A Taste for Malice (39 page)

They met at the hospital Maxwell told me. They must have recognised something about the other on a purely subliminal level. I imagine they might have shared a few past horror stories; all men are bastards, that kind of thing. For most women that is enough, the act of venting sufficient to ward off their antipathy and allow them time to find something redeemable about the men in their lives.

Not Maxwell and Shearer. They find the energy from their past to take it on to the next level, but like all true bullies they don’t address their fears, they decide to go to work on someone weaker than them. Someone that can give them the power they so badly need.

‘Are you not pissed off that Shearer made it to Ben before you did?’ I asked her.

‘Nah,’ she shook her head. I couldn’t help feeling amazed at the transformation in her since she told us the truth. Whoever scripted the adage about the truth setting you free, I don’t think this was quite what they had in mind. ‘At first I was furious, I mean this was mine. Jim Hilton was the catalyst for my …’ she made a motion in the air with her hand as if searching for the right word, ‘mission? But it made sense, kind of. After all, Moira wouldn’t be who she is without me and I get the revenge without having to spend the rest of my natural being gang-banged by a lesbian cell-mate and her pals.

‘Besides, she’s always had a thing about Troon. Spent the best summer of her life here.’ She smiled. ‘Meeting the Hiltons gave her the excuse for a wee trip down memory lane.’ She paused, took a deep breath and affected a face of concern. ‘My only worry is how far Moira’s going to take it. I mean what’s the point in teaching the next generation a lesson if they are not going to be functional enough to put it into practice.’

‘What do you mean?’ I stiffened with alarm. I could sense her pleasure at my concern, it’s like electrodes are pulsing just under the surface of her skin. I think I prefered the old nervous and more restrained Maxwell.

‘I don’t really know all that much about Moira. She doesn’t talk much about herself. That’s what drew me to her, I guess. That …’ she paused, thinking about the correct words, ‘that and …there’s something
wrong
about her.’

‘Wrong?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘She did tell me that she adored Daddy, but Daddy was way too into Mummy to even bother with her. They went ballroom dancing, apparently. Entered competitions. But that level of neglect on its own shouldn’t produce that level of disturbance in a person.’

‘Disturbance,’ I repeated, feeling a chill. Maxwell was hinting at something with far more destructive power than your run of the mill abuser.

‘Think about it DI McBain. You’re the expert, n’est ce pas? The cases that you are aware of, with the more modest violence …and I’m hoping that this is on the record …they were all me. The ones where the violence is becoming, shall we say, unsettling …’ her eyes took on a strange light. ‘You need to find Moira Shearer.’

Jim was in Moira’s bedroom looking for clues of where she might be and what she might be doing with his son. First he checked the room with his eyes, skimming over every surface for paper, books, mobile phone, anything in which something could be recorded. This was always a room with a function, but without any warmth. It looked as if it had barely been used since the single divan bed had been set in place against the wall.

Then he began to investigate with his hands as if the use of another sense would augment the search. The search was systematic at first as he forced his breathing to an even pitch. It wouldn’t help Ben, he reminded himself, if he was to lose it. While one side of his personality worked hard at maintaining control, another side was intoning the words
fucking bitch
, like a mantra. If she harms one hair on Ben’s head …he couldn’t, wouldn’t allow himself to finish the thought. What use would he be to his family from a jail cell?

He found a paperback on the floor beside the bed. It was a recent bestseller in his shop, had a Richard and Judy sticker on it. It looked as if it had never been read, the way some people might use a book as a disguise. He threw it on to the armchair by the window. Hard. He was beginning to lose his fight for control. There was nothing here. Nothing. The room was just as neat and tidy as any guest bedroom might be, with nothing to hint at the personalities of the owners of the house.

An image of Ben formed in his head. His son’s trusting face looking up at him. His small hand in his. In panic, Jim pulled at the pillows …one …two. Nothing underneath. He ripped off the quilt. Bent over, tore the sheets off the mattress. Nothing. He placed two hands under the mattress and heaved it off the bed with all of his might. It landed with a thud on the floor and toppled to rest against the small bookcase, pushing a lamp on to the floor.

