A Taste for Malice (26 page)

I examined the script and wondered if it was Hepburn who wrote it. If it did, the lettering wouldn’t give us too much to work on. Two numbers and a consonant. ‘Find anything, DI McBain?’ Mrs Hogg’s voice gave me a start.

‘Jings,’ I held my hand to my chest. ‘You gave me a fright.’

Her arms were crossed and her eyes looked anywhere but directly at me, ‘She just started that book while she was here. Like most young people nowadays, books didn’t interest her.’ She walked towards me and plucked the book from my hand. She thumbed quickly through the pages. ‘I gave it to her thinking that because it was modern and it was based in Glasgow that she might read it. Are you a reader, DI McBain?’

Her question momentarily threw me as I was questioning why she had been so hasty in taking the book from me. ‘For two weeks of the year, on holiday I’m rarely without a book in my hand. At home I never look at them. Haven’t read that one though. Could I borrow it? I’ve heard she’s really good.’

‘OK,’ she said but it looked like it was the last thing she wanted to do.

‘Thank you,’ I said and took it back. I wasn’t that bothered about reading it, as I knew it would just gather dust in my hall, but there was something about her reluctance to let me have the book that needed to be explored.

‘You don’t turn over the corners, do you?’ She looked worried. ‘That’s what man invented bookmarks for. And please tell me,’ her face coloured. ‘...that you don’t read while you are sitting in the loo?’

‘I won’t from now on. I’ll look after this book as if it were my flesh and blood.’ I said. That explained her behaviour, she was afraid I would make a mess of her book. ‘A bookmark for me it is.’ I ran my thumb across the edge of the pages so that they fanned out, don’t know why. Perhaps I wanted to stress her out a little. ‘And no toilet.’

'Sorry, I don’t mean to be …Oh. What’s that?’

Something was dislodged by my actions and fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up.

‘What’s this?’ said Mrs Hogg. She held out her hand as if to take it. ‘Audrey must have used that as a bookmark.’

I held on to it and examined the item. It was an envelope, folded tightly into a rectangle and as Mrs Hogg surmised the shape of it suggested that it had been used as a bookmark.

Carefully, I unfolded the creases. The envelope once opened was about half A4 size and had a window, through which an address might appear. Through it I could only see a piece of blank paper. But it was thin and through it I could see the script was on the other side. The envelope had been torn open and I separated the tear and pulled out the paper inside. The familiar layout struck me immediately.

The two columns; payments and deductions. The National Insurance number. The employer’s name, the Greater Glasgow Health Board. Finally, the employee’s name, Lucy Hepburn.

‘Oh. That’s odd,’ said Mrs Hogg as she moved round to stand by my side. ‘Why would Audrey put that in there?’

‘Perhaps she was terrified to turn the corner of the page down?’ I tried to make it sound like a joke but her features remained pinched as if in irritation. ‘Still,’ I said and put it back in the book and moved my hand to my side. My movements stating my intention to hold on to it. ‘She won’t be needing it now. Unless her tax return is overdue.’

I walked out of the room, down the stairs and over to the front door, while Mrs Hogg followed me.

At the door, I turned to thank her for her time. She misjudged my movements and bumped into me. Pink blotches in her throat warned me of her state of mind. I had forced her to face an uncomfortable truth, a role usually reserved for best friends, not a member of the local police force.

‘Glad to be of help, DI McBain,’ she said before I could say anything. She reached beyond me and pulled the door open. ‘Goodbye.’

Before I walked over the threshold I turned to ask one more question. Again, more in hope than expectation.

‘You didn’t manage to take any photos of Audrey while she was staying with you?’

‘She is an unattractive woman, DI McBain.’ She bit off each word with care. ‘Women like that tend to avoid cameras at all costs.’

‘A drink, Jim?’ asked Moira.

Jim shook his head not moving his eyes from the screen. An American crime drama was on. They were after a serial killer. Again.

‘Thanks. Had enough.’

He turned to watch Moira leaving the room. She’d lost some weight over the last week, and who could blame her after everything that had gone on.

Ben and Angela had been sleeping for the last couple of hours and he and Moira had slipped into the habit of watching late night TV. Both of them had trouble sleeping.

