A Taste for Malice (35 page)

I tick myself off. She played the cards, you are just using them. Time and again this woman has manipulated me so I swallow any feelings of sympathy I have and harden my expression.

‘Mrs Hogg, don’t you think it’s about time you told us everything?’

She stares at a space on the wall above the fireplace. The only movement I notice is in her throat as she swallows against what must be a nervous dry mouth. Then she takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. Now, her chest is rising and falling at an alarming rate. The change has been rapid. It’s like she can’t take in enough oxygen. The sound of her breathing is like the high-pitched panic of an asthmatic. Her hands flutter on the arms of her seat. Then they batter at them as the panic eats on itself and grows. Her face is contorted with the effort of trying to breathe. She’s trying to say something, but it’s impossible to make it out.

Alessandra pushes me aside, puts a hand on Mrs Hogg’s back and pushes her forward. ‘Breath slowly, Mrs Hogg. Take your time.’ The woman’s head is bobbing up and down. Alessandra turns to me. ‘She’s hyperventilating. Go into the kitchen see if you can find a paper bag… anything that she can breathe into.’

In the kitchen I throw open all the drawers. Even from this distance I can hear the noise that Mrs Hogg is making. Sounds like wheezing.

‘Hurry, Ray,’ Alessandra’s shout carried through to me, her voice high with fear.

‘There’s nothing here.’ I shout back and run through to the office. A large envelope might just do the trick. I find one tucked in behind the desk and run through to the living room. Mrs Hogg is leaning over the back of a chair. Face white. Alessandra is rubbing her back and making soothing sounds.

Hogg is trying to speak. The noises coming out of her mouth are indecipherable. She cups her right hand over her mouth as if she is holding something.

‘Try the bathroom or her handbag, Ray,’ Alessandra says. ‘See if she has an inhaler.’

I drop the envelope and run.

Her handbag is in the kitchen on top of the washing machine. I tip it upside down. There. An inhaler. Of course. It’s an asthma attack. I run through to the living room and hand it to Alessandra.

Fuckfuckfuck. I wish I’d paid more attention in First Aid classes. Alessandra slides the end into Mrs Hogg’s mouth and sprays. I can’t help but notice that her lips have a bluish tint and the skin on her face has gone all pale and sweaty. The flesh on her face has the appearance of wax that’s been kept in an overheated room.

Alessandra is hunched over her. Her hair has fallen over her face, she pulls it back. She looks at me and says nothing. There are no need for words. Then she sprays another shot into Mrs Hogg’s mouth and goes back to rubbing her back.

I’m thinking hospitals.

‘How far is the Vicky from here?’

I reach for the phone and dial 999. My instructions are precise. Address and strong asthma attack. I’m told the ambulance will be with me in minutes.

We’re in luck. I nod at Ale.

The photograph is on the arm of the chair. I stick it in my pocket. There’s no need for anyone else to see it.

Alessandra and I are sitting in Mrs Hogg’s living room like the last visitors at a wake. The paramedics almost had to push Alessandra off her so they could do their thing. They arrive in a pair, a man and a woman, both lean and brisk in their professionalism. They walk and talk like every second counts ‘I’m Dave. This is Lesley,’ said the man.

‘Cyanosis,’ Dave said to his partner. She nodded and looked at us.

‘We’re going to have to intubate.’ They nod at each other.

Alessandra and I stand side by side and watch them as they work. I’m thinking if I ever take ill I want these guys on my case.

‘Are you relatives?’ asks Lesley. Her tone suggests she doesn’t think so, but it’s safer to check.

We each shake our head. Alessandra looks as pale as Mrs Hogg. She can’t take her eyes of the woman. She is still holding the inhaler. She offers it to Dave.

‘We didn’t know that she …’

Dave senses her distress and takes a moment from his ministrations to reassure. ‘Lucky we were so close. Next time, just get in the car and drive to the hospital. With such a severe attack, every second counts.’

‘God. She nearly died,’ Ale said.

‘We’re not out of the woods just yet,’ says Dave.

‘Are you guys police?’ asks Lesley while Dave runs out to the ambulance for a trolley.

‘How did you guess?’ I ask.

‘Do you know of any relatives that need to be informed?’ asked Lesley.

I shook my head. ‘There’s no-one we’re aware of.’

