A Taste for Malice (28 page)

‘As I said, how can I help?’ He asks and attempts a look of calm. Looks more like he’s constipated.

‘Now I don’t want Miss…’

‘Toner.’

‘To lose her job. She simply got frightened. Between me and you we think it was her …’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘You catch on quick, Bob. Yes, boyfriend, who got her mixed up in this. Anyway, she was helping us with our enquiries, just as you have so kindly offered to, except she managed to miss out some important information. Now the fact that she does a runner when I show up suggests she deliberately misled an official investigation. Doesn’t look good, Bob. Does it?’

He coughs. ‘No. However …’ He stands up to his full five feet six inches and puffs out his chest.

‘Forget the however, Bob. I need your help and I can’t be arsed with the posturing. Take me to your office.’

‘Right.’ He harrumphs as if egging himself on to defy me. I simply stand and stare.

‘Gimme a second,’ he says and with every syllable he takes his indignation down a notch. What’s the point, he’s saying to himself, I’ll only lose. He picks up the phone, dials a number. ‘Can you come back to the front desk, please?’ he asks whoever answers. I’m guessing it’s Caroline. His tone piques my interest. The name of the scent pops into my head.

‘I thought they stopped making Brut years ago.’

His head snaps up. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ I smile and Caroline appears. Bob gives her all of his attention. Makes like he’s in control. Then it occurs to me; the aftershave, the attitude, the tone …the poor guy thinks he’s got a chance with the cute receptionist. Isn’t the male ego something to behold?

He leads, I follow. We go along a corridor, round a bend, along another corridor and through a brown door. It is all so nondescript and minus any recognisable features that it would be incredibly easy to get lost in these halls.

Bob has a fairly large office with a central desk. The wall behind the door has a row of filing cabinets against it. A couple of them have drawers that barely shut they are so full. Another has all its drawers closed, but slightly askew as if the weight of paper has pushed the drawer from its runner.

Before he can take a seat I speak.

‘Staff records … where are they?’

‘I …eh…’ he cocks his head to the side and pushes out his chest.

‘Bob. I really don’t have time for this. You have a woman by the name of Lucy Hepburn working with you. She is hurting little boys. We need to stop her.

‘Now we can do this the hard way, which means this woman damages another wee boy and this hospital’s name gets dragged through the media mud. Or you save us all a lot of heartache and punch a few keys on your keyboard right now.’

‘I could get the sack for doing this without the proper …’

‘Bob. I know. And I really am sorry to put you in this position,’ I interrupt him. His features soften as he tries to read my new approach. ‘Five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair. Forever.’

I pull the wage slip from my pocket and slide it across the desk towards him. ‘You might find this useful,’ I say.

He sits down and pulls his chair closer to the desk. He unfolds the wage slip. His fingers flash across the keyboard and several menus come and go on his screen.

‘If anyone gets wind of this my career is on the line.’

‘Who’s to know?’ I hold my arms out in a saint-like gesture. ‘I’m not telling anyone.’

As he looks at the screen he sucks on his teeth. I bite down on my irritation. We’re best friends now and besides, I don’t want to antagonise the guy any further.

‘Right,’ he says and writes something down. Then he sucks on his teeth some more and writes down something else. He takes a deep breath and pushes the paper towards me and stands up.

‘If you look at that while I go out the room …’

‘Bob, you watch way too much TV. We’re beyond that.’ I motion him down. ‘Sit on your arse. And while I’m on this honesty malarkey will you please stop sucking on your teeth. It’s getting on my tits.’

‘You’ve been reading that book again, haven’t you?’ Bob purses his lips, clasps his hands and places them on the desk in front of him.

‘Eh? What book?’

‘
How to Win Friends and Influence People
.’

See Glasgow? Full of comedians.

‘By the way, she’s dead. Died, what, four months ago.’ He peers into his screen more. ‘That’s odd.’

‘What is?’

‘There’s a flag against her name. Like we are missing some information.’ He moves his mouth as if he is going to suck his teeth and stops when they get close to just a pout. Not a good look on him. He stands up. ‘Give me a second, will you?’ He quickly walks out of the room.

As soon as I am on my own I am out of the chair and facing his computer screen. It details her name and date of birth as 10th March 1988. Makes her in her early twenties. A young age to die.

