Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  A Woman’s Touch

  Maggie was browning mince in a pan. Behind her, she sensed George’s bulk fill the kitchen doorway. She closed her eyes. Waited to hear his footsteps approach, feel his arms encircle her waist.

  Her mobile rang.

  Maggie started, turned. There was nobody there.

  She fumbled for her phone.

  ‘Mrs Laird?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m calling on behalf of Innes Crombie. Are you free to speak?’

  She turned the gas down to a peep. ‘I am.’ Colin would have to wait for his tea.

  ‘You worked on a case for us some while back,’ the caller continued. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ She wondered what was coming.

  ‘Well,’ the woman paused. ‘When we received your report…’

  Her heart sank. Wearily, she turned and leaned back against the worktop. ‘We felt we had to pass it upstairs to our senior partner.’

  Maggie’s knees felt weak. What had they done now, her and Wilma? They’d made a mess of something, for sure.

  ‘It was so professional.’

  She slid down the kitchen units until she reached a sitting position and drew her knees up to her chin. She let her head fall forward to rest on them.

  ‘Mrs Laird. Are you still there?’

  ‘Oh…yes,’ she fought for breath. She could barely believe what she’d just heard.

  ‘You’ll be aware, of course, that Innes Crombie is the largest firm of solicitors in the city.’

  Maggie wasn’t.

  ‘And the longest established. And although we already use the services of several…. Ahem.’ The caller cleared her throat. ‘Several agencies like your own, Mr Crombie asked me to call you, Mrs Laird. He’d like to set up a meeting. At a mutually convenient time, of course.’

  Maggie’s heart thudded in her chest. She raised a hand to her brow. Wasn’t surprised to find it filmed with perspiration.

  ‘Please thank Mr Crombie,’ she pulled herself together, ‘so much for his kind remarks. My staff are always pleased to receive positive feedback.’

  ‘Mr Crombie also asked me to say that we have another case coming up.’ The woman hesitated. ‘A rather particular case that will require rather more than the standard treatment.’

  ‘I see.’ Maggie didn’t.

  ‘Mr Crombie feels this upcoming case demands a more oblique approach. Subtle, one might say. Delicate, even. What I think he was trying to say,’ the caller adopted a conspiratorial tone, ‘is it needs a woman’s touch.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie responded. ‘Quite.’ With a jolt, she remembered Wilma’s blandishments. ‘And your terms? How do you propose…?’

  The caller cut her short. ‘Mr Crombie asked me to tell you that he is fully aware of your circumstances.’

  ‘He is?’ Small voice.

  ‘Your firm’s fee will, as usual, be open to negotiation. But our senior partner has asked me to assure you that it will be fully commensurate with the importance of the task, and settled by return on submission of your invoice.’

  Maggie’s mind ran back to the pile of bills that had kicked this whole thing off. ‘I’d be more than happy to meet Mr Crombie,’ she smiled inwardly. ‘How about one day next week?’

  x

  ‘Wilma?’ Maggie hammered on the door to the conservatory.

  ‘Hang on,’ Wilma bustled through from the back kitchen. She wiped her hands on an apron that sported what looked like the naked figure of a man.

  Lordy! Maggie tried her best not to look too closely. That couldn’t be a penis, surely. No, it looked more like a…

  Wilma opened the door. ‘God Almighty, you’re in a right state.’

  Maggie squinted at her reflection in the glass. ‘Am I? That’s because I’ve got the most incredible news.’

  Wilma grasped her by the arm. ‘Hold yer horses. I’ve something to tell you first.’ She steered Maggie into the conservatory and lowered her into one of the capacious cane chairs. ‘On second thoughts, hang on a mo. I’ll open us a bottle.’

  The two sat ensconced in their chairs, a bottle of wine open on the table between them.

  ‘You know how you tried to out Brannigan?’ Wilma demanded.

  Maggie wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t have to remind me.’

  ‘And you know how Brian said the only way we’d nail the guy was to get a plea bargain?’

  ‘Yes…’ She threw Wilma a cautious look.

