Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Mrs Laird,’ the inspector paused as if deciding how to frame his words, ‘may I touch on an even more delicate matter?’

  She looked up at Chisolm, a stubborn expression on her face.

  ‘I need to ask you now about your relationship with DS Burnett.’

  Maggie took a deep breath. ‘There is no relationship.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘He was my husband’s best friend, if that’s what you’re getting at. They were at Tulliallan together.’

  ‘Yes,’ the inspector threw her a superior smile, ‘I already know that. What I’m asking you now,’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘is whether there is anything more?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Her voice was firm.

  ‘Nothing personal?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern.’

  ‘How about business?’ Chisolm persisted.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean…’ the inspector looked Maggie straight in the right eye. ‘It might be useful for a private investigator to have a source within the police force.’

  She bristled. ‘I wouldn’t do that – put somebody’s job on the line,’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Chisolm’s eyes bored into her.

  Maggie’s mind ran back to the series of favours she’d begged off Brian. Lies and more lies. She felt colour steal up the back of her neck.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it’s mere coincidence that DS Burnett brings me a tip-off on kids dealing drugs in Seaton and that you just happen to work there?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And in your reincarnation as a private eye that you’ve been drawing on sources inside Aberdeen Police?’

  Maggie blanched. She wondered how much the inspector actually knew.

  Another silence, then, ‘It seems to me, Mrs Laird,’ Chisolm’s tone was measured, ‘that you’ve jumped into this private investigation business with both feet.’

  She drew herself up. ‘That might be your opinion, but…’

  ‘According to my information,’ Chisolm cut her short, ‘you’ve first questioned the circumstances of your husband’s death. You then proceeded to implicate a well-known local businessman. And now, if my source is to be believed, you’ve managed to embroil yourself in this drugs business.’

  Her mind raced. Where had Chisolm got this information from? It could only be Brian.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  ‘You’re right. Up to a point.’

  ‘And what point might that be?’

  ‘Regarding the circumstances of my husband’s death, for one. There was absolutely no reason for George to keel over like that,’ Maggie’s voice wavered, ‘without any warning.’

  ‘People do.’ Chisolm’s tone was surprisingly gentle.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ quickly she composed herself, ‘but there were other things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Things connected to James Gilruth.’

  ‘James Gilruth, from what I’ve been led to believe, is well-regarded in this city.’

  ‘He’s a crook.’

  ‘Mrs Laird…’

  ‘You know bloody well that man has a finger in every dirty damn business in Aberdeen.’ The DI turned his head away. ‘Or if you don’t know, you damn well should.’

  ‘Mrs Laird,’ the inspector turned back, let out a sigh of frustration. ‘I understand your distress. From what I’ve heard, this past year or two can’t have been easy for you, but that doesn’t give you free rein to indulge in wild conspiracy theories.’

  ‘They’re not wild,’ Maggie burst out.

  ‘I appreciate that in the circumstances…’

  Was that sympathy she saw, or something else altogether?

  ‘You have to earn a living. Though I would strongly advise you against the investigations industry. Be that as it may, I must caution you… And that’s why I’ve come here today, to speak to you in person, Mrs. Laird, rather than on the telephone,’ Chisolm stood, feet apart. ‘To warn you not to hinder the police in the course of conducting your business.’

  Maggie took a step towards him. ‘Hinder the police? That’s the last thing I’d contemplate. What do you think I’ve been doing this past twenty years but supporting the police? And look where it’s got me.’

  Chisolm studied his feet. He couldn’t believe he was letting a pint-size dame like her get the better of him. The bloody woman had managed to make waves all over the shop. Insinuate herself into matters that were none of her damned business. ‘As I’ve already said, Mrs Laird,’ he looked up again, ‘I can understand the strength of your feelings.’

  ‘Can you?’ She drew herself up. ‘What do you know about me? Or my feelings?’

  ‘This whole business with Gilruth,’ the inspector pressed on, ‘and now this latest allegation about Seaton. I cannot allow you to interfere at any level with ongoing investigations. Do I make myself clear?’

  Calmly, Maggie nodded an acknowledgement, though she was seething inside.

  ‘Do I have your word on that?’