There are a number of letters I am guessing are her nursing qualifications. Her most recent address is noted. It’s just off Kilmarnock Road in Shawlands. I sit down again just before Bob re-enters the room.

‘I …that’s very odd. I can’t find her file.’

‘You said there was information missing. What might that be?’

‘Without the file I can’t say for sure. But there are certain things we should have on here … like a note that a copy of the death certificate is on file. Without it we can’t do things like apportion any of her pension rights and death benefits.’

‘Is that at all unusual? To be missing the information for such a long time?’

‘Unusual, but not unheard of.’ He looks at the screen, clicks the mouse. ‘Normally the nearest and dearest are flocking to see what’s going to come their way, so they are happy to supply the necessary.’ A couple more clicks of the mouse. ‘But this girl … it seems, has no next of kin.’

I considered the implications of that. Alone in the world at her age. Poor girl. Didn’t even have someone to send in her death certificate.

Unless …

There’s something about this whole thing that bothers me. What do we have? A dead Hepburn minus a death certificate, a missing file and a member of staff who works in the medical records department goes AWOL just as I come for a visit.

Jasmine clearly has something to hide. Could this woman actually be alive and be the Lucy Hepburn we’re looking for?

‘DI McBain?’ Bob says.

‘Aye?’ I realise I look odd as I sit staring into space.

‘Can you sling your hook now? I’ve got work to do.’

‘Sure, Bob. Sorry.’ I stand up. ‘When you get this file …if there’s anything you think we should know will you give us a call?’

‘Absolutely.’

I give him my card. ‘I want to know how this girl died and who notified you of her death. Can you do that for me?'

He nods, more than happy to help now that he knows he is about to get rid of me.

Bob escorts me back out to reception. Caroline is at her desk busy at the monitor. I give her a smile. I pat him on the shoulder and speak loudly for Caroline’s benefit.

‘I’m sorry I troubled your staff, Bob. And you’re right I was a bit harsh. Thanks for your time. You’ve been a great help.’ For good measure I shake his hand.

He looks at me as if I’ve just spoken to him in Flemish.

Then I say quietly in his ear. ‘She’s cute, Bob. I think you’ve got a wee chance there. But a word from the wise. Bald guys shave their head these days and nobody’s worn Brut since Abba broke up.’

Leaving the hospital grounds, I quickly look at my mobile. True to his word, Kenny has left me a text. Quick decision time. Do I head for Jasmine’s or go to the dead Hepburns’. The latter isn’t going anywhere, that’s for sure. Jasmine however, might well be long gone. If I was her I’d be expecting a visit. I don’t remember telling her that I was with the police. So she’ll either be out or she’ll have called in some pals to back her up.

Hepburns’ it is. I aim the car back the way I came, to Shawlands. From there I head back into town. I find the address easily. Typical Glasgow tenement flats. Four floors of brown sandstone and hardly a space to park your car. The people on the streets are also fairly typical of Glasgow these days; lots of brown faces with an equal measure of pale Celt. Mothers are pushing prams, kids are kicking a ball, older people are carrying plastic bags full of shopping. Just a normal street, in a bog-standard part of the city. And it may hold the key to finding a very dangerous young woman.

Number 176 has a glass panel about head height and is clearly a secured entrance. The giveaway is the neat aluminium box with a row of buttons to the right of the door. Some of the buttons have names on them. None say
Hepburn
.

Chances are, if I press any or all of the buttons and say who I am no-one will let me in. More Glasgow bluster is called for. If I’m lucky, somebody might be expecting someone back in and allow me in without vetting me, so I press all the buzzers. No-one answers. I buzz again and wait. Nothing. This time I press each one for thirty seconds. Before I get to the top a voice issues from the box.

‘Who is it? What d’ye want?’

‘For chrissake, it’s me. Let me in,’ I say. The lock buzzes and I’m in. The hallway is dark, but there is enough light to see a stone staircase and two doors on either side of it, giving entrance to the ground floor flats. To the left of the stair a passage runs to the back of the building, where no doubt there will be a door that opens out to a drying green and a collection of bins.

