Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘This was happening out in the open, then?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie corrected. ‘In the high rises, I just told you.’

  ‘So you were inside the high rises…’

  ‘No,’ she was becoming irritated now. ‘The kids were inside the high rises. I was outside.’

  ‘Then how do you know they were dealing drugs?’

  ‘Because I saw these young lads – girls too – going in, one or two at a time and…’

  Brian interrupted. ‘Where exactly were you when this was going on?’

  ‘Sitting in my car.’

  ‘So you were some distance away?’

  ‘Yes, but I took photographs: the kids going in, the junkies…’

  ‘You don’t know they were junkies.’

  ‘Of course they were. What else d’you think they’d have been buying?’

  ‘Contraband fags? Stolen mobiles? Pirated CDs?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Maggie reached for his hand. ‘I wanted to ask…will you look into it for me, Brian?’

  He snorted. ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s guesswork, that’s all it amounts to. It’s evidence the police need. Hard evidence that will stand up in a court of law. Besides which, if these kids are involved in drug dealing, it’s none of your business.’

  Maggie snatched her hand away. ‘Then whose business is it, Brian Burnett?’ She banged her fist down on the table so hard that the cups rattled in their saucers. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Maggie…’ Reasoned voice. ‘Conducting amateur surveillance into suspected drug dealing could be construed as obstructing the police in the course of their duties.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘And who’s likely to co-operate with them? Tell me that. Not the druggies. Not the child. Especially when their only experience of our proud police force is having the cavalry roll up with their body armour and their big red door rams.’

  Brian threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘All that notwithstanding, the way you wanted me to look into this company of Gilruth’s, the way you’re going after Brannigan, and now these wee lads in Seaton. You can’t go sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you. There are rules to be followed, you know. Laws to be obeyed.’

  ‘There’s no point taking the moral high ground with me. You’re forgetting that private investigators aren’t governed by the same ethical code as the police.’

  ‘Oh, yes they are. Anyhow, I’ve given away quite enough information for today. Any progress your end?’

  Cut to the chase. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. I’ve found Brannigan.’

  Brian whistled through his teeth. ‘There’s a turn-up. How did you manage that?’

  ‘Detective work.’ Triumphant smile. ‘First, I managed to narrow the field some.’ Maggie made a face. ‘I’ve been in that many pubs I reckon I could write a guidebook.’

  Brian sat up. ‘You didn’t go on your own?’

  ‘Who else would I go with?’

  ‘Dare I suggest your pal Wilma?’

  Maggie tutted. ‘Wilma’s too well known over there.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Now, don’t start.’

  He shrugged. ‘Didn’t say a thing. So…Brannigan, have you actually spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He said,’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘fuck off.’ She grimaced. ‘Doesn’t that say it all? I reckoned I was halfway there when I nailed him, but my grand plan seems to be suffering one setback after another.’

  ‘Mmm. I see what you mean.’

  ‘So,’ Maggie gave a small shrug, ‘where do I go from here?’

  ‘No bloody idea.’

  ‘But, Brian,’ she leaned in close, ‘I’ve been counting on you to come up with the answer.’

  He had a rush of blood. If ever there was a chance to redeem himself in Maggie Laird’s eyes, it was now.

  ‘The only thing I can think of…’ He broke off, distracted, as he caught a waft of her scent: light and floral. Like lilacs. Or maybe hyacinths. Or there again…

  ‘Well?’

  He jolted back to his senses. ‘What was I saying? Oh, yes, the only thing I can think of is you could mebbe do a trade. Long shot, mind, but…’

  ‘A trade,’ Maggie butted in. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘A plea bargain, if you like. Persuade the authorities to offer Brannigan immunity from prosecution or even a reduced jail sentence if he’ll admit to perjury.’

  Her spirits soared. ‘Could you go to the fifth floor with that?’

  Brian recoiled in horror. ‘No way.’

