Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘You see, I’ve uncovered something else.’

  Brian couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He decided to make light of it. ‘Not more pub gossip?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘You know how I wanted to help Willie Meston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s not just Willie.’

  ‘You mean there are more kids involved in this drugs business?’

  ‘Yes, it turns out there were five children…’

  ‘From your school?’

  ‘Four of them, yes. Willie Meston and Ryan Brebner you already know about. Lewis McHardy. He’s a bit lacking…upstairs. Kieran Chalmers. Nice lad. Never been in any sort of trouble.’

  ‘Didn’t you say five?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There’s a little kid. Kyle, his name is. Ryan’s wee brother. They take him along for the ride.’

  Brian could just imagine. ‘So, these kids…’

  On the line there was silence, then, ‘They moved the body of your murdered girl.’

  ‘Christ almighty!’ Brian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure as I can be.’

  ‘What makes you…?’

  ‘They hang out on a piece of waste ground that happens to be adjacent to St Machar kirkyard.’

  His mind raced. ‘Where are they now, these kids?’

  ‘With me. I wanted your advice on how I should handle it.’

  ‘Handle it?’ Brian could contain himself no longer. ‘It’s a murder inquiry we’re talking about here, Maggie, not some fucking Sunday school picnic.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’ Stony voice.

  ‘Do you know where my place is?’

  ‘I’m standing in the street outside right now. Kids are in my car. Didn’t want to speak in front of them.’

  Christ, Brian thought, so much for cleaning up. ‘Well, then,’ he admonished, ‘you’ll do nothing, Maggie Laird, except stay there. With the doors locked. I’m not at home right now, but I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

  x

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Maggie asked in a whisper. They were standing face-to-face in Brian’s cupboard of a kitchen, the kids sitting squashed up on the sofa bed next door.

  ‘I’m thinking we don’t do another thing until I’ve run this past the DI.’

  ‘Chisolm? No way. I’ll remind you, Brian Burnett, that those boys have shared this information with me in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘Confidence? Christ, Maggie, we’re talking about kids here.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose kids have rights?’

  His voice rose. ‘Give me a break. We’ve been through all that.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ she hissed.

  ‘OK. OK. But to get back to what I was saying, I’ll need to call this in to my superior officer.’

  ‘We’re back to the oh-so-charming Inspector Chisolm then, are we?’

  Brian furrowed his brow. ‘Quite.’

  God, they can be so pompous, these policemen. ‘But, couldn’t you just…’

  ‘Maggie, let me stop you right now. We’re talking about a whole catalogue of crimes here.’

  ‘But these children are minors.’

  ‘Misdemeanours, then: their involvement in Lucy Simmons’ murder, Willie’s drug dealing. Then there’s the activities of this Fatboy person – the pornographic material Lewis has just told us about…’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Maggie stuck her head through the doorway. Kyle was fast asleep.

  ‘Not to mention this Kym, her role in the whole business.’ Brian paused for breath. ‘Need I go on?’

  For a moment Maggie stood, chastened. When you heard it listed like that, it did seem like an awful lot. All the same, wasn’t it her job to stand up for the kids in her care?

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she backed off as far as the confined space would permit. ‘It’s obvious we’re not going to agree, so…’

  ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ Brian responded in an exasperated voice. ‘Look,’ his tone softened, ‘it’s not that I’m completely lacking in empathy. Of course I feel for those kids. Who wouldn’t? For you too, come to that. You’ve landed yourself in an impossible position.’

  She looked up. Met his gaze. ‘Don’t I know it.’

  He grimaced. ‘I think we both know.’

  ‘What’s to be done, then?’

  ‘I need to get these kids along to Queen Street. Pronto.’

  ‘But Chisolm…’ Maggie countered. She had a mental vision of her last run in with the inspector.

