The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

BUMPING UGLIES by Donna Moore

“Hey! That’s my fucking bag, you fat junkie bitch.” Nice mouth on her, for all her expensive gear and fancy-looking Prada handbag. The handbag that was now in my possession as I legged it across the concourse of Central Station. Serves her right for putting it down on the seat beside her. Everyone knows that Central is like a well-stocked buffet of Glasgow’s junkies, pickpockets and lowlifes. I considered it teaching her a lesson.

I could hear her stilettos pecking away like a crow on steroids as she tried to run after me. I wasn’t worried that she would catch me – the shoes were too high and her skirt too tight. As I dodged startled passengers hurrying for their trains, I heard a shriek followed by the thwack of a bony Versace-clad arse hitting concrete. Excellent. Now I just had to avoid the cops. Half of Strathclyde’s finest hang around Central Station. It’s an easy way of meeting their arrest targets for the month. Just nip into Central and huckle a few likely characters – the nylon shell suits and Burberry baseball caps are a dead giveaway.

There are plenty of exits out of the station and, within seconds, I was down the stairs and out onto Union Street.

“Fuck’s sake, hen…” The Big Issue seller I slammed into spun like a bearded prima ballerina.

I raised my hand in apology but didn’t turn. “Sorry pal.” I didn’t stop until I got to the Clyde where I stood puffing and wheezing for a while, wondering if I was going to throw up. Running is not my forte. My chest is too big and my lungs are too wee. It was quiet by the river at this time of day and I sat on a bench and emptied the contents of the handbag out beside me, giving each item the once over before laying it down on the flaking blue paint of the bench.

First out was a wallet containing five crisp twenties, some loose change, gold credit cards and a handful of store cards -Frasers, John Lewis, Debenhams. Mrs Gillian McGuigan – according to the cards – certainly treated herself well. Then there was a top-of-the-range mobile phone with a diamante-studded G hanging from it. Tacky. Enough MAC cosmetics to stock a stall at The Barras, an appointment card for hair, nails and sunbed at The Rainbow Room and a couple of letters. She lived in Bothwell, and she would certainly fit in there amongst the footballers wives and ladies who lunch. High maintenance and flashy.

I opened the mobile phone and thumbed through the messages from oldest to newest. There were a couple from female friends and one or two from someone called Stewart. Since they were of the “Need loo rolls” and “working late, c u at 9” type, I assumed that Stewart was the poor, long-suffering Mr McGuigan. Probably had to work late to keep his wife in bling.

Most of the texts were from Tom. “Wear the red basque on Friday,” “Kate at sister’s this weekend. Can u get away?” “Can’t live without u. We need to do something about K and S” and “Seeing lawyer Thurs.” It looked as though poor Kate and Stewart were in for a shock.

There were a couple of texts from someone called Billy. The most recent read, “One hit £10k, cd do both for £15K.” Billy might be the solution to the problem, but if he was a lawyer, he was pricing himself out of the market. I checked the rest of Gillian’s received texts and moved on to the sent box. They told quite a story. It would appear that the shock for Kate and Stewart was of the “shot in the head and dumped in the Clyde” sort rather than the “I now pronounce you ex-husband and wife” sort. Still, it was nice to know that “buy one, get one half price” extended as far as contract killings. I assumed that even taking into account the cost of the hitman, Gillian stood to make more as a widow than she would as a divorcee.

As I sat with the phone in my hand, pondering the best course of action, it rang. I might have guessed. The woman had to be my age at least. Nearly forty and she had a Justin Timberlake ring tone. The screen said “Home” so I flipped it up and answered.

“Gillian McGuigan’s secretary. How may I help you?”

“You can fucking help me you cheeky fucking skanky whore by letting me rip that greasy ponytail out by the fucking roots you bitch. I want my bag back.”

“Ouch. I’m hurt. Not all of us can afford to go to the Rainbow Room you know. I wonder what it is that Tom sees in you… your bleached blonde hair? Your orange sunbed tan? Your hatchet face? Your shrill voice with its extensive vocabulary?”

The sharp intake of breath practically sucked my ear off. “You’ve read my text messages you nosy bitch. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Well, why not? That seems to be your answer to everything. Hopefully you’ll get a bulk discount from your friend Billy.”

“I… shit… I… You’re fucking dead. Fuck… you’ve got to let me have the bag back. Please…” In the space of one sentence her voice changed from harridan to whiny six year old.

“No. Actually, doll, I don’t have to let you have the bag back. I don’t have to do heehaw.” I shut the phone when the shrill voice started up again. I wondered whether Stewart was deaf. I’d been speaking to her for two minutes and that voice was really starting to grate on me. Some women give the rest of us a bad name.

