Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Judge threw it out.’

  Brannigan cocked his head. ‘That right?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  The man’s lip curled. ‘What if ah dae?’

  ‘Thought you might,’ Maggie continued. ‘Seeing as you were the star witness.’

  ‘Star?’ Brannigan sneered. ‘Aye, that’ll be right.’

  ‘In fact, it was your evidence, was it not, that brought the thing down?’

  ‘Ye’re talkin through a hole in yer heid,’ Brannigan sneered. ‘Case got thrown out fair an square.’

  ‘Fair and square?’ Maggie’s hackles rose. ‘Is that what you call it? Lying in the witness box? Wrecking people’s lives?’

  ‘Now, come oan. You accusin me o’ perjury?’

  ‘Yes,’ she leaned across the table, ‘that’s precisely what I’m doing.’

  Brannigan took a swill of his beer. ‘What aboot thon tape?’

  ‘The one that was turned off?’

  ‘Aye. In the interview room.’

  ‘I know all about that. It’s you I’m asking.’

  ‘Sae what if it wis ma test-i-mony?’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Maggie lowered her voice. ‘I don’t suppose you gave a moment’s thought to the consequences?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The repercussions for those two policemen: the effect the outcome of your testimony had on their careers, their families, their lives?’

  ‘What’s it tae you?’

  ‘My husband was one of those officers.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘George Laird.’

  ‘Thon sergeant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fuckin filth. How wid ah give a shite fur ony o’ them?’

  ‘Because he’s dead,’ Maggie said softly.

  ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  ‘Naethin tae dae wi me, missus. It’s no as if ah hit him ower the fuckin heid wi a hammer.’

  Her eyes blazed. ‘You might as well have.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because it was the stress of the whole thing that killed him.’

  ‘Well, ye can fuck aff oot o’ here,’ Brannigan made to rise.

  ‘Hold on.’ Maggie changed tack. A confrontation was precisely what she’d been hoping to avoid.

  Brannigan sat back in his seat.

  ‘You got kids?’

  ‘Four,’ he fingered his glass.

  ‘So you’ll know…’

  ‘Ah dinna see them. Ah’m divorced.’

  ‘I’ve got two myself.’

  ‘That right?’ Disinterested voice.

  ‘Yes. Their dad’s death has affected them badly.’

  Brannigan shrugged. ‘Happens.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to help.’ She gazed at the man in mute appeal.

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘By owning up.’

  Brannigan guffawed. ‘Put ma hauns up tae fingerin the filth? Ye’re aff yer fuckin heid.’

  ‘A man’s dead. And if you had any decency…’

  ‘Decency is it now?’ Bobby Brannigan bared a mouthful of bad teeth. ‘Well, ah’ve a wee suggestion fur ye.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Maggie leaned forward.

  ‘Ye can dae the decent thing an fuck aff.’

  A New Development

  Allan Chisolm pushed through the door of the Briefing Room. ‘Listen up, you lot,’ he addressed the detectives seated round the table, ‘we have a new development in the Simmons case.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ Douglas Dunn strained forward eagerly.

  The inspector scowled. ‘When I have everyone’s attention I’ll be happy to tell you.’

  There was a scuffling of papers. Backs straightened in seats. Someone aimed an empty Polystyrene coffee cup at a waste paper basket.

  Chisolm waved a folder in the air. ‘Interim report has come back from the lab.’

  ‘And?’ Dave Wood queried.

  The DI strode forward. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’ He pulled out a chair. ‘It’s inconclusive.’

  An audible sigh ran round the room.

  ‘Shit and fuck,’ a male voice muttered.

  ‘Tests indicate Lucy Simmons was a healthy young woman, other than – so the parents informed us – the girl had a minor heart defect at birth: one of her heart valves was narrower than normal.’

  ‘So could that…?’

  ‘Who knows? The doctors decided no treatment was necessary at the time, and according to the parents, Lucy has had no associated problems since – no shortness of breath, no high blood pressure, no abnormal heartbeat, nothing. That was one thing. Probably not enough to kill her on its own,’ Chisolm paused, ‘but could have been a contributing factor. The only apparent sign of injury on the girl was the contusion to the head.’