  ‘Tell you what…’ Brian saw his opportunity to get back in her good books. ‘Why don’t I step outside for a minute? Give the DI a ring? Try to smooth the path, so to speak, before this lot,’ he jerked his head at the huddle of small boys, ‘have to be interviewed.’ He cast his eyes heavenwards. ‘You, too, Maggie Laird.’

  VIII

  You Listen to Me

  ‘You come for a kid?’ Fatboy’s frame filled the doorway. He ran through the routine: right eye, left eye, right eye again. Focused somewhere in the middle.

  ‘No,’ Maggie wheezed. Knowing it would take time to launch a drugs raid, she’d doubled back from Brian’s flat to Esplanade Court only to find the lifts were still out of order.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m a…’ Play for time. Her palms were sweaty, her face filmed with perspiration. ‘I’m a friend of Kym’s.’

  ‘Friend?’ Fatboy scoffed. ‘Didn’t know she had any friends.’

  ‘You learn something every minute.’ She offered an ingratiating smile. ‘She here?’

  ‘No. Only me. Kids have been picked up. Kym’s gone walkies. Left me in the fucking lurch.’

  Get yourself established. Maggie summoned her courage. ‘I’ll come in and wait, then.’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ Fatboy eyed her with suspicion. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on you before.’

  She shrugged. ‘I could say the same about you.’

  ‘Well, you can never tell who’s on your doorstep in a place like this.’ He cocked his head. ‘How is it you know Kym?’

  Keep it vague. ‘Oh,’ she responded airily, ‘Kym and me, we’ve mucked about together for ages.’ She took a decisive pace forward. ‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’

  ‘Better not be. Fucker’s left her keys and there’s no way I’d leave the door on the latch.’

  ‘I could hold the fort till she gets back,’ she offered. ‘Let you get on.’

  ‘We-ell, I’m not sure.’ Fatboy took a backwards step.

  Go for it. Maggie slipped past him and marched down the hall.

  She found herself in a living room dominated by a shabby sofa and an oversized TV set. Off this space, there was a small kitchen.

  Insinuate yourself. ‘Now I’m here,’ she smiled, ‘maybe we should introduce ourselves?’

  Fatboy ducked his head. ‘I’m just a mate.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Nae chance.’

  ‘So,’ Maggie persisted, ‘if you’re not Kym’s boyfriend, what have you been doing up here this past while?’ Oh, hell, she was going head-on again.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Nope.’

  Too late now. ‘These party games…’

  Fatboy’s head shot upright. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Some kid, was it?’

  Despite herself, Maggie blinked.

  ‘Because you don’t want to listen to little kids.’

  Her hackles rose. She abandoned all pretence. ‘Little defenceless kids. Little kids that have been billeted on so
me spaced-out child minder.’

  Fatboy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said you and Kym were pals.’

  ‘Yes, well…’

  Fatboy thrust his face in Maggie’s. ‘You’re not a friend of hers at all.’

  ‘I’m…’

  He gave her a rude shove. She reeled back. Caught her knees on the edge of the settee. Sat down with a dull thwack.

  Fatboy loomed over her. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Lord. I’ve done it again – jumped in without thinking. She steeled herself. ‘I’ve just told you. I want to know what’s been going on in this flat.’

  ‘Kym’s been minding kids on the QT.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. What I want you to tell me is what you’ve been doing.’

  Fatboy smirked. ‘Watching CBeebies.’

  Her fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. ‘Don’t give me that.’

  He lunged at her.

  Gripped her by the throat.

  ‘Listen to me!’ Maggie struggled to free herself. She fought for air, her breath coming in short gasps.

  Fatboy kneed her, forcing her back onto the settee. His full weight was on her now, the pressure on her neck relentless.

  Around her the room was whizzing.

  Stars shone before her eyes.

  The last thing she remembered was Fatboy’s voice.

