Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘It’s about what you’ve been up to…’ Keep it vague. The figure paused, mid-step. ‘In the high rises.’

  ‘Dinna ken what yer talkin aboot.’

  Willie recommenced his upward trajectory.

  What the hell! ‘I know you’re dealing drugs,’ Maggie’s breath began to labour as she reached the second floor.

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who telt ye that?’ There was no let-up in Willie’s step.

  ‘Willie,’ Maggie insisted, ‘I saw you with my own eyes.’

  Willie slowed. ‘Spyin, wis ye?’

  ‘If you like.’

  He turned his head. ‘Thocht ye wis on oor side, like?’

  ‘I am.’ The third floor came and went. ‘Where are you heading, Willie?’

  ‘Nane o’ yer fuckin business.’

  Draw him out. ‘It’s to meet your supplier, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Naw,’ Willie snorted. ‘Ah’m awa tae pick up Kyle.’

  ‘Ryan’s wee brother?’

  ‘Aye. Ah’ve tae collect him fae the child-minder.’

  ‘Why isn’t Ryan picking him up?’

  ‘He’s messages tae dae.’

  Maggie glanced at her watch, hoping to call Willie’s bluff, ‘But it’s not five o’clock yet.’ Gotcha! She knew from Ryan that his mum worked full-time. Reckoned it would be nearer six before she’d be home. Esplanade Court had to be where Willie’s supplier was based – how else could a ten-year-old source the supplies, handle large sums of money?

  Willie threw a sly glance over his shoulder. ‘She’s gettin aff early the nicht.’ He resumed his climb.

  ‘It’s one thing you getting into trouble,’ Maggie panted as she passed the fourth-floor landing, ‘it’s quite another involving other people.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like Ryan. He’s been helping you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Helping?’ Willie’s face was blank. ‘What wi?’

  ‘With the druggies.’

  ‘Dinna ken what ye’re talkin aboot.’

  ‘Ryan’s your runner, isn’t he?’ Maggie persisted.

  ‘Runner?’ Willie sneered.

  ‘Lookout? Footman? Whatever you want to call him. He was on the door at Northview Towers,’ Maggie fought for breath. ‘I’ve seen him other places too.’

  ‘Yer talkin through a hole in yer heid.’

  ‘You sure?’ Maggie stepped sideways as a woman struggled downwards with an infant in a buggy and a toddler by the hand.

  ‘Aye.’ Willie used the opportunity to lengthen the distance between them.

  ‘And what about Lewis? He’s been here too. I’ve seen him.’

  Willie stopped in his tracks. ‘Dae ye no get it?’ He turned. ‘We come tae pick up Kyle, whichever wan o’ us can dae it.’

  The sign for the fifth floor passed in a blur, a tangle of graffiti.

  ‘Which floor did you say it was?’

  ‘Ah didna. Now button it. Yer nippin ma heid.’

  ‘I saw you go into Northview Towers, Willie. And the other tower blocks. And I saw the druggies go in after you.’

  ‘What dis that prove?’

  Call his bluff. ‘I’ve got photographs.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I could take them to the police.’

  Willie stopped. Looked down the on her. ‘You dae that. Ah’m no feart o’ thon community bobby. Fuckin do-gooder, ma da says, jist like them social workers.’ He started up the stairs again.

  ‘I’m not talking about the local police office, Willie, I’m talking about Queen Street.’

  ‘Ah’m no feart o’ them fuckers neither.’

  ‘But if you were to get in trouble…’

  Willie scoffed. ‘Ah’m aye in trouble.’

  ‘Serious trouble. What would your parents say?’

  ‘Ma ma widna be bothered.’

  Maggie seized her opportunity. ‘Your dad, then?’

  The boy blanched.

  By the time they reached the sixth floor, Maggie was mesmerised by the bright green soles of Willie’s trainers.

  ‘The police would want to know the names of your…’ her breathing was agonised, ‘clients. Your supplier too. They’d investigate where he was getting the drugs from and…’

  Willie stopped dead. ‘Ye widna.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tak yer photies tae the filth?’

  Bargain hard. ‘Not if you’re prepared to help me, Willie.’

  ‘Help ye? How?’