  ‘But,’ Susan Strachan interjected, ‘haven’t we already established that?’

  ‘You might say so. But there’s a problem: the samples Forensics have taken from that don’t match up with anything at the scene, so they conclude Lucy’s body was moved.’

  ‘So she could have been attacked elsewhere and her body dumped?’ Douglas threw in his tuppence-worth.

  ‘Doesn’t follow,’ snapped George Duffy.’ Dunn was starting to get up his nose.

  ‘By the same person who hit her over the head?’ Douglas persisted.

  ‘Same person,’ Duffy qualified, ‘or persons.

  ‘Pack it in, you two,’ Chisolm intervened. ‘Forensics haven’t been able to establish yet whether Lucy was hit from behind or whether she fell and bumped her head on something.’

  ‘There again, perhaps nobody moved her. Maybe Lucy Simmons climbed onto that tombstone all by herself,’ Dave Wood volunteered from his seat in the back corner.

  ‘That rules out the possibility of her having been bashed on the head, though,’ Susan this time. ‘And what about the arrangement of the body? Couldn’t have happened by accident.’

  ‘But we’ve no idea who laid her out like that.’ This from Dave Wood.

  ‘And the sexual assault?’ Susan again.

  Chisolm glanced at the folder. ‘Gourlay has established that the lass was sexually active, but we know that. Minor abrasions to the vagina, but no genital bruising. No traces of semen present. No saliva. Not so much as a hair.’

  ‘Christ,’ Duffy again. ‘Where does all that that leave us?’

  Where, indeed? The inspector wondered about his team: whether they should have been deployed differently. That Duffy was a steady sort, a good man to have at your back. Wood? The DI had seen his type to often: the old brigade – plodding, resistant to change, they were being gradually pensioned off. Couldn’t come quick enough, as far as Chisolm was concerned. Burnett, now there was a man keeping his cards close to his chest. Dunn, a bright spark. A bit full of himself, maybe, but he’d soon be taken down a peg or two. As for the wee girl, Strachan, she had the makings of a good detective.

  ‘Whatever,’ Chisolm’s tone was resigned, ‘Forensics have had to go back and take samples from other parts of the graveyard.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Douglas came back, undeterred, ‘that will take another week.’

  The inspector scowled. At least.’

  ‘And that’s before we factor in the cross.’ Brian looked up from his paperwork. ‘We don’t know what the hell that’s all about, sir. It’s floored the lot of us, to tell you the truth.’

  Chisolm’s eyes surveyed the room. ‘What’s the story on the girl’s phone?’

  Brian straightened. No sign, sir.’

  ‘And the tutor?’

  ‘Waste of space. Plumley wasn’t chasing Lucy Simmons. The twat was too busy fucking the Dean’s wife. Plus he has a cast-iron alibi for our time-fram
e.’

  ‘The young guy, then, any progress on him?’

  ‘No, sir. Not a dickey bird.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a young guy called it in?’ Duffy queried. ‘Might tie up.’

  ‘Or it could be coincidence,’ Douglas put his oar in.

  ‘Probably perfectly innocent,’ Susan added. ‘Some poor kid taking a shortcut. Plus the perp is more likely to be someone much closer to home: a family member, for instance, or someone Lucy was actually in a relationship with.’

  ‘Whatever. Till Forensics get their finger out, this young guy is all we’ve got. So get yourselves out there and find him. If he’s involved in this we’ll nail the bastard.’

  Need a Wee

  ‘Need a wee.’

  ‘How can you need a wee?’ Kym demanded. ‘You just had a wee, no five minutes since.’

  ‘Ah’m tellin ye,’ the wee lad struggled up off the rug, ‘Ah need a wee.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to hold on.’

  Kyle positioned himself alongside the settee, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Ah need. Honest.’

  ‘You can’t. I just told you.’

  ‘But,’ a small hand tugged at her sleeve.

  ‘Bugger off. I’m away out in a minute.’

  ‘Kym,’ the tug was insistent now. ‘Ah’m burstin.’

  She cut the boy short. ‘Well, away and do it yourself.’

  Shame-faced, the lad looked down at the floor. ‘Ah canna.’

