A Taste for Malice (5 page)

‘Aye, I’ve seen everything noo,’ says the taxi-driver. ‘Sun-bathing sheep.’

‘I hope they’re all wearing their sun block.’

‘Aye, and they’ll all be wearing sun hats next time we go past. Wee baseball caps.’

‘And the farmer will bring them wheatgrass cocktails with wee straws and parasols.’

‘Don’t forget your maraschino cherries.’

‘You just took that too far.’

‘Sorry.’ He looks straight ahead, chewing on a grin.

‘Gonnae no.’

‘How?’

‘Jist. Gonnae no.’

We both laugh. See Glasgow? See the banter? Where else can you chew the fat with a taxi-driver like this?

I feel the sunshine and the laughter lift my spirits. Who needs Prozac?

‘You’re no bad for polis,’ says the driver.

‘Thanks. But the next time you give me a lift don’t speak to me or I’ll bitch-slap you till your gums bleed.’

He laughs so hard I think we’re going to crash. Once he recovers his equilibrium I start to think about the events of the morning so far. The therapist was not so bad, easy on the eye and all that, but do I need her? A few laughs with my colleagues, a long run round the streets of my fair city and I will be as right as, well, rain.

I think of Alessandra and Daryl. They could get themselves into trouble again on my behalf. They didn’t need my help with this case, but they know I will be crawling up the walls if I am stuck on admin duties for much longer. Bless ’em.

So who is this psycho woman preying on these families? The last time she was heard of was two years ago. I phone Daryl.

‘Fancy an early lunch?’

‘Why kind sir, are you propositioning me?’ He adopts a deep, uber-masculine tone.

‘I know it’s hard for you to believe that anyone of either gender could find you anything other than appealing, DS Drain, but, naw, it’s your brain I’m after. Get your welltoned arse over to the Chinese buffet place in Sauchiehall Street in fifteen minutes. Ask Ale to come along as well.’

They are already seated when I arrive. They have picked a seat by the far wall and Daryl has a plate in front of him that has sufficient food for a family of four. Alessandra is more modest with a matching pair of spring rolls. Guys are such pigs.

‘Man, this place is genius,’ Daryl speaks through a mouthful of food and sprays some fried rice in my direction. I try to disguise how much he is pissing me off. All that food and he is in great shape.

I fill a plate with some fried rice, some chicken balls in batter, then some more chicken balls in batter. I turn to go over to the seat, pause and turn back. Then I put the extra chicken back in the heated tray. Some bad habits just have to die.

‘So,’ I place my plate on the table and sit down. ‘Any developments?’

‘You on a diet, boss?’ asks Daryl, as he sizes up the food on my plate.

‘Should I be?’

He rests his fork on the side of his plate and looks down at my belly, ‘Mmmm. Saying nothing.’

‘That’s not saying nothing. That’s saying “Mmmm” with a tone.’

‘Well. We’ve been talking…’ He looks at Alessandra. She throws a-leave-me-out-of-this glare at him. ‘… and the feeling among the guys is that you’re piling on the beef again.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ I say in a huffy tone while patting my belly with my right hand. ‘You know, it’s people like you who turn people like me into anorexics.’

‘A defensive tone is a sign that you hear truth in the other’s voice.’

‘What, did you get that wee gem out of a fortune cookie?’

Alessandra snorts a laugh and then injects some reality into the conversation. ‘Gonnae you two bitches shut up? You’re wastin’ my lunch.’

‘So,’ I grin at the guys and move my fork, bearing about three grains of rice, towards my mouth, ‘Any developments?’

‘I’m thinking we learn from the file, but we really have to start the investigation from scratch,’ says Daryl.

I agree, but to give Daryl his head as official chief investigative officer I ask, ‘Why?’

‘I hate getting too much information second hand from such important witnesses. There’s the possibility that some wee nugget of information might be missed,’ he replies. Alessandra is looking at him and measuring his answer as if she had just learned something new.

‘Do you not trust your colleagues?’ I ask.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust them. I just think I might find something they missed.’

‘So what you going to do about it?’

‘Revisit the families.’

‘Under what pretext?’ We both know the families are going to be seriously pissed off that we are starting the investigation from scratch.