He no longer tried to hide the fact that the sofa was his bed while Moira stayed with them. What was the point? She wasn’t stupid. As soon as she realised she became all flustered and refused to go upstairs. Jim responded by saying that she could have the floor, ’cos he’d resigned himself to giving up his bed, but he wasn’t giving up the sofa. They both laughed and Moira caved in.

This then became their guilty secret. Warm drinks, TV and chat until the small hours. Although the conversations were mostly one-sided; Moira had an easy way of drawing information from someone and Jim had never had such a willing audience.

Whenever he did try to engage Moira more fully in the give and take of their chats she would answer his question with a question. So skilfully did she do this that it was only later that Jim would notice that once again he had been the biggest contributor to their conversations.

‘Tell me about the first time you guys met?’

‘Tell me about the day Ben was born?’

‘Tell me about any other girlfriends you had.’

That particular evening he found himself talking about Kirsty, minus her name of course. Telling Moira things that he had never told anyone else. Despite his warning bells of conscience he enjoyed how specific details made him sound. This had been an attractive woman after all and she couldn’t keep her hands off him.

‘Must be difficult for you,’ mused Moira. ‘Living with the woman you love and unable to …you know.’

Jim said nothing. The switch from past to present was too painful.

‘Sorry,’ said Moira. ‘None of my business. Forget I said anything.’

Jim eyed the screen. The bad guy got shot and the credits rolled.

Moira offered a shy good night and left the room.

Despite the hour it took Jim an age to get to sleep. Talk of Kirsty sent his mind wandering. Eventually he slept and dreamed of her. Her hands on him. Teasing him, building his excitement up to levels approaching pain.

This carried on for some time until he realised he wasn’t dreaming. He opened his eyes. His midriff was bare and his quilt was down at his feet.

‘Moira,’ he sat up. ‘What the …’

‘Sssh,’ she said and with one hand pushed him back down on to the sofa. Her other hand continued stroking his balls. A finger slid down to the crack of his arse and pushed its way into his anus. This along with the rhythm of her hand was almost unbearable. Just before he came, he felt her mouth on him, ready to take his semen. He came hot and hard.

She pulled the quilt over him and ghosted from the room like smoke from a delusion.

In the morning Moira was so calm and unresponsive that Jim wondered, did he imagine it? He was a bit old for wet dreams, wasn’t he?

Showered and changed after my run, I’m back in the car and driving to the other side of the city. I go on to Kilmarnock Road and make towards Rouken Glen. From there I take the road that takes me across the M77, from there I coast past Bellahouston Park and House for An Art Lover.

Almost every time I drive this section of road there are a handful of joggers stretching their lycra’d legs and drumming their expensively clad feet on the pavements. Must be something in the water in these parts.

We have learned that the Greater Glasgow Health Board had five employees with the name of Lucy. It’s not a deeply unusual name, so perhaps five women sharing this name is statistically possible.

Mrs Browning confirmed that none of the four women I showed her on the camera was the woman who hurt her kids. Jasmine, my health board mole, informed me that the fifth woman had died. What do we deduct from that?

She is missing someone out.

The question I want an answer to is, did she deliberately miss one out or was she just plain sloppy? When we met she appeared to be a little nervous. However if I were in her position with Kenny breathing down my neck, I might be the same.

Sloppy or deliberate? Did nerves play a part? But surely she would know if she was deliberately holding out we would find out and one of us would pay her another visit. In that case, we have to ask, what’s in it for her?

Does she have a connection with this woman as well?

For fuckssake, McBain. Rein your neck in. Speak to the woman before you start jumping to mad conclusions. Chances are she was just being lazy. She probably did the least she could in the smallest possible time to get me off her back.

Approaching Ibrox stadium and in the time it takes to blink, we move past the sandstone mansions of yesteryear and towards housing that was built for a less exacting clientele. Take the flyover running across the M8 and you leave houses behind you that might sell for upwards of half a million pounds. The flats that face you, you couldn’t give away. And if you see anyone running in these parts, they’ll be wearing jeans not lycra, they’ll be around forty pounds overweight and late for the kick-off.

