Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Mmm,’ the old boy stroked his chin.

  ‘With a good, solid handle. And…’ he hesitated, ‘the handle will have to be heatproof.’

  ‘Heatproof?’ The old geezer’s eyebrows shot up into his non-existent hairline.

  ‘And the shaft should be slim, with…’

  ‘Hang on.’ Horror was written on the man’s face. ‘It looks to me like a branding iron.’

  Fatboy grinned. ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘But what’s it for, exactly?’ the jeweller puzzled.

  ‘A-a…project.’

  ‘Hobby, like?’

  A sly smile played on Fatboy’s lips. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Pokerwork, mebbe? Ah mind thon stuff in ma granny’s hoose…’

  ‘Not pokerwork,’ Fatboy interrupted.

  ‘What then?’

  Fatboy wished he’d kept his big mouth shut. ‘More like a…’ He struggled for inspiration, then, ‘tattoo.’

  ‘We-ell,’ the old geezer deliberated. ‘Ah dinna ken.’

  Fatboy rested his bulk on the counter. ‘You just said yourself that the design isn’t complicated.’

  ‘Ah did, aye. But it won’t be the easiest job, havin to keep it that small, but…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Robust.’

  ‘Nothing like a challenge.’ Fatboy leaned in close, his voice filled with menace. ‘So can you make the thing up or not?’

  The old man’s voice was filled with uncertainty. ‘Ah’m no sure.’

  Fatboy straightened. He flexed his arms. ‘What’s the fucking problem?’

  ‘N-n-naethin.’ The old geezer eyed him from beneath lowered lids. ‘What ah’m sayin is, naethin ah canna work ma way roon.’

  ‘Well, then. There’s only one thing left to do.’

  ‘Wh-what’s that?’

  Fatboy smirked. ‘Agree an effing price.’

  ‘B-but, a b-branding iron…’ The man’s eyes were out on his cheeks. ‘What did ye say ye were gaun tae dae wi it?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘We-ell, it’s no the sort o’ thing…’

  Fatboy’s arm shot out. He grabbed the jeweller by the shirt collar. ‘Listen to me, Grandpa, you said yourself the design was straightforward.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And it’s not going to take much in the way of materials, don’t you agree?’

  The jeweller nodded, mute.

  Fatboy tightened his grip on the man’s neck. ‘So what is it you’re going to do for me?’

  The old boy’s face drained of colour. ‘Mak somethin up.’

  He squeezed harder. ‘And that something is?’

  ‘A-a-a tool. Nae bigger than a biro. Wi…’ The jeweller struggled for breath. ‘A heatproof handle.’

  ‘And?’ Fatboy prompted.

  ‘A wee cross on the end.’

  ‘Spot on,’ he relaxed his hold. ‘A cross…’ A faraway look flitted across Fatboy’s face. ‘Or a kiss, maybe.’

  Bottom Line

  ‘Six per cent, you said?’ Maggie sat in Marks & Spencer’s café.

  ‘Bottom line.’ The young man opposite flashed a set of artificially whitened teeth. ‘Could go as high as twelve.’

  He’d wanted to come to the house. Said his office was being refurbished and, anyhow, his clients felt more secure talking large sums of money in the privacy of their own homes. Maggie had been forced to invent a lodger, propose meeting on neutral ground. For she knew otherwise. ‘Granville Securities’ was one of many names adopted by the fraudster she’d been retained to track down. And time was running out: its registered office unmanned, telephone calls going unanswered.

  Once Maggie gained entry through deceit to the serviced block where the company purported to be based, the poor receptionist – Norman, he was called – didn’t stand a chance. He’d chuckled when she said she was looking for Jason. You and the rest of the world. Stood stoically as, in a halting voice, she’d recounted her tale of woe: how she’d put a cheque in the post, realised – too late – she’d added an extra zero, absolutely had to retrieve the envelope before the cheque could be cashed. Norman had taken her by the elbow. Steered her to a near-empty office on the third floor. Looked on as she rummaged through a hillock of unopened mail addressed to a plethora of different investment vehicles. Thrown sympathetic looks when she turned a teary face, only to concede she may not have posted the envelope after all. Norman had even succeeded in getting the elusive Jason on his cellphone, retreating to a discreet distance so Maggie could untangle her affairs in privacy.