  ‘I want you to get hold of Ryan too. Meet me later. Somewhere quiet, so we can have a proper talk.’

  ‘Bit ah’ve Kyle tae pick up, and git hame fur ma tea.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then. How about I pick you up at Codona’s at half past six?’

  Willie shrugged. ‘Dinna ken.’

  They reached the seventh-floor landing.

  Winded, Maggie bent over, splayed her hands on her knees. As she fought to regain her breath, she heard a door open. She jolted upright. Caught a glimpse of a figure in a sweatshirt and trackie bottoms. Strained forward.

  ‘Hi, Kym,’ she heard Willie say. ‘Kyle here?’

  Dammit! So the lad was telling the truth after all. She watched as Willie’s small figure disappeared through the door.

  Desperate, Maggie summoned a breath.

  ‘Willie,’ she called out. ‘Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Don’t forget.’

  A Dead End

  In the Briefing Room, the Major Incident Team sat round the table. The meeting had been timed for 7pm. Susan Strachan yawned. She was supposed to be on day shift that week. Should have finished at four. She rolled her head to the side, first one way, then the other. Her stomach rumbled. Bugger! She’d planned to nip round to Markies, pick up a ready meal in the food hall. Something tasty. She’d had a bastard of a day. Now it looked like it was going to be another shitty takeaway.

  ‘Let’s get on,’ DI Alan Chisolm straightened his cuffs. ‘What have we got on the kids. Dunn? Elrick?’

  Douglas was first to jump in. ‘Steady progress, sir. I’ve been into the schools, primary and secondary: Tillydrone, Linksfield. Had good co-operation…’ He hesitated.

  ‘Do I sense a “but” coming?

  Dunn nodded. ‘No feedback just yet.’

  ‘What about you, Elrick?’

  ‘I’ve been c-concentrating on S-seaton, sir.’ Willie Elrick had a tendency to stutter when he was put on the spot.

  ‘Turn up anything?’

  ‘N-not y-yet. But there are three or four gangs of k-kids about the ages the d-door-to-doors have thrown up. They hang out round the high-r-rises. Mebbe when they get f-fed up, take their b-bikes up School Road to K-king Street and St Machar Drive.’

  ‘Good stuff. Anything from you, Wood?”

  ‘Well…’ Dave Wood twiddled his pencil. ‘I thought I was onto something with the arrangement of the body, but…’

  The inspector raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘It turned out to be a dead end.’

  There was a titter from the far end of the table.

  ‘If you’ll pardon the pun, sir.’

  ‘This isn’t a laughing matter,’ Chisolm scowled. ‘A young woman is…’

  There was a hesitant tap on the door. A young WPC peeked in. ‘I’ve got the final report back from Pathology, sir.’

  The inspector wrinkled his brow. ‘Not before sodding time.’ He’d never known a department take so bloody long to produce a final report. Way before he’d come to Queen Street, Allan Chisolm had heard that Alec Gourlay was scrupulous, but shit-hot. Nonetheless, this was taking procedure too far. The inspector made a mental note to raise the matter with his superiors at some future date.

  Still, the constable hung back.
/>
  ‘Well,’ Chisolm rasped, ‘bring it here.’

  Gingerly, the young woman advanced across the room. She slid a large envelope across the desk.

  The DI extracted the report from the envelope and skimmed through it, casting the sheets of paper aside one by one. From time to time he’d pause. Pick up one of the papers he’d discarded. Check something. Read on.

  From beneath lowered lids, Brian observed his senior officer, trying to gauge the DI’s reaction. Other than the occasional slight wrinkling of the brow, there was none.

  After a few minutes, Chisolm raised his head. ‘That’s a turn-up. Well,’ he addressed the constable, ‘off you go.’

  Head bowed, the uniform scuttled out of the room.

  ‘What’s Pathology saying, sir?’ Brian ventured.

  ‘Well, it’s not good news, I have to tell you.’ Chisolm leaned back in his chair. ‘Gourlay’s conclusions are that the girl collapsed, possibly due to her underlying medical condition: the heart valve defect that was identified at birth,’ the DI looked down. ‘Pulmonary Valve Stenosis is what it says here. Or maybe a blood clot on the brain.’