  Wilma’s words don’t ask, don’t get echoed in Maggie’s head.

  ‘Chisolm…’ she persisted. ‘Would he take it upstairs?’

  ‘The DI? Doubt it.’

  ‘Somebody else, then.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Nobody I know.’

  ‘There must be some other way, surely?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  The corners of Brian’s mouth twitched.

  ‘What?’ she demanded fiercely.

  He made a show of straightening his face. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she insisted.

  ‘I said…’ He tried and failed to smother a laugh. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Brian Burnett, if you don’t tell me, I’ll…’

  He caved in. ‘The only other way I can see to get Bobby Brannigan to admit to perjury is…’

  ‘Brian,’ Maggie hissed. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Put a gun to his head.’

  Bugger this for a Pantomime

  A dark figure loomed across the tarmac. Slowly, Wilma slid down in her seat. Purposeful footsteps approached. She sat very still. The footfall drew nearer. Wilma stiffened, hands splayed, fingers pressed hard into her thighs. Christ, they were massive, the flesh squeezed solid into the legs of her jeans. Fuck’s sake! Her shoulders sagged. For all she’d been working out and cutting down, she still had a way to go.

  The footsteps came closer. Wilma froze. Closer they came, and closer still. She held her breath, trying to quell her racing heartbeat. The steps paused, then passed behind her. She heard a car door open, then slam shut again. There was the sound of an engine turning over, the low thrum of an exhaust. Tentatively, Wilma raised her head. Watched as the tail of a dark saloon started to reverse out of the space two down from her. Was forced to duck again, sharpish, as the vehicle slid past the rear of her Ford Fiesta and accelerated away.

  Wilma turned the key in the ignition and threw the gearstick into reverse. She executed a rapid turn just in time to see the Mondeo exit the ramp and turn right out of the car park.

  Eyes glued to its tail, she followed – along Riverside Drive, over Bridge of Dee, left onto Great Southern Road. Where the hell was the bastard going? She’d expected him to turn right towards Stonehaven. There was a chop shop at Nigg, she knew. Hell, wasn’t that where her Darren used to offload thon fancy alloys, them and the other dodgy stuff? This guy, though, he was working the system big time: him and his cronies reporting their cars stolen and collecting the insurance, then selling the vehicles on to a suspect body shop to be cut up for parts. He’d chanced his arm tonight, though – Wilma had a wee, quiet chortle to herself – taking the Mondeo out of wherever he’d kept it hidden for what was surely its last spin.

  Up ahead a right-hand indicator flashed orange. Wilma pulled into the outside lane. As she entered the roundabout at Provost Watt Drive, a silver Mondeo shot past her on the other side of the road. She caught a grinning face, two fat fingers raised in a V-sign. Teeth gritted, she spun the steering wheel, tyres screaming as she performed a speedy U-turn. She floored the accelerator and raced back along Great Southern Road, mana
ging to keep the rear lights of the Mondeo in sight. At Brig o’Dee, the traffic lights stood at red. Bullseye! She’d mebbe manage to draw alongside, fire off a couple of shots of the bastard sitting at the wheel.

  She was still a hundred metres short when the lights changed. Shite! The Mondeo moved forward. Made a right turn. Wilma watched as it crept over the narrow bridge. She’d almost made it when a siren screamed. Cursing under her breath, she pulled in. Impotent, she watched as an ambulance hurtled out of South Anderson Drive and over the bridge to where she sat, fingers still glued to the wheel. Then… Sod it! She took a quick shufti at the paralysed traffic and jumped a red light. On the far side of the bridge she retraced her earlier route and crawled along Riverside, scanning the streets on either side for any sign of her quarry. There was none.

