Having some random kid come knocking at his door definitely hadn’t been one of his better ideas

Wilma eyed the figure standing in front of her. In the rain-shrouded glow of a single street lamp she could make out an emaciated young woman. Seemingly impervious to the weather, she was clad in a skimpy vest top and sawn-off denim shorts. “Ye’re on ma pitch.” A flash of bad teeth.

Wilma squared up. “Then how come ye’re no on it yersel.”

“Ah’ve been…” The girl, who couldn’t have been more than 20 but looked close to 50 grinned, “otherwise engaged. Now,” she leered, “wull ye kindly leave?”

“Sure thing,” Wilma tugged at the hem of her skirt. “If ye’ll give me twa meenits o’ yer valuable time.” “Aye?” Suspicious look.

“Ye widna hae come across a guy doon here name o’ John Cowie?”

“Ur kiddin me?” She struck a pose. “My name’s John Cowie. How do you do? Punters dinna bother wi’ foreplay.”

“Fair dos.” Wilma could have swallowed her tongue whole. “But this guy’s big built. Red hair. Drives a Beemer.”

“Half of them drive Beemers.”

Unusual

“This one has an unusual ornament on the dash: a geisha that nods her head when the car’s in motion. The girl frowned. “Might have.”

“And just say you did,” Wilma pressed her advantage, “would you be able to pin down a date or a time?”

“Wha’s askin’?” The girl stepped back two paces. “Ye’re no the filth, are ye?”

“No,” Wilma rushed to reassure her. “Nothing like that.” She palmed a £20 note. “Would this jog your memory?” The girl opened her fist. Held the note up to the light. “Naw.”

Seeing her profit margin squeezed by the minute, Wilma proffered another note.

An arm shot out. A hand stuffed the notes down the front of a push-up bra. “Fella comes doon most Thursdays.”

“What time?”

“Nineish, I’d say. But…”

“Bit o’ bother, Savannah?” A male voice rang out from the end of the alleyway. “Naw. Ah’m done here.” Sharpish, Savannah turned away. Wilma grabbed hold of her arm. “You were about to say?” The girl shrugged. “Naethin.”

“Just one more thing. Would you be willing to put yer name to what you’ve just told me?” Suspicious look. “How, like?”

“Witness statement.”

“Thocht ye said ye were no the filth.”

“Ah’m no.” Hastily, Wilma crossed herself. “Cross ma heart an hope tae die.”

“Then what are ye up tae?”

“Just makin’ a few enquiries. Discreet, like.” “Aye…that’ll be right.”

“So will ye?” Through the thickening rain, Wilma projected a full-on smile. “Put yer name tae it?”

Savannah offered a lopsided grin. “Nae chance.”

The Beach Boulevard

Fatboy lay sprawled on the bed, his mind buzzing with what he’d just seen on the computer screen: images more graphic than anything he’d managed to source thus far.

Every nerve end in his body tingled. He wished he could light up a fag, smoke some weed, swallow a couple of moggies, anything to relax. But the walls were paper thin and the smoke alarms would go mad.

Fatboy had already got grief from upstairs for setting them off. He could get up, but he couldn’t be bothered going outside. He diverted himself by totting up the spliffs he’d smoked.

And after that the tablets he’d popped, the amyl nitrate and the wraps and… No. He’d have to do something about those smoke alarms.

Fatboy propped himself up on his elbows. He looked around. The room was a tip: empty beer bottles, crushed Coke cans, socks and boxers and T-shirts strewn all over the floor.

The air was thick, stale with the smell of sweat and unwashed bedclothes. A midden! Still, Fatboy smirked, it was his midden. It had been a good move, getting his folks to set him up in a place of his own.

Fatboy was well out of it. He hardly knew his old man, these days. As for his mother, she wasn’t the same woman. It hadn’t always been so. He closed his eyes. Let his mind drift back to his childhood, that happy time when he could still command his mother’s attention.

The doorbell shattered the silence. Fatboy pricked his ears. There wasn’t a sound from the landing. There was another ring at the door. “Christ,” he exclaimed. Who could it be? Wouldn’t be his folks. Fatboy didn’t encourage social calls at his flat on the Beach Boulevard, and he’d messed up big time that last occasion he went home.

Wouldn’t be a delivery. He snorted. He’d plenty supplies to see him through. “Fatboy?” Thin voice. “You there?”

“Fatboy?” The voice again, louder this time. Fatboy muttered under his breath. Sounded like that wee kid from Seaton. He raised his head off the pillow, rolled off the bed. Crossed the hallway. He squinted through the peephole.

Lewis stood on the doorstep. He cursed inwardly. Served him right for playing the big man. It had been too tempting: Willie Meston serving him up a daftie on a plate. But the minute he’d extended the invitation, Fatboy regretted opening his big mouth.

He’d got a frightener on the Castlegate that last time. Knew he’d need to duck out of sight. And it had been working out so well. Kym’s flat might be a dump, but Fatboy wouldn’t be fingered there. So what had possessed him to hand out his address?

Interesting

No, having some random kid come knocking at his door definitely hadn’t been one of his better ideas. Even if no harm came of it, when he’d said swing by sometime he hadn’t meant the next week.

Still, it’s not as if he had anything on. And now the kid was here. Fatboy unlocked the door. He grinned. “It’s yourself, wee man. Come away in.”

Fatboy sat in front of his computer, Lewis perched on a stool by his side. For a solid hour, he’d been clicking in and out of porn sites.

“What d’you think, then?” He turned to Lewis, a satisfied smile on his face.

The boy shrugged. “Dunno.”

“What’s up?”

Eyes averted. “Naethin’.”

“You can tell me. It’s OK.”

Lewis fidgeted on his stool. “They’re a’ the same, they things.”

Fatboy frowned. “You’re right enough, kid. Come to think on it, I’m sick of it an all,” he rolled his eyes. “Same moves, same set pieces. Let’s see if I can find you something more interesting.”

He typed a couple of words into Google. “Oh, here’s a good one,” he opened another link. Threw Lewis a lascivious look. “What are you saying to it?” he leered.

The lad stifled a yawn. “That’s nothing,” Fatboy clicked his mouse. Fatboy turned to Lewis. “That more to your taste, eh, kid?”

Lewis sat, blank-faced. “Naw.” “Fancy something to eat?” “Such as?”

“Coke? Crisps?” Lewis swung his legs. “OK.” Fatboy stood up.

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.

By Claire MacLeary