‘No.’
‘A young woman who, by your own admission, was beginning to make a nuisance of herself.’
‘No.’
‘A young woman who’s continuing attentions might have cost you your job, your marriage,’ Brian was in full flow, ‘your affair, even.’
Guy was quietly sobbing now.
‘You admit to lying to our officer?’ Brian pressed on, remorseless.
Guy nodded.
‘And earlier, to me.’
Plumley couldn’t meet his eyes.
‘I suppose this lady – Marta, did you say her name was? – can corroborate your version of events?’
Guy raised a tear-stained face. ‘Do you have to? I mean…’
‘We do. Yes. And your wife, of course.’
‘My wife? Is that strictly necessary?’
‘It is.’ Brian felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He’d seen this too many times before. ‘Well, I think that will be all. For now,’ he shut the folder in front of him with a snap. ‘We may also ask you to take part in a line-up, Dr Plumley.’
Across the table, the academic slumped, face grey with fatigue.
Northview Towers
Maggie slouched in the seat of her car. For the umpteenth time, she wished she drove something other than a large Volvo. It was way too big for her needs, a pain to park, and hardly inconspicuous. She’d debated asking Wilma for a loan of her Fiesta. But red? Maggie was thankful for small mercies. At least her vehicle was silver, one of the most common car colours, according to the surveillance websites.
She’d found a small car park ancillary to the low flats. The further away the better, according to the internet. She looked around. Make sure your observation point is secure. There were only two other cars in the car park, its exit clear. Maggie relaxed back into her seat. Didn’t look likely she’d come under threat.
She glanced at the oversized watch on her wrist. She’d borrowed it from Colin. He’d handed it over without a murmur. Maggie’s own was too dainty, and besides, if she was there for a while she might be thankful for its luminous dial. Don’t be so stupid, woman, those kids will have to go home for their tea. Tea? She snorted. The looks of many of her pupils, they saw fair few nutritious meals for, Spar apart, the shops that catered to the residents of Seaton seemed to comprise nothing but takeaways. Not that Maggie could talk. Not these days. For weeks she’d been relying on ready meals to feed Colin. Bless! As long as his tea was on the table and his rugby strip in the wash, her son didn’t complain. Col was so like his father in that respect. She sighed. George was easy-natured, even-tempered, not an unkind thought in his head. If you’re happy, I’m happy, wasn’t that what her husband always said? In such contrast to Maggie, whose mind worked overtime, who’d harboured during the years of their marriage so many angry, spiteful thoughts. What a bitch! Tears stung her eyes. Roughly, she wiped them away. Clocked the dial of Colin’s watch. She’d only been there twenty minutes.
From where she sat, Maggie had a clear view of Northview Towers. She’d followed Willie Meston there by car on two previous occasions, and before that to another of the tower blocks. Although her initial surveillance exercise had proved unproductive, she’d determined to keep a weather eye on the boys. Willie’s visits took place after school, sometime between four o’clock and four thirty. He always went on his bike. Rang the call system. Vanished inside, bicycle in tow. Seaton wasn’t the sort of place where you left things lying around, especially something like that. Maggie was no expert, but the Meston boy’s bike looked to her like an expensive bit of kit. Unlike poor Kieran’s, a ramshackle old thing. She knew from her surveillance that the lad didn’t live there. On both prior occasions she’d managed to sneak up close on foot, but all she saw when she peered inside was a bank of lifts. She’d had to scarper, then: once when she was waylaid by one of the school mums, the other time she’d spotted the community bobby from the school police office approaching from a distance.
Cover the entry/exit point. Maggie shook herself alert. Focused on the door of the high rise. Ryan Brebner had turned up that last time, shortly after Willie, no Kyle in tow. He too had wheeled his bike inside. She pulled a pad out of her handbag and consulted her notes. For a few moments, she ran back over the jottings she’d made on her previous sorties. Not that she really needed to. She’d been rehearsing the operation all night in her head.
