Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  Maggie tried to pretend it was Brannigan. She threw her weight into it.

  ‘That’s better. Can ah sign ye up, then?’

  She turned. ‘Another time, maybe.’

  Over Joe’s muscled shoulder, Wilma heaved with laughter. She caught Maggie’s look and composed herself hastily. ‘I’ll away and get changed.’

  x

  ‘I got the idea in here, as a matter of fact.’

  The pair were sitting in the pub where Wilma worked, just around the corner from the boxing gym, two glasses of wine on the table in front of them.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There’s these lads come in, regular, like. They go to the gym two or three times a week.’

  ‘So that’s what you call work? Cosying up to fit young boxers?’

  ‘Dinna fancy them. Most o’ them, anyhow. There’s this one fella, mind,’ Wilma threw Maggie an evil grin. ‘I’d chap the paint aff his door any day.’

  Maggie giggled. ‘Don’t want to know. But you were about to tell me…’

  ‘Never paid much attention to them, only a few months back they were chaffin awa, having a laugh over some new class that had started up. For quines, apparently. My nose was botherin me, so I asked them what it was all about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I ended up signing on.’

  ‘You make it sound like joining the army.’

  ‘S’not funny.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just, well, until tonight I couldn’t quite see you…’

  ‘Neither could I.’ Wilma adjusted her top. ‘I tried Weight Watchers, way back. Couldna hack it. All that queuing up to get weighed. Havin to fess up to eating a fuckin Crunchie bar, for Chrissake. I mean,’ Wilma cast her eyes to the heavens, ‘get a life.’

  Maggie suppressed a giggle.

  ‘Plus them classes cost a bomb. Fiver a throw. You could buy yourself a bottle o’ wine for that. Cheers!’ She raised her glass, took a mouthful. ‘And it’s worked, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Now you’ve seen the place, d’you fancy coming along sometime? Not that you need to lose weight or anything. But,’ she hesitated, ‘it fair gets stuff out your system.’

  ‘You think I need to?’

  ‘Mebbe. You have to admit, Maggie, you can be a bit…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh,’ Wilma puzzled, ‘Canna mind the word. But you fair take a running jump at things.’

  ‘Well, if I’m going to get justice for George – not that I’m getting anywhere fast on that front – I have to be proactive.’

  ‘I know. And I’m not criticising.’ She laid a consoling hand on Maggie’s arm. ‘Call it friendly concern.’

  Maggie brightened. ‘Thanks, Wilma.’

  ‘Anyhow, back to the gym. Once I’d been going a few weeks, I wasn’t so hungry, like, in the evenings. Cut back on the chocolate bars and the fizzy drinks. Mind you,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘I’d kill for a poke of chips and curry sauce right this minute.’

  ‘Well it’s certainly done the business.’

  ‘Ta. And talking about business, don’t look now,’ she whispered, ‘but see those two fellas over there?’

  Maggie strained forward. ‘Where?’

  ‘Ssssh! Over there, at the bar.’

  She followed Wilma’s eyes.

  ‘Pair o’ honeys, are they no? Makes thon two that came round to you look like pin-ups.’

  Maggie pulled a face. ‘I’d almost forgotten about them.’

  ‘Well, seems one o’ that pair just got discharged. Been in here since having a bevvy.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Blootered they are. Rabbiting on about Peterhead. Said the fella been sent down for doing drugs.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘They’re just the sort might be able to find yer man.’

  ‘Brannigan, d’you mean?’

  Wilma beamed. ‘On the nail.’

  ‘Oh, Wilma. I’d almost given up hope. So why didn’t you…?’

  ‘Maggie,’ the smile vanished from Wilma’s face, ‘I work here. Remember?’

  ‘Oh. I get it. You can’t go snooping on the clientele.’

  ‘Clientele? I’ve never seen the buggers before in my life. All the same, I’d better not chance it. But there’s nothing to stop you.’

  ‘Me?’ Maggie shrank back. It was one thing bearding James Gilruth, but this was in a different category altogether.

  ‘Go on,’ Wilma elbowed her in the ribs.

