Dammit! Maggie cursed inwardly. This was her big opportunity... to beard the man

Tickle, tickle,” Fatboy’s fingers caught Kyle under his arms. “Stop it,” the wee boy squirmed. The fingers were behind his knees now. Kyle scrambled off the bed and made a dash for the door. “Gotcha,” Fatboy grabbed him and wrestled him back on to the bedclothes. He tickled the soles of Kyle’s feet.

Fatboy hadn’t tried this on with any of the girls yet. It might only be a bit of slap and tickle, but even the littlest of the wee lassies that came in Kym’s house looked old beyond her years, way too streetwise for him to engage with. Not that he was a pervert. Still, he’d resolved to keep his recreational activities strictly to the boys.

Kyle was beginning to look bored, but Fatboy was having a whale of a time. “Do you give in yet?” he demanded.

“Give in,” Kyle lay panting, for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. He rolled over towards Fatboy. “My turn now.”

The wee lad’s eyelids were beginning to droop. Fatboy drew the soiled bedcovers up. Gently, he tucked them around the little boy. Fatboy closed his eyes. He lay there for some minutes, then he inhaled deeply and let his breath out in a slow stream.

There was a clatter from the next room. The kids were getting bored. He’d better make a move. And besides… He took a squint at his watch. It wouldn’t be long before Kym was back. And he wouldn’t want to arouse the girl’s suspicions. Wasn’t the whole point of using her place to keep him out of trouble?

Fatboy grinned. He didn’t know what he was worrying about. Kym was usually well out of it by the time she got back.

All the same, even an alky like her must have the odd lucid moment.

There was no point in pushing his luck.

Small talk

Brannigan

“Mind if I join you?”

The man looked up. He was small, hair slicked back off a bony face, shirt collar too big for his neck. “Wha’s askin?”

“Maggie Laird.” Get yourself installed. She dropped on to the seat opposite. Smiled politely. “How do you do?”

The wee man regarded Maggie, eyes flicking back and forth between her own. They settled, finally, on her forehead. “Nane o’ your business how ah’m daein.”

Make small talk. “They tell me you’re a regular here.” “They? Who’s “they”?”

Be circumspect. “Friends of yours.”

“What friends?”

Establish a connection. “In the Drouthy Duck.” Oh, hell, you shouldn’t have let that out.

“Ach,” the man spat, “ye dinna want tae listen tae a load o’ ex-cons.”

“No?” In for a penny. “Aren’t you one yourself?” He threw her an evil look.

Dammit! Maggie cursed inwardly. This was her big opportunity, maybe her only opportunity, to beard the man. She’d been cock-a-hoop when, finally, she pinned down the pub that Brannigan habituated. And yet, in spite of all she’d read, the careful pre-planning that had preceded this meeting, there she went again, going for the jugular.

She regrouped. “Mr Brannigan, isn’t it?” “Wha telt ye ma name? These friends again?” Maggie nodded.

“The reason I’m here is…” she paused. Brannigan eyed her warily.

Keep it vague. “I wanted to ask you something.” “An ah want tae drink ma pint in peace,” Brannigan drained his glass and set it down with a clatter.

Maggie eyed the empty glass. “Maybe I could get you another?”

“Pint of heavy. Don’t mind if you do.”

Questions

“As I was saying…”

Brannigan took a deep slurp of his beer. “Ye said ye wanted tae ask me somethin,” he rolled his eyes. “Ask away.”

Oh, well, too late now. She took a deep breath. “Do you remember a drugs trial?”

“Trial?” Brannigan studied his pint. “Naw.” “You sure?”

He shrugged. “There’s trials every day o’ the week.” “This one was special. Judge threw it out.” Brannigan cocked his head. “That right?” “You know it is.”

The man’s lip curled. “What if ah dae?” “Thought you might,” Maggie continued. “Seeing as you were the star witness.”

“Star?” Brannigan sneered. “Aye, that’ll be right.” “In fact, it was your evidence, was it not, that brought the thing down?”

“Ye’re talkin through a hole in yer heid,” Brannigan sneered. “Case got thrown out fair an square.”

“Fair and square?” Maggie’s hackles rose. “Is that what you call it? Lying in the witness box? Wrecking people’s lives?” “Now, come oan. You accusin me o’ perjury?” “Yes,” she leaned across the table. Brannigan took a swill of his beer. “What aboot thon tape?”

“The one that was turned off?”

“Aye. In the interview room.”

“I know all about that. It’s you I’m asking.” “Sae what if it wis ma test-i-mony?”

Consequences

Maggie lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose you gave a moment’s thought to the consequences?” “Such as?”

“The effect the outcome of your testimony had on their careers, their families, their lives?” “What’s it tae you?”

“My husband was one of those officers.” “Aye?”

“George Laird.”

“Thon sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“How wid ah care fur ony o’ them?” “Because he’s dead,” Maggie said. “Heart attack.” “Naethin tae dae wi me, missus. It’s no as if ah hit him ower the heid wi a hammer.”

Her eyes blazed. “You might as well have because it was the stress of the whole thing that killed him.”

“Well, ye can get lost oot o’ here,” Brannigan made to rise.

“Hold on.” Maggie changed tack. A confrontation was precisely what she’d been hoping to avoid. Brannigan sat back in his seat.

“You got kids?”

“Four,” he fingered his glass.

“So you’ll know…”

“Ah dinna see them. Ah’m divorced.”

“I’ve got two myself. Their dad’s death has affected them badly.”

Brannigan shrugged. “Happens.”

“I was hoping you’d be able to help.”

“Me? How?”

“By owning up.”

Brannigan guffawed. “Put ma hauns up tae fingerin the filth? Ye’re aff yer heid.”

“A man’s dead. And if you had any decency…” Bobby Brannigan bared a mouthful of bad teeth. “Well, ah’ve a wee suggestion fur ye.” “What’s that?” Maggie leaned forward.

“Ye can dae the decent thing an f*** aff.”