I hugged my jacket closer to me and stared at the muddy Clyde as I thought about what I should do next. When I stole the bag it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’d been watching the woman for a while and when she put the bag down I just acted on impulse. Things had taken a surprising turn, but I was sure I could turn the situation to my advantage. I just needed to work out how.

The phone rang.

“Listen you fu…”

It rang again.

“Don’t hang up.”

“Then do try not to insult me. All that swearing is getting on my tits.” I was enjoying this. It would seem though that poor Gillian would not recognize irony if it jumped up and bit her on the arse.

“Insult you? Where do you get off being so high and mighty? You’re the fucking junkie, bag stealing bitch…”

She may well have been right, but I cut her off anyway. Besides, if we were talking about taking the elevator to the moral high ground, at least I was getting on it about halfway up. I think adulterous, hitman-hiring shrews were roughly three floors below the basement.

“Please don’t hang up.”

“Better. Now, give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“A hundred pounds.”

“What is?”

“I’ll give you a hundred pounds if you give me my handbag back.”

I laughed. “Is that supposed to be a tempting offer?”

“Aye. Fuck… I don’t know. It might save you sucking some guy’s dick up an alley. What’s the going rate for smack these days you…”

“Now now, Gillian. You know what happens when you start hurting my feelings. And if I hang up this time I’m going to take a wee wander up to Pitt Street and visit Strathclyde polis. I have an idea they might be interested in the contents of your phone.”

“Oh, aye. That’ll be right. I can just see you walking in there and saying ‘Officers, here’s a bag I mugged off of some wee wifey at Central Station.’“

“Maybe not, but I might just take one of these crisp twenties in your lovely flash handbag and buy some stamps. If I send it registered post it might even actually get there.”

“Shite. How much do you want?”

I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to come across as too cheap, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to name a price that was so high that she would take the chance on me not going to the police. “Two thousand pounds.”

“Two grand? You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope. I’m not smiling here. Two thousand. I think that’s very fair. Tell me… just out of curiosity… does Tom know about your little plan to off your respective spouses?”

“Tom…?”

“Yeah, you know, the poor misguided fool you’re bumping uglies with.”

“Of course he knows. It was him who gave me the idea.”

“Really? Sounds like you’re a match made in heaven.”

Again, the irony was lost on her. “We are. We love each other. Can’t keep our hands off each other. His wife is apparently a fat, frumpy bore, and my husband can’t get it up any more.”

“No wonder. You’ve probably sucked the life right out of him. And not in a good way.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, you blackmailing bitch. When do I get my bag back?”

“Well, let’s see. When can you get the £2,000?”

“Tomorrow.”

Obviously I should have asked for more. “Do you know the Necropolis?”

“The big cemetery? I know of it, yeah.”

“OK. Egyptian Vaults. Eight p.m. tomorrow night. You can get a map off the internet. Oh, and bring your bit on the side. I’d quite like to see what all the fuss is about.”

I shut the phone off before she could whine. I could tell from the noises on the other end of the phone that she was winding herself up to go off on one and, quite frankly, I’d had enough of her. She was mouthy, self-centered, trashy and shallow. Her plans proved that she was also dangerous and I didn’t trust her one little bit. If I was going to meet her and Tom I needed some insurance. I opened the phone again and went to her contacts list. The phone was answered after one ring.

“Aye?”

“Billy? I want to buy a gun.”

The Necropolis was locked up at dusk, but it’s easy to get in, and so huge that it’s impossible to ensure that no one does. I’d arrived at seven p.m., crossed the Bridge of Sighs, and made my way to the Egyptian Vaults via a circuitous route, just in case Gillian and Tom had planned a wee surprise for me. The place was not exactly welcoming during the day, but it was even less so after dark. Dilapidated and overgrown, it was a haven for junkies, wee neds drinking Buckfast and taking illegal substances, the homeless and the hopeless. Between some of the gravestones and in the sheltered spots beside the vaults were sleeping bags – as yet unoccupied – their owners perhaps at the soup kitchen on East Campbell Street, getting a little warmth and light before returning to this creepy place to sleep.

I wasn’t worried about the dead. It was the living that concerned me, and I gripped the gun tighter. Billy had put me in touch with an acquaintance, who knew a guy, who had a friend who could possibly lay his hands on a gun. All very cagey, lots of ifs and buts, but I think Billy thought I was Gillian, since I was ringing from her phone, so he opened a few doors for me. I guessed that the fifteen grand she had paid him would help. I assured him – as Gillian, of course – that I wasn’t going to do a DIY job and cut him out. I just said I needed the gun for protection.

I met Billy’s contact behind a pub in Possilpark. Just to be on the safe side I wore a blonde wig and sunglasses. I felt like Dolly Parton in a bad spy movie. The transaction had been quick and easy. The guy had turned out to be a man who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His cheekbones were prominent and angular and when he sucked at his cigarette his face turned into a skull.