‘No pretext,’ he shrugs. ‘I’ve read the file, these are intelligent people. They are going to smell a lie from a mile off. We need to come clean, tell them the previous investigating team all died in a terrible accident, the files were destroyed by an al Qaeda cell and that the A-team has been moved from tracking down a serial killer to find Hell Bitch.’

‘That’ll do it.’ I fork a chicken ball into my mouth.

‘Given the personnel we have at our disposal, I think you and Ale should go and see Mr & Mrs Browning. While I go and see Mr & Mrs Greig.’

I nod my head with appreciation at what Daryl is doing. It should be just the two of them and they should be visiting both homes together. Then I turn to Alessandra.

‘What do we know about Mr & Mrs Browning?’

‘They are in their mid-thirties. They are both dentists, although Mrs Browning is now a stay at home mother. She was diagnosed with M.S. ten years ago. They have two kids, aged three and five.’

Mr & Mrs Browning live in a lower conversion of a sandstone mansion in the south side of the city. Pollokshields is an area of the city that could well have coined the cliché “leafy suburb”. The homes are substantial Edwardian or Victorian buildings in what is the United Kingdom’s first planned garden suburb. We have Maxwell Park on one side and a number of trees just as substantial as the houses they shelter surround us.

‘It must be a bitch to clean up the leaves around here come autumn,’ says Alessandra as we slow at the side of the house. She parks her car and our feet scrunch the gravel in unison as we walk towards the grand entrance of the house. A pillar at either end holds up a sweeping sandstone porch. The door is oak and has a small glass window at head height, and a lion’s head brass knocker at shoulder height.

The door opens as I lean forward to pull up the lion’s chin.

‘DI McBain and DC Rossi, I presume?’ A sombre-faced man of my own age eyes us both up and down.

‘Mr Browning,’ I take a step forward with my hand extended. He takes it and shakes. His hand is warm and soft, though the grip is firm. His head is shaven bald and the lower half of his face is covered with a trim goatee. He is of medium height and his slight frame is covered in the uniform of the middle class — chinos and an open necked shirt. Under his shirt I can see a piece of jewellery. Looks like a shark’s tooth on a piece of leather. Could he be a bit of a hippy under that middleclass exterior? He turns to Alessandra and gives her the same attention.

We are directed through a large hallway, which is centred with a round table sporting a display of fresh flowers and through a pair of double doors into what I expect is the lounge.

‘This is my wife, Liz.’ A small, thin woman waves from the end of a large, coffee-coloured leather sofa. The lower half of her body is covered by a red tartan shawl. She beckons us across the expanse of floor with one hand, while she lowers the lid on her laptop with the other.

‘Forgive me if I don’t get up.’

It’s only when I get closer to her that I spot the wheelchair that has been pulled behind the arm of her seat. We shake hands and her grip is as strong as the light that shines from her eyes. I get the impression that however badly this lady’s body may be letting her down, her mind is a force to be reckoned with.

‘Which one of you is DI McBain?’ asks Mrs Browning, as Alessandra and I sit on the sofa facing her. I put my hand up.

‘Just don’t want to make any assumptions that the promoted post would be held by the man,’ she smiles.

‘Scotland’s Police has moved on a great deal in that regard, Mrs Browning,’ says Alessandra, mindful of our additional role as public relations officers.

‘Aye, right,’ Mrs Browning says quietly, still smiling. Then she speaks louder. ‘However, my gripe with Strathclyde’s finest is not with gender equality issues, but with the lack of attention we have been given over the last year.’

‘My wife likes to go straight to the point.’ The doleful cast of Mr Browning’s eyes suggest the world is about to end. ‘I’ll just go and fetch the tray from the kitchen.’ He excuses himself and leaves the room.

‘You have a lovely home, Mrs Browning,’ Alessandra says.

‘Thank you. Please call me Liz. And himself is Douglas. So…’ she drums her fingers on the lid of her computer. ‘…my letters and phone calls eventually got a response?’

‘I could cite lack of manpower, Liz. And too many bad guys lining our streets, but I won’t insult your intelligence,’ I say. ‘We have been tasked with finding the young woman who caused you so much upset.’

‘Good. At last.’ She leans forward. ‘What do you need to know?’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for Douglas to …’ Alessandra asks.

‘Beneath that lugubrious exterior lurks a sharp mind, DC Rossi,’ Liz interrupts. ‘He’ll catch up.’

‘Can you explain the circumstances of how you met Lucy Hepburn?’

