Cross Purpose Page 8

  ‘So did you manage to fix it, then?’

  ‘Been in the trade comin on fifty year.’

  ‘That’s amazing, but…’

  ‘Served ma apprenticeship at Jamieson & Carry. Ken who ah mean?’

  Maggie tilted her head. The upmarket jeweller in Union Street would never be within her budget now.

  ‘Worked wi aw sorts.’ The old boy’s eyes held a faraway look. ‘Gold, silver, platinum, you name…’

  ‘I was asking you,’ she fixed the wee man with a level gaze, ‘whether you fixed it?’

  ‘Fixed what?’

  ‘My husband’s filing cabinet.’

  ‘Oh,’ the old chap’s eyes swam back into focus, ‘so ye were. Ma heid’s fair frazzled these days.’

  ‘So did you?’ Maggie pressed.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Fix it?’

  ‘Naw,’ the old geezer frowned. ‘Ah managed tae get the thing open, but by the time we’d both hud a go, the lock wis buggered.’

  Payment in Kind

  The door was screaming for a lick of paint. Willie rang the bell.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ On the seventh floor of Esplanade Court, Kym lay stretched out on the settee, six small children lined up on the rug by her feet. ‘Can a woman no get a minute’s peace?’

  There was another ring at the door. Kym sighed. She’d had a bastard of a day. The weans wouldn’t settle to anything for more than five minutes at a time, and to crown it all that wee Harvey had shat his pants. By the time she’d stripped him off and stuck another load in the washing machine, her youngest had sicked up his breakfast. She was that scunnered she’d topped up their lunchtime juice with a couple of tablespoons of Calpol. They were sitting quietly now, eyes fixed on the telly.

  The doorbell rang again, one long ring this time.

  ‘Shite,’ she muttered under her breath. She’d been counting on an hour or so’s kip before all hell was let loose again. She stifled a yawn. She was feeling a bit woozy. She’d had a wee snifter an all.

  Kym wondered who it could be. It was way too early for the weans to be picked up, and she’d seen off that nosy cow of a social worker only the previous day. With the greatest reluctance, she hauled herself upright, scrunched fists into tired eyes and swung her legs off the settee. Slipping her toes into a worn pair of mules, she rose unsteadily to her feet, swayed out of the room and down the corridor, one hand clutching the waistband of her jeans. She’d lost that much weight this past while, and there was no way she could afford to buy new.

  Kymberley Ewen – Kym, as she was known – couldn’t have been much more than twenty, though she looked forty. She’d been a pretty girl once, back when she’d lived with her mum in Portlethen. Now she was stuck in a seventh-floor flat with three kids under five, all by different fathers. Kym didn’t remember much about any of the men. These days Kym didn’t remember much about anything.

  ‘Who is it?’ She glued one eye to the spyhole.

  You couldn’t be too careful around here, what with the filth and the Social and the housing inspectors and the rest. Seaton had always been a prime target for folk like that, but now the Council was packing the place out with fuckin immigrants, the high-rise flats were fairly hoatching with officials.

  ‘Willie Meston.’ The boy stood on Kym’s doorstep. The big guy leaning against the wall behind him looked so laid-back, elbow crooked behind his head, one leg crossed over another, that she was caught off-guard.

  ‘What d’you want?’ She opened the door on its chain.

  Willie grinned. ‘Ah’ve come tae pick up Kyle.’

  ‘Where’s Ryan?’ Ryan Brebner was Willie Meston’s sidekick and Kyle’s big brother.

  ‘Awa fur messages.’

  ‘Well, you’re too early.’

  ‘Can we come in and wait?’

  ‘You can wait out there.’

  ‘Aw…’

  Kym eyed Fatboy. ‘Who’s yer pal?’

  ‘Mate.’

  ‘Does he have a name, yer mate?’

  Willie shrugged. ‘You can call him Fatboy.’

  ‘And you must be Kym,’ the guy called Fatboy threw her an engaging grin.