A door opens somewhere above me. A man’s voice calls, ‘Who is it?’ Their tone suggests a wee bit of humour and a little concern. The worry might come from their having second thoughts about who the owner of the voice on the intercom was. The humour would be in place to suggest that they knew who it was all along and they were just having them on.

I need to get rid of them.

‘Sorry.’ I call up. ‘All the doors in this street look the same. I’ve pressed the wrong door. What a numpty. Sorry mate.’ I turn, walk back to the door, open and close it while staying inside. This satisfies the person upstairs and I hear their door close.

Now I’m in, I need to decide how to go about finding Hepburn’s former abode. Two doors on each floor. Four floors. Best to start from the top. The stairs are steep so I take my time. As I pass each door I try to assess what the owner might be like. The bottom two doors each have a nameplate. “King” on one side and “Banks” on the other. King has a doormat and a wooden cat. Banks has a flowerpot on a wicker stand outside his/her door. The flower is a red thing. I’m guessing these flats are single occupancy. Old people, perhaps.

My footsteps echo in the stairwell as I head upwards. The first-floor owners have given more effort to their doors. Less chance of their stuff getting stolen? Bigger plants are on display here and where the door on my left has a kid’s bike leaning against the wall, the one on my right has a small, white wicker chair. Comes under the heading, Seemed Like a Good Idea At the Time. Begs the question, why would you want to sit out here? The door with the chair has two small brass nameplates. Again, neither is Hepburn. The other door has nothing.

Moving up, I notice my breathing is getting shallower. Slow down, McBain. Don’t want to knock on the door and be panting like I’ve just run away from a mugger.

This floor is more promising. The first door is covered in a pristine gloss. It has three white, plastic nametags, but none are Hepburn. The next door has one plastic name tag, Connor, but below it are three strips of paper sellotaped to the wood. Welcome to Bed-sit Land. This one would make sense. If Hepburn was on her own, good accommodation might be hard to find. Especially on a nurse’s pay packet. The paper tags suggest transience. Apart from Mr or Mrs Connor, no-one else tends to stick around.

None of the pieces of paper say Hepburn, but I wouldn’t expect that. Space is money here. As soon as it was vacated the room would be up for grabs.

Without thinking. I rap my knuckles on the door. Footsteps approach the other side; I reach for my wallet and pull out my warrant card. The feet stop, links of a chain sound and the door opens slightly. A man’s face peers out.

‘Mr Connor?’ I ask and hold my card out.

‘Go away. I’m not buying anything,’ he says. His face is covered in a lattice of deep lines. A flop of fringe hangs before his eyes. It is white, with a tan, nicotine streak down the middle. The top of his head is about level with my chin.

‘I’m DI McBain from Strathclyde Police. I need to speak to you about a former tenant, Mr Connor.’

Alarm flows through his features. ‘Them students are gone now, officer. If I had known aboot the drugs I would never huv let them in.’ His voice is low and quiet and strung through with a tremor. Old age? Nerves?

‘It’s about the nurse. Hepburn.’ I make a calculated guess. If she didn’t stay with him, he might know where she did stay.

‘Whit? The wan that died?’

‘Yes, Mr Connor.’

‘But she’s deid.’ He looks at me as if I am the most stupid person on the planet. ‘Died months ago.’

I hear the noise of the other door on the landing open behind me. Mr Connor cranes his head to the side in an effort to see past me. Then he looks back at me. He seems uncertain what to do next.

‘It might be best if you let me in,’ I say quietly. ‘You don’t want the neighbours to hear your business.’

‘Aye. Aye,’ he says. He looks at the ground as if searching for instruction. ‘Right.’ He fumbles with the chain. ‘In ye come.’

He leaves the door and shuffles away from me. I enter and close the door behind me. The hall is carpeted and deceptively spacious. The carpet is brown, with yellow flowers and looks like it has been there since the seventies. The walls are covered in woodchip wallpaper that has been painted in vanilla. Where the walls join the ceiling I can see some spots of blue that the painter failed to cover. There are two doors on my left and one on my right, then the passageway takes a short dog-leg to the right where there is another door. The old man stops in front of this one. I hear the clink of keys, he picks one, inserts it and enters. I follow.

Since we entered the flat Mr Connor hasn’t spoken a word. He’s standing by a double bed, hands in his trouser pockets and eyes on the floor while he waits for me to speak.