Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘The Ewen woman was in the habit of doping them up: huge quantities of Calpol, if the empties are anything to go by. God knows what else. But the suspect maintains his presence there was perfectly innocent. Says he’d fucked up his final year exams at Gordon’s. His old man was hell-bent on him getting into uni. Had organised some sort of tutor. All got a bit heavy. Christopher moved out of the family home into a flat. He maintains he went down there – to Kym’s place – to get away from it all.’

  ‘Let me get this straight, DS Burnett. You’re telling me he went from a pile in Rubislaw Den, via some flat, to a high rise in Seaton “to get away from it all”?’

  ‘That’s what he’s saying, sir. According to Christopher, he has a pretty fractured relationship with his old man, and the mother’s out and about doing her thing. Hardly ever on the scene, so, the way I see it, the lad’s sitting in this pad of his the whole day, looking at God knows what on the internet.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have any friends?’

  ‘Only one from what I can gather: Torquil somebody or other. Except he’s already gone up to uni and it’s Torquil who’s the supposed tutor so…’

  ‘Our Christopher has had a bellyful of his mate Torquil.’

  ‘Exactly. And when Willie Meston comes looking, and wangles him into Kym’s flat in Seaton, Christopher begins to build up a relationship.’

  Chisolm knitted his eyebrows. ‘I’m not following you, Burnett.’

  ‘I think the lad was lonely, sir.’

  ‘Lonely?’

  ‘Well, maybe not so much lonely,’ Brian hesitated, ‘so much as isolated. Christopher seems to spend hours on his computer.’

  ‘That’s hardly unusual.’

  ‘No, sir. But judging from what he’s told us, he lives in a virtual world, as it were. Divorced from his family. And we’ve already established he has no friends.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think Christopher Gilruth saw these kids as a surrogate family.’

  ‘But,’ the inspector steepled his fingers, ‘I understand Gilruth took that boy…’ He broke off. ‘The one you and the Laird woman brought in.’

  ‘Kyle, sir?’

  ‘That’s the one. I understand Gilruth took that boy into the bedroom on a number of occasions. That would suggest there was some level of sexual activity going on.’

  ‘Christopher insists it was only horsing around.’

  ‘I think he’s having you on.’

  ‘According to him, sir, it wasn’t like that. He insists there was no sexual assault.’

  Chisolm splayed his fingers on the desktop. He’d seen it too often, how something that started off quite innocent suddenly took a darker turn. He’d speculated time and again over what prompted it, that tipping point.

  ‘Speaking of assault…’ The inspector spoke from beneath angry brows. ‘What’s this I hear about some implement?’

  ‘It would seem, sir, that when Christopher Gilruth was apprehended he was in possession of some sort of screwdriver. Only…’ Brian rolled his eyes. ‘There was this cross on the end.’

  X marks the spot. Once again, the words ratcheted through his head.

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘Well, sir, it looked suspiciously like a branding iron.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Sir, I know it sounds sick. But they watch such a lot of sicko stuff, these young guys. Live in such an unreal world. The lines must get blurred sometimes. I think this branding iron, if you could call it that, was just another example of the guy acting out his fantasies.’

  ‘And where does this implement come into the equation?’

  ‘We haven’t got to the bottom of it yet, sir.’ Brian reddened at the unfortunate pun.

  ‘Do you think the Child Abuse Unit needs to be involved?’

  ‘I don’t think so. From what I’ve observed today, Christopher Gilruth is emotionally immature, but would like to come across as a hard man. I think he looked at Willie Meston, saw how his gang look up to him. Thought he could emulate that. Make these little kids into a kind of club.’

  ‘Club?’ Chisolm’s eyes stood out on his cheeks.

  ‘Sir, I know it sounds far-fetched, but I honestly think Gilruth cares about those children: the wee boy, Kyle, in particular.’

  ‘And this branding iron… Has Gilruth given an indication of where he intended to apply it?’

  Sweat stood out on Brian’s brow. ‘God only knows.’