  She sneaked a quick glance up and down the corridor. For a moment she swithered. Her visitor didn’t look like the filth, more like a regular guy. A bit on the chunky side maybe, but these days she couldn’t afford to be picky. Hell, she might even be able to cadge a bit of weed or a couple of fags off this big fella that called himself Fatboy.

  Kym slid the chain off the door.

  Fatboy pushed past her.

  Willie brought up the rear.

  ‘Nice wee set-up you’ve got here.’ Fatboy swaggered down the hallway to the living room and settled himself on the settee. He sniffed. The air smelled fetid: an amalgam of unaired clothing, formula milk and smoke. ‘How many of these are yours?’ He cast an eye over the comatose row of kids sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘None of your business.’ Kym was sorry now that she’d let the guy in.

  ‘See,’ Fatboy lowered his voice, ‘from what I hear, you’ve three of your own. So the other three…’ he jerked his head towards the floor, ‘must belong to somebody else.’

  Kym wrinkled her nose. ‘Why would I have some other bugger’s kids?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  She came out with her stock answer, ‘They’re just here to play.’

  Fatboy smirked. ‘That right? What’s the most you ever have to “play” at the one time?’

  Kym’s neck stiffened. ‘Depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘Depends how skint I am.’

  ‘Skint, are you?’ He fished in his jacket pocket. ‘You should have said.’ He dug out a twenty pack of cigarettes. ‘Here,’ he thrust the pack towards her, ‘be my guest.’ Fatboy turned to the boy. ‘What you saying, Willie?’

  Willie stood in the doorway. He shuffled his feet. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Bit tight for space?”

  ‘Mebbe.’

  Fatboy screwed up his face. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We could aye use the lobby,’ Willie offered.

  ‘Not too busy?’

  ‘Sometimes. But there’s the stairwell. That’s out of sight.’

  Fatboy rounded on the wee lad. ‘I’m not hanging about some shitty stairwell.’

  ‘Not you,’ Willie shook his head. ‘Me. You’d be up here.’

  ‘Oh,’ Fatboy grinned, ‘get you.’ He turned to Kym. ‘What do you say to me and Willie dropping by now and again?’

  ‘Dropping by?’ For a heady moment she wondered if the big lad fancied her.

  ‘Once, mebbe twice a week. On a regular basis, like.’

  ‘We-ell,’ Kym eyed Fatboy from beneath demurely lowered lids, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We wouldn’t give you any trouble.’

  ‘But the kids…’

  ‘Them neither. We’ve a bit of business to do, you see.’

  ‘Business?’ Feverishly, she scratched her forearm. ‘Here?’

  ‘Well, not right here. Round the high rises.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  Fatboy tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never you mind.’

  Kym deliberated. She was chancing her arm as it was. This big guy might attract unwelcome attention. Best be shot of him soonest.

  ‘The answer’s no.’

  ‘Aw, come on,’ Fatboy wheedled. ‘Give me one good reason.’

  She ran a furred tongue over her lips. She was gasping for another drink.

  ‘I’ve things to do.’

  ‘Things? What things?’

  Kym’s chin drooped. She didn’t reply.

  ‘I’d be able to give you a hand.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Hold the fort. Give you a b
reak now and again.’

  ‘Out of here, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fatboy encouraged. ‘Nothing like a breath of air, is there, when you’ve been stuck in all day?’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘The answer’s still no.’

  ‘That’s such a shame,’ Fatboy thrust his face into hers, ‘cos a decision like that could land you in trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’ She stopped scratching. ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t suppose the Social know you’re doing a bit of child-minding on the QT?’

  Her eyes slid away. ‘I’m only minding them for today.’

  ‘That right?’ Fatboy sneered. ‘So they won’t be here tomorrow, then?’ He waved a hand over the half dozen heads that squatted cross-legged at his feet.

  ‘Mebbe,’ Kym could feel a flush creep up her neck. ‘Mebbe not.’