Mindful of Wilma’s instructions, for she’d finally confided her surveillance practice, Maggie picked up George’s digital camera and fired off a couple of practice shots. She cupped the camera in her hand. It was lightweight, neat enough to slip into a pocket. But it had been expensive, she knew. She’d found the receipt with the other items the police had brought from George’s office. She sighed. No wonder her husband had needed money to tide them over. She glanced at the dashboard clock. 3.55pm. She settled down to wait.
x
A small figure on a bicycle sped down Seaton Crescent and crossed the sea of concrete towards Northview Towers. Maggie craned her neck. The figure dismounted, removed a safety helmet. She watched as two fat pigtails dropped down the girl’s back. The small figure depressed a call button, pushed the door open, wheeled her bike inside.
Ten minutes later, a huddle of boys rode across Maggie’s line of vision. They didn’t slow down, but pressed onwards towards the beach. She was beginning to despair when she spotted Willie. He rode up to Northview Towers and dismounted his bike. He propped it carefully to one side of the entrance.
Maggie wondered if it was a signal. She groped for the camera.
Click.
Willie pressed the call button.
Click.
He went inside.
Not five minutes later, Ryan rolled up, alone once more.
Click. Click.
He too propped up his bicycle, this time on the other side of the main door.
Ryan reached for the call system. Maggie leaned forward in her seat. Craned her neck. Wished – not for the first time – that she owned a pair of binoculars.
Ryan slipped inside.
Click.
Maggie strained forward even further. She thought she could still see his small figure through the glass.
The boys had not long entered when a couple of lads in denim jackets sauntered across the forecourt. They tapped on the entrance then stepped through. Minutes later they re-emerged, joshing one another. Maggie fired off another couple of shots, just in case, her hands by now sticky with perspiration. Stay cool. She wiped them on her jeans. No point getting worked up over nothing. Those lads could have gone in on an errand, been laughing at a joke. Except she could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Ryan in the doorway.
Maggie was convinced that something was afoot. Her suspicions were confirmed when a steady stream of teenage lads, punctuated by the odd girl and a couple of underage mums pushing buggies, rolled up to the tower-block entrance. She’d seen enough of these young guys around Seaton. They tended to congregate at the heavily shuttered convenience store: lads not skilled enough to find work, not moneyed enough to own a car, not motivated enough to get involved in the Community Centre or play five-a-side football in the park. Poor sods, Maggie’s heart went out to them. Compared with her own son, what chance did they have? They’d scant hope of finding a worthwhile job. Spent their days playing computer games or just hanging out. Small wonder they turned to dope. They might pick up a handful of poppers for the weekend, she’d divined. Didn’t seem to touch the hard stuff, heroin and the like. Not yet. As for the girls, some of them would have had sex at fourteen, got in the family way at fifteen or sixteen, used their pregnancy to get on the housing list. They’d be stuck now in their high-rise flats, living on benefits. Maggie sighed. What a waste of young lives. Still…as she snapped furiously, she wondered how those young folk found the money to buy drugs when she could barely make ends meet.
&nb
sp; The stream of callers slowed to a trickle. Maggie carried on taking photos. Every time the door swung open, she could have sworn she caught Ryan in frame. She was just lining up another shot when a figure loomed at the car window.
‘What the fuck ye daein?’
Maggie’s head whipped round. ‘I was just…having a rest.’ She slid the camera out of sight.
‘Nae point daein that.’ The woman’s face was framed in the driver’s window, the eyes darting right, left, right again in a sequence that was all too familiar. ‘Ah’ve bin watchin ye.’
Hell’s bells! Maggie swore under her breath.
‘Open the windae, wull ye?’ The woman rapped on the glass.
No way. Vigorously, Maggie shook her head.
‘Ye fae the Social?’ the woman spat.
‘No.’
‘Bailiffs?’
Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘No.’
‘Ye’re nae the filth?’
Maggie shook her head once more.
‘Then the fuck ye sittin here fur?’
Maggie felt the car rock. Hold your nerve. ‘I told you I was just…’
‘Takkin photies o’ wee weans.’