  Oh, the hell with it! Maggie squared her shoulders, rose to her feet. ‘I’ll get us a couple of bags of crisps,’ she said in a voice that was far too loud.

  x

  ‘Hiya,’ Maggie sidled up to the two men propping up the bar. ‘How ye doin?’ She adopted what she hoped was a local accent.

  The shorter of the two ran bloodshot eyes down Maggie’s body and up again. ‘Wha’s askin?’

  She scrambled for a name. Any name. ‘Elaine,’ she flashed a winning smile.

  ‘Jockie.’ He slithered off his bar stool. Drew himself up to his full five feet six. ‘Buy ye a drink?’

  ‘No…really…thanks all the same. I only came up for a packet of crisps.’

  Jockie draped a sweaty arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, Elaine, let that bonny hair doon. Ah’m celebratin the day wi ma mate Wullie here.’

  Bingo! Maggie’s spirits lifted. This guy had to be the ex-con. ‘Red wine, then?’ Coy look. ‘Don’t mind if ye do.’

  ‘Who’s yer pal?’ His drinking partner, who’d been morose till then, yanked a bullet head in Wilma’s direction.

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie thought on her feet. ‘You mean…Heather?’

  ‘Come over an join us,’ a large hand with tattooed knuckles waved in Wilma’s general direction.

  Make an excuse. ‘She can’t.’ Loud voice. ‘She’s newly married.’

  ‘Fine-lookin wumman.’ Laboriously, Wullie moved to rise from his stool.

  Maggie looked over at Wilma. Even slimmed down, she struck a commanding figure. ‘And pregnant.’ She saw Wilma’s shoulders start to heave. Didn’t dare catch her eye. ‘Heather’s not drinking. Sorry.’

  The big man’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s twa glasses on thon table.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie lied. ‘And they’re both mine. I’ve had a lousy day.’ Out of the corner of her eye she caught Wilma shaking with mirth, then making a dash for the ladies toilet.

  For a long moment, Wullie’s large frame hovered in mid-air, then he slumped comatose over the bar, head on crossed arms, the sleeves of his bomber jacket soaking up puddles of spilt beer.

  ‘He OK?’ Maggie would have felt more comfortable with Wilma at her back.

  Jockie shrugged. ‘Jist tired. We’ve been in here a fair while.’

  ‘How about you?’ Suggestive voice.

  He raised his pint glass. ‘Rarin tae go, doll. Fancy a change o’ scene?’

  Help! Maggie had a sudden urge to wee. There was still no sign of Wilma. She couldn’t still be in the Ladies, surely. She took several deep breaths. ‘There’s this guy I went out with couple o’ times. Took me to a great pub somewhere round here.’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘We could mebbe go there.’

  ‘Aye? What’s it called?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Maggie put a hand to her brow. ‘I’ve a terrible memory for names.’

  ‘Whereaboots is it, then?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘And places.’ Keep pushing. ‘But the guy I was telling you about, you might have come across him. Brannigan was his name. Place I’m talking about was his local.’

  ‘Bobby?’ The wee man swayed on his feet, steadied himself against the bar. ‘That wha ye mean?’

  Her heart pounded. ‘I guess. Can’t be many o’ those in Aberdeen.�
� She leaned in close. ‘You in touch?’

  ‘Huvna seen him this past while.’ She was met by a mouthful of bad breath.

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie was gutted. So near and yet so far.

  ‘Hud a wee bit o’ bother, Bobby. Hud tae keep oot o’ the public eye.’ Jockie tapped the side of his nose. ‘If ye ken whit ah mean. That wis a while back, mind. Could be he sorted the thing. Widna ken. Ah’ve been oot o’ circulation an all.’

  ‘Shame,’ Maggie tried her best to look sincere. ‘About his trouble, I mean.’ Wullie was snoring softly now.

  Over Jockie’s right shoulder, she caught a movement in the gantry mirror.

  She zeroed in. Wilma, hair re-lacquered, lip gloss replenished, was making frantic hand signals.

  One last try. ‘That pub, the one he used to drink in, what was the name of it again?’

