Maggie’s voice betrayed her fear. “Good, innit?” Fatboy waved the implement under her nose

Kym took another couple of swallows. Set the bottle down. Ferreted in her bag. Now she had a drink in her, a fag seemed like a good idea. She burrowed some more. No joy. She must have left them in the kitchen that last time she’d had a smoke. “Got a fag on you?” She accosted a student taking a shortcut through to the High Street. “No. Sorry.” “Cadge a fag?” She tried again.

“Sorry. Don’t smoke.”

“What you lookin’ at?” She waved the vodka bottle at a young girl. The girl ducked her chin and upped her pace.

Kym screwed the cap on tight and stuck the bottle back in her bag. She’d better move.

That last time Kym had used the place, she’d fallen asleep. Come close to being had up for drunk and disorderly by the community bobby.

She hauled herself to her feet and retraced her steps in the direction of the Chanonry.

It was a fine day. She’d be sure to find a quiet corner in Seaton Park.

Sheltered

Kym slumped on a park bench. She’d found a sheltered spot, not far from the gates and just over the wall from St Machar Cathedral.

In the half hour she’d been sitting there, she’d hardly seen a soul.

It was a different world, she reflected, up here on the other side of King Street: the high stone walls, the muckle great houses with their fancy curtains, the big gardens, not to mention the garages full of flash cars. So close to Seaton, and yet…

She looked around. The park was quiet, green. Small birds chirped in the trees.

Not like Seaton, where sodding great seagulls would nick the fish supper out your hand.

She’d polished off the half bottle of vodka in no time. Kym wondered if she had enough left in her purse to buy a wee carry out on the way home.

She had no idea what time it was. She’d been that chuffed to get out of the house, she hadn’t thought to pick up her phone.

Kym closed her eyes. She thought fleetingly of the kids – her own and the others – back in Esplanade Court.

Smiled contentedly. They’d be fine with Fatboy. She could sit at peace. Her head fell forward onto her chest.

As darkness descended on Seaton Park, Kym slept on, undisturbed.

Maggie’s eyes fluttered open. She was slumped on a sofa in a strange room. She ran a furred tongue over her lips. They were cracked and dry. She tried to cough, moisten her mouth, but her throat was burning.

She brought her hands to her neck. It felt sore, as if someone had… And then she remembered.

Painfully, she turned her head. Fatboy was sitting in a chair. He threw her the evils. Maggie’s body quaked. Her brain worked overtime. She’d have to formulate a plan. And fast. Even so, she wondered if she’d get out of there alive.

Events overtook her. “What’s that smell?” she squeaked. Fatboy leapt up. Shot through to the kitchen.

Maggie struggled to her feet. Fight or flight? For a split second, she weighed whether to make a dash for the door or persevere in her mission. She walked unsteadily towards the kitchen.

Betrayed

Fatboy was standing by the cooker, his back to her. The big lad turned. In one pudgy hand, he held a tool. A screwdriver, she thought at first, then her eyes were drawn to the steel shaft. It ended not in a spatula shape or in a point. This object culminated in a tiny, glowing cross.

Fatboy extended his arm. “What the hell is that?” Maggie’s voice betrayed her fear. “Good, innit?” Fatboy waved the implement under her nose.

She could smell the gas. See the glowing metal. Feel her facial hair singe. Don’t panic! She drew a breath. Tried to lighten the moment.

“Interesting,” she responded with a feeble smile. Fatboy advanced towards her. A grin suffused his face. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked in a deceptively pleasant voice.

“Police!” Someone was hammering on the door. Fatboy started.

Maggie stood rooted to the spot, the hairs standing up on the back of her neck, Fatboy’s hand with its seething cargo hovering inches from her face.

“Open up.” Urgent shout. “Or we’ll break the door down.” Fatboy’s pupils dilated.

“Put the thing down,” Maggie pleaded.

For just a moment, the hand wavered.

There was a crack. Closely followed by another. Then a third.

The door came crashing in.

“Please?”

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall.

The hand hung in the air, the object so close now that Maggie could feel her cheek hair singe.

A swarm of police officers in visored helmets filled the small space.

Swiftly, Fatboy turned. He set the implement down.

Encouraged

“Do you understand why you’re here?” Brian Burnett leaned towards the small boy. Lewis darted a sideways look at his mother. “It’s tae dae wi’ the quine at St Machar.”

“That’s right,” Brian replied. “But before I ask you about that, Lewis, can I just make sure we’re talking about the right person?” He slid a photograph towards the boy.

“Can you look at this picture for me? Is this the girl you came across in the kirkyard?”

Head bowed, Lewis studied the photograph. He looked up. “Aye. Only…” his brow creased, “she wisna smilin’.”

Brian straightened in his seat. “Yes, well, we’ll come back to that. But first, Lewis, can you tell me if anyone was with you when you found the girl?”

“Naw.”

“No one at all?”

“Naw.” Lewis scratched his shaven head. “No’ at first, onywye.” “Go on,” Brian encouraged.

“We wis playin’ in the den. Ah took the huff, so ah went in the kirkyard tae hiv a nosy. Ah fun’ the quine. She wis lyin’ on the grun, deid.”

“I want you to think carefully now, Lewis. What made you think the girl was dead?”

“She wisna movin’, like.”

“But…”

Lewis jutted his lower lip. “Ah kent she wis deid cos Willie said so.”

“How would that wee…?” Lewis’s mum broke in. She was a large woman, pendulous breasts meeting the folds of her belly. She was clad in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, dishevelled hair framing a face filled with anger and embarrassment.

“Mrs Mchardy,” Brian intervened, “may I remind you that, in your capacity as appropriate adult, you are not permitted to speak.”

The woman’s face seemed to fall in on itself. Inwardly, Brian sighed. Maybe he’d come on a bit strong. “OK, Lewis,” he said quietly. “Carry on. Willie said Lucy was dead. But…” he jotted a note on his pad, “you’ve just told me you were on your own.”

“Aye, mister, ah wis. But then the ithers came lookin’ fur me.”

“Oh, OK. So then what did you do?”

“We did a runner.”

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.