  ‘It’s just…if someone from the Council should happen to call by, and you with all these kids in here…’ Fatboy broke off. ‘I’m pretty sure there are regulations concerning child minding.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Kym squeezed her eyes shut against this unpleasantness. She knew fine she was supposed to register with the Social, but there was no way Social Services would let her look after two or three kids on top of her own lot in a two-bed flat. Besides, she’d had a bellyful of social workers sticking their noses in, and never the same one twice. They’d be running background checks on her, nosing into her fridge and her kitchen cupboards, asking about play materials and sleeping arrangements and safety locks. Kym couldn’t be arsed with any of that. She’d worked out a wee system all by herself: let the kids run around all morning until they wore themselves out, plonk them in a row in front of the telly, dish up juice and biscuits when they got hungry, sit them on the lav when they wanted to wee. And if they needed a nap, well, she just stuck them in her own bed. Kids liked to be cosy, didn’t they? Anyhow, Kym reasoned, she must be doing things right, for she hadn’t had a single complaint – not one in the entire eighteen months she’d been child minding. Not even the odd time she’d had a bevvy in her when the mums came to pick up their weans. Kym knew that was down to the fact that her services came cheap, far cheaper than if the women had to put their kids into a nursery. She knew that. And so did they. They didn’t have a choice, not if they were to hang onto their benefit and hold down a wee job.

  ‘What are you saying to it now – my wee proposition?’

  Kym jolted back to reality. Warily, she eyed the big lad. She wished she’d never let him over her door.

  ‘Well?’

  Her voice faltered. ‘I-I’m not sure.’

  ‘There could be something in it for you.’

  She brightened. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Let’s just say…’ Fatboy leered, ‘a consideration.’ He winked. ‘Payment in kind. Get it?’

  Kym did.

  ‘That’ll be OK, then,’ her face broke into a grin.

  Big it up

  ‘Before we start,’ the solicitor cleared his throat, ‘may I say how very sorry we at Kelman McRae were to hear of your sad loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Beneath the partners’ desk, Maggie eased her feet from her shoes. The unaccustomed pair of heels were chafing already.

  ‘Your husband was a fine man…’

  Maggie bit down hard on her lip.

  ‘And in his latter capacity provided our firm with a first-class service.’

  She brightened. ‘George was always very thorough.’

  ‘Thorough, yes. Conscientious. Perceptive too. Saved us a considerable amount of man hours.’ He lifted a piece of paper from the jumble on his desk. ‘You say in your letter, Mrs Laird, that you’ve taken on the investigation business.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘But from what I can establish, you have no experience in this line of work.’ Michie eyed Maggie enquiringly. Right, left, right. Dropped his gaze.

  ‘No, but I’ve a…legal background.’

  ‘In what capacity, may I ask?’

  ‘I was a secretary.’

  ‘Ah!’ He looked up. ‘And when was that?’

  She coloured. ‘Some years ago.’

  ‘I would advise you that the profession has undergone seismic changes since then.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but…’ Maggie fussed with her scarf. A bright wisp of silk, she’d pulled it from the drawer at the very last minute. Anything to help lift her spirits.

  ‘So I can’t quite see what you would bring to the table.’

  ‘My administrative skills?’

  ‘We’ve already touched on that.’

  ‘My…’ Go on. Big it up! She took a breath. ‘It is my view that, in the private investigation industry, a woman can do many things that a man cannot. Be unobtrusive, for instance. Nobody would think twice about a woman sitting in a car or following them in the street. She can more readily gain people’s trust, insinuate herself into situations…’

  ‘Yes, yes…’ Was that a smirk she saw playing on the young man’s lips? ‘I can see that.’ Donald Michie was much younger than she’d anticipated. Tall, and skinny with it. A long drink of water, her mother would have called him. Dark hair, cut so as to stick up in a point. Bad skin. A callow youth. No matter, so long as the fellow had sufficient clout to put business her way.

  ‘Plus my agency has significant resources. I’ve already taken on one operative. I have a solid client list, not least of which is your own firm, and I’m planning to expand.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I thank you for your interest…’ He dropped Maggie’s letter back onto the desk. ‘But I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it there.’