  Bugger this for a pantomime! Wilma was forced to admit defeat. Her clapped-out Fiesta was no match for some of these fraudsters’ fancy motors. Spitting with frustration, she cut through to Holburn Street and drew up outside a Chinese takeaway. Best get back on the internet, she vowed, pick myself up one of them GPS things. Save the business a load of hassle. On second thoughts, Maggie wouldn’t be best pleased. Wilma pushed through the door. Placed her order at the counter: sweet and sour chicken, a portion of chips on the side. She grinned. So bloody what? Maggie need never know.

  Brian Spills the Beans

  ‘Sir?’ Brian Burnett stuck his head round the door.

  Chisolm’s head jerked upwards from the desk. He’d snatched a quick five minutes. Spent it ruminating over the St Machar investigation. Operation Cross Purpose indeed. He snorted. Farcical bloody name. And talk about cross purposes? What a fucking dog’s dinner! They were banging their heads off the proverbial brick wall. Added to which, he’d let far too much time run by already. If he didn’t get a result soon, the Executive would start poking their noses in. Maybe send in the Review Team. And not just the Executive. The Press were already snapping at his heels. There was only so much following a positive line of enquiry they would take. It wouldn’t be long before they were baying for blood.

  The DI blinked hard. ‘Burnett? You wanted to see me?’

  Cautiously, Brian advanced across the carpet. ‘I’ve come by some information, sir.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Drug dealing.’

  The inspector frowned. ‘Why don’t you take it to Drugs, then?’

  ‘It concerns a minor, sir,’ Brian rubbed his forehead. ‘The child’s from Seaton. Heads up some sort of gang.’ He coughed nervously. ‘We’ve also had a new witness come forward. Lady lives down Don Street. She’s put a bunch of kids on bikes close to the St Machar scene.’

  ‘Do we have a decent description?’

  ‘Fraid not, sir. Just kids, she said, four or five. And just bikes.’ All the same, I was wondering whether this might tie in with our investigation.’

  ‘You did, did you? And has it occurred to you, Burnett, that Seaton Park is heaving with kids, many of whom access it on bicycles by way of the Chanonry?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And if they’re not from Seaton, they’re from effing Tillydrone.’ The DI fixed his sergeant with a gimlet eye. ‘May I ask how you came by this information?’

  For a moment Brian hesitated, then, ‘I picked up the intel from an acquaintance, sir.’

  ‘An acquaintance, is that right? And what precisely did this acquaintance have to tell you?’

  Brian fished into his jacket and took out a notebook. ‘William Meston. Age ten. Class Seven pupil at Seaton Primary. Father Michael – aka Mad Mike – Meston currently serving nine…months in Peterhead. Two brothers, both with form, presently living in town. The child remains at the family home in Seaton with his mother. She has a minor dependency problem. William Meston has a long record of truancy and misdemeanors. Social Services have been involved.’

  ‘All very informative,’ the DI interrupted, ‘but where do drugs come into this?’

  ‘I was getting to that, sir. We think until he was banged up, Mad Mike acted as a runner for some guy supplying drugs to the Seaton area. We’ve known for years there’s been dope changing hands down there. Not on an organised basis. Just the odd punter doing a trade or two on the street. The minute uniform pick up on them, they move on. But this pusher isn’t one of our regulars. He’s only just crossed the radar, in fact. Might be an incomer to the city. Confines his activities to Class B stuff. And to Seaton. But he seems to have the place sewn up.’

  ‘The kid… Meston, did you say his name was? What’s he got to do with all this?’

  ‘We believe young Willie has been acting as a surrogate for his dad. Keeping the billet warm, so to speak, till Mad Mike does his time.’

  ‘And the child is how old, did you say?’

  ‘Ten, sir.’

  ‘Any other minors involved?’

  ‘Only one that we know of: Ryan Brebner, also age ten, also from Seaton.’

  ‘OK. And I take it when you say “we”, you’re referring to your source.’

  Brian nodded.

  ‘This source – it’s reliable, is it?’

  He felt the colour rise in his neck. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘A snout?’

  He fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Brian fidgeted in his seat.