  ‘Well, I thought and I thought for I don’t know how long, and then I had a wee rush of blood. I decided the way forward was to put a wee bittie pressure on Brannigan.’

  ‘If you mean violence, Wilma, haven’t I told you a hundred times, private investigation isn’t about strong-arm tactics, it’s about…’

  ‘I didn’t say we’d actually do anything.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me an a couple o’ lads.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You treat this business like some sort of Raymond Chandler novel.’

  ‘Better that than fucking Miss Marple. Any roads, all we did was follow Brannigan home. Surveillance, as you would call it. And that, by the way, is no more than you’ve been doing in Seaton this past while.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Then we asked him to invite us in.’ Wilma paused. ‘Nicely, like. Then once the fellas got him to open up…’

  ‘How exactly did they manage that?’

  Wilma tapped the side of her nose. ‘Don’t ask. I recorded the bugger on a wee gadget I got off the net. Then we played him back the tape. Said we were going to take it to the police.’

  Maggie sat up, suddenly alert. ‘How did Brannigan react to that?’

  ‘Told us to get lost.’

  She slumped back in her seat. ‘So all that effort was for nothing,’ she mumbled in a defeated voice.

  ‘Not entirely.’ Wilma grinned. ‘I had to think on my feet – literally. Brannigan sittin there like a piece o’ shite. Me standin over him. The two fellas holdin up the doorposts like a pair o’ spare pricks.’

  Maggie resisted the urge to laugh.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Wilma continued, ‘I threatened Brannigan with taking it to the big boys.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Threw it back in my face. Knew I wouldn’t know where to start,’ she screwed up her face. ‘Fair called my bluff. But then, just when I thought it was game over, didn’t Kevin pipe up?’

  ‘Kevin?’

  ‘Aye, useless twat. Oh,’ Wilma flushed beetroot, ‘sorry, Maggie.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘As I was saying, Kevin came away with he’d filmed Brannigan on his phone. Jist out the boozer he was, standin in a shop door takin a slash, both hands on his miserable wee dick. Kev said he’d stick it on YouTube, and that wee runt Brannigan went white as a sheet. Then Wayne…’

  ‘Wayne?’ Maggie queried.

  Wilma ignored her. ‘Wayne said they’d chum Brannigan to Queen Street, him and Kev.’

  ‘So how did it end up?’

  Wilma beamed. ‘Fucker’s in custody.’

  ‘So…’ Maggie could barely contain her elation. ‘You did it. Brought Bobby Brannigan to heel. I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.’

  Wilma blushed. ‘Wisna me,’ she mumbled. ‘More of a joint effort.’

  ‘You and your boys?’

  ‘Naw. You an me. We’re a team, remember?’

  Maggie smiled broadly. ‘So we are. And we’re almost there, Wilma. A good way down the road towards getting justice for George.’

  ‘I reckon. Now, will you tell me what got you in such a state? It’s not money again, is it?’ Wilma fiddled with her glass. ‘I know some of those invoices I’ve sent out have been a bit on the slow side settling, but…�
��

  ‘No, it’s not about money,’ Maggie rushed to reassure her friend. ‘And yet it is, in a roundabout sort of way,’ she reflected. ‘Do you remember that fraud case we got from Innes Crombie?’

  ‘Don’t I just? Fucker claimed he’d lost the use o’ his hands, an him playin the guitar at thon gig.’

  ‘Well, apparently they sent our report up to the senior partner.’

  ‘Christ, we didn’t make a bog of it, did we?’

  Maggie giggled. ‘That’s exactly what I thought when the woman rang up.’

  ‘Well, if there isn’t a problem, why was she ringing you?’

  ‘Because…’ For a moment, she hesitated.

  Wilma picked up the half-empty wine bottle. Slammed it down on the table. ‘If you don’t come out with it, Maggie Laird, I’m going to pour the rest of this bottle right over your head.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve, Wilma Harcus. I come rushing round here to tell you and I can’t get a word in edgeways. But as I was saying, they’ve got a big case coming up. The woman said their senior partner wants me to come in for a meeting because…’

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘It needs a woman’s touch.’