From there I take a left and on to the Southern General Hospital. I look at the clock on my dashboard. 15:35. It’s a Wednesday. Chances are Jasmine will be working. And this time she’d better tell me the truth.

The scale of this place never fails to jolt me. If you were to drop an alien in the middle of this location, they’d be sure to get the impression that sickness and disease was one of our greatest industries. They might even be right. The place is huge. A wide avenue scores down the middle of a medley of building styles from Victorian to modern. Apparently the place started off as a poorhouse and then had a stint as part hospital, part lunatic asylum.

As I drive past the first of the large Victorian buildings I crane my neck to get a good look. Some poor bastards in the nineteenth century would have been locked up in here in the asylum.

Signs
. I get my attention back to the job in hand. And just in good time before I run into the back of that ambulance. Look for a sign. There are plenty of signs and they all tell a depressing tale of the human body’s inadequacies. Makes me grateful I am in good health. Give or take a few cakes and bars of chocolate. Maybe they should put a lane in this avenue for sightseers and make it a prescription for anybody that’s overweight and drinks too much to drive down here. It would give them a great deal of perspective.

There must be a sign for medical records. I move my head from side to side as I drive down the road, like a spectator at a mobile tennis game. More buildings. A sign for the helipad. A big patch of grass. More buildings. And then, yay, more fucking buildings. The road sweeps to the left and I see a library, a restaurant, a nursery. They even have a nursery? Makes sense, I guess.

I park the car in front of the nursery. It feels like I could drive up and down these roads until the planet runs out of fossil fuels and still never find the sign I’m looking for. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and look in my rear-view mirror at the nursery. An adult face appears at a window. Probably wondering if I am a parent who’s just finished their shift and has come to pick up their precious darling. Time to play the daft laddie.

The nursery is in an old, grey building, much smaller than those around it. To make up for the lack of ability and/or imagination on the architect’s part, the nursery staff had placed brightly coloured posters on the windows.

The door has an intercom system. I press the buzzer and wait.

‘Yes?’ A female voice enquires from the speaker. Sounds young.

‘Sorry to bother you…’

‘You’re not a parent are you?’

‘No. I’m sorry to…’

‘You’re lost, I suppose?’ Her voice is polite, but underlined with a hint of irritation. This isn’t the first time this has happened.

‘This is going to sound a little bit crazy, but, I’m looking for love.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I met a girl the other night. She says she works here …’

‘Are you right in the head? Go away or I’ll call the polis.’

‘Oh for godsake don’t do that. Then she’ll never agree to go out with me.’

She moves her face away from the mouthpiece at her end and I can hear her talking quietly to someone else. Then some smothered laughter.

‘Look. I’m really sorry and I wouldn’t trouble you otherwise, but I’m desperate.’ Shit. Wrong choice of word, McBain. She’ll think you’re some kind of mad stalker. ‘Could you just come to the door for a second? You wouldn’t want love to spoil before it gets a chance would you?’

I can hear someone egg her on. The speaker goes dead and the door opens slightly, just enough for me to see the head and outline of a woman in her late thirties or early forties. She’s around five-foot tall, with shoulder-length blond hair and a pair of large green eyes.

‘Well?’ she asks. I give her my million-pound smile. The one that says you’re going to just love me. She raises her eyebrows in a question. Not impressed.

‘We met the other night in King Tut’s.’ As I speak I change to a more humble tone. This is a pretty woman in front of me and she’ll have met a few charmers in her time. ‘She gave me her number and I lost it. I’ve been kicking myself ever since.’

She allows the door to open a little more and leans against the upright, crossing her arms as she does so. This has the effect of squeezing her breasts together and means she is now displaying about two inches of cleavage. Her red T-shirt is low at the front, modestly so in this day and age, but a pleasing amount is on show none the less. Men and tits. You’d think we’d get over that, wouldn’t you?

‘You know how it is. It’s been a while.’ Oops, that didn’t come out right. I look for a ring on her finger. Nothing. At her age, she must have been in one or two relationships. Not in one at the moment. Perhaps I can play on that. ‘…it’s been a while since I met someone who was so much like me …you know?’ I look away. ‘She was nice.’