  Saying a silent prayer that God would not strike her down on the spot, she drew a deep breath. ‘You do.’

  Chisolm raised the ghost of a smile.

  ‘But now,’ Maggie said, her voice firm, ‘I have business to attend to.’ And with that she showed him the door.

  Wanker o’ the Week

  ‘Bobby?’

  The man turned in the shop doorway.

  ‘Can we have a word?’

  They were standing behind him, faces hidden in the depths of their hoodies, two dark figures blurring into one.

  ‘A word?’ He shook the drips from his dick. ‘W-what about?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Brannigan eyed Wilma. ‘What’s that fat cow lookin at?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ she retorted. ‘And put thon thing away, will you? It’s givin me the boak.’

  The idea had come to her that last time Maggie Laird broke down.

  I thought I’d done so well, Wilma. Tracking Brannigan to his local. Waiting till I got him on his own.

  You done great, pal.

  No, I didn’t. My one big chance, and I blew it.

  Well, leave it a while, then you can have another go.

  I might not get the opportunity. Brannigan’s already lying low. I’m worried my barging in there will make him duck out of sight completely. And then what will I do?

  You could get your pal Brian to have a bash. Sounds affa like he’s soft on you.

  I’ve already asked Brian. He said there were only two ways he could see to get George’s case reopened. He said to offer Brannigan immunity from prosecution if he fingers the big fish.

  And who in hell’s got the authority to do that?

  Nobody we know, that’s for sure.

  What was the other thing?

  Put a gun to Brannigan’s head.

  Now there’s an idea.

  Wil-ma. We can’t go round threatening people.

  Oh, I don’t know. These days, I pack a fair punch.

  Very funny.

  We could get somebody else to put the squeeze on the guy.

  Like who?

  Dunno.

  Hands shaking, Brannigan zipped himself up. ‘Ah’ve tae get hame,’ he muttered into his chest.

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Aye,’ the wee man trotted off.

  ‘Nae problem,’ the hoodies positioned themselves either side, Wilma bringing up the rear.

  Silently, the four marched in step.

  ‘Gie us a break, wull ye?’ Brannigan darted across the street.

  ‘A break, is it?’ the hoodies caught up with him.

  ‘Hiv onythin in mi
nd, wee man?’ The bigger one again. ‘Couple o’ baseball bats fur instance?’

  Bobby looked up, eyes out on his cheeks. ‘What dae ye want?’

  ‘There’s a wee matter needs cleared up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Tell you later.’

  Brannigan knitted his brow. ‘Tell me the noo. Ah’ve tae get hame.’

  The big hoodie jeered. ‘Ye wisna in such a hurry when ye were in the pub.’

  ‘Naw, weel…’

  ‘An it’s no as if ye’ve got onybody waitin fur ye,’ Wilma stepped in. ‘That right?’

  ‘Ye dinna ken that.’

  ‘Aye, we dae. Richt, fellas?’ The hoodies jerked their heads. ‘No that it wis easy, ken? In fact,’ Wilma stuck her face right up close, ‘ye’ve bin lyin that low, there wis fuck all atween you an the grun.’

  ‘Aye, weel,’ Brannigan ducked his head again.

  ‘But if ye feel ye’ve tae get hame, Bobby, we can chum ye.’ She turned to the two lads. ‘You up for a bit of action?’

  The lads adjusted their hoodies. ‘Bring it on.

  Wilma grinned. ‘Good stuff.’

  x

  Brannigan sat on a settee that had seen better days, the hoodies standing over him. Wilma occupied the only chair. She delved into her handbag, extracted a set of car keys and dropped them into her lap.

  ‘This wee matter ye wis needin cleared up…’ He put on a show of bravado. ‘Tell me aboot it.’

  ‘It wis tae dae wi thon trial,’ the chunky lad towered over him, ‘the wan far ye wis the prosecution’s star witness.’

  ‘The wan that accidentally had to be abandoned,’ the smaller of the two chipped in.

  ‘Aye,’ Brannigan sneered. ‘Hard lines, that.’

  ‘Hard lines?’ The chunky lad came back in. ‘Is that aw it wis?’