  What about Justice?

  The bell rang, one staccato buzz.

  Maggie opened the door.

  Allan Chisolm stood on the doorstep. He was wearing a sharp pin-striped suit, plain white shirt, discreet dark red tie.

  ‘Inspector Chisolm.’ She determined not to look cowed. She could still remember how angry she’d been that last time he came calling. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

  The inspector followed her through to the sitting room. Maggie took up position facing him. At her back, the big chair spoke George’s unseen presence.

  ‘Have a seat.’ She made an effort to sound cordial. Behind her unruffled exterior her heart was beating fit to kill.

  The DI perched stiffly on the edge of the settee.

  She waited for what was coming. The silence between them seemed to last for hours, though it could only have been a few minutes at most. Finally, it was Maggie who spoke.

  ‘I know why you’ve come,’ she began cautiously.

  Take your time. She’d need to be chary if she were to bring her plan to fruition. Even with Brannigan cornered and a confession on tape, Chisolm might be reluctant to help her get the case reopened. And he might not have forgotten that last time she’d kept him standing in the hall with the rain dripping out of him.

  He cut her short. ‘Before you say anything, Mrs Laird…’ He gazed intently into Maggie’s good eye. ‘I’d like to apologise.’

  Wow! There’s a turn-up for the books.

  ‘We may not have seen eye to eye…’ Colour suffused the DI’s face as his faux pas dawned.

  ‘That so?’ She responded drily.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong…’

  Maggie could sense a ‘but’ coming. Typical. Not like a man to offer an unqualified apology.

  ‘I was riled, I admit, the last time I came here. The investigation into Lucy Simmons’ death was running on. Six weeks and we still didn’t have a cause of death,’ the inspector broke off. ‘My team was taking flak from all directions: the press, the parents, not to mention the fifth floor.’

  Oh, yes. Let’s not forget the fifth floor. There was no way Maggie was going to go down that road.

  ‘It was all we needed,’ Chisolm continued, ‘you getting up Gilruth’s nose, stirring it up with the drugs boys. Not to mention other…’ He cleared his throat, ‘…matters that have been brought to my notice. Nonetheless,’ the inspector fingered his lapel, ‘I feel that perhaps I didn’t handle it as I might have – our last meeting.’

  Maggie felt her face flush. She hadn’t exactly handled it well either. Still… She twisted her wedding ring on her finger. Get to the point, man.

  ‘So…’

  Why was he always so tongue-tied around this woman, Allan Chisolm wondered? It wasn’t as if she was a stunner: some knockout blonde with pneumatic boobs or legs up to her armpits. He recalled the day he’d first come into contact with Maggie Laird. He’d thought her a funny wee thing: striking enough, he supposed, with that flaming red hair. No, not red. Auburn? Chestnut, maybe? Chisolm wasn’t great at that sort of thing. And those quirky eyes, there was something about them: so sleepy, sometimes, they seemed to draw you in. Other times they could cut right through you. The Laird woman had a temper on her too, the DI had discovered since.

  ‘I want to offer my sincere apologies.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Maggie looked in
to the inspector’s face. She took in the dark hair. The straight nose. The square jaw. The slight dimple in the chin. And those deep blue eyes. Perhaps they weren’t as dead as she’d first thought.

  ‘Perhaps you would let me explain?’ Chisolm exhaled slowly, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. ‘You’ve been instrumental…in helping us resolve a number of matters.’

  She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘A case of fraud.’

  ‘Oh, that?’ She threw the inspector a sardonic smile.

  ‘The drugs problem in Seaton.’

  She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Those young boys… Their involvement in that. And in the tragic death of Lucy Simmons. But I won’t pretend that I’m happy to see a private investigator get involved in what is properly police business, far less a major investigation. I’m sure you’ll know from your late husband that we detectives guard our own cases somewhat…’ the DI deliberated for a moment, ‘…obsessively.’