  Now she asked, ‘And this return is guaranteed?’

  ‘Rock solid. We’ve been investing in this product for going on five years and never had an unhappy client yet.’

  Maggie struggled to maintain a neutral expression. Mrs Cowie, her own client, had been first tremulous, then tearful, ultimately despairing. By this stage in her nascent career as a private investigator, Maggie had encountered the scenario too often: a retired individual conned by some wide boy. At the lower end of the scale it was the opportunistic knock on the back door: the ‘tradesmen’ charging inordinate sums upfront to tarmac driveways or lop branches, disappearing with the work half done. But this case was in a different league. The 79-year-old widow had been introduced by a fellow parishioner to a soi-disant financial advisor, who in turn had persuaded Mrs Cowie to withdraw funds from her underperforming savings account and reinvest in what he described as a miracle investment vehicle.

  When an unforeseen emergency had caused the widow to seek a withdrawal, she discovered her pension pot had been virtually wiped out. The distraught woman had pursued every avenue to seek redress, had come to the agency as a last resort.

  ‘But,’ Maggie countered, ‘couldn’t the stock market plunge without warning?’

  Blank face.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is…we live in such an uncertain world: acts of terror, the price of oil…’

  ‘You’re so right. But market volatility has been factored in, and anything more…dramatic – that’s where your FSA guarantee kicks in. Protects your savings.’

  Draw him out. ‘Isn’t that limited to a certain amount?’ ‘Well, yes – 85K.’ Sideways look. ‘But that’s a fair whack.’

  ‘But you’re proposing I invest my entire pension…’ Maggie well knew the FSA guarantee had fallen to 75K per financial institution, but had no intention of letting on.

  ‘With any investment there’s always a small element of risk. But with this product it’s tiny. And you know what they say…’ Sly look. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

  She nibbled a fingernail. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Let me reassure you.’ Jason leaned across the table. ‘Do you think all these other clients – doctors, lawyers, well-informed people like yourself, if I may say so – would have rushed to participate if the infinitely small risk wasn’t far outweighed by the return?’

  ‘We-ell,’ Maggie deliberated, ‘I’d need time to think about it. Do you have a leaflet I could take away and have a look over?’

  ‘No. Sorry. Things move so fast in this business, we’d have a new product on offer as soon as the last one went to print.’

  Get something in writing. ‘Then you won’t mind if I make a few notes.’

  Jason’s eyebrows met in the middle. ‘Who did you say you got my name from?’

  ‘Oh dear…now, who was it?’ Apologetic smile. ‘My head’s been all over the place since my husband died. Most likely someone from church. Now, if you’d let me have a piece of paper?’

  With some reluctance, Jason reached into an inside pocket, tore a sheet from a diary.

  ‘So, six per cent?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You couldn’t just write that down for me?’ Maggie made her hand shake as she offered her pen. ‘My nerves have been t
hat bad…’

  Frowning, Jason jotted a note.

  ‘Guaranteed?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Would you write that too?’

  Jason scribbled the word.

  And you’re sure 85K of that would be protected?’

  ‘Totally.’ Jason’s fingers drummed nervously on the tabletop.

  ‘If you’d add that?’

  Jason eyed her, obviously rattled. ‘Is there anything else?’ he demanded.

  Maggie sensed she was pushing her luck. She smiled sweetly. ‘Not for the moment.’

  ‘If I’ve answered your questions…’ He pushed the piece of paper and pen across the table. ‘All I need now is a cheque and I can get that money earning for you right away.’