  George Duffy broke in. ‘When Gourlay says “collapsed” is he inferring the victim died of natural causes?’

  ‘Sudden Death Syndrome. It’s not unheard of.’

  Duffy sat back. ‘No sir, but…’

  ‘If you’ll allow me to continue?’ Chisolm’s voice was testy. ‘She hit her head on a gravestone. In Gourlay’s view, the blow to the head wasn’t enough to kill Lucy, but may have exacerbated the pre-existing condition. However, it would have rendered her insensible for a time and, after that, confused and disorientated. Forensics managed to find an exact match to the injury with a memorial over by the dividing wall between St Machar kirkyard and Seaton Park. Then Lucy crawled. There are no indications that she dragged herself – or was dragged – close to where she was found.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain how she got onto that tombstone,’ Susan volunteered.

  ‘She might have pulled herself up onto it,’ Wood suggested. ‘For comfort, if she was distressed, to get off the damp ground.’

  ‘Some bloody comfort, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Douglas scoffed. ‘Sir.’ He corrected himself hastily.

  ‘And how do you explain the arms splayed over the head, the legs spread? ‘Going back to the report,’ Chisolm shuffled the pages in his hands, ‘the Pathologist also states that…’ the DI paused for dramatic effect, ‘he found no evidence of ligature marks or manual choke holds on Lucy’s neck, nor any enlargement of the tongue. Nor the bloodshot eyes one might associate with smothering. He did, however, find minute red spots in Lucy’s eyes. Petechiae, he calls them: pinpoint traces, caused when capillaries near the surface burst. That’s not something he would have expected to see, given the other evidence at the scene. There was also evidence of minor bruising around the nose and mouth.’

  ‘Bruising?’ Brian pounced. ‘So Lucy Simmons was mugged after all?’

  ‘Not according to Gourlay. In his view, the pattern could only have come from a woman.’ Chisolm’s tone was reflective. ‘Or even a child.’

  ‘A woman?’ Duffy echoed.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. Doesn’t seem likely, does it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘To summarise,’ Chisolm held the report in front of his face, ‘the Pathologist has concluded that Lucy Simmons died from asphyxiation.’

  ‘But if Lucy was asphyxiated,’ Douglas interjected, ‘why wasn’t Gourlay able to pick up on it earlier?’

  ‘Petechial hemorrhages are tiny, Dunn. I’ve come across them before. Takes a good eye and a strong light source to spot the blighters. Anyhow, in short, someone – not necessarily the same someone who lifted Lucy onto that tombstone – also obstructed the girl’s airways, albeit without undue force.’

  ‘But, sir…’ Duffy scratched his head in consternation. ‘A woman?’

  ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibilities,’ Douglas pontificated. ‘Lucy might have swung both ways.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Susan moved to silence him. ‘She’d just ended a long heterosexual relationship, and Melissa said…’

  ‘There you are,’ Douglas smirked. ‘Maybe we should be having another chat with Melissa, or the other flatmate. What was her name again?’

  Brian stifled a yawn. ‘Sally Hay.’

  ‘Seems pretty far-fetched to me.’ Duffy again.

  ‘Let me throw this into this into the mix…’ Brian felt it prudent to contribute. ‘If, as Gourlay predicates, the pattern may have been caused by a woman, couldn’t it equally have been made by a teenage boy?’

  ‘Now, there’s a thing.’ Dave Wood came suddenly to life.

  ‘Any progress with the young lad?’ Chisolm’s gaze focused on Brian.

  ‘No, sir.’ He felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. Wished fervently that he hadn’t opened his mouth.

  ‘And the cross?’ Susan chipped in. ‘We’ve still no idea…’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Chisolm interrupted. ‘The cross.’

  For some moments, the assembled company sat in contemplation, their thoughts on the young girl who’d been found lying in the morbid shadow of St Machar.

  The inspector leaned across the desk and fixed his team with a hard stare. He was a hardened copper and yet he never ceased to be amazed at the darkness of the human mind.

  ‘We have to find that person. Or persons. The person who found Lucy Simmons dead – or dying – in that graveyard. The person who violated her body. The person who stole her mobile phone. One thing’s clear. At the end of this protracted delay, we finally have confirmation that we’re investigating a murder.’

