A Taste for Malice (21 page)

‘I wish I had my camera with me. You guys look so excited,’ Liz says and touches both boys lightly on the chest. For the briefest of moments she holds a hand over each boy’s heart. They glow with the warmth of their mother’s obvious affection.

I’m feeling like a spare part and decide it is time I left. Then I remember the digital camera Alessandra and I used to take photographs of the various Lucys who worked at the Southern General. It must still be in the glove box of my car.

‘Liz,’ I say. ‘There’s something in my car I’d like you to have a look at.’

‘OK,’ she replies with a question in her expression.

‘Anybody want to come for a walk to my car with me?’ I ask the boys. Dan looks at me while moving even closer to his mother. He has had more than enough excitement for the day, thank you very much.

‘Me,’ Pete sticks his left hand up as if in school.

‘It’s a camera,’ I say to Liz. ‘It has photos you might be interested in.’

Pete and I walk out of the café and out towards the car park. He takes my hand automatically and all the way keeps up a stream of chatter. He talks about the animals he’s seen and the weapons on display. He refers to Dan constantly. Every boy should have a hero and it seems especially worthy that it should be his brother.

‘He’s a good brother to you, isn’t he?’ I say.

Pete nods. He’s my big brother, why shouldn’t he be a good one, the nod tells me.

‘I’m sorry I made you guys cry. I just want to know more about this woman before she hurts other kids.’

‘She’s mean,’ says Pete. ‘Horrible.’ His delicate features are scrunched up with the memory. ‘She should be …’ he stamps his feet as he walks, not quite sure what punishment she deserves. ‘She should be hurt.’

‘Believe me, one day she will be, wee man. But first we have to find her.’ I aim a smile at him. ‘Did she ever take you guys out anywhere? Did she ever do anything nice with you?’ I am wondering how she managed to make both boys keep their mouths shut for so long. The threat of violence could only do so much. Unless that threat didn’t materialize until she had first won their trust.

We’ve reached the car and we stop walking. I reach into my pocket for the car keys.

‘Dunno,’ Pete says. ‘The park round the corner.’ He shrugs. ‘Watched cartoons. She told scary stories.’

‘Do you remember any of the stories?’ I ask. I wonder if the stories were one of the ways she kept the boys in line.

‘Some bad boys did some bad things and got punished. There was one about pirates and goblins.’ He shivers dramatically, playing to his audience of one.

‘Yeah?’

He launches into a story, his eyes big with excitement. The stories become safe in the re-telling, here in this most public of places, and to me a policeman. In the telling of them, Pete becomes something more and be less affected by them. And as he does so I could see the fear fade away.

He is talking about a castle, some caves below it and a secret cottage with one hundred and forty one steps down to the shore. He struggles with the name of the path. Calls it the snuggels path. I take in the all of the images he has used and translate.

‘The Smuggler’s Path?’ I ask. He looks at me as if to ask, is that not what I just said? While he continues talking I reach into the glove box and remove the camera.

‘Pete,’ I crouch down to his height. ‘Did the woman hurt Dan’s leg?’

He bites his bottom lip and gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head. ‘She said to say he fell down the stairs.’

‘But she did it?’

Another nod.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

‘She wanted Dan to push me down the stairs. Said it would be funny.’

I pull a memory of their house into my mind. The stairs were wide and carpeted, but steep. The soft bones of a child would easily fracture in that fall.

‘But he wouldn’t do it?’

Oh, Dan. I realize my teeth are clenched in anger.

‘So what did she do to his leg?’

‘She said a bad word. Lots of bad words.’

‘You don’t use those bad words, do you?’

His face is a portrait of saintliness as he moves his head from side to side.

‘What about his leg?’

‘Kicked it,’ says Pete. His face screws tight with defiance. He is going to tell the truth and he doesn’t care if Dan is annoyed with him.

‘Can you show me where?’

Pete points at my knee and then sucks in his top lip as if this was an inadequate description. Then he stands by my side and makes a motion with his arm towards my leg. Next he places his hand on the side of my knee. I can feel the heat of his anger transfer from the skin of his hand through the fabric of my trousers.

