Fatboy eyed the device. He let out a little snort of pleasure. Wicked!

Cross Purpose: Episode 71

The parcel was crumpled now, soft from clutching by small hands. Fatboy crept through to the kitchen. He laid the brown envelope down on the cluttered work surface. Turned on the front ring of the gas stove. He watched as the spark went tick…tick…tick…tick. But failed to ignite. He twisted another dial. Tick…tick…

Furious, he pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket. Cursed as clammy fingers slipped on the flywheel.

Finally, a flame. He watched as the spark leapt into life. Fatboy slipped the implement from its paper sleeve. He held it up to the window.

Twirled it between his fingers and thumb so the stainless-steel shaft caught the light. A satisfied smile played on his lips.

The idea that had come to him was exquisite in its simplicity, and the jeweller in King Street had understood exactly what was needed.

He’d fashioned the handle from wood, turned so as to fit snugly into the palm. Then he’d sealed it with varnish and fashioned a protective cuff to separate the handle from the shaft.

Fatboy eyed the device on the end. He let out a little snort of pleasure. Wicked! The old geezer had executed his instructions to a T.

Well, Fatboy exulted, not so much a T as… He eyed the small X on the end of the shaft.

Familiar

There wasn’t a sound from the living room save for the Cbeebies voiceover. Fatboy smirked.

The kids would be out of it for a good while, gently sedated by the liquid he’d slipped into their juice.

They’d sit there, watching the endless circuit of children’s programmes.

He was familiar with them all by now: Mister Maker, Small Potatoes, Waybuloo.

He reckoned he’d missed his calling. He’d get a job as a children’s entertainer any day.

Fatboy held the implement over the flame. He watched as the X at the tip began to darken and glow. Every nerve end tingled.

He’d lain awake for nights on end deliberating over the placement of the thing.

The inside of a wrist? Too easily seen. The ankle, ditto. An armpit? Too ticklish.

The locus would have to be easily accessed by Fatboy’s device, but not apparent to the naked eye. Not that Kym was likely to catch on.

As for the other mothers, more fool them for leaving their kids in her care.

Nevertheless, the placement was critical. He didn’t want some nosy social worker muscling in on his act.

Somewhere hidden, then. Private, but not yielding. A trawl of the internet yielded the solution.

Fatboy experienced a rush of adrenalin. It would be relatively easy to execute: a few minutes’ preparation, the deed over in an instant.

The kids would be too out of it to resist. And if they were a wee bit sore for a day or two, so what. Back in their own homes, a wee scab wouldn’t signify in the scheme of things.

If the kids scratched, well, weren’t wee boys always groping their privates? And if they did blab, who in hell was going to believe them? His lips curved into a malignant grin.

The tip of the implement glowed red.

Fatboy turned on the cold tap.

He flicked a few drops of water onto the device. It steamed and spat.

Ev-il. His lips curved into a smile.

He’d slipped a fair old dose into wee Kyle’s juice. The kid would be fast asleep by now. Wouldn’t feel a thing.

Fatboy dropped his new toy into an empty mug and walked through to the bedroom. Kyle lay curled on Kym’s disordered bed, one grubby thumb stuck in his mouth.

Fatboy’s mouth filled with saliva.

It was time to try out his new toy.

The doorbell rang.

Christ! Fatboy jolted upright.

The bell rang again.

“Fatboy?” It sounded like Ryan’s voice. “Ah’m needin’ Kyle.”

Fatboy looked at the sleeping child. He looked at his watch.

“You’re too early,” he shouted.

“Ah ken.”

“Come back later, then.”

“Ah canna.”

“Why not?”

“Ah’m in a hurry. We’ve tae be somewhere.”

Crammed

“Far we gaun, Miss?”

Maggie sat in the front seat of her car, Willie Meston hunched beside her. Behind, four small figures were crammed into the back.

She’d picked the boys up outside the entrance to Codona’s for, much to her astonishment, Willie had turned up, gang in tow.

The funfair was in full swing, the illuminated metal archway over its entrance proclaiming “Sunset Boulevard” in buttercup-yellow letters. In the background, the Big Wheel loomed.

Beyond that, Maggie could make out the elegant silhouette of Marischal College and the stolid bulk of Police Scotland Aberdeen Headquarters.

Music was belting out from the fairground, the cacophony punctuated by the occasional excited scream.

She looked around. There were knots of people sitting at the pavement tables outside The Washington Café and The Inversnecky, a sandwich board on the wide pavement proclaiming “Hot Dogs to go”.

“Just looking for a place to park, Lewis,” she turned, smiling. She looked out to sea.

The lighthouse at Nigg Point winked relentlessly. In the opposite direction, lumbering oil barges waited for berths.

Maggie started the engine. Sticking to a low gear, she crawled along the Esplanade in the direction of Seaton.

Authority

After about a quarter of a mile, she pulled over and sat in plain sight by the sea.

“Right,” she said in a voice that carried real authority, “who’s going to go first?”

She glanced in her rear-view mirror.

In place of the usual show of eager hands, she was met by a row of bent heads.

Maggie turned her attention to Willie.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” she asked the boy.

He fixed his eyes on the windscreen. “Naw.” “Don’t you think you’d better?”

Willie’s head swung round, “What’s it tae you?” Maggie took a deep breath. “Nothing. Not directly. It’s just, if you go on like this, dealing drugs in the tower blocks, you’ll…”

“Ah wisna,” the words shot out of Willie’s mouth. “Willie, as I told you earlier, I’ve seen you with my own eyes, letting the druggies in and out then running over to Esplanade Court.”

Willie’s mouth set. “Ah wis pickin’ up Kyle.” “That’s where your supplier stays, isn’t it?” Maggie was fishing now.

“Nane o’ your business.” With a show of bravado, Willie turned to his back-seat audience. “Skelly cow.” From the rear there was a titter, swifty stifled. Skelly. That word again. Maggie knew fine well they were only kids, but still, it stung.

More on Monday.

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