  It’s a Surprise

  Chuggington was going strong. Six kids – three boys and three girls – sat in a semi-circle on the floor in front of the television. Fatboy, sitting on the settee behind them, fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown envelope.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’ There was a clamour of high-pitched voices.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Can I see? No, me.’ The kids jostled one another.

  He scowled. ‘Calm down, the lot of you.’

  There came a chorus of ‘Aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.’ The children resumed their places, but didn’t settle.

  Fatboy fingered the envelope. ‘You lot fancy a game?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The girls jumped up. The boys held back.

  ‘One of our old games,’ he moved to reassure them. ‘Hands up for Pass the Parcel.’

  Five pairs of hands shot in the air. The last of the boys shunted up to Fatboy’s knee.

  ‘That parcel, what’s in it?’

  ‘Not telling.’

  A small hand reached out.

  ‘Don’t touch.’ He snatched the package away.

  ‘Aw…’

  ‘I said…don’t touch.’

  ‘Then gonna tell us what’s in it?’

  A huge grin split Fatboy’s face. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  x

  The parcel was crumpled now, soft from clutching by small hands.

  Fatboy crept through to the kitchen. He laid the brown envelope down on the cluttered work surface. Turned on the front ring of the gas stove.

  He watched as the spark went tick…tick…tick…tick. But failed to ignite. Fuck! He twisted another dial.

  Tick…tick…

  Furious, he pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket. Cursed as clammy fingers slipped on the flywheel.

  Finally, a flame. He watched as the spark leapt into life.

  Fatboy slipped the implement from its paper sleeve. He held it up to the window. Twirled it between his fingers and thumb so the stainless-steel shaft caught the light. A satisfied smile played on his lips. The idea that had come to him was exquisite in its simplicity, and the jeweller in King Street had understood exactly what was needed. He’d fashioned the handle from wood, turned so as to fit snugly into the palm. Then he’d sealed it with varnish and fashioned a protective cuff to separate the handle from the shaft. Fatboy eyed the device on the end. He let out a little snort of pleasure. Wicked! The old geezer had executed his instructions to a T. Well, Fatboy exulted, not so much a T as… He eyed the small X on the end of the shaft.

  There wasn’t a sound from the living room save for the CBeebies voiceover. Fatboy smirked. The kids would be out of it for a good while, gently sedated by the liquid he’d slipped into their juice. They’d sit there, watching the endless circuit of children’s programmes. He was familiar with them all by now: Mister Maker, Small Potatoes, Waybuloo. He reckoned he’d missed his calling. He’d get a job as a children’s entertainer any day.

  Fatboy held the implement over the flame. He watched as the X at the tip began to darken and glow. Every nerve end tingled. He’d lain awake for nights on end deliberating over the placement of the thing. The inside of a wrist? Too easily seen. The ankle, ditto. An armpit? Too ticklish. The locus would have to be easily accessed by Fatboy’s device, but not apparent to the naked eye. Not that Kym was likely to catch on. As for the other mothers, more fool them for leaving their kids in her care. Nevertheless, the placement was critical. He didn’t want some nosy social worker muscling in on his act. Somewhere hidden, then. Private, but not yielding. A trawl of the internet yielded the solution. Fatboy experienced a rush of adrenalin. It would be relatively easy to execute: a few minutes’ preparation, the deed over in an instant. The kids would be too out of it to resist. And if they were a wee bit sore for a day or two, so bloody what. Back in their own homes, a wee scab wouldn’t signify in the scheme of things. If the kids scratched, well, weren’t wee boys always groping their privates? And if they did blab, who in hell was going to believe them? His lips curved into a malignant grin.

  The tip of the implement glowed red.

  Fatboy turned on the cold tap.

  He flicked a few drops of water onto the device. It steamed and spat.

  Ev-il. His lips curved into a smile.

  He’d slipped a fair old dose into wee Kyle’s juice. The kid would be fast asleep by now. Wouldn’t feel a thing.

  x

  Fatboy dropped his new toy into an empty mug and walked through to the bedroom. Kyle lay curled on Kym’s disordered bed, one grubby thumb stuck in his mouth.