  VII

  A Kiss, Maybe

  Fatboy shouldered open the door of the close. He’d got the address off his phone: one of several listed, but this was the handiest by far. Christ, he wrinkled his nose, the smell of pish would knock you out. He was tempted to call it quits, turn round and try somewhere else. But he didn’t want to waste time on this wee diversion. He made for the stairs and carried on upwards to the first floor.

  It had been a lark to him at first, horsing about with children entrusted into Kymberley Ewen’s care: a means of passing the time whilst he was stuck in that dump of a high-rise flat waiting for Willie Meston to finish his business. But as the weeks went by, Fatboy had developed something of a proprietorial interest. Now, he considered the youngsters ‘his’ kids as much as Kym’s. Notionally, she might be in charge. But once she was gone – out on one of her sorties – the children morphed into Fatboy’s own little family.

  With the exception of Kym’s own children and his favourite, wee Kyle, the charges entrusted to the child-minder’s care turned over at a steady rate. This was due in part to the turnover in tenants of the tower block. Other times the mothers would be too skint – or too out of it – to make it as far as Kym’s door. The downside to this was that the boys in particular, with their baldy heads and grey faces, were beginning to look all the same to him. The way that Kym Ewen was heading, Fatboy reckoned it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to move on from Esplanade Court. And if he did that, wouldn’t it be good idea to keep tabs on ‘his’ kids? After all, he never knew when he might have need of them again. He’d toyed with the idea of marking the children out in some way – cap, badge, T-shirt – something to show they belonged. Too obvious, he decided. Plus the little bastards would lose them. No, it would have to be something more subtle: a mark of some sort, a small one, just to show where he’d been. Fatboy flirted with the idea of a tattoo. The number of tattoos some of these kids were flashing already – the older ones, that is – another wee one would hardly be noticed. But this would present logistical problems. He couldn’t just haul a bunch of kids down a tattoo parlour.

  The idea had come to him when he was watching an old movie, Netflix being Fatboy�
��s default position when he got hacked off with porn. Now he stood in front of the door. With narrowed eyes, he regarded the lettering on the plastic name plate. Then he turned the handle and went in. A counter ran the width of the room. Against the far wall stood a workbench. An old geezer was bent over it, an eyeglass lodged in his right socket.

  The old man turned, the strip light on the ceiling bouncing a pattern on his baldy head. ‘Can ah help you?’

  Fatboy shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

  The man removed the jeweller’s loupe and rose to his feet. ‘Is it a repair ye’re needin?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  The old guy crossed to the counter, all the while keeping eye contact with Fatboy. He slid one hand underneath.

  Fatboy suspected a panic button. He readied himself to turn and flee.

  The hand re-appeared, clutching a well-thumbed duplicate book.

  Fatboy relaxed. ‘I was wanting something made.’

  The man’s face lit up. ‘A ring, maybe, young fella like you? That’s no a problem. Ah’d be delighted, to tell the truth. It’s no often ah get the chance to make anything from scratch. It’s aw repairs these days.’

  ‘Ring?’ Fatboy scoffed. ‘No fucking chance. I’m far too cute to get cornered by some slag.’ It wasn’t that long since he’d seen off the last one. Emma was still texting him, stupid cow. ‘No,’ he lowered his voice. ‘It’s something much more…’ He floundered till the word came to him. ‘Artistic.’

  ‘How d’ye mean?’ Suspicious look.

  ‘A one-off.’

  The milky eyes flickered, uncertain. ‘One-off what, exactly?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Fatboy’s tone was reassuring, ‘it’s nothing illegal. More a special…’ He hesitated. ‘Tool.’

  ‘A tool?’ The man still didn’t look too happy.

  ‘Calm down, faither,’ Fatboy flashed a smile, ‘I’ll be paying cash.’

  He reached into his inside pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper. He spread it on the counter. ‘It’s a very simple design,’ he explained.

  The jeweller studied the rough drawing. ‘Ah can see that.’

  ‘But it will have to be compact,’ Fatboy continued. ‘No bigger than a biro.’