  Maggie felt her lip tremble. She’d made such an effort for this meeting: worn her best – indeed, her only – suit; brushed a sweep of blusher over her cheekbones, skooshed Kirsty’s scent behind her ears. ‘I’ve two kids to feed, Mr Michie,’ she threw the young man a beseeching look. ‘And a large mortgage. If you’d only give me a chance.’

  ‘We-ell…’ He picked up a pen, rolled it between finger and thumb. ‘Tell you what, Mrs Laird, why don’t I have a word with my partners, see if we can put some bits and pieces your way?’ He rose. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’ She stood, extended a hand.

  Maggie dawdled back down Union Street. She’d taken the bus to her appointment, partly for reasons of economy – petrol was such a price these days – and partly for convenience. She’d have been hard pressed to find a parking space in the city centre. Her spirits ebbed. Despite her best efforts, she had scant confidence she’d hear from Kelman McRae anytime soon. And the bills were piling up. Taking on the agency was all very well, but she needed a fallback position. And fast. Still… Think positive! It was a lovely day, the pavements dry, the air crisp, with just a frisson of wind blowing from the direction of the Citadel, where Union Street terminates at the Castlegate and the road dips towards the Esplanade and the North Sea. Maggie looked up at the tall buildings on either side of her. Their granite fasciae sparkled in the sharp rays of the sun. Aberdeen wasn’t called the Silver City for nothing.

  George had explained it to her, once: how the material from which the city had been fashioned was, in fact, a coarse-grained grey rock composed mainly of feldspar and quartz; how it was the high mica content in its granite geological base that contrived to deceive the eye. Looks belie. Isn’t that what Maggie’s mum used to say? And she was right. Many of the retail shops had been converted to pubs and clubs, their shiny frontages concealing gey tawdry interiors.

  Few things in life turned out as you expected. She breathed an involuntary sigh. Who’d ever have thought that she, Maggie Laird, would have come to this? Widowed, near penniless, taking tentative steps on an uncharted path. In the sunlight, she shivered. A path that might lead her into
the very heart of darkness.

  A Small Favour

  He wasn’t what she expected: medium height, slight build, sandy hair combed into a careful side parting. Maggie had got into the habit lately of noting these sort of details. Behind the rimless glasses, the eyes were the palest of blue, so light they looked almost translucent. The man was dressed in a dark suit, well-cut. White shirt, double cuffs, discreet cufflinks. Plain blue tie that was probably silk. As he advanced across the carpet towards her, she could see that his feet were shod in black Oxfords, well-polished. Not a bruiser, then. James Gilruth looked to Maggie more like a corporate accountant than a criminal kingpin.

  ‘Mrs Laird?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shivered with apprehension.

  Subsequent to their visit, the debt collectors had, to Maggie’s surprise, set up the meeting she’d requested. She’d had to psych herself up. Although the leafy enclave they called Rubislaw wasn’t far as the crow flies from the quiet avenues and tidy bungalows of Mannofield, it seemed shrouded in secrecy, its mansions set back from the road behind dark thickets of shrubbery, the Rubislaw quarry – source of the granite from which they were constructed – now defunct and filled with water, lurking deep and dangerous beyond.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Gilruth stepped round a desk the size of a ship. His voice was surprisingly low. And rasping, as if he had something stuck in his throat.

  Maggie fought for breath, her mouth suddenly bereft of saliva. She longed to clasp a palm to her diaphragm, feel it swell the way she’d been taught in her National Childbirth Trust classes all those years before. That always helped when she was in a tight corner.

  You can do this. She drew in a lungful of air. ‘I’ve come about the bill,’ she croaked.

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘The rent my husband is supposed to owe you.’

  ‘Not “supposed”,’ the eyes glittered behind the glasses. ‘Does owe.’

  Her voice sank to a whisper, ‘But he paid his rent in advance.’

  ‘Some rent,’ the first word came out in a hiss. ‘I understand he was in arrears.’

  Maggie didn’t know the facts of the matter. She changed tack. ‘You do know my husband is dead?’