  ‘Aye. Aw doon tae police inefficiency.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Wanker turned the tape aff afore ah could pit ma hauns up tae it.’

  ‘Oh,’ big hoodie again. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Nae half,’ he grinned. ‘Got me richt aff the hook. Only,’ his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Ah’ve hud tae keep ma heid doon aye since.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ the smaller of the hoodies enquired.

  ‘Pigs’ll do me fur the least wee thing.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Aye,’ Brannigan rolled his eyes. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘There widna be onythin else?’

  ‘Such as?’

  The big lad bent over him, ‘Any other reason that trial went up the swannee?’

  He shrugged. ‘How wid ah ken?’

  ‘Any reason tae dae wi yer…’ he leaned further, ‘tes-ti-mony?’

  The colour drained from Brannigan’s face. ‘Dinna ken what ye’re talkin aboot.’

  ‘No? And what if ah wis tae say that ye’re kent tae hiv perjured yersel?’

  ‘Aye? How? Tell me that.’

  ‘By sayin two big polismen were takin backhanders tae turn a blind eye.’

  ‘I-I-I…’ Beads of sweat stood out now on the man’s brow.

  ‘That’s why we’ve come along the nicht. So ye can tell us aboot it.’

  Brannigan drew himself up. ‘In yer dreams.’

  ‘Ah said…’ The hoodie repeated.

  ‘An ah heard ye.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s mair than ma life’s worth tae…’

  ‘Listen,’ the big lad grabbed him by the throat, ‘it’s mair than yer life’s worth tae no.’

  Brannigan squared his thin shoulders. ‘An who’s gonna mak me?’ He cast a glance towards Wilma. ‘If they buggers lay a finger on me, ah’ll dae them fur assault.’

  ‘Assault?’ Wilma’s eyes widened. ‘Who said anything about assault?’

  ‘They mebbe no said it,’ Brannigan muttered under his breath, ‘but that’s whit they meant.’

  ‘Naethin tae dae wi me,’ Wilma retorted. ‘Ah’m jist an innocent bystander.’

  ‘Bit now ye mention it,’ the smaller of the two hoodies smirked, ‘if oor wee man isna feelin up tae a chat…mebbe we could dae somethin tae persuade him.’

  The big lad grinned. ‘Ye carryin?’

  ‘Naw. A thocht wi the polis an aw… You?’

  ‘Same. So…’ The bigger lad cast around. ‘We’ll jist hiv tae use oor imagination.’

  ‘Aye,’ the other threw in, ‘lucky we got plenty o’ that.’ He crossed the swirly carpet. Picked up a poker from the hearth. ‘This dae?’ He waved the poker in Brannigan’s face.

  ‘Naw,’ his companion snorted. ‘Ower guid fur the likes o’ him.’ He ducked his head towards the kitchen. ‘See if there’s onythin useful in there.’

  ‘Aw, come oan, boys,’ Brannigan snivelled, ‘there’s nae need fur ony o’ that.’

  ‘Ye ready tae talk, then?’

  ‘Naw,’ his chin wobbled. ‘Ah telt ye. Ma life widna be worth tuppence.’

  The big lad grinned. ‘That’s mair than it’ll be worth when ah’m done wi ye.’ He turned. ‘How ye doin in there?’ The second hoodie appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Knives are buggered.’

  His companion pulled a face. ‘Scissors?’

  ‘Blunt as buggery.’

  ‘Aw, shame – ah fair fancied a bit o’ origami.’

  Brannigan made to rise. ‘Now, come oan, fellas…’

  The chunky lad shoved him roughly back onto the settee.

  ‘Cooker gas?’ he called.

  ‘Naw. Electric.’

  ‘Shite,’ the big lad screwed up his face. ‘Don’t suppose ye’re a DIY man?’ He addressed the question to Bobby.

  ‘Naw. Why?’

  ‘Could use a Black & Decker.’

  Brannigan shrank back on the settee, face the colour of puce.

  ‘There’s a steam iron,’ the voice came from the kitchen.

  The big lad flexed his biceps. ‘That’ll dae.’

  x

  ‘That wis guid o’ ye,’ the big hoodie sneered. ‘Fillin us in on yer evidence, like.’