  Jockie’s eyes glazed over. ‘Canna pit ma finger on it. Ah mind it wis doon Saltmarket Lane.’ He gripped Maggie by the arm, leered into her face. ‘But there’s plenty mair pubs in Torry, darlin.’

  She loosed herself from his grip.

  ‘Sorry, Jockie,’ she drained her glass and turned to go. ‘Another time.’

  You’ve Got it all Wrong

  ‘Mr Plumley?’

  ‘Doctor.’ The man exuded casual affluence: sports jacket with elbow patches, needlecord trousers, Tattersall check shirt, spotted yellow bow tie. Talk about them and us! Brian looked down at his own washable navy two piece.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s Doctor,’ Guy Plumley cleared his throat, ‘Dr Plumley.’

  Christ, these academics fair took themselves seriously. And them with all that leisure time, never mind the long holidays. ‘Whatever,’ Brian willed himself not to let his bias show. He’d put money down Guy Plumley had never done a proper day’s work in his life, whereas he… Brian shook himself out of it, uttered a courteous, ‘If you’d like to come this way.’

  Plumley followed the detective through a security door, up some stairs and into a small reception room.

  ‘Have a seat,’ the DS indicated an upholstered chair.

  The man sat down. He folded manicured hands in his lap. Brian registered that Guy’s palms were perspiring. He sat down opposite.

  ‘I understand you’re a lecturer at the university.’

  ‘Reader,’ Plumley corrected, ‘I’m Reader in Art History.’

  ‘Right.’ Brian couldn’t think when he’d last read a book. ‘Thank you for coming in, Dr Plumley.’ He paused. ‘The reason you’re here is because we’d like to ask you a few questions in connection with the death of Lucy Simmons.’

  ‘Yes?’ Guy swallowed hard.

  ‘I believe Lucy was a student of yours.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Was she a good student?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Never missed a lecture. Took notes. Quiet, to begin with. Didn’t ask many questions.’

  ‘That changed, then – her behaviour?’ Brian prompted.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say changed exactly, so much as…’ Guy wrung his hands. ‘I wondered in the first semester if the girl was unhappy. Suffering from mild depression, perhaps. Then, after Christmas, she seemed to start taking an interest in things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, let me see now. Medieval History, I seem to recall. Yes, the history of St Machar, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘What else did Lucy take an interest in?’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t know…’

  ‘You, perhaps?’ Brian interrupted.

  Plumley sat up straight. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly that. You see, Dr Plumley, we’ve been led to believe that Lucy Simmons had something of a crush on you.’

  For a few moments, Guy Plumley sat in silence. ‘I think you’ve been misinformed.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Brian’s face was impassive. ‘How long did you say you’d been a university teacher?’

  ‘I didn’t. But since you ask, about fifteen years.’

  ‘Then I expect you’ll have experience of that sort of thing.’

  Guy snorted. ‘It happens. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t. Not as often as you appear to infer. But yes, now and again.’

  ‘And did Lucy Simmons have a crush?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Plumley studied his shoes.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ Brian’s voice was insistent, ‘did Lucy Simmons have a crush on you?’

  There was utter silence in the small room. Then, ‘Yes,’ the word was barely audible.

  ‘Speak up.’

  ‘Yes.’ Plumley raised his head. He gazed, wild-eyed, at the detective. ‘But it isn’t…’ He put his hands to his face. ‘Wasn’t…what you think.’

  ‘How was it, then, Guy?’ Brian flipped open the folder in front of him. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Guy?’ He took out a notebook and pulled a pen from his inside pocket.

  ‘Lucy was a lovely girl.’

  ‘Fancy her, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Guy groaned. ‘Not at all. Lucy Simmons was a serious girl. Studious, diligent – wanted to do well. During the first semester, she was so quiet you’d hardly know she was in class. But suddenly, after the Christmas break, she brightened up: started asking lots of questions. Too many questions, for my liking. Then she began to follow me around. It was at this point that I decided the girl was developing an unhealthy interest.’

  ‘So,’ Brian leaned in close, ‘what did you do about it?’

  Guy pulled a folded handkerchief from his top pocket. ‘Nothing.’ He mopped his brow. ‘Lucy was very much her own person,’ the academic looked up. ‘Ambitious, determined. It would have been difficult to prevent her from doing something she really wanted to do.’