‘She kicked him there. Really hard.’ He puts a hand to his mouth and talks behind it. ‘And she pushed him down the stairs.’

I tried to imagine the event. Dan trying to protect his brother. Hepburn screaming at him, cursing him, telling him all kinds of horrible things trying to provoke a reaction. Only Dan refused. Pete was his brother. Most kids, some adults for that matter would have bowed under such pressure. What made Dan different? Did his mother’s condition force a level of maturity on to those slim shoulders?

Then Hepburn would have to come good with the threat or the screaming and shouting was all for nothing. I considered the blow she gave the boy. Was it the product of deliberation or an impromptu strike? Whatever it was it was one that would cause maximum damage. A blow to the side of the knee like that could possibly cause ligament, muscle and bone damage. What’s certain is that it would cause a lot of hurt and would take a long time to heal in a child, if ever. For her it would mean minimum effort, maximum pain.

Except on that occasion her plan didn’t work. No longterm damage. So she throws him down the stairs.

I ruffle Pete’s head. ‘You have one brave brother there, wee man.’

His smile wipes away the look of worry on his face.

‘You did the right thing, Pete. We need to know what this woman is capable of. She’s very clever and we are only going to catch her with the help of brave little soldiers like you and Dan.’

I realize that this last sentence might sound a little patronizing, so I squeeze his shoulder with my right hand. An act that may be viewed as equally patronizing. Jeez, talking to kids is difficult.

‘Let’s go back to your mum.’

Back in the café I hand the camera to Liz.

‘Do you recognize any of these women?’ I ask her, once she has received a hug from Pete. She eyes me over his head and takes the camera from my hand. ‘Scroll through the images and tell me if anyone jumps out at you.’

She shakes her head slowly as she does so. ‘Should I know them? Who are these women?’

‘We don’t have any pictures of Hepburn. On a hunch I got some women photographed.’

‘Judging from their clothing these women work in one of the local hospitals?’

I nod.

She continues to shake her head as she scrolls through the photographs. ‘Sorry, Ray. None of these women are her.’ She hands the camera back to me. ‘Sorry.’

‘It was the Southern General she worked, wasn’t it?’ I ask.

‘That’s what she said.’

‘It’s what someone else told us as well.’

‘Ooh?’ She sits forward. ‘Do you have a witness? Is there another family you know of?’

‘It was Mrs Hogg. The woman who introduced her to you.’

‘Oh, her,’ she sat back and pulled her lips into thin threads. ‘Remind me to thank her next time I see her.’ She sighs. ‘Hepburn could be anywhere. She could have worked in any one of the city hospitals. Why on earth would she tell the truth about that?’

‘Can we go home now, Mum,’ says Dan. ‘I’m bored.’

‘Me too,’ Pete borrows a pout from his brother.

‘In a minute, boys,’ Liz answers. ‘What did you make of Mrs Hogg? Do you think she knows more than she is letting on?’

I shrug. ‘How well do you know her?’

‘Don’t worry about offending me if that’s why you ask,’ she smiles. ‘As well as being a patient of mine I used to come across her at charity events. I always found her to be …how do I put this without sounding like a bitch?’ She scratches the side of her face. ‘Nice but touched.’

I nod. ‘Sounds about right.’

‘Do you know any of her friends? Are there any other people who might know more about her?’

‘Possibly,’ she screws her mouth to the side as she thinks. ‘Patricia Conroy. She’s with the local MS fund - raising committee. She’s had more dealings with our Mrs Hogg than I have.’

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ Moira’s voice coming up from behind him set Jim’s skin prickling with fright. After waking up to see Moira looking over him and Ben, he was standing out in the back garden looking up at the dark swathe of sky.

‘Sorry, did I give you a fright?’ She asked. She was wearing one of his jackets over her nightclothes and her arms were crossed over her breasts against the autumn chill. Her fingers were barely visible at the end of the length of sleeve as she swept a strand of hair from her eyes.

Jim shivered as if Moira wearing a jacket had just reminded him of the chill. He was still wearing the shirt he had on to work that day. The only concession he had made to coming home was to open the top three buttons. She was standing too close to him, so Jim took a step away and returned his view to the sky.