‘No. Really.’
‘Dinna gie me that. Ah seen ye fae up there.’
Maggie followed the woman’s finger to a first-floor flat with neat net curtains.
‘Ye can fuck off, d’ye hear me? Skelly bitch.’
Chastened, Maggie nodded. She turned the key in the ignition. Put the car into gear.
Sod it! She hadn’t factored in twitchers. Not in Seaton.
Tickle Tackle
Fatboy shuffled the kids into a circle. There were five of them today: three boys and two girls. They sat cross-legged on the floor.
‘Fatboy,’ one of the girls waved her hand in the air, ‘what game are we going to play?’
‘Dunno.’ He assumed a fierce expression. ‘You tell me.’
There was a chorus of: ‘Pass the Parcel, Blind Man’s Bluff, Hide and Seek!’ The kids jumped up and down, joshing for attention.
‘One at a time,’ he shushed.
‘Hide and Seek. We haven’t played that for ages.’
After the chaos of the previous occasion, he knew the reason why.
‘Pass the Parcel.’
‘Naw. We done that last time.’
‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey, then.’
That had been another disaster. The donkey Fatboy cut out of an old copy of The Sun was too floppy by far, and when it became obvious that the game wasn’t going to be a goer, one of the wee boys decided to use the pin as a weapon instead. He lunged and jabbed at the others until he managed to draw blood. There were tears, and Fatboy had to bribe the lot of them with sweets to get them to calm down. After that debacle, he reverted to the old games, the tried and tested ones, sometimes a round or two of Snap to ring the changes. But after a few weeks, the children got fed up with all of those, so Fatboy was forced into making up games of his own.
He looked down at the expectant faces. ‘How about one of my games?’ he suggested with a sly grin.
Two of the boys nudged one another.
Fatboy wiped the grin off his face. ‘What’s up with you pair?’
‘We don’t want to play.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t like your games,’ one of the boys offered.
‘Aw,’ Fatboy wheedled. ‘Come on.’
‘Naw.’ The other child’s eyes slid away.
‘Why can’t we play Hide and Seek?’ the wee girl again.
Fatboy’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Because you can’t, that’s why.’
‘But…’
‘Right, you lot,’ he held up his hands, ‘settle down now. We’re going to play Tickle Tackle.’
‘Aw…’
‘OK,’ Fatboy’s jaw was set. ‘Sit still, the lot of you. You remember the rules. Whoever wins gets a sweetie. Whoever loses gets duffed up next door.’ He flexed his muscles. The wee girls sniggered behind their hands. They weren’t quite sure what was involved in a duffing up. They knew it was something only boys did, but they weren’t that bothered. On the odd occasion one of them lost, they’d get a goodie bag instead.
In Kym’s bedroom, clothes were strewn over the stained carpet. Among them, empty cider bottles and crumpled beer cans kept company with discarded cigarette cartons and ancient crusts of bread. Thin curtains were drawn against the daylight, the air in the small room fetid with a cocktail of liquor and smoke and sweat. On the rumpled bed, Kyle Brebner lay curled, Fatboy stretched out alongside him. That day’s game of Tickle Tackle had ended up with the wee lad losing out, and it had fallen to Kyle to be duffed up. Not that Kyle minded. Happily, he allowed himself to be led through to Kym’s bedroom. The other four kids were settled now on the manky rug, Cbeebies belting out on the telly.
‘Tickle, tickle,’ Fatboy’s fingers caught Kyle under his arms.
‘Stop it,’ the wee boy squirmed.
‘Tickle, tickle,’ the probing fingers wormed their way into the Kyle’s ears.
‘No… No!’ The child squealed with laughter.
The fingers were behind his knees now. Kyle scrambled off the bed and made a dash for the door.
‘Gotcha,’ Fatboy grabbed him and wrestled him back onto the bedclothes. He tickled the soles of Kyle’s feet. Wormed his fingers between the wee lad’s toes.