  She rummaged in her handbag. Deposited on the table a packet of Polo mints, a pink comb, a sleeve of Kleenex pocket tissues. ‘Oh, dear,’ her eyes widened in alarm, ‘I can’t seem to lay my hands on it.’ She rummaged some more. ‘Don’t say I’ve left it at home. Do you know, Jason,’ she leaned in confidentially, ‘I know it won’t go any further, what with you being in the business you’re in, but I can’t tell whether I’m coming or going since I’ve been on these anti-depressants. Short-term, you understand, but…’ Stricken face. ‘If you could just help me by writing down your bank details.’

  ‘Actually,’ Jason countered smoothly, ‘a cheque in the post would suit me better.’

  Oh, no!

  ‘But that would take days. And didn’t you just say I should get my money earning for me as soon as possible?’

  Those teeth again. ‘Sure did.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll put the details down there…’ She turned the paper around, slid it towards him. ‘Bank sort code, account number.’ She thrust the pen into his hand. ‘Oh, and the full name on the account.’ She watched as, chewing his lip, Jason appended the information.

  ‘You’re so sweet,’ she slipped the pen and paper into her bag. ‘And…’ Coy smile. ‘Me such a silly woman too, forgetting to bring everything I needed with me.’

  Not half as silly as poor Mrs Cowie. It was almost certainly too late to retrieve the poor woman’s savings. Still, if Maggie had an account number and a sample of the sleazebag’s handwriting, she could pass them to Brian. Fraud would follow the money trail, and maybe Maggie’s input would save some other vulnerable soul the same fate.

  She stood. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  Jason got to his feet. ‘You’ll be in touch, then?’ He extended a limp hand.

  ‘You’ve been such a help,’ she smiled broadly, ‘I’m going to put a friend onto you.’ With a bit of luck, he’ll nail you, you bastard. ‘And I’ll transfer the funds to your account the minute I get home.’

  A Formal Complaint

  The doorbell chimed.

  Maggie started in fright. She still hadn’t recovered from that last occasion, when the squad car arrived at her door. She took a judicious peek down the hallway. A dark-suited figure was visible though the glazed panel. Not a uniform again? Her heart sank. She’d be mortified to have the police at her door a second time. In full view of the neighbours too. Not to mention Wilma. Maggie could still see the shocked expression on her friend’s face.

  Ding-dong. It chimed again.

  Maggie took another look. It wasn’t a uniform. Definitely. And it wouldn’t be one of Gilruth’s enforcers. Wilma was insistent Maggie had seen the last of them. And nobody would mess with Wilma. Of that Maggie was now quite sure.

  Oh, well. What was it her mother used to say? Better be hung for a sheep than a lamb? She tiptoed down the hall. Ever so slowly, she opened the door. Detective Inspector Allan Chisolm stood on the doorstep. Over his customary dark suit, he wore a gabardine raincoat, the collar turned up against the driving rain. Maggie could hear a rush of water from somewhere close at hand. She looked up. The gutter was overflowing at the corner of the house, something else she’d have to get seen to. She uttered a small sigh. What next?

  ‘Mrs Laird?’ His eyes travelled back and forth between Maggie’s own and settled on the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Yes?’ she struggled to hide her surprise.

  ‘DI Chisolm.’ He threw her a curt nod.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We met…’

  ‘I’d hardly be likely to forget.’ The sensation of George’s body lying stiff and cold beneath her own sent an icy shiver down her spine.

  ‘The reason I’m calling is…’ The question hung in the air.

  ‘If it’s about…’ Maggie started, then abruptly stopped. The rumour mill in Queen Street worked overtime, she knew. What if Chisolm had got wind of some of the stuff she and Wilma had been up to?

  Grim face. ‘It might be better if we spoke inside.’

  She eyed the detective. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be said right here.’ Bad enough that the bastard had intruded on her last intimate moments with George without invading her home.

  The inspector looked to the right, then to the left of him. ‘Mrs Laird, I must insist.’

  ‘If it’s my neighbours you’re worried about…’

  Allan Chisolm looked down. ‘No.’

  For a few moments the two stood in silence, then, ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Maggie stood to one side. She didn’t offer to take his coat.

