He extracted a couple of notes from his wallet and slipped them into her coat pocket. Then he had a quiet smile to himself. Cheap at the price. ‘Here, get yourself a snifter. Just to keep the cold out, understand?’

  Happily, Kym patted her pocket. She didn’t have to think twice these days about leaving her charges in the big lad’s care. Why, he even played proper games with them, they told her excitedly – Pass the Parcel, Hide and Seek, Blind Man’s Bluff. And other games. Ones she’d never heard of: games with funny names like Tickle-Tackle, Lolly-Sticks, Criss-Cross.

  Kym asked Fatboy about those games, one time.

  ‘See them games…’

  ‘What games?’

  ‘The ones you play with the kids when I’m out.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of any of them.’

  ‘Pass the Parcel?’ He raised an incredulous eyebrow. ‘Blind Man’s Bluff? Where the fuck were you dragged up?’

  ‘No,’ she struggled to stand upright, ‘not them. The other games. What d’you call them – Lolly something?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t you worry your head about those. They’re just daft things I made up.’

  Now, Kym tugged the collar of her coat up under her chin.

  She pulled the door behind her.

  A Pair o’ Honeys

  Simply the best…

  Maggie sat on the bench, her knees drawn up. She looked around. The space was vast. Steel beams bridged the vaulted roof space. Suspended by chains from stout metal stanchions, black and scarlet leather punch bags proclaimed ‘Lonsdale’ beneath the logo of a prowling lion. On one side a range of fearsome-looking equipment was arrayed. On the other, exercise mats lined up along a mirrored wall. Here and there, huge barbells lay abandoned. A row of bumpy black weights with sturdy handles sat on a low shelf. Like kettles on a range, her mind flew back to the old farmhouse kitchen in Methlick. In the middle of the space, a boxing ring took centre stage. Raised a couple of feet off the carpeted floor, it was bounded by scarlet railings. Maggie wondered when they’d stopped using ropes. Then she wondered – and not for the first time since she’d teamed up with Wilma Harcus – what on earth she was doing there.

  Better than all the rest…

  Maggie’s head pounded. In the oppressive heat, she wilted beneath her wool blazer. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Bad as that?’

  Her eyes batted open. Wilma was standing over her. True to her promise, she’d brought Maggie along to Torry to show her the boxing gym she trained in. After that they were planning a visit to the pub where her neighbour worked. Wilma’s hair was tied up in a topknot, a few spiky ends sticking out. She was kitted out in a pair of knee-length black Lycra leggings and a fluorescent vest top, a rolled-up towel round her neck.

  ‘Wow,’ Maggie looked up admiringly. ‘You look different. And haven’t you lost weight?’

  Wilma stuck out her tongue. ‘Took you long enough to notice.’

  ‘Oh, Wilma, I’m sorry. It’s just we’ve been so busy this past while.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘So this is what you�
��ve been up to?’

  ‘Too right. I reckoned if you needed a MOT, then I was in want of a full fucking service.’ Wilma covered her mouth. ‘Pardon my French.’ She changed tack. ‘What d’you reckon to this, then?’

  ‘It’s very…interesting.’

  ‘Interesting? It’s fuckin…’ Wilma cast a toned arm around, ‘…amazin.’

  ‘Agreed. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ That was true, at any rate. ‘And you can fairly do the moves.’

  ‘D’you think?’ Wilma swelled visibly. ‘I’ve tried the lot – Bodypump, aerobics, kettlebells…’

  ‘So they’re kettles, right enough?’

  ‘Aye,’ pulling a face, ‘bummers.’

  ‘They’ll be putting you in the ring next.’

  ‘Not on your bloody life. You should see the young lads go at it, though. Knock hell out of one another. I’ll stick to my punchbag, thank you.’

  Maggie eyed the things. ‘They look terrifying.’

  ‘Challenging, the coach calls em. He’s a fuckin challenge an aw’. Seriously, though, they’re heavy going, them things. Good practice, mind you. Might even come in handy,’ Wilma gave a stage wink, ‘in our line of work.’

  Maggie recoiled. ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  ‘Talk of the devil.’ A man appeared at her elbow: thickset, shaven-headed, heavily tattooed. He was dressed in vest top, tracksuit bottoms and boxer’s boots.

  ‘Who’s yer pal?’ he enquired.

  Wilma grinned. ‘My neighbour, Joe – Maggie Laird.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He offered a wide smile, the handshake so firm Maggie could hear her knuckles crack.

  ‘And you.’ Covertly, she inspected the damage.

  ‘Have ye come tae join up?’

  ‘No. I mean, Wilma’s obviously thriving on it, but…’

  ‘Come on, hen,’ Joe clamped Maggie’s arm in an enthusiastic grip and positioned her in front of a punch bag. ‘Show us what yer made of.’

  She eyed the thing. Threw a feeble punch.

  ‘Use both hands,’ he encouraged. ‘Like so.’ She caught a whiff of sweat, as Joe’s fists flew. ‘Come on. Right, left. Right, left.’