  She turned her head. ‘Ye can fair pee yer pants.’ For a moment she was tempted to rouse herself. Washing Kyle’s trousers and underwear would be a damn sight more effort than taking him to the toilet, but still, she couldn’t be arsed.

  A flush crept up Kyle’s neck.

  ‘Away to the toilet like I told you.’

  ‘Kym…’ Tears brimmed in the child’s eyes. ‘Ah canna go masel.’

  ‘How no?’

  Choked voice. ‘The lavvie’s ower high.’

  ‘It’s no that high,’ she snorted. ‘Big loon like you.’

  The wee boy cocked his head to one side. ‘It’s no that.’

  ‘What the fuck is it, then?’ Kym uttered a theatrical sigh.

  ‘Ah need a jobbie.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Ah’m feart ah’ll fa in.’ The boy was bouncing up and down now, his crotch cupped in both hands.

  ‘Here,’ Fatboy rose from his seat. ‘I’ll take him.’

  Fatboy headed down the hallway, Kyle trotting in his wake. He pushed open the bathroom door. Wrinkled his nose. The laminate flooring was blistered and cracked, the bath piled high with dirty laundry. A rust-coloured ring made a statement round the bowl of the lavatory. No change there, then. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned since his last visit.

  ‘Right, wee man,’ he tugged Kyle’s trousers down to his ankles. He eyed the wee boy’s Y-fronts, unsure whether to pull them down or simply reach in and free Kyle’s willie. Undecided, he stood for a moment.

  ‘Canna keep it in.’ The wee lad’s high voice cut right through him.

  Fatboy decided to go for it. He yanked Kyle’s underpants down to his knees. He looked around for something the kid could stand on. Didn’t they have plastic stools or something these days? Finding nothing, he grasped Kyle under his armpits, lifted him up and dangled him over the bowl.

  ‘Naw,’ Kyle bawled, ‘no like that.’

  ‘Like what, then?’ He set the kid down again.

  ‘Ye hiv tae sit me on the lav but,’ Kyle gnawed his lower lip, ‘see an no let me fa in.’

  Fatboy grinned. ‘Would I do that?’

  The boy balanced on the back rim of the lavatory, pudgy legs akimbo. He hung onto the plastic toilet seat with both hands, his forehead knitted in concentration. Fatboy heard a couple of plops as small turds hit the water. He looked on with detached interest as Kyle’s penis dribbled a few last drops into the bowl. ‘Finished?’ Hands still gripping the sides of the toilet seat, the child nodded. ‘Give it a shake, then.’

  Furiously, Kyle shook his head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Dinna want tae let go.’

  Fatboy reached down between Kyle’s legs. Gingerly, his fingers closed around the child’s penis. For some moments he held it in his hand. Christ, it felt weird. He closed his eyes. Light, almost weightless. And smooth, the skin so fine, like that grass snake he’d come upon once behind the beach at Balmedie. Fatboy could feel it still, the way it lay in his hand. Abruptly, he let go of Kyle’s organ. He opened his eyes. Lifted the boy off the lavatory. Set him down on the bathroom floor.

  Fatboy tore off a couple of sheets of lavatory paper. Gave Kyle’s bottom a cursory wipe. He flushed the toilet. Tugged up Kyle’s underpants and trousers. ‘Gonna wash your hands?’

  ‘Naw, Kym disna bother.’

  ‘Oh, OK, then.’ He eyed the basin. Ran his own hands under the tap. Shook them dry. There wasn’t any soap.

  Fatboy made his way back down the hallway, tugging Kyle by the hand. Kym had gone off without a backward glance. Fatboy knew the girl had managed to get herself banned, finally, from the corner shop. The hike up to Spar and back, together with the time the slag would spend knocking back her booze, would guarantee him an hour’s playtime at the very least.

  The television was belting out some jingle or other. Fatboy plonked Kyle back down with the others. He settled himself onto the settee.

  ‘Fancy a game, you lot?’

  Small heads turned, apathetic. ‘Naw.’

  He smirked. ‘We’ll play one later, then.’