  She pursed her lips, determined not to smile.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Chisolm cleared his throat, ‘your intervention has helped us progress a rather moribund police inquiry.’

  Moribund. The word made Maggie think suddenly of George. She turned her head away.

  ‘That lad, Meston. He’s a hard nut to crack, even at his young age. Happily, the other lads have been able to answer a number of outstanding questions for us.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Chisolm grimaced. ‘The circumstances were rather bizarre.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘But if you hadn’t taken your duty of care to those children so seriously, who knows how much longer it would have taken to get to the truth of the matter.’

  Maggie assumed this was meant as a compliment.

  ‘Please believe me, Mrs Laird, I do have great sympathy for the predicament you’ve found yourself in, through no fault of your own.’

  She stiffened. Was she to take criticism of George as implicit?

  ‘I should never have questioned your business acumen,’ Chisolm went on. ‘Your ability to carry on your husband’s business. Far less your relationship with DS Burnett.’

  Once again, Maggie felt herself colour. She’d taken advantage of Brian Burnett. Sailed close to the wind, the very thing she’d pilloried Jimmy Craigmyle for. She wondered for a moment how much Brian had told his superior officer, how much the inspector really knew.

  Chisolm paused. He held her gaze. ‘I wanted to express, in person, my appreciation of your efforts in helping North East Division resolve these matters. That’s why I’ve come here today.’ He flashed a smile. ‘Now I’ve got that out of the way, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘Just one thing, really.’

  The inspector cocked his head.

  ‘My husband… You’ll have heard about the trial?’

  ‘It would be hard not to.’

  ‘The informant, Brannigan – he committed perjury, you know. Said my husband and his partner had…’

  Chisolm held up a hand. ‘Let me stop you there. If you’re going to tell me about a tape obtained under, shall we say, dubious circumstances…’

  ‘So,’ Maggie bristled, ‘Brian told you about that?’ She wished now she hadn’t confided in Brian Burnett.

  Chisolm sprang to his sergeant’s defence. ‘DS Burnett only did so in the light of recent developments.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘The drug dealer we have in custody: lad who goes by the name of Fatboy. But of course, I’m forgetting you were present when he was apprehended.’

  ‘You mean Christopher Gilruth?’

  The inspector’s eyes widened. ‘He told you his name?’

  ‘No,’ she glowed with satisfaction, ‘I found that out for myself.’

  ‘Mrs Laird, you never cease to surprise me. I’d caution you, still, against dabbling in the affairs of James Gilruth.’

  She threw the man a sharp look.

  ‘I say this for your own sake,’ the inspector added softly.

  Those blue eyes again.

  ‘The recent developments you alluded to?’ Maggie enquired.

  ‘They involve Gilruth.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I tell you this in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘The drugs this Fatboy was supplying, it seems they came by a roundabout route from one of Gilruth’s clubs.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her jaw dropped. So Jimmy Craigmyle was right enough?

  ‘So circuitous, in fact,’ Chisolm added, ‘that his own son was completely in the dark. But to answer the question I think you were about to put to me earlier – the tape. The one that somebody – and I won’t ask you who – went to such lengths to obtain would not stand up in a court of law since it was obtained, as I understand it, under duress. It would require a substantial body of new evidence to persuade the powers that be to reopen your husband’s case, and…’

  She cut him short. ‘What about justice?’

  ‘Ah.’ The inspector looked contemplative all of a sudden. ‘Justice.’

  Maggie swayed on her feet. She’d come so close. Taken such risks…

  ‘Mrs Laird, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Go on.’

  ‘As I was saying, the tape on its own would not stand up. However, taken together with the information we’ve already ascertained from Gilruth junior…’

  Pull yourself together! ‘So you think there’s a chance…’

  ‘Of getting the case reopened? There may well be. I understand from DS Burnett that your husband’s former partner is willing to testify to turning off the interview recording.’

  Don’t ask, don’t get! ‘And would you be prepared,’ she fixed Allan Chisolm with pleading eyes, ‘to go upstairs with that?’

