A Taste for Malice (19 page)

‘DI McBain, I’m sorry I was so rude to you upstairs,’ says Mrs Browning. When I turn to face her she’s at my eye level this time.

I choke a little at the surprise and wipe a dribble of coffee from my chin with a napkin. ‘No apology necessary.’ I can see the older boy, Dan, behind his mother’s wheelchair. Pete’s smiley face appears in a peek-a-boo action behind his brother.

‘Can I get you a coffee and something for the boys …’

‘That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry to trouble you on your …’ she looks me up and down as if she finds something missing. ‘Day off.’

‘Please, Mrs Browning. I would like to talk to you,’ I hear myself say before I have the chance to really consider what to say. ‘I do want to help you. It’s just things have become a little complicated recently.’

‘It’s Liz, please. And I’m no fool, DI McBain. I’m well aware how stretched resources are and how the recent murder of that gangster’s son might take precedence. After all,’ her shoulders slump and her face takes on a tired, defeated look. ‘It’s not like we have an identifiable, proveable case here.’

‘I’m afraid life has become even more complicated than that.’

Her eyebrows lift and she makes a small ‘O’ of enquiry.

‘Before I tell you, I have to buy you a drink. And the boys too if you’ll let me.’

She shakes her head and prepares to verbally refuse me, but the boys are too fast.

‘Can I have a coke, please Mum?’ says Dan.

‘Me too, please Mum,’ says Pete.

She makes a rueful face. ‘Mind you, it would be nice to actually get something out of Strathclyde’s finest for once.’

‘Two cokes and a …?’

‘Tea, please. Earl Grey.’

Shortly, I return to the table with the drinks as requested. The boys are both very polite and thank me.

‘Don’t tell Dad,’ Liz leans forward towards the boys.

I nod in understanding while I wonder how much to tell her of the recent situation.

‘I practically grew up in here,’ she says as she lifts her head up and gazes across the room. ‘We lived five minutes walk away and my parents used to bring me regularly. I love the grandeur of the place. I love how it can be busy and have wee pockets of quiet at the same time.’ She pauses. ‘I love what they’ve done with it.’ She refers to the recent renovation.

‘I have little memory to compare it with. I think I only visited the place once.’

‘Not from Glasgow then?’ Her tone said that if you were from the city then you were more than likely to have been a regular to this place over the years.

‘I spent some time in Ayrshire as a boy. But most of my adult life has been in the city. I just had other preoccupations.’

‘Celtic or Rangers?’

‘Neither. Can’t be arsed with all that.’ Not used to being in the company of children, I realise what I’ve said and make a grimace as an apology. ‘My time has been used up in the employ of Strathclyde Police. Not had time for much else.’

Her face softens as the implications within the answer become clear to her. Married to the job. Nothing else in his life. Sad and lonely.

‘So,’ she takes a sip of her tea. ‘You mentioned complications?’ Sympathy for DI Ray McBain now dispensed with, she’s looking for information. I decide to tell her the story, the whole story and nothing but the story of the last few weeks. Apart from me and Maggie sleeping together. Although, I have felt the urge to talk to somebody, anybody about that.

Once I’ve finished talking I turn to the boys to see how they have dealt with all of this inactivity. They are having a mini sword fight, with their straws as swords. Even the ‘Oooo’ and ‘Urrrgh’ sounds they make as they receive an imaginary wound are in miniature.

‘So let me get this straight?’ says Liz with an unreadable expression. ‘You are on sick leave. No-one else is interested and you are all we’ve got, ’cos you really, really want to help.’

I nod.

‘And if your bosses find out you have investigated this case while you are on sick leave, you may end up losing your job?’

I nod again.

‘What’s in it for you, DI McBain?’

I look at her expression. It reads of a judgement on pause and for some reason I can’t fathom, I want her approval. ‘I was once in a kind of similar situation to your boys, Liz. In an orphanage run by a religious order. Because of the treatment we received, one of the boys there quite literally turned into the Bogeyman.’ My tone leaves no doubt that said Bogeyman was a very dangerous man indeed.

‘Oh.’

Dan and Pete stop their mini-fight and look at me and then at each other. They both give a delighted shiver. ‘Ooooh. The Bogeyman.’ They each try to outdo the other with the force of their scary sound effects.

‘That’s enough, boys,’ says Liz. With the flash of a stripey straw, they go back to playing mini Zorro.