  The kids were half out of it, gently sedated by whatever it was Kym slipped into their juice. And Willie wouldn’t be early. Not this week. The Social had been at his door again. Willie’s ma had been pished, the boy said, so the fuckers hadn’t got in, but it was only a matter of time before they managed to pin him down. Fatboy sighed. He wished Willie hadn’t mentioned the Social. It would be ages yet before Mike Meston came out of jail, even if he did get remission for good behaviour. And Fatboy wouldn’t want to lay a bet on Mad Mike behaving himself in Peterhead, not with the amount of dope that got slung over that wall. Now he came to think about it, he wondered if he shouldn’t let Mad Mike go. Young Willie was shaping up to be a good wee runner. Just so long as he didn’t get any grandiose ideas.

  He cast a benevolent glance towards the kids gathered at his feet. There was something curiously appealing about them. Though the children in Kym’s care were for the most part undersized and underfed, they possessed the clear eyes and soft features of small children everywhere and a spontaneity that was infectious. Warmth suffused Fatboy’s chest. He’d come to rely on the kids for company. A smile played on his lips. They were his wee posse. A family, almost. His family. He scowled. Well, as near a family as he’d ever had. He took a quick dekko at his watch. Did a quick mental calculation. If Willie wasn’t due at Esplanade Court for an hour yet, then by the time he’d done his trades and cashed up… Fatboy took another look at the kids. Maybe he’d roll a spliff first. Help him relax.

  Just then, Kyle turned. Gave Fatboy a look. The kid had such an old face in his head, it was hard to tell what exactly it signified.

  The wee boy yawned.

  Forget the spliff, Fatboy decided.

  ‘Fancy a nap?’ he enquired.

  Kyle scrambled to his feet. ‘If you like.’

  More Holes than a Colander

  Maggie was installed in a quiet corner of The Wild Boar in Belmont Street. Now she’d run Bobby Brannigan to ground, she was desperate to build momentum. Despite the man’s bluster, she was sure that, with Brian’s help, she could get Brannigan to open up. Then there was the niggling question of Colin. Her son had been more withdrawn than ever this past few days and, in the lonely night hours, Maggie’s imaginings had taken on even more lurid forms. If
she could only dispel for good and all the feeling that her son was somehow caught up in Lucy Simmons’ death, she could focus on her mission to vindicate George.

  Chary of establishing a pattern to her meetings with Brian Burnett, she’d proposed a change of scene. The Art Gallery was near enough to the shops on Union Street that anyone might spot them. And it wouldn’t do for Maggie’s name to be linked with Brian’s. Not in that way. She grimaced. Not in any way. Still, it was critical to keep him onside. He might yet prove an indispensable ally in her quest for justice. Hadn’t he already gone out on a limb on her behalf? And, besides, the police had resources she couldn’t match as a PI.

  Brian jumped at her suggestion. He’d backed off lately. Maggie’s persistent questioning over the past weeks had seemed to engender a growing sense of unease in him, but his suspicions were outweighed by the strength of his feelings for her. Unlike the bright Art Gallery café, the Wild Boar was dark and intimate. The change of venue might afford the opportunity for a fresh start.

  Soften him up first. Maggie smiled up at Brian. ‘How’s your investigation going?’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Between you and me,’ he muttered through splayed fingers, ‘it’s got more holes than a bloody colander.’

  ‘But, your suspects…that tutor you mentioned when we spoke on the phone?’

  ‘Out of the frame.’ Brian regretted now that he’d shared intel with Maggie.

  ‘How about the young guy, the teenager?’

  ‘Oh,’ he clasped a hand to his forehead. ‘Nothing’s come of it, as far as I know.’ He wasn’t going to give anything else away.

  Thank God! ‘What about Alec Gourlay? Hasn’t he cracked it?’

  ‘Not yet. But why do you keep on about the St Machar investigation, Maggie? I hope you’re not using what you get out of me to titillate those teachers of yours. Because what I tell you in confidence…’

  Mollify him. Maggie leaned forward. ‘I could tell you things.’

  ‘Such as?”

  ‘There are underage kids dealing drugs in the high rises.’

  ‘And how did you come by this nugget of intelligence?’

  ‘I saw them with my own eyes.’