  ‘No, you listen to me.’

  x

  Kym wandered up St Machar Drive. She’d bought a half-bottle of vodka in the Spar. It was lying in her bag sending out ‘drink me’ signals. Now she was looking for some place to sit down. She frowned. She was sure there had been a bench at the top of Dunbar Street, but she must have got it wrong. She crossed the road and made her way down the High Street to Wrights and Coopers Close. The small memorial garden was protected by stout stone walls. It would make a braw corner for a bevvy.

  She settled herself on a wooden seat, fished into her bag for the vodka bottle, took a satisfying slug. She could feel the liquid burn its way down her throat to warm her innards. Whoa, she settled back in her seat, that’s better. She took another couple of swallows. Set the bottle down. Ferreted in her bag. Now she had a drink in her, a fag seemed like a good idea. She burrowed some more. No joy. Fuck! She must have left them in the kitchen that last time she’d had a smoke.

  ‘Got a fag on you?’ She accosted a student taking a shortcut through to the High Street.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  Fuck. And double fuck.

  ‘Cadge a fag?’ She tried again.

  ‘Sorry. Don’t smoke.’

  ‘What you lookin at?’ She waved the vodka bottle at a young girl.

  The girl ducked her chin and upped her pace.

  Kym narrowed her eyes. ‘Fuckin nobs.’

  She screwed the cap on tight and stuck the bottle back in her bag. She’d better move. That last time Kym had used the place, she’d fallen asleep. Come close to being had up for drunk and disorderly by the community bobby. She hauled herself to her feet and retraced her steps in the direction of the Chanonry. It was a fine day. She’d be sure to find a quiet corner in Seaton Park.

  Kym slumped on a park bench. She’d found a sheltered spot, not far from the gates and just over the wall from St Machar Cathedral. In the half-hour she’d been sitting there, she’d hardly seen a soul. It was a different world, she reflected, up here on the other side of King Street: the high stone walls, the muckle great houses wi their fancy curtains, the big gardens, not to mention the garages full of flash cars. So close to Seaton, and yet… She looked around. The park was quiet, green. Small birds chirped in the trees. Not like Seaton, where sodding great seagulls would nick the fish supper out your hand.

  She’d polished off the half-bottle of vodka in no time. Kym wondered if she had enough left in her purse to buy a wee carry out on the way home. She had no idea what time it was. She’d been that chuffed to get out of the house, she hadn’t thought to pick up her phone. She closed her eyes. Thought fleetingly of the kids – hers and the others – back in Esplanade Court. Smiled contentedly. They’d be fine with Fatboy. She could sit at peace. Her head fell forward onto her chest. As darkness descended on Seaton Park, Kym slept on, undisturbed.

  x

  Maggie’s eyes fluttered open. She was slumped on a sofa in a strange room. She ran a furred tongue over her lips. They were cracked and dry. She tried to cough, moisten her mouth, but her throat was burning. She brought her hands to her neck. It felt sore, as if someone had… And then she remembered.

  Painfully, she turned her head. Fatboy was sitting in a chair. He threw her the evils. Maggie’s body quaked. Her brain worked overtime. She’d have to formulate a plan. And fast. Even so, she wondered if she’d get out of there alive.

  Events overtook her.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Fuck,’ Fatboy leapt up. Shot through to the kitchen.

  Maggie struggled to her feet. Fight or flight? For a split second, she weighed whether to make a dash for the door or persevere in her mission. She walked unsteadily towards the kitchen.

  Fatboy was standing by the cooker, his back to her. The big lad turned. In one pudgy hand, he held a tool. A screwdriver, she thought at first, then her eyes were drawn to the steel shaft. It ended not in a spatula shape or in a point. This object culminated in a tiny, glowing cross.

  Fatboy extended his arm.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Maggie’s voice betrayed her fear.

  ‘Good, innit?’ Fatboy waved the implement under her nose.

  She could smell the gas. See the glowing metal. Feel her facial hair singe. Don’t panic! She drew a breath. Tried to lighten the moment.