  ‘Like following you?’ Brian was fishing here.

  Guy Plumley uttered a long sigh. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Following you home, even? Am I right in saying that you live at the foot of the Chanonry?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Which brings me to the question of your whereabouts on the day of Lucy Simmons’ death. I understand you’ve already given a statement to one of our uniformed officers to the effect that you were at home that evening?’

  Dumbly, Guy nodded assent.

  ‘But just for the record, let me ask you again. Where were you, Plumley, on that Tuesday evening?’

  ‘I-I was at home,’ Guy stuttered. ‘I told the constable that.’

  ‘All evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brian changed tack. ‘Then let me ask you another question. You were going to tell me how it was with Lucy.’

  ‘I was bored, I suppose.’

  ‘Bored?’ Brian eyed the man. The academic’s face was the picture of misery.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been in the job too long. No chance of a change,’ Plumley rolled his eyes in mute appeal. ‘Wife doesn’t want another move, you see. The kids are settled in school, and not a hope in hell of promotion. Dead men’s shoes and all that,’ he uttered a bitter laugh.

  ‘So…’ Brian wished the bugger would get to the point.

  ‘My wife…’ Plumley went on.

  Brian nodded once more. He reckoned he knew where this one was going.

  ‘She… Well, she’s not interested, if you know what I mean?’

  The detective knew only too well.

  ‘And besides, she’s let herself go a bit, my wife. And…’

  Coming from Plumley, that was rich, short-arsed little prick that he was. Brian drew a series of squiggles on his notepad.

  ‘I know it was stupid, but…’

  He stopped doodling, pen poised mid-air.

  ‘When someone came on to me, I was up for it.’

  ‘And that someone was Lucy Simmons?’

&
nbsp; ‘No. No. You’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘Enlighten me, then.’

  ‘It wasn’t Lucy.’ The man was clearly agitated now. ‘Don’t get me wrong, she was a beautiful girl, but we’re well warned in our line of work,’ Plumley broke off. ‘It would be madness, don’t you see?’

  Brian nodded yet again. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was the Dean’s wife.’

  ‘The Dean?’ He reckoned he’d soon be an authority on all things academic.

  ‘Professor Kowalski. He’s Deputy Principal this year. Has to travel all over the place. So Marta…’

  ‘Marta being the wife?’

  ‘Yes, the Dean’s second wife. A good bit younger than him. A bit of a girl, you might say,’ Guy offered a sheepish grin. ‘Been around a bit,’ he eyed the detective. ‘If you know where I’m coming from?’

  Brian responded with a curt nod.

  ‘I knew from the very start that I was fooling myself, that there was no future in it.’ Once again, Plumley buried his face in his hands. ‘But I just got caught up in the affair.’ He lifted his head. ‘It was fun. Did wonders for my ego. Made me feel a man again…at the beginning, anyhow. The clandestine meetings, the wild sex…’

  Too much information, Brian decided.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then?’ Guy bunched his hands into fists. ‘I lost the plot, I suppose. Began to take stupid risks: dodging off work, ringing Marta at all hours, hanging around the Chanonry in the hope I might bump into her.’ Guy’s head dropped once more into his hands.

  The silence hung heavy in the room.

  Brian spoke first. ‘And that’s what you were doing on the evening Lucy Simmons met her death?’

  Guy Plumley looked up. ‘I’d been bathing the kids. I’ve got four,’ he sighed. ‘The mess, you wouldn’t believe it. And then Lalage and I fell out. Something quite trivial. And my wife looked so bloody hideous, I took myself into my study for the evening. I’ve always got papers to mark, you see, or reading to do.’

  ‘But you didn’t stay there?’

  ‘No. Kowalski was in Cambridge, giving a paper at some conference or other. I thought I’d just nip out for half an hour. I was hoping for a quickie. But I was out of luck.’

  Brian returned a hard stare. ‘I put it to you, Dr Plumley, that whilst you were loitering in the Chanonry, you might just as easily have happened across young Lucy Simmons.’