It seemed like seconds since the medics came in the door, but already they have Mrs Hogg on the trolley, covered in a blanket and hooked up to an oxygen mask.

As they wheel her out, Mrs Hogg catches my eye. Hers are full of loathing. I’m not sure whether the target of that emotion is me, or herself.

I make Alessandra and myself a cup of tea. It seems weird to be using Mrs Hogg’s bits and pieces while she is on her way to hospital. The atmosphere in the house seems diluted by her absence. Both Alessandra and I are moving as if our own energy has been drained.

‘Boy, do we live in a fucked up world,’ says Alessandra before she takes a sip from her mug. ‘You have men and women who kill themselves because they prefer having sex with people with the same body bits as them. Then you have Mrs Hogg who is so frightened that people might see that image that she …I mean, really. What harm was she doing? She got her rocks off. The guys got their rocks off. No one got hurt. Everybody should be happy, right?’

I sense where she is going with this.

‘Alessandra don’t …’

‘Don’t what, Ray?’ She faces me, her expression firm with anger. ‘That woman could have died.’ She angrily wipes at a tear.

‘Ale, look at me.’ I pull her hands away from her face. It’s important that she listens to me. ‘We did not cause Mrs Hogg’s asthma attack. We were here trying to catch a sick woman. We were doing our job. She had a condition we knew nothing about. Her dealings with Hepburn put her under a huge amount of stress.’ I burp loudly. ‘And that kebab is fair giving me heartburn.’

Alessandra laughs.

‘Yes, Violet Hogg carried on with a sexual practice that she despised herself for. Yes, she was deeply ashamed of it. But we are not responsible. There is a whole raft of circumstances here. Her reaction to those circumstances provided the wave that tipped everything over,’ I say.

‘Hey, I like what you did there with the whole raft, wave and tipping thing,’ Alessandra smiles, unaware of the image she presents with the mad grin, eyes bright with tears and smudged mascara.

‘Got it?’ I shake her hand for emphasis. She nods.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, boss. I’m sure.’ She takes a sip from her tea, looks around the room. ‘What now? How do we find Hepburn?’

My tea is cold and I’ve barely taken a sip from it.

‘Want another one?’ I ask Alessandra. She nods. I’ve refilled the kettle and I’m waiting for it to boil.

Hepburn, where are you? I scan the room as if closed cupboards of china and cutlery will provide me with answers. The kitchen table still holds Mrs Hogg’s empty handbag, with the contents of it strewn all over the place.

I bend down and pick a lipstick and a small mirror from the floor. At least it didn’t break. Alessandra joins me. She picks up a pen and a disposable lighter. Holding the lighter, she waves it at me.

‘I didn’t know that Mrs Hogg smoked,’ she says then throws both objects into the bag. ‘Weird, innit? A couple of hours ago these items would have been crucial to Mrs Hogg’s well-being. She’d never have walked out of that door without them.

‘Worth a look, do you think?’ Alessandra is holding a mobile phone.

‘Alessandra,’ I grab it from her. ‘You’re a genius.’

I slide the phone open.

‘That would just be too lucky,’ says Alessandra.

‘You never know,’ I answer. ‘People are well used to hiding paper files, letters and memos, but the stuff we keep on our phones ...’ I check Hogg’s phone book, scrolling through every entry. Nothing. I check her photos and videos. Empty. The text message section is equally empty.

‘How much for a clean mobile phone?’ I throw it in the bag. ‘So much for that idea.’

Next I pick up Mrs Hogg’s chequebook. ‘I thought nobody bothered with these things anymore.’ It had a very lady-like blue leather cover. I fan the pages and note that there are only three empty cheques left. I fan the stubs and read, ‘electricity, telephone, gas …had this woman not heard of direct debits?’

I look at the back page. It has some hand-writing on it. Looks like a set of directions. The first word on the page is
Troon
.

‘I’ve often said the old-fashioned ways are the best,’ I say and show the page to Alessandra. ‘Ya dancer!’

‘Mum, don’t make me anything for dinner,’ said Jim on his mobile phone. ‘I’m working late.’

‘Okay, dear,’ replied his mother. ‘But it’s only ten in the morning. You don’t need to tell me that now, silly. Just call when you’re finished and I’ll have something ready.’