‘You should be sleeping,’ he said.

‘I lost my son today,’ she replied. ‘Sleep isn’t on the agenda.’ Her gaze followed his and in silence they both looked up at the blue-black of the sky.

A cat wailed in the distance. Or could it have been a child? Moira shivered and stepped closer to Jim. Thinking it would be rude to move too soon, Jim took a count of twenty and then increased the space between them.

She coughed. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was weak, sounded like it travelled between the earth and the clouds before reaching his ears.

‘It’s nothing,’ Jim shrugged, suddenly feeling bone weary.

‘It’s a good deal more than nothing,’ Moira looked up into his eyes. From the way she then set her gaze to her feet Jim was able to see how much this was costing her. She cleared emotion from her throat with a cough. ‘A woman you barely know is having a horrible time and without a quibble you offer her your home.’

‘Yeah,’ he managed a smile. ‘Didn’t know I had it in me.’

‘You really are a lovely man, Jim Hilton.’

‘I have my moments,’ he said and looked at her as if for the first time. The curve of her eyes, the line of her nose, the swell of her lips. Then he considered who she was. The sudden shift in her mood when he found her staring at him and Ben. What did they really know about this woman they had let into their lives?

‘Tell me about Angela,’ she said. ‘I only knew her for a brief time before the accident. Barely got to know her, other than as a mother.’

There was something about the way she asked the question, something about the night air and the quality of the silvery light that made Jim cast aside that part of his masculinity that demanded he suffer in silence and want to talk. He was just as important as Angela, wasn’t he? Didn’t he need an understanding ear?

‘She was a clever woman. Full of ideas and energy. She loved her job. Loved helping people,’ Jim spoke up to the stars.

‘You really love her, don’t you?’

Jim nodded. ‘It is so difficult to see the woman that she has become. He made a grimace at Moira. ‘Sorry. It must be the moonlight, making me go all ... ’

She stepped forward and put a hand on his bare skin, where neck stretched into chest. Just below the curve and junction of his clavicle, just above his heart.

‘If I can do anything...
Anything
. Let me know.’

When I am back at the flat I change into my running gear. In the car on the way home I promised myself that I would make better choices. To start with immediate effect.

I run up the Saltmarket and then up the hill to the Cathedral and the Necropolis. When I get there I am panting like a labrador who’s been left inside a car on a hot day. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. A ninety-year-old someone else. Just six months ago I could have kept running all the way up to the John Knox memorial without a problem. Today it might as well be Everest. So I turn and make my way back home.

There’s something on the floor behind the door when I arrive back at the flat. I bend down to pick it up. It’s a book. It has a blue cove with some red writing on the cover. It’s called
Happiness
. I turn it over and read the blurb on the back. The author is a Buddhist monk and his schtick is that happiness is a skill that we can learn.

Only one person would have thought to leave this: Maggie. She must have arrived when I was out for my run. With my heart beating a little harder I move through to the front room and look out the window to the left and the right. No sign of her.

Did she wait for me to leave before posting it through the letter box? I throw the book on the sofa. I’ll get round to reading it sometime.

A quick shower, shave and a change of clothes and I’m ready for action. The book and Maggie posted to the back of my mind. I have a sick woman to find. Something tells me that our Mrs Hogg knows more than she’s telling me, but before I pay her another visit I’ll speak to her friend Patricia Conroy.

Mrs Conroy lives in a modest mid-terraced ex-local authority house in the west of the city. Her small front garden consists of a square patch of grass bordered by rows of blue and white flowers.

A trellis is placed to the right of her front door and wears an explosion of large purple flowers.

The door opens before I can reach it and a tall, severely thin woman smiles as she invites me into her home. She appears to be in her mid-fifties, has a short blond bob and is wearing a bright red dress, covered in yellow flowers. She is all cheekbones and chin. The line of her hipbones can be seen under the sheer material of her dress.

‘Okay, officer,’ her face is large with a tight smile. ‘What can I do for you?’ She is sitting facing me, back as straight as an army sergeant’s, legs crossed and curiosity bright in her expression.

I explain that I am in the middle of an ongoing enquiry about which I can’t give her too many details, but any information she could give me would be very helpful.