‘Audrey was… sorry, Lucy. I still struggle to use her proper name. She was recommended by a patient of mine. I was a practising dentist before…’ she waved her hand over her legs.

‘Do you remember the name of your patient?’

‘That should be in your report. I have her details written down somewhere.’ Her expression is scratched through with irritation at herself. It’s like she should have had all the information to hand and is angry with herself for not meeting her own high standards. She doesn’t bear any limitation easily, which balances with the wheelchair being tucked out of sight for the moment you gain your initial view of her.

‘How many hours did Lucy Hepburn work for you?’ asks Alessandra.

‘It varied. You see she worked part-time at the Southern General. She was a nurse there. So it depended on her shifts. And I preferred to keep things flexible.’

‘What my wife isn’t telling you…’ at that point Douglas Browning entered the room carrying a tray with an aluminium flask, four mugs and a selection of exotic teas. ‘…is that she saw the fact she needed a help with the kids as a form of defeat. And it was only when she was absolutely forced to use the help available that she would.’

‘I do love it when you talk about me as if I’m not in the room, dear.’ Liz’s eyes narrow. Then she turns her attention to the tray. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve found that caffeine doesn’t agree with me so we only have herbal teas in the house.’

‘Herbal’s fine,’ we both chime.

‘Just as well, eh?’ Liz smiles. ‘Anyway. The drugs they force me to take can sometimes make life difficult for me. I can get tired.’

‘For tired, read exhausted,’ says Douglas as he fills each mug with steaming hot water and offers us the tray to pick from the selection.

She shoots ice at him with her eyes. ‘Lucy was a good help at first. The kids took to her very quickly. She had a good manner with them.’

‘Yes, there was a childlike quality about her that the children responded to,’ adds Douglas, his expression moving from doleful to thoughtful. His voice was very soft and suggested a gentle nature. I’d bet his patients love to be soothed by him. With a drill aimed at their gums, the combination of his sorrowful demeanour and his soothing voice would have people thinking how lucky they were. Hey, how bad could it be, they’d ask. What’s a little toothache compared to what’s plaguing this little man?’

‘When did you realise that everything was not as it should have been?’ I ask as I drop a peppermint teabag into my mug.

‘The day she left,’ Liz says as if it had just occurred to her. She and her husband communicate with a small nod. ‘One day, she just didn’t bother to turn up. But with the kids there was nothing in particular at first. But looking back it’s as if,’ she bit her lip, ‘It’s as if they were lighter somehow. It took a few days for them to realise that she wasn’t coming back. Wee snippets would jump from their mouths as we bathed them or put them to bed.’ For the first time Liz is wearing a matching expression to her husband. ‘Do either of you have kids?’

We both shake our heads.

‘As a parent you want only the best for your kids. You’d jump in front of a bullet for them.’ Her jaw muscles bunch together. I can almost hear her knuckles crack as she tightens her fists. ‘But to sit with the knowledge on a day to day basis that your choices have caused them serious physical and emotional harm. It’s almost too much to …’ her voice cracks with emotion. ‘That’s why …’ she clears her throat ‘…that’s why I have pestered you guys to do something about this. I refuse to accept that a woman like that can betray our trust in such a way and get away with it.’

Douglas pats her on the back of the hand. She pulls her hand away. Their eyes meet for a second, then they both look away as if whatever was broken will never be fixed. For a moment they look lost in their own inability to protect their children. And in their lack of faith in the other to make the right choices. It appears they have each accepted the full blame for what happened while simultaneously finding culpability in the other.

‘In what way did she harm them?’ I ask.

Liz busies herself with examining the teabag floating in her mug.

‘Do we need to go through this again? It’s all in the statement we gave your colleague,’ says Douglas in the first show of strength of character we’ve witnessed.

‘You know what,’ says Liz speaking louder now. ‘
We
need to go through this again.
We
need to remind ourselves what that woman did.’ Her eyes met mine like a challenge. This was her penance and she would gladly pay it.

‘From what we can piece together with the benefit of hindsight and what the kids have since told us, it began with little comments, barbs intended to worry and undermine the kids’ confidence.’ Douglas’s eyes are deep in his shame as he speaks. ‘The kids would be extra pleased to see me when I came home from work. Relieved to the point of tears. Then, at bedtime, they’d be clinging to my neck saying things like don’t die, Daddy, don’t die.’