  He smiled. ‘I would.’

  You’ve done it! Maggie’s chest felt so tight she thought she’d pass out on the spot. She’d pulled it off! Well, almost.

  ‘What about Fatboy? I mean Christopher. I’ve been worrying, you see, about those wee boys.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Chisolm looked down at her, his expression grave, ‘you’ll have to trust me on that one.’

  Maggie gazed into those sharp blue eyes. Beneath the veneer of rectitude there was, she decided, an honourable man.

  ‘Trust you?’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Oh, yes, I do.’

  Sorted

  Aberdeen Police tonight issued the following statement:

  A nineteen-year-old man has been charged…

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Maggie caught the end of the newsflash as she came through Wilma’s back door.

  ‘Aye.’ Wilma killed the TV. ‘Watched it earlier.’

  ‘That it sorted, then?’

  ‘Seems like it. Come in about.’ Wilma led the way through to the conservatory. ‘You look bloody shattered, woman.’

  Maggie sank gratefully into one of the big chairs. ‘I am.’

  ‘Kids OK?’

  ‘Yup. I put Kirsty on the Dundee Express this afternoon. Colin’s got a sleepover after rugby training so I’m off the hook. How about you?’

  ‘Ian’s working overtime. Said he’d be late.’ Wilma hesitated, ‘But haven’t we got billing to do?’

  Maggie grinned. ‘Nope. All up to date.’

  ‘Aren’t you the kiddie?’

  ‘Not me, Wilma. Us.’

  ‘Us, then,’ Wilma beamed. ‘So how’s about I crack open a bottle?’

  Languidly, Maggie stretched. ‘Why not?’

  ‘What a friggin week it’s been.’ Wilma set a couple of glasses down on the coffee table and poured a generous helping of red wine into them.

  ‘Week? Month, more like.’


  ‘And the rest. Anyhow, here’s to you, Maggie.’ She raised her glass, took a slurp.

  ‘And you, Wilma.’ Maggie swilled a mouthful around her tongue, savouring the sensation of it before she swallowed.

  ‘We’ve covered a fair bit of ground this last while, don’t you think, pal?’ Wilma took another slurp.

  ‘Haven’t we just? Mugging up on the legals. Building our client base.’

  ‘Then you nailing Craigmyle and Brannigan.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Maggie interrupted, ‘it was you delivered Brannigan.’

  Wilma beamed. ‘What a team! But the Seaton drugs investigation was down to you, Maggie. And that poor student’s death. Those wee lads on the fringe of it.’

  Maggie grimaced. ‘Poor soul. But what about all the other stuff?’ She took another glug of wine. ‘Remember that surveillance job I did? Sat outside half the night and it was the wrong house?’

  ‘And the time I served papers on that fella in the altogether?’

  ‘And the guy that set the Alsatians on me?’

  ‘And that pair up Nigg Point. The car was rockin that hard I thought it was going to lift off.’ Wilma topped their glasses up. ‘In broad daylight, too. Ah wis fair knocked oot o’ ma stotter, ah’ll tell you that for nothin.’

  ‘You’d have lifted off if that fella had caught up with you,’ Maggie teased. ‘You have to admit, Wilma, you can be a bit of a loose cannon at times.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, Maggie Laird, the way you go head-on at things. What about your run-in with that Fatboy, not to mention the time you went off in high dudgeon to beard James Gilruth?’

  ‘Don’t remind me. It was a daft thing to do, going to see him like that. I can only conclude I was still in shock, what with the trial and its aftermath and George dying like that. Seeing conspiracies at every turn,’ Maggie’s lips formed a bitter smile. ‘I was in such a dark place, Wilma, clutching at anything, anything at all, that would help make sense of it. Still,’ she sighed, ‘I guess it was a good exercise, if nothing else. Helped me cut my teeth as a PI.’

  ‘Still, the fella’s fair got his comeuppance.’

  ‘How so?’