‘Look, don’t bother, Mum,’ he grimaced at how rude that sounded when it came out. ‘I’ll pick something up on the way home.’ He softened his voice, feeling bad that he might have offended her. Serves her right for being so bloody nice.

Jim was lying. For one thing, he wouldn’t pick up any food on the way home; he wasn’t doing food right now. And for another, he wasn’t at work. He was parked in his car down the street and round the corner from his own home.

He looked at the closed curtains of the front bedroom. Angela would be having a long lie. The trauma of the last few days will have no doubt knocked her out. Jim knew the feeling. He had barely slept all week and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. He reminded himself that he couldn’t afford to miss a minute, he’d have to stay alert and focused.

He fished a bar of chocolate out of his jacket pocket and tore it open. Some sugar might do the trick. Through every chew of the chocolate his eyes never moved from the house.

His car was positioned in such a way that with a slight repositioning of his mirrors he could watch his house and its occupants. It was unlikely that Moira would think to look down in this direction, but if she did and spotted him, so what? He wasn’t doing any harm. He was just sitting in his car minding his own business. He even had a newspaper spread out on the passenger seat to prove it.

While he watched his house, his thoughts kept returning to Erskine. Before he left Rob’s house, he’d gone up to Erskine’s room to say hi. The room was in darkness and the child’s small body barely made a shape under the thick quilt. He was facing the far wall and his shoulder rose and fell in a deep pattern of sleep.

‘Life can be really shitty,’ Jim spoke in a low voice to Rob. ‘As if it’s not enough for his mum to be ill in hospital …’

Jim’s stomach was in full churn, acid scoring at the lining of his stomach. His hands seemed to have a life of their own as they drummed his thighs, picked at creases on his trousers, scratched an itch with no source.

What was going on here? Sure, he didn’t really like Moira at first, but he’d come round. She was so good with Angela it was hard not to. She very quickly became invaluable.

So why the switch from trusted aide to scheming betrayer? Jim was in no doubt that she had done the dirty on him. Moira had planted the condom somewhere that Angela would find it. Then she’d stood back to watch the fireworks. She was the only person who could have contacted the police.

Had she been after him all along? Realised that he would never leave his wife and sought revenge? But it all happened so quickly, from seduction to betrayal in less than a day. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

Now she had him out of the way. Did she want him out of the way? Why? He had no idea why, but he began to question Erskine’s fall. Was it an accident? With a dose of twisted logic it all added up. The continued lies, the manipulation, the fake backstory; no-one goes to all that trouble for room, board and sympathy. They might offer a free blow-job, and for as long as he lived he would never forgive himself for that lapse, but the rest? It was too much, too measured, too calculating.

Wasn’t it?

Jim couldn’t get the image of Erskine from his mind. He didn’t need to see the eye-patch to see how the wee soul had been affected. The forlorn shape he made under the quilt was enough.

What to do in the meantime? Could he just stay here and watch over everyone indefinitely? It just wasn’t practical. Even if Moira didn’t spot him, the neighbours would. The people who knew him would be asking uncomfortable questions. The ones who didn’t would be calling the police.

Another run at the police might be a good idea. If he was to lie and say that Moira had abused his son that might do it. They tend to act quickly in those situations.

Could he tell such a lie? Whatever her faults had been so far, she’d always treated Ben well, in fact thinking of this made him ashamed that he had thought her capable of harming Erskine.

Another potential problem with going to the police with such a story was that he was on record as having caused a disturbance. He’d already been threatened with a charge of wasting police time. Maybe he should try the divisional headquarters in Ayr. If he presented a calm exterior and a plausible story it might just work.

He had to get that woman out of his house. What was she up to, he asked himself for the millionth time? What did she want from them?

All she needed was for him to go away permanently and she would be in easy street. But that wasn’t going to happen. He was going to be a thorn in her side, in her foot, up her arse until she pissed off and left his family in peace.

Heated by thoughts of getting his family back, Jim closed his eyes briefly. Just once for now. It wouldn’t harm anyone if he closed his eyes for a moment. Would it? Soon, very soon he would be back in the house and sleeping in his own bed. He pictured the bed, the quilt, the comfort.

Soon, he thought, soon. So lost was he in thoughts of warmth and sleep and comfort that he missed the taxi draw up outside his house and a woman approach his door.