  ‘If…’ His superior officer leaned across the desk. ‘And it’s a whopping if –I’m to give any credence to this fairytale, Sergeant, I’ll need full disclosure of your source.’

  Brian was so short of breath he reckoned he might be having a panic attack. ‘It’s someone I’m…c-close to,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Close? Like your wife, you mean?’

  ‘No sir,’ he uttered a grim laugh.

  ‘Who, then?’

  Brian sat in silence. After a few moments, he spoke. ‘Can you give me your assurance, sir, that it will go no further than these four walls?’

  The inspector nodded. ‘For now, at least. Though neither of us can be sure where this will take us.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s a Mrs Laird, sir.’

  The DI frowned. ‘That policeman’s widow?’

  Brian blanched. ‘Fraid so, sir.’

  Chisolm raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Christ almighty.’ He’d heard rumblings about the woman taking up the reins of the husband’s business. She looked such a timid wee thing, too. ‘You have corroboration, I take it?’

  ‘From two different sources. Plus I’ve asked the community bobby from Seaton police office to keep an ear to the ground.’

  Chisolm sniffed. ‘Wouldn’t put any money on that.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I don’t agree. They can be a mine of information, these community bobbies.’

  ‘If they remember to pass the information on.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘What about the dealer? Do we have a description?’

  ‘According to my snout…’

  Chisolm’s lip curled. If he had a pound for every skewed piece of intel.

  ‘Late teens. Well built.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘Lad always wears a hat: one of those beanie jobs.’

  Chisolm groaned. ‘Covers half of Aberdeen.’

  ‘Just about. My snout says he’s not a kent face. Fairly new on the scene, but savvy enough, sir, to stay well clear of the big boys.’

  ‘Where does he hand over the goods, this guy?’

  ‘The Castlegate. At least it’s been the Castlegate up until recently, but he seems to have gone to ground.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  Brian shook his head.

  ‘Well,’ the inspector stood up to signal the end of the meeting, ‘can’t say I’m knocked out with what you’ve brought me, Burnet
t.’

  Brian averted his eyes.

  ‘Nonetheless, Sergeant, we’re duty-bound to follow up every line of enquiry. No matter how tenuous.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘But make no mistake,’ the DI glowered, ‘we’re dealing with a girl’s death here. All hell will rain down on your shoulders if you’ve got this wrong.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘However, in the absence of any other leads, I’ll have a word with Drugs Division and have the Seaton connection checked out.’

  ‘Sir,’ his sergeant stood up, ‘thanks for your time.’ He stood, awkward, waiting to be dismissed. Brian was uneasy. He wished he hadn’t listened to Maggie. Hadn’t rung the DI. Hadn’t put himself in the firing line like this. Too many heads had rolled since the debacle of that bloody drugs trial. Plus it was never a good idea to get yourself noticed too soon.

  ‘You’ll let me know, Burnett, if you get any more intel that may be of use to us in our enquiries from your…’ for a moment, the inspector hesitated. ‘Acquaintance.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Brian wondered if there was significance in Allan Chisolm’s choice of words.

  He headed for the door.

  ‘Oh, and Burnett, before you go?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This source of yours, how did she come by the information?’

  Clever bastard, Brian thought.

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  We Need to Talk

  ‘Willie?’

  The boy turned from the entrance to Esplanade Court.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Ah’m in a hurry,’ Willie slipped through the opening.

  Move it! As the heavy door swung shut, Maggie stuck out a foot and squeezed through the narrowing gap. She caught Willie jabbing at the lift buttons.

  ‘Fuck.’ He jabbed one, then another, and another still. Swivelled on his heel. Made for the door to the stairwell.

  ‘Willie,’ Maggie hurried after him, ‘we need to talk.’

  ‘Aboot?’ the boy headed up the stairs.

  Remember – be circumspect. ‘You know what.’

  Willie reached the first landing. ‘Naw,’ he didn’t turn. ‘Ah dinna.’