  Fatboy’s mouth filled with saliva.

  It was time to try out his new toy.

  The doorbell rang.

  Christ! Fatboy jolted upright.

  The bell rang again.

  ‘Fatboy?’ It sounded like Ryan’s voice. ‘Ah’m needin Kyle.’

  Fatboy looked at the sleeping child. He looked at his watch.

  ‘You’re too early,’ he shouted.

  ‘Ah ken.’

  ‘Come back later, then.’

  ‘Ah canna.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ah’m in a hurry. We’ve tae be somewhere.’

  The Esplanade

  ‘Far we gaun, Miss?’

  Maggie sat in the front seat of her car, Willie Meston hunched beside her. Behind, four small figures were crammed into the back. She’d picked the boys up outside the entrance to Codona’s for, much to her astonishment, Willie had turned up, gang in tow.

  The funfair was in full swing, the illuminated metal archway over its entrance proclaiming ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in buttercup-yellow letters. In the background, the Big Wheel loomed. Beyond that, Maggie could make out the elegant silhouette of Marischal College and the stolid bulk of Police Scotland Aberdeen Headquarters. Music was belting out from the fairground, the cacophony punctuated by the occasional excited scream.

  She looked around. There were knots of people sitting at the pavement tables outside The Washington Café and The Inversnecky, a sandwich board on the wide pavement proclaiming ‘Hot Dogs to go’.

  ‘Just looking for a place to park, Lewis,’ she turned, smiling. She looked out to sea. The lighthouse at Nigg Point winked relentlessly. In the opposite direction, lumbering oil barges waited for berths.

  Maggie started the engine. Sticking to a low gear, she crawled along the Esplanade in the direction of Seaton. After about a quarter of a mile, she pulled over and sat in plain sight by the sea.

  ‘Right,’ she said in a voice that carried real authority, ‘who’s going to go first?’ She glanced in her
rear-view mirror. In place of the usual show of eager hands, she was met by a row of bent heads.

  Maggie turned her attention to Willie. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?’

  The boy fixed his eyes on the windscreen. ‘Naw.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’d better?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Willie’s head swung round, ‘What’s it tae you?’

  Maggie took a deep breath. ‘Nothing. Not directly. It’s just, if you go on like this, dealing drugs in the tower blocks, you’ll…’

  ‘Ah wisna,’ the words shot out of Willie’ mouth.

  ‘Willie, as I told you earlier, I’ve seen you with my own eyes, letting the druggies in and out then running over to Esplanade Court.’

  Willie’s mouth set. ‘Ah wis pickin up Kyle.’

  ‘That’s where your supplier stays, isn’t it?’ Maggie was fishing now.

  ‘Nane o’ your business.’ With a show of bravado, Willie turned to his back-seat audience. ‘Skelly cow.’

  From the rear there was a titter, swifty stifled.

  Skelly. That word again. Maggie knew fine well they were only kids, but still, it stung. Resolutely, she pressed on. ‘You’ll end up in serious trouble, the pair of you.’

  ‘Aye? Wi who?’

  ‘The police, of course.’

  Willie’s chin jutted. ‘Ah’m no feart o’ the filth.’

  ‘That,’ she sighed, ‘appears to be part of the problem. All the same, it’s a bad thing to do.’

  ‘Bad fur who? No the fuckin junkies. It’s the only thing keeps them goin.’

  Sad, but true, Maggie thought. She took another tack. ‘You wouldn’t want to get Ryan in trouble with the police, would you, Willie?’

  The boy chewed on a finger nail.

  ‘Especially when he’s got wee Kyle to look after?’

  Kyle sat squirming on his brother’s lap.

  ‘So tell me who your supplier is,’ Maggie persisted, ‘and I’ll put in a good word.’

  The boy whirled to face her. ‘No way. Did ye no hear me?’ Willie’s face was aghast. ‘Ma da’ll kill me if he gets oot o’ Peterhead an his wee bit steady income’s doon the fuckin drain.’