  ‘Interesting,’ she responded with a feeble smile.

  Fatboy advanced towards her.

  A grin suffused his face.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ he asked in a deceptively pleasant voice.

  ‘Police!’ Someone was hammering on the door.

  Fatboy started.

  Maggie stood rooted to the spot, the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, Fatboy’s hand with its seething cargo hovering inches from her face.

  ‘Open up.’ Urgent shout. ‘Or we’ll break the door down.’

  Fatboy’s pupils dilated.

  ‘Put the thing down,’ Maggie pleaded.

  For just a moment, the hand wavered.

  There was a crack. Closely followed by another. Then a third.

  The door came crashing in.

  ‘Please?’

  Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall.

  The hand hung in the air, the object so close now that Maggie could feel her cheek hair singe.

  A swarm of police officers in visored helmets filled the small space.

  Swiftly, Fatboy turned.

  He set the implement down.

  A Moosie’s Nest

  ‘Do you understand why you’re here?’ Brian Burnett leaned towards the small boy.

  Lewis darted a sideways look at his mother. ‘It’s tae dae wi the quine at St Machar.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Brian replied. ‘But before I ask you about that, Lewis, can I just make sure we’re talking about the right person?’ He slid a photograph towards the boy. ‘Can you look at this picture for me? Is this the girl you came across in the kirkyard?’

  Head bowed, Lewis studied the photograph. He looked up. ‘Aye. Only…’ his brow creased, ‘she wisna smilin.’

  Brian straightened in his seat. ‘Yes, well, we’ll come back to that. But first, Lewis, can you tell me if anyone was with you when you found the girl?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘No one at all?’

  ‘Naw.’ Lewis scratched his shaven head. ‘No at first, onywye.’

  ‘Go on,’ Brian en
couraged.

  ‘We wis playin in the den. Ah took the huff, so ah went in the kirkyard tae hiv a nosy. Ah fun the quine. She wis lyin on the grun, deid.’

  ‘I want you to think carefully now, Lewis. What made you think the girl was dead?’

  ‘She wisna movin, like.’

  ‘But…’

  Lewis jutted his lower lip. ‘Ah kent she wis deid cos Willie said so.’

  ‘How the fuck would that wee shite…?’ Lewis’s mum broke in. She was a large woman, pendulous breasts meeting the folds of her belly. She was clad in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, dishevelled hair framing a face filled with anger and embarrassment.

  ‘Mrs McHardy,’ Brian intervened, ‘may I remind you that, in your capacity as appropriate adult, you are not permitted to speak.’

  The woman’s face seemed to fall in on itself.

  Inwardly, Brian sighed. Maybe he’d come on a bit strong. ‘OK, Lewis,’ he said quietly. ‘Carry on. Willie said Lucy was dead. But…’ he jotted a note on his pad, ‘you’ve just told me you were on your own.’

  ‘Aye, mister, ah wis. But then the ithers came lookin fur me.’

  ‘Oh, OK. So then what did you do?’

  ‘We did a runner.’

  Brian drew a deep breath. Exhaled at length. ‘I’ll ask you again, Lewis – did you do anything before you left St Machar kirkyard that evening?’

  There was a long silence while Lewis inspected each of his chewed fingernails in turn.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  The boy looked up. ‘We jist wanted tae mak her comfy.’

  ‘Comfy?’ Burnett probed. ‘How?’

  ‘Liftin her up, like. Onta one o’ they big stanes.’

  ‘Whose idea was that, Lewis?’

  ‘Canna remember.’ The boy’s eyes slid away.

  ‘Think,’ Brian urged. ‘This is important.’

  Lewis hesitated, then, ‘Willie’s.’

  ‘And did you help Willie?’ he pressed.

  Lewis nodded.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Took an arm and a leg each, the four o us. No Kyle. He’s naethin bit a fuckin pain.’

  ‘Lewis!’ The lad’s mother jabbed him sharply in the ribs.