Jim collapsed to the floor, chest heaving. He was overreacting. Nothing was wrong. Moira was simply taking his wee boy out for a fun day. Somewhere.

If she harms …

Angela was in the doorway, leaning against the wood as if it was taking all her strength to stand there. Her alarm at Jim’s behaviour had tightened her face into a mask of worry.

‘Jim, why are you behaving …you don’t think Moira is …?’ She was on her knees beside him, gripping his right hand in both of hers. ‘Is Ben in danger?’

Jim stroked the side of her face trying to reassure her; aware of the image he was projecting. Angela knew nothing about what had been going on. To her Moira was the only friend she had in the world. And now he was in her house ripping up the furniture.

‘Can you remember anything about the last couple of days, honey?’ he asked. ‘Anything that might give us a clue …’

‘A clue? Why do you need a clue? A clue for what?’ She pushed herself away from Jim, stood up and hugged herself. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Her eyes flitted around the room, questioning the mess.

Jim looked at his wife standing above him. She looked as if a hard breath from him in her direction would knock her off her feet. She swayed a little and put a hand out to steady herself. Even in the few days since he had been away she looked less substantial.

‘When did you last eat?’ he asked her.

She shook her head as if she couldn’t understand the question.

In the kitchen, Jim threw open all the cupboards. Apart from a couple of tins of soup, a mouldy loaf of bread and a box of teabags, the kitchen was bare. The fridge was just as bad with a carton of unopened orange juice, a half-litre of milk and a box of eggs.

He whisked the eggs in a bowl and then scrambled them in a pan. He managed to salvage some of the bread by cutting off some mould and sticking what was left in the toaster. Maybe with some food inside her Angela would regain some of her senses. Jim made another entry in his Things-to-Hate-Moira-For list.

When he placed the food in front of Angela she began to eat as if she had forgotten what the purpose of food was. Then as the sustenance reached her stomach she all but crammed it into her mouth as if her body had suddenly informed her that she was in actual fact malnourished and should eat NOW.

While Angela washed the solids down with a cup of tea, her trusty notebook by her hand, Jim rooted around in the kitchen cupboards, looking for more clues. In the medicine drawer he found nothing but the usual headache pills, plaster and cough mixture bottles that had been there for years. It was often a joke of theirs that rarely did a cough mixture bottle get finished before the sell-by date. The last time he had reached for one, he spat the fluid into the sink with disgust. It tasted like petrol might.

What was this? There was an extra box. Antihistamine. Where did that come from? Jim looked over at Angela and the tiredness that was slowly receding from his wife’s face. Of course. The box read that it held sixteen. It also read don’t drive or operate machinery. He opened it. There were only two left.

He threw the box on to the kitchen table.

‘That’s why you are so tired.’

Angela picked the box up and studied it. Then looked at Jim with a question in her eyes.

‘You’ve been feeling sleepy. More so than usual?’ asked Jim.

‘Yes, but …’

‘That’s why.’ Jim nodded at the box. ‘Moira’s been drugging you.’

Angela’s hand shot to her mouth, but her face formed an expression of disbelief.

‘Do you remember Erskine?’ I asked.

Angela slowly shook her head. ‘Erskine,’ she said as if tasting the word. ‘Erskine.’

‘Small boy. Moira said he was her son.’

‘Oh right,’ said Angela as if a cloud had just cleared and an image had popped into her mind’s eye. Then it clouded over again. She shook her head.

‘Erskine is not her son. She was looking after him for another family. Another family where the mother was ill in hospital.’

Angela looked at Jim as if he was speaking in a different language. As if she was thinking, why was he telling her all this?

‘Erskine lost an eye. The day that Moira came here to move in.’

Angela shook her head, ‘She’s been manipulating us, honey,’ said Jim. ‘She’s been after Ben all along. And she knows Kirsty. Kirsty’s in on it too.’

‘Now you’re just being crazy,’ said Angela. She stood up, steadying herself against the table. ‘Why are you doing this, Jim?’

Jim reached for her hand and grabbed it. ‘You have got to believe me, Angela. This woman, this Moira woman, she goes round helping families, pretending to help families and then hurting their kids. She’s evil, honey. She’s been very clever. She’s …’

Angela was shaking her head as if making a blur of her head wouldn’t allow the words in.