  The inspector stepped into the hallway. He was an inch or two taller than George, but Chisolm was carrying less weight than her husband. Maybe he didn’t have a good woman to look after him, Maggie speculated. There were a few grey flecks in the dark hair, a deadness in the blue eyes. Something of the dark about the man, Maggie couldn’t quite put her finger on what. She’d already been filled in on the new DI’s background, what little had filtered down on the grapevine: that Allan Chisolm’s success rate at Strathclyde had been phenomenal, that he’d won many commendations, that he was a hard taskmaster – impatient, demanding, didn’t suffer fools. But not much was known, apparently, of the man’s private life. What Maggie did know for sure was that Inspector Allan Chisolm had inherited something of a poisoned chalice. She smiled bitterly. She hoped he was up to the job.

  The pair stood, awkward, in the narrow hallway.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve received information concerning a minor involved in drug dealing in Seaton.’

  Well, Maggie thought, there’s a turn-up. So Brian decided to take her seriously after all.

  ‘I understand you have some involvement there.’

  She brightened. ‘I work in Seaton, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘In what capacity, may I ask?’

  ‘As a Pupil Support Assistant at Seaton School.’

  ‘You’ll know a lot of the children, then?’

  ‘I work with the pupils who need learning support.’

  ‘Only those?’

  ‘On a one-to-one basis, but I come into contact with most of the kids when I’m giving support in the classroom.’

  ‘I see. So you talk to the children on a regular basis?’

  ‘Yes. Though I was off for a few weeks. I’m sure you’ll appreciate I’ve had other things to occupy my attention this past while.’

  ‘May I ask whether you are on particularly close terms with any of these children?’

  She felt a flush creep up the back of her neck. ‘A few.’

  ‘Mrs Laird, it is beholden on me to advise you that we have received a formal complaint from a member of the public.’

  ‘A complaint?’ Maggie’s mind raced. ‘What about?’

  ‘Suspected paedophile activity.’

  She had a sudden urge to evacuate her bowels. ‘But that’s…ridiculous!’ she finished, lamely.

  ‘So you haven’t been sitting in your car taking covert photographs of small children?’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, I…’ Maggie studied her shoes.

  ‘Can I take it that’s a yes?’

  For a moment her eyes flickered, then she turned her head away.

  ‘Mrs Laird, you can’t go around photographing children nowadays, not without parental permission.’ The DI’s lips set in a grim line. ‘And while we’re at it, skulking around in Seaton like you’ve been doing, you risk getting in the way of a police enquiry. And not just any inquiry – a full-blown investigation.’ He paused for breath. One that was going nowhere fast, he was tempted to add. Allan Chisolm wondered, and not for the first time, whether he’d been wise putting in for the transfer to Aberdeen, for the cultural divide wasn’t confined to Glasgow and Edinburgh, he’d discovered. North-east folk were a different breed from what he was used to: civil enough to your face, but holding themselves close, not open like people in the west of Scotland. A bit like that granite the place was awash with: all glitter on the face of it, but just as murky underneath as any other city on the planet. And if ever there was an Aberdonian who typified that dichotomy it was the Laird woman.

  ‘I was only trying to help,’ she shot back. ‘Prevent some of these poor, neglected kids get into even more trouble.’

  ‘Spare me the justification,’ he brushed her off. ‘There’s a Community Police Office in Seaton for precisely that purpose.’

  Pompous bastard! Why did this man make her feel like a kid out of school?

  ‘We’ll leave that for now,’ Chisolm changed tack. ‘It has been brought to my notice that your husband…’

  ‘Late husband.’

  ‘Late husband, when he passed away, was conducting business as a private investigator.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And you have now picked up the threads of this business, I understand, along with another…’ The inspector looked up to the ceiling. Looked down again. ‘Person. A Mrs Wilma Harcus, I believe.’

  ‘Right again.’ Maggie squared up to the man. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with you.’

  Chisolm shifted from one foot to the other. ‘And in the course of conducting this business, you wouldn’t by any chance have made a connection between pupils at Seaton School and the drug dealing I’ve referred to?’