  Brannigan contemplated the puddle on the carpet. ‘Fat lot o’ good it’ll dae ye’

  The big lad cocked his head. ‘An why d’ye think that?’

  ‘Ah’ll say it nivver happened.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Wilma rose from her chair. ‘Know what these are?’ She dangled the set of keys under Brannigan’s nose.

  He squinted. ‘They’re fuckin car keys.’

  ‘Aye. And this,’ she held up a small black box, ‘is a fuckin key fob. A very special key fob. Procured for the very purpose of recording one Bobby Brannigan admitting to fuckin perjury.’

  Brannigan snorted. ‘Ye huvin me on?’

  Wilma’s big blue eyes opened wide. ‘Would I do that?’

  ‘Ye canna be serious.’

  ‘Dead serious.’ Wilma activated the tape. ‘Dumb fucker that you are.’

  As the tape played, Brannigan sat hunched, a stricken expression on his face.

  ‘Need any more?’ Wilma enquired.

  ‘Naw.’

  Wilma paused the tape. ‘So you see, Mister Brannigan, I’ve got you on tape, owning up to lying in the witness box.’

  ‘So? Widna be the first time.’

  Wilma chuckled. ‘Mebbe not. Except,’ she threw a backward look at the bruisers, ‘this time you’re going to put your hands up to it.’

  ‘And how are ye gonna mak me dae that?’

  ‘I’m going to take this tape to the police. Hear what they’re sayin to it.’

  ‘The filth?’ he scoffed. ‘They’ll throw ye oot.’

  ‘They will? Why’s that?’

  ‘It canna be legal,’ he eyed
the key fob, ‘that thing.’

  Wilma grinned. ‘You want to take your chance?’

  ‘Aye.’ Bobby jutted his chin. ‘Fat cow.’

  ‘What do you think, boys?’ Wilma turned to the two hoodies.

  ‘Dunno,’ the smaller of the two shrugged.

  ‘Fuckin heid bangers,’ Brannigan eyed the two lads.

  ‘Taks one tae ken one,’ Wilma shot back.

  ‘What if it wis tae fall intae the wrong hands, like?’ the other lad offered.

  ‘Now, there’s a thing,’ Wilma cocked her head. ‘Bet the big men wouldn’t be amused. No the way ye bandied their names about.’

  ‘Ye widna,’ Brannigan shuffled his feet.

  ‘Want tae bet?’

  ‘Yer havin me oan,’ Brannigan narrowed his eyes. ‘Bet ye dinna even ken wha ye’re talkin aboot.’

  Wilma chuckled. ‘You a bettin man, Bobby?’

  ‘Aye, weel, no lately.’

  ‘Keepin a low profile, ur ye? Canna show yer face doon the bookies, like? Some life,’ Wilma scoffed.

  The wee man studied his shoes.

  ‘So ye dinna rate ma chances wi the polis?’

  Brannigan didn’t answer.

  ‘What ur we gaun tae dae, boys?’ Wilma rolled her eyes.

  ‘Bet it would fair raise a storm on YouTube,’ the first lad again. He gnawed on a fingernail. ‘Eh no?’

  ‘YouTube?’ Wilma raised an eyebrow. ‘Now there’s a thought.’

  ‘Ah’ve got the movie an all.’ The hoodie flicked on his phone. ‘Fucker huvin a piss.’ He waved the image under Brannigan’s nose. ‘Wanker o’ the Week, how’s that fur a strapline?’

  ‘Ye’d nivver,’ Brannigan jumped to his feet.

  Wilma squared up. ‘Try me.’

  Brannigan took a step back. He caught his knees on the edge of the settee and sat down heavily. His head dropped into his hands.

  ‘Are you ready now for that wee trip to the station?’

  Wearily, Brannigan raised his head. ‘Ah’ll go the morn.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ Wilma said brightly. She turned. ‘That right? Wayne? Kevin?’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ the hoodies shuffled forward on their Nike high-tops.

  Wayne and Kevin gripped Brannigan by the elbows. ‘On ye come, pal.’

  ‘Thanks, fellas,’ Wilma grinned. She thrust the bunch of keys back in her handbag.