‘No, no, no. Moira’s my friend.’

‘You’ve got to believe me, Angela. That woman is no friend of ours.’

Jim heard a knock at the door and a loud male voice. He walked through the kitchen and down the hall to answer, with Angela trailing in his wake.

He opened it to find DI McBain and DC Rossi. Jim wasn’t worried to find two police detectives on his doorstep. What gave him cause for concern was the look on their faces.

‘Mr Hilton,’ said DI McBain. ‘You need to tell us everything you know about Moira Shearer. And you need to tell us fast.’

We are sitting in the living room of the Hilton home. Jim and Angela are side by side on the sofa. As close as they can be without actually touching. Alessandra and I sit on the armchairs.

Jim hands us a small photograph of their son. He has dark hair, long-lashed brown eyes and a pair of cheeks that a parent could spend all day nuzzling.

‘He’s a handsome wee lad,’ I say.

Angela Hilton sniffs into a handkerchief.

Before I spell out what Kirsty Maxwell told me I can’t help but be concerned by the boy’s mother. She looks like she’s been on a diet of water and air for a month. Her face is coloured a gaunt grey and her eyes look as if they are haunted by the ghost of a former self that she can never hope to equal.

I think about what Jim told me earlier about her memory loss. Even if he hadn’t explained the situation I would have picked up on the fact that something was not quite right with her. She had barely spoken a word since Alessandra and I sat down, her eyes flitting around the room like the flight pattern of a wild bird in a confined space. Every now and again, she shifts her view to the window as if in an attempt to neutralise the energy around her.

‘Are you okay, Mrs Hilton?’ I ask.

She smiles as if her lips might burst any second, but I take it as a yes, so I tell them everything. As I speak Angela’s eyes move from me to Jim and then back again.

Jim is now looking equally as fragile as his wife.

‘So this is all my fault? This an act of revenge?’ He leans forward. ‘Bloody hell. You mean Ben might pay for something I did …’ his voice trails into silence. Angela studies his face as if he has just spoken in the verbal equivalent of wingdings.

‘Jim, this is not your fault. We all do things in relationships that we might not be proud of later. You are not responsible for her reactions. That lies with the people who were in a position of trust when she was just a wee girl.’ I stop speaking before I say too much, but they both need to know something of what we are dealing with. Part of the
success
of both Kirsty Maxwell and Moira Shearer is down to their ability to manipulate the grownups as well as the children. ‘Believe that you are not responsible and you’ll get through this.

‘In any case,’ I raise my voice aiming to look and sound like someone who has absolute confidence. I can find their child. I can make things better. ‘I need you both to go over every conversation you’ve had with Moira. Within your heads there is the seed of a clue, we just need to get it into the open.’

Jim starts speaking. He tells us of the entry in Angela’s notebook. She nods and clasps it to her chest. Then Jim tells us of the conversation he had with another man who had dealings with Ms Shearer. This guy, Rob, told him about stories Shearer told his son that mentioned smugglers and pirates.

‘Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?’ he asks eagerly as if desperate to work a clue out of any scraps of knowledge he has of Moira.

I nod and think some more.

‘Angela, is there anything else in your notebook about Moira? Any other conversations that you might have recorded?’ Alessandra asks.

‘I’ve read through it,’ Angela answers with a shake of her head. Her voice is so weak I can barely hear her. She clears her throat. ‘Sorry, I haven’t been feeling so good.’ Her voice is louder now, her expression deeply apologetic. ‘Ben’s safe isn’t he?’ She blinks a tear from her eye. ‘If I wasn’t such a …’ she stops as if unsure what she is. ‘God, I hate this. What have I done to deserve all of this?’

Jim reaches over and grips her hand. ‘Angela, c’mon babe. We have to stick in there. For Ben’s sake.’

Angela swallows, straightens her spine and pushes her shoulders back. She looks down at the notebook in her lap, then looks at her husband as if coming to a decision. Then she hands the book to him. His face heats and he accepts it, his eyes full of thanks.

‘What do we know?’ I say. ‘We have stories of smugglers and pirates. We know Shearer spent a wonderful holiday in these parts as a child.’