“Do ye ken how tae use it?” Spittle came out of his mouth with every word. He had a set of false top teeth that he appeared to be breaking in for someone with a much bigger mouth, and no bottom teeth at all, which caused his face to cave in when his mouth was closed.

I nodded. I had grown up on a farm. “Aye.” I held out the money we had agreed on and he passed over the padded envelope containing the gun.

He took one more drag of his cigarette. “Good luck, hen.”

“Cheers, pal.” And that was that. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it was like going into the newsagents and buying the Evening Times.

I reached the Egyptian Vaults and chose a vantage point where I could see but not be seen. Just before eight o’clock I heard footsteps coming up the path.

“This woman’s a weirdo. Why the hell did she want to meet us in this godforsaken place?” I recognized that shrill, whiny voice.

“Don’t worry babe. We’ll get the bag back and that will be that. These scumbags are only out for a quick score. I hope she’s on time. Kate’s expecting me home by nine.”

I recognized that voice too. Cheating, murderous bastard. I stepped out of the shadows. “Don’t worry, Tom. When you’re not home by nine, I’ll assume you have a good excuse.”

“Kate?” Tom said.

“Kate?” Gillian repeated, looking at Tom and then at me. “You mean this fat junkie bitch is your wife?”

“Well, Tom? What do you say to that?”

“I… She… I…”

“Apparently Tom is lost for words Gillian. So, yes, I am the fat, frumpy bore married to your boyfriend. Not, however, a junkie. That was an assumption you jumped to. Understandable given the circumstances, I’ll grant you that.”

“How did you…? What are you…?”

“How did I know about your sleazy little affair, Tom? Well, let’s face it, you’re not exactly Mr Discreet. And you look so guilty when caught answering text messages that are supposedly from your mates. So I followed you one day. And, well, not to get all Hercule Poirot about it, here we are.”

Tom started towards me with his hands outstretched. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, but let’s just go somewhere and talk.”

I raised the gun. “Just stop right there.”

“A gun?”

“Ooooh, well done. That’s exactly what it is.”

“She’s a fucking lunatic Tom. I told you what she was like on the phone. She…”

“Tom, tell her to shut the fuck up. This is between you and me right now.”

“Don’t you talk to me…”

“Gillian, just do as she says and shut the fuck up.”

Gillian subsided into whimpering silence. It still sounded like fingernails scraping down a blackboard, but as long as there weren’t any actual words, I could tune her out.

“So, did you go and see that divorce lawyer?”

“I… well… I…”

“No. The answer you’re groping for is ‘no’ Tom. Because you chose a slightly more dramatic way out.”

“It was Gillian’s idea.” His voice had turned from pompous to bleating and I could see him starting to sweat now.

Gillian’s eyes opened wide. “You were all for it.”

Tom ignored her. “It was easier for her because of the money. She would lose out on a fortune if she divorced Stewart. But I didn’t want anything to do with it.” A wavering smile appeared briefly as he tried to look sincere and honest. He looked about as sincere and honest as a politician caught with his trousers down in a brothel.

“You said it would be the best way. You lying bastard!”

We both ignored her. “I was caught up in it all, Kate. I wouldn’t have hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”

This time it was my turn. “You lying bastard.”

“Honest, Kate… I…”

“Tom, you wouldn’t recognize honesty if it gave you a hug and called you mother.” I could feel tears pricking behind my eyes. “Get your clothes off, both of you.”

“What?”

“Clothes off.” I gestured with the gun. “Now. And fold them up neatly in a pile.”

“Look, okay, you want to humiliate us, I understand.” Tom hopped on one leg as he struggled to remove his jeans.

“Nah. I don’t want to humiliate you. Now, lie down on the grass.”

“I’m not doing-”

“Gillian, just shut it and do what I say. Lie down on the grass and put your arms around each other. Tom, you’re looking decidedly unaroused. I’ve never seen it quite so shriveled and tiny. What’s wrong? Lost your desire?” It was a cheap shot, but I couldn’t resist.

They were on the ground, naked and shivering.

“Look Kate, this is just ridiculous. Let’s go and talk somewhere like civilized…”

The shots were louder than I’d expected. And there was more blood. I pulled Tom’s wallet out of his jeans and picked up Gillian’s handbag. I would throw them in the Clyde on my way home, along with the gun. I wiped my prints off Gillian’s phone and left it under the pile of clothes. If the police didn’t think this was a mugging gone badly wrong, then maybe the text messages would lead them in Billy’s direction. As far as he knew, Gillian had bought the gun. There was nothing to lead the police to me, and plenty to lead them away.

As I made my way out of the Necropolis and back to my car, it struck me that Gillian’s handbag was another Prada. If nothing else, I’d saved Tom a small fortune in accessories.