Assault?” Wilma’s eyes widened. “Who said anything about assault?”

The idea had come to Wilma that last time Maggie Laird broke down. “I thought I’d done so well, Wilma. Tracking Brannigan to his local. Waiting till I got him on his own.” “You done great, pal.” “No, I didn’t. My one big chance, and I blew it.” “Well, leave it a while, then you can have another go.”

“I might not get the opportunity. Brannigan’s already lying low. I’m worried my barging in there will make him duck out of sight completely. And then what will I do?”

“You could get your pal Brian to have a bash. Sounds affa’ like he’s soft on you.”

“I’ve already asked Brian. He said there were only two ways he could see to get George’s case reopened. He said to offer Brannigan immunity from prosecution if he fingers the big fish.”

“And who in hell’s got the authority to do that?” “Nobody we know, that’s for sure.”

“What was the other thing?”

“Put a gun to Brannigan’s head.”

“Now there’s an idea.”

“Wil-ma. We can’t go round threatening people.” “Oh, I don’t know. These days, I pack a fair punch.” “Very funny.”

“We could get somebody else to put the squeeze on the guy.”

“Like who?”

“Dunno.”

Jeered

Hands shaking, Brannigan zipped himself up. “Ah’ve tae get hame,” he muttered into his chest. “That right?” “Aye,” the wee man trotted off. “Nae problem.” The hoodies positioned themselves either side, Wilma bringing up the rear. Silently, the four marched in step. “Gie us a break, wull ye?” Brannigan darted across the street.

“A break, is it?” the hoodies caught up with him. “Hiv onythin’ in mind, wee man?” The bigger one again. “Couple o’ baseball bats fur instance?”

Bobby looked up, eyes out on his cheeks. “What dae ye want?” “There’s a wee matter needs cleared up.” “Such as?” “Tell you later.”

Brannigan knitted his brow. “Tell me the noo. Ah’ve tae get hame.”

The big hoodie jeered. “Ye wisna’ in such a hurry when ye were in the pub.”

“Naw, weel…”

“An it’s no as if ye’ve got onybody waitin’ fur ye,” Wilma stepped in. “That right?” “Ye dinna ken that.”

“Aye, we dae. Richt, fellas?” The hoodies jerked their heads. “No that it wis easy, ken? In fact,” Wilma stuck her face right up close, “ye’ve bin lyin’ that low, there wis nothin’ atween you an the grun’.” “Aye, weel,” Brannigan ducked his head again. “But if ye feel ye’ve tae get hame, Bobby, we can chum ye.” She turned to the two lads. “You up for a bit of action?” The lads adjusted their hoodies. “Bring it on. Wilma grinned. “Good stuff.”

Bravado

Brannigan sat on a settee,the hoodies standing over him. Wilma occupied the only chair. She delved into her handbag, extracted a set of car keys and dropped them into her lap.

“This wee matter ye wis needin’ cleared up…” He put on a show of bravado. “Tell me aboot it.”

“It wis tae dae wi’ thon trial,” the chunky lad towered over him, “the wan far ye wis the prosecution’s star witness.”

“The wan that accidentally had to be abandoned,” the smaller of the two chipped in. “Aye,” Brannigan sneered. “Hard lines, that.”

“Hard lines?” The chunky lad came back in. “Is that aw it wis?”

“Aye. Aw doon tae police inefficiency.”

“How come?”

“Turned the tape aff afore ah could pit ma hauns up tae it.”

“Oh,” big hoodie again. “Nice one.”

“Nae half,” he grinned. “Got me richt aff the hook. Only,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “Ah’ve hud tae keep ma heid doon aye since.” “Why’s that?” the smaller of the hoodies enquired. “Polis’ll do me fur the least wee thing.”

“That right?”

“Aye,” Brannigan rolled his eyes. “There widna be onythin else?”

“Such as?”

The big lad bent over him, “Any other reason that trial went up the swannee?” He shrugged. “How wid ah ken?”

“Any reason tae dae wi yer…” he leaned further, “tes-ti-mony?” The colour drained from Brannigan’s face. “Dinna ken what ye’re talkin’ aboot.”

“No? And what if ah wis tae say that ye’re kent tae hiv perjured yersel?”

“Aye? How? Tell me that.”

“By sayin’ two big polismen were takin’ backhanders tae turn a blind eye.”

“I-I-I…” Beads of sweat stood out now on the man’s brow. “That’s why we’ve come along the nicht. So ye can tell us aboot it.” Brannigan drew himself up. “In yer dreams.” “Ah said…” The hoodie repeated. “An’ ah heard ye.”

“Well?”

“It’s mair than ma life’s worth tae…” “Listen,” the big lad grabbed him by the throat, “it’s mair than yer life’s worth tae no.”

Brannigan squared his thin shoulders. “An who’s gonna mak me?” He cast a glance towards Wilma. “If they lay a finger on me, ah’ll dae them fur assault.”

“Assault?” Wilma’s eyes widened. “Who said anything about assault?”

“They mebbe no said it,” Brannigan muttered under his breath, “but that’s whit they meant.”

“Naethin’ tae dae wi’ me,” Wilma retorted. “Ah’m jist an innocent bystander.”

“Bit now ye mention it,” the smaller of the two hoodies smirked, “if oor wee man isna feelin’ up tae a chat…mebbe we could dae somethin’ tae persuade him.” The big lad grinned. “Ye carryin?”

“Naw. A thocht wi’ the polis an aw… You?” “Same. So…” The bigger lad cast around. “We’ll jist hiv tae use oor imagination.”

Snivelled

“Aye,” the other threw in, “lucky we got plenty o’ that.” He crossed the swirly carpet. Picked up a poker from the hearth. “This dae?” He waved the poker in Brannigan’s face.

“Naw,” his companion snorted. “Ower guid fur the likes o’ him.” He ducked his head towards the kitchen. “See if there’s onythin’ useful in there.”

“Aw, come oan, boys,” Brannigan snivelled, “there’s nae need fur ony o’ that.”

“Ye ready tae talk, then?” “Naw,” his chin wobbled. “Ah telt ye. Ma life widna be worth tuppence.”

The big lad grinned. “That’s mair than it’ll be worth when ah’m done wi’ ye.” He turned. “How ye doin’ in there?” The second hoodie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Knives are useless.”

His companion pulled a face. “Scissors?” “Blunt.” “Aw, shame – ah fair fancied a bit o’ origami.” Brannigan made to rise. “Now, come oan, fellas…” The chunky lad shoved him roughly back onto the settee. “Cooker gas?” he called. “Naw. Electric.”

The big lad screwed up his face. “Don’t suppose ye’re a DIY man?” He addressed the question to Bobby. “Naw. Why?”

“Could use a Black & Decker.” Brannigan shrank back on the settee. “There’s a steam iron,” the voice came from the kitchen.

The big lad flexed his biceps. “That’ll dae.”

Cross Purpose (£8.99) is the first in Claire Macleary’s Harcus & Laird crime trilogy, featuring an unlikely pair of middle aged female private investigators. The second, Burn Out, and the third, Runaway, are available now. All published by Saraband Publishing https:// saraband.net

More tomorrow.