‘I live with the effects of that everyday, Liz. I don’t want another cycle of violence to begin.’

‘Have you had a good day, honey?’ Jim asked when he got home, pretending that he knew nothing about Angela’s escape from the grille of a car. She was sitting cross-armed, cross-legged, as if lost in the corner of the sofa. She was like a collection of angled bones among the warmly cushioned soft corners. She looked as if she’d been sitting there since Moira left her.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Angela answered his question distractedly and bent forward to collect Ben as he raced into her arms. The force of his run made her fall back into the depth of the seat

‘Mummy,’ he cheered like she’d won some sort of award. Angela’s answering laugh was just a little too forced.

‘Hungry?’ Jim asked, feeling the nip of annoyance. ‘I’ll just put something on.’ Without waiting for an answer he walked towards the kitchen. Rummaging through the freezer, he located some meals that would be ready with minimum effort. Ben’s was nuked in the microwave and Angela’s meal was thrown on to a tray with his and stuck in the oven. How would madam care for some Chicken Plastique à la Rubber Sauce? Well, too bad. It was all he could cope with.

Watching the goo of Ben’s pizza melt in the maw of his hunger, Jim felt guilty again. He shouldn’t be feeding his son this crap. Ditto for Angela.

But, she’d been sitting on her arse all afternoon and he still had to come home and make the dinner. So sang Mr Angry perched on his right shoulder. Mr Calm and Reasonable, on the other hand, had noticed the worn expression with the hint of panic on Angela’s face and read that she had lost a good deal of confidence after her escapade this morning with Moira. She had surely forgotten the detail, but the mood would hang over her like the fog of a bad dream.

If Jim could just have five minutes on his own to relax.

The doorbell rang just as Angela and he sat down to eat.

‘I’ll get it,’ Jim offered and walked from the room thinking, if this is any religious tossers expecting a convert they’ll get a boot up the backside.

‘Jim, how nice to see you. I was just passing and I thought I’d come in and say hello.’ It was Moira. He stood to the side and let her in. The way she brushed past him, the tightness of her shoulders and the speed of her step towards Angela all caused Jim concern. What the hell was going on? Before Jim closed the door, he saw a taxi drive off. Where was her car, he wondered?

By the time he caught up with her and stepped in through the doorway of the living room Moira was in a heap on the sofa and Angela had an arm over her shoulder. Moira’s head bobbed up and down with the force of her emotion, her sobbing coming in great whoops as if being issued from diseased lungs.

‘Moira, what on earth’s wrong?’ Angela was trying to meet Moira at face level in an attempt to offer some form of reassurance. Her head bobbed up and down in time with Moira’s.

‘A glass of water,’ Jim said out loud, not sure how to help. Then he realised Ben was watching, his head peeping out from the kitchen door. His mouth was open in naked amazement and not a little fear.

‘You want to go up to your room, buddy?’ Jim asked quietly. This was not suitable viewing for a four year-old. He nodded and fled across the carpet as if he couldn’t bear the thought of Moira’s eyes lighting on his back for even a second.

After the stress of Angela’s day Jim didn’t think she would be able to cope with Moira in this state on her own for too long, so he quickly filled a glass with water and returned to the living room, where Moira’s sobs were winding down.

‘There you go,’ he stretched out his hand with the glass. Moira ignored it, or she didn’t see it. Instead Angela reached for it and sent him a look of gratitude.

‘He’s got her son, Jim.’ Angela said. She sounded drunk and she looked like she was suffering from sleep deprivation. On top of the day she’d already had this was too much. In the struggle to help her rebuild her memory, fatigue was enemy number one. The more tired she became, the less she was able to cope. Things that happened only moments ago would not be recorded. Events would not separate into cause and effect and from there action would fail to realise a reaction. Angela held the glass in both hands. She knew that it was important, but she wasn’t sure what she should do with it.

Jim nodded in Moira’s direction.

Angela’s eyes sparked with realisation and she offered the drink to her friend. Moira accepted the glass and gulped a mouthful. The swallow she attempted didn’t coincide with her ragged breathing pattern and she choked out some frenzied coughs.

‘What’s wrong, Moira?’ Angela asked.

Jim faced Moira. ‘Okay, Moira…’ he purposely deepened his voice, softened his tone and removed any trace of emotion from it. ‘Tell us in your own time what happened.’

‘Ersk…Ersk…they came and took Erskine.’