Fatboy hadn’t tried this on with any of the girls yet. It might only be a bit of slap and tickle, but even the littlest of the wee lassies that came in Kym’s house looked old beyond her years, way too streetwise for him to engage with. Not that he was a pervert. He’d seen plenty of that sort of stuff online. Read the odd case reported in the papers: some guy getting banged up for interfering with wee girls. Sent not to Peterhead, but shunted down to Glasgow to keep company with the real head-bangers in Barlinnie. Fatboy shuddered. Nor was he a shirt-lifter. All he wanted was a bit of friendly contact. Still, he’d resolved to keep his recreational activities strictly to the boys.
Kyle was beginning to look bored, but Fatboy was having a whale of a time. ‘Do you give in yet?’ he demanded.
‘Give in,’ Kyle lay panting, for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. He rolled over towards Fatboy. ‘My turn now.’
The wee lad’s eyelids were beginning to droop. Fatboy drew the soiled bedcovers up. Gently, he tucked them around the little boy. Fatboy closed his eyes. Slid a hand down his trousers. Gave his cock a jerk or two. He lay there for some minutes, fondling himself. Then he inhaled deeply and let his breath out in a slow stream.
There was a clatter from the next room. Fuck it! The kids were getting bored. He’d better make a move. And besides… He took a squint at his watch. It wouldn’t be long before Kym was back. And he wouldn’t want to arouse the girl’s suspicions. Wasn’t the whole point of using the slag’s place to keep him out of trouble?
Reluctantly, he extracted his hand. Gave it a cursory sniff.
Fatboy grinned. He didn’t know what he was worrying about. Kym was usually well out of it by the time she got back.
All the same, even an alky like her must have the odd lucid moment.
There was no point in pushing his luck.
VI
Brannigan
‘Mind if I join you?’
The man looked up. He was small, hair slicked back off a bony face, shirt collar too big for his neck. ‘Wha’s askin?’
‘Maggie Laird.’ Get yourself installed. She dropped onto the seat opposite. Smiled politely. ‘How do you do?’
The wee man regarded Maggie, eyes flicking back and forth between her own. They settled, finally, on her forehead. ‘Nane o’ your fuckin business how ah’m daein.’
Make small talk. ‘They tell me you’re a regular here.’
‘They?
Who’s “they”?’
Be circumspect. ‘Friends of yours.’
‘What freends?’
Establish a connection. ‘In the Drouthy Duck.’ Oh, hell, you shouldn’t have let that out.
‘Ach,’ the man spat, ‘ye dinna want tae listen tae a load o’ ex-cons.’
‘No?’ In for a penny. ‘Aren’t you one yourself?’
He threw her an evil look.
Dammit! Maggie cursed inwardly. This was her big opportunity, maybe her only opportunity, to beard the man. She’d been cock-a-hoop when, finally, she pinned down the pub that Brannigan habituated. And yet, in spite of all she’d read, the careful pre-planning that had preceded this meeting, there she went again, going for the jugular.
She regrouped. ‘Mr Brannigan, isn’t it?’
‘Wha telt ye ma name? These freends again?’
Maggie nodded.
‘So,’ the wee man jeered. ‘What if ah am?’
‘The reason I’m here is…’ she paused.
Brannigan eyed her warily.
Keep it vague. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’
‘An ah want tae drink ma pint in peace,’ Brannigan drained his glass and set it down with a clatter.
‘It won’t take a minute.’
‘Forget it.’
Maggie eyed the empty glass. ‘Maybe I could get you another?’
‘Pint of heavy. Don’t mind if you do.’
x
‘As I was saying…’
Brannigan took a deep slurp of his beer. ‘Ye said ye wanted tae ask me somethin,’ he rolled his eyes. ‘Ask away.’
Oh, well, too late now. She took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember a drugs trial?’
‘Trial?’ Brannigan studied his pint. ‘Naw.’
‘You sure?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s trials every day o’ the week.’
‘This one was special.’
‘Special? How?’
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