Cross Purpose: Episode 48

“Let’s concentrate our efforts on finding that phone. Find out if anyone has acquired a fancy new mobile recently

The inspector cast his eyes round the room. “Do we have any idea what Lucy Simmons was doing in St Machar graveyard in the first place? “If she’d taken a short-cut from Hillhead through Seaton Park, she’d have come out the main park gates and gone straight down the Chanonry to St Machar Drive,” he commented.

“So, given that her body was found at the far end of the kirkyard, my guess is she went in there on purpose.”

“I think it’s connected to the notebook and pencil.” This from Susan. “We know Lucy was artistic. Interested in history. Maybe she wanted to do some research.

“Write something down. Draw something, even,” she broke off. “You know… like people do brassrubbings and stuff.”

“Right…” Douglas jumped in. “And then she took a turn…”

“At the tender age of 17. Dinna be daft, laddie,” Dave Wood interjected. “More like some evil bastard duffed her up.”

“We don’t have any hard evidence for that,” Chisolm intervened. “Not until Forensics can find a match for the injury to her skull.”

“And how long will that take?” Dunn this time.

Patient

“I’m afraid we’ll all have to be patient on that front,” the DI responded. “I’m leaning hard on Forensics as it is.”

“But what about the mobile, sir?” Wood protested. “She could have been mugged for that. Followed out of Seaton Park and…”

“That doesn’t square.” Susan said her piece. “What about the jeans? And the cross inside her? What sort of mugger does that to a young girl?”

There was a bit of eye-rolling around the table. “Where does that leave us, then?” Wood asked. The inspector furrowed his brow. “Waiting – still – for Sergeant Duffy to appear. In the meantime, Dunn, Elrick,” Chisolm closed the folder on the table in front of him, “let’s concentrate our efforts on finding that phone.

“Find out if anyone has acquired a fancy new mobile recently. All of you, check with your sources, ask around in the pubs.

“That phone may well hold the key to Lucy’s death. Anything further?”

The inspector looked round the table. “There’s just one more thing, sir,” Brian said. “Melissa, the flatmate from Hillhead, mentioned Lucy had a bit of a crush – ‘pash’ was the word she used – on one of her tutors.

“Turns out the art history tutor is dark-haired and fortyish, which loosely fits the description of the guy who was seen loitering in the Chanonry.

“I’ve established that he goes by the name of Guy Plumley. Married with four kids. Lives just around the corner in Don Street.”

“Christ Almighty,” Chisolm’s complexion flushed from puce to pink and then purple.

“We’ve got a university student dead in St Machar graveyard, a tutor she had the hots for living round the corner, and a suspect fitting said tutor’s description seen loitering in the Chanonry. Am I correct, Burnett?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it’s taken you till now to flag up a connection?” Desperately, Brian cast around the table. The others sat slouched.

Douglas ran his fingers through his carefully gelled hair. Susan wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I did try to get hold of him, sir… ” Brian had delegated the job, but there was no way he was going to land her in it.

“But turns out he’s a slippery character. Bit difficult to pin down.”

“I’ll give you difficult,” the inspector seethed. “Get someone down there.

“Have them ask this lover boy tutor to come in for a chat. But Burnett…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Kid gloves, please. We wouldn’t want to go rubbing the university up the wrong way. And Burnett…”

“Sir.”

“No leaks. And that goes for the rest of you. It’s vital we keep control of the flow of information.”

Movement

“What the blazes are they doing in there?” Maggie smothered a huge yawn.

It had been over two hours now since she’d photographed the man entering the house and there had been no sign of movement since then in the upstairs bedroom.

She prayed they weren’t dug in in front of the television or, God forbid, having a romantic supper.

And where was his car? He must have parked round the corner, she surmised. The new estate of swanky detached houses wasn’t yet on any bus route.

She cast a glance at the estate agency brochures which graced the car’s front sill.

These would be her raison d’etre, should her prolonged presence on this quiet road be remarked.

Maggie sneaked a nibble of the cereal bar she kept in the glove compartment for such occasions.

She didn’t dare follow it up with a swig of water from the bottle in the central console.

She’d been bursting for a wee for the past hour. She chewed resolutely, making the mouthful last, but the sticky slivers of cereal only stuck to her mouth.

Maggie experienced a sudden twinge of conscience.

It was the second time that week she’d had to leave Colin a microwave meal.

Resolved

She’d clock the guy’s car on the way home, she resolved.

Maggie had noted the make, colour and registration number that last time, when the pair had met for a quick lunchtime smooch at Hazelhead.

She sighed heavily. They were such a thankless slog, these divorce cases.

Hours of dogged observation. And for what? Getting divorced was far too easy, in Maggie’s opinion.

Time was, you made your bed you lay on it. Then again – she thought of Wilma – there were no winners, she knew. Still, needs must.

She reclined the seat a fraction, stretched her legs, rotated her ankles in turn.

The sky was fading to flannel grey and Maggie nodding off when a light snapped on in an upstairs room.

She lunged for her camera, just in time to catch a female figure draw the curtains.

She fancied she could make out the shape of a man standing behind, his arms encircling the woman’s waist.

Didn’t matter, she thought, as she clicked furiously. If they were upstairs for long enough…

She settled down to wait.

More tomorrow.