‘Moira. Who came and took Erskine?’

She grabbed the glass from Angela took a slower sip this time and answered. ‘His dad and his grandpa. They just … came and took him.’ The sobs began to grow in stature again. ‘And his dad even took his car back.’

‘Is he in any danger?’ Jim asked. Angela’s face whitened at the thought.

‘No.’ Moira answered, a little calmer. ‘They both love him to bits. It’s me they want to have a go at. They would happily see me in a coffin. Him, they love. Precious fucking Erskine.’ Sob.

‘My precious Erskine. I’ll fucking kill them if they harm one hair on his head.’ A mad light flickered in her eyes and then faded as she stared into the glass of water.

Away from their mother the boys are quieter. Pete is happy to hold my hand, while Dan walks by my side. I reasoned with Liz that I should speak to the boys on their own. Children tend to perform for their parents in these situations. Almost always seeking approval and looking for some form of guidance in what to say and how to act. Even as a non-parent I have observed that children are masters at reading non-verbal language. A minute change in expression, a tiny lift of the eyebrow, a pause in speech, all of these can send signals to a child that can be interpreted in any number of ways. Ways that are designed to appease or please the parent, but ways that will inevitably obfuscate the truth.

‘Enjoy your tea,’ I told Liz. ‘And I’ll take the boys for a wee walk.’ I’d spotted a room full of armour on my patrol earlier and immediately thought of it when I suggested that the boys should speak to me alone.

‘In most crimes, the criminal leaves something of themselves behind,’ I attempted to explain my reasoning to Liz. ‘And normally that’s where the forensics team come in. Whether there is a fingerprint, a microscopic element of bodily fluid etcetera, it can be found. But here all we have to go on is memories. Locked inside those boys’ heads is a piece of information that is going to help us find this woman.’ We both look over at the boys who play on, oblivious to our attention. ‘There is no such thing as the perfect crime. That woman left something behind. We just have to find it.’

As I walk with the boys I find I enjoy the sensation of looking after them. To people around us we could be just any other family. What could be more natural than a father taking his two boys for an educational visit to a museum? For the briefest of moments my mind drifts to Theresa and her unborn child. Is it mine? Could I be taking our child along these halls one day? As I look down at the boys I find that thought warms me.

Then I notice that Dan has a limp.

‘Did you enjoy your cokes, boys?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ says Pete looking up at me. ‘Daddy doesn’t let us have it.’

‘’Cos they’re bad for our teeth,’ Dan defends his father and sends a look of warning to his brother. Pete isn’t caring. He’s having way too much fun. He’s pulling me forward while Dan is slowing me down. My feeling is that his pace is not just to do with his limp. He keeps looking over his shoulder as if expecting his mother to appear.

‘Mum’s just having a cup of tea, Dan. So I thought it would be nice to show you some more stuff upstairs.'

‘Stuff. What kind of stuff?’ He’s too polite to be sullen, but he’s skirting on the edge.

‘I saw you and Pete playing with the straws. Do you like swords?’

‘S’pose,’ says Dan.

‘Yeah,’ sings Pete. ‘I love swords.’ Then he points his arm out and slashes an imaginary sword in the air.

‘There’s a room upstairs full of them. Wanna go and see it?’

‘Yeah,’ says Pete and walks faster.

‘Okay,’ says Dan allowing his brother’s enthusiasm to touch him.

As soon as we enter the weapons room, both boys emit a “Wow” softened with wonder. With eyes as big as moons, they turn their heads together on a slow axis to take in all of the objects in the room. Then they are off, darting here and there, tugging at each other’s sleeves as they pull the other to another object that has them bright with delight. I can’t help but be caught up in their excitement and trip after them like a deranged minder, always just off the pace and a touch reticent. I feel I’m like the nice but dim cousin, twice removed on the father’s side, who only gets involved in the family once a year and only then to do a spot of babysitting. The reticence comes from the fact that I am showing two boys who have been the victim of violence an exhibit that is a paean to the violence man has carried out on his neighbours over the centuries. Swords, spears, shields, armour, arrows all arranged like works of art. The strange beauty of the various objects belying their terrible intent. Some of the weapons weren’t just made to kill. They were made to inflict terrifying wounds, to maim and cause mayhem. I tell myself to relax. The boys don’t see the severed limbs, spilled intestines or piles of bodies. They see playtime on a grand scale.