Bye Bye Baby

by Allan Guthrie

  I ran my thumb over my chin.

  "I asked him if he was growing a beard." She started pacing around the bedroom. "He was already stressed out. Rough day at work with a major client. I didn't realise how stressed he was until he told me to shut up. Told me to stop nagging him." She was walking up and down, pumping her fists. "That was the day before the accident. And I never apologised to him, and now I can't tell him I'm sorry. Can't tell him that he looked just fine." She smacked her fists against her thighs. "I don't give a crap about him not shaving. I was a total fool! I've lost John. I can't lose Bruce too."

  "I think you should go back downstairs," Erica said. "Sit down. Calm yourself. And please don't jump to conclusions."

  "Yes." Mrs Wilson cupped her hands over her nose. "Okay. I think I need a drink."

  4.

  Outside, I called Dutton on my Airwave handset. I hated those bloody clunky things and would have much rather used a mobile phone.

  "There's no sign of any activity round here," I said. Still no patrol car, no uniforms talking to neighbours in a doorway. "What's going on?"

  "They're spreading out," Dutton said. "Kid's still missing."

  "What do you want us to do?"

  "School's closed and everybody's gone home for the day. Bruce's teacher, name of …" there was a pause "… Mrs Grace Lennox, lives about five minutes away. She hasn't been interviewed yet. Pay her a visit."

  He gave me the address. I mentioned the boyfriend and Dutton said he'd get Uniform to go round to check out Mr Les Green and make sure Bruce wasn't there. "By the way," I said, "did anybody get a photo of the kid?"

  "Why wouldn't they?"

  I told him what Mrs Wilson had said.

  "She must be upset," he said. "Uniform got a photo no problem. I'll see if I can get you a copy."

  "And what about the car crash? Her husband's death?"

  "What about it?"

  "You didn't tell me," I said.

  "I didn't? Must have slipped my mind."

  And before I could reply he was gone.

  5

  In a couple of minutes, we were outside Bruce's teacher's flat. She lived in an end tenement block with its construction date chiselled into the sandstone above the door. 1881. It was a nice enough area without being as leafy as the one we'd just left.

  "Kiddie fiddler lives a couple of doors down," Erica said. "Real sicko."

  "Once they're out, they have to live somewhere," I said.

  "He was never locked up. The dirty sod walked."

  "Lack of evidence?" I asked.

  "Yeah, and he was smart. Wouldn't talk. Right from the off, all he ever said was, 'No comment'."

  "You think there's a chance he might have followed Bruce's teacher to school?"

  "Now that you mention it." Erica nodded slowly. "Maybe we should pay him a visit."

  "Right after we've spoken to Mrs Lennox." I pressed the buzzer and a man's voice answered. "Police," I said. I always enjoyed saying that.

  6.

  Upstairs, Mr Lennox was waiting for us in his doorway. "How can I help?" he asked. He wore heavy-looking black-framed glasses and he couldn't stop smiling.

  He didn't seem nervous, though. More likely he was just eager to please. Which happened more often than you'd think. Sometimes people made up all sorts of stuff with the best of intentions. I once had an old dear describe a burglar in great detail, all the way down to his ginger beard and nose ring and Hibs top. Turned out she never saw the guy. She'd just wanted to help and imagined that's what a burglar would look like.

  "Could we speak to your wife, sir?" Erica said to Mr Lennox.

  "She just popped out for some milk," he said. "But she has her phone with her. I can give her a call." His eyebrows raised in a question.

  "Please do," Erica said. "Tell her we'll meet her outside."

  We trotted down the stairs and back out into the street. The late afternoon sun still had some fight left in it. Shadows dappled the roof of the pool car.

  We waited on the pavement.

  A couple of minutes later, a heavy woman came jogging up the road. She wasn't dressed for running. And she was carrying a carton of milk.

  "I think this is our girl," I said.

  We started walking towards her.

  "Mrs Lennox," I said.

  "Officers." She put her hand on her ample chest and breathed hard through her open mouth. Her eyebrows were over-plucked and made her look slightly startled. "How can I help?"

  "It's one of your pupils," Erica said.

  "Oh. Who's been up to what?"

  "It's about Bruce Wilson."

  Mrs Lennox laughed like a smoker.

  "Why is that funny?" I asked.

  "You're having me on."

  "I can assure you, Mrs Lennox, that this is extremely serious."

  She coughed twice and stared at us. "Call me Grace, please," she said. "Otherwise it feels like I'm at school and we don't want that. I'd have to ask you both to put your hands up before you ask another question."

  "Grace," I said. "We've just spoken to Bruce's mother. Is there anything you can tell us?"

  "I didn't need to run after all."

  "Can you explain what you mean by that?" Erica asked.

  Mrs Lennox nodded. "You'd better come on up."

  7.

  The sitting room was full of family photos. On the walls, on the mantelpiece, on the furniture.

  I sat down and Erica sat beside me.

  "Okay." Mrs Lennox took a rattling breath and hitched her hair out of her face. "It's like this."

  And she told us about Bruce Wilson.

  8.

  "You in on this too?" I asked Erica once we were outside.

  "In on what?"

  "Dutton knows," I said. "He set me up."

  "If that's true, then that shithead set me up too." She clenched her teeth, then said, "Maybe the teacher's lying?"

  But we both knew that wasn't the case.

  I punched Dutton's number into my Airwave handset.

  "The hell are you playing at?" I asked when he answered.

  "Found wee Bruce yet?" He chuckled. "Sorry. I couldn't find that photo after all."

  "Dutton," I said. "You're an utter disgrace."

  "Any decent detective would have found out about the kid long before now."

  I hung up. "I'm going to kick his head in," I said to Erica.

  "Not if I get to him first," she said.

  9.

  "Where are we going?" Erica asked me a couple of minutes later in the car.

  "To talk to Mrs Wilson," I said.

  "What about Dutton?"

  "I need to calm down." I gripped the steering wheel. "He can wait."

  10.

  "Don't go stomping all over this," Erica said as we stood at Mrs Wilson's front door.

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "Be gentle with her."

  I banged my fist on the door. Repeatedly. There was a bell, but screw that. I liked the pounding noise. "Mrs Wilson?" I shouted. "Mrs Wilson!"

  "Collins!" Erica grabbed my arm.

  I clamped my jaw shut, pulled my wrist from her grasp and pounded on the door some more. Eventually Mrs Wilson opened it.

  I stared at her, wondering what the hell went on inside her head. I said, "Can we come in?" I could smell the drink off her.

  She walked ahead of us. Slowly. As if she was afraid she might fall over. In the sitting room, she asked if we'd like a cup of tea.

  Erica said no.

  "Coffee?"

  "Nothing to drink, Mrs Wilson," I said.

  "We're fine," Erica told her. "Thanks."

  Mrs Wilson picked up some bottles off the table. Whisky, vodka, something else. All looked empty. She held the bottles there for a moment and then put them back down again in the very same spot.

  I glanced at Erica, hoping she'd say something. I didn't know where to begin. But Erica just raised her eyebrows at me.

  Mrs Wilson crossed her arms over her chest in the
shape of an X. Her voice was steady, no trace of slurring. "Is it bad news?"

  "To tell the truth," I said, "it was a bit of an eye-opener." I couldn't read her expression. "We spoke to Mrs Lennox."

  No reaction.

  Erica said, "She told us about the accident, Clare."

  Clare. Not Mrs Wilson. For crying out loud, Erica.

  "An accident?" Mrs Wilson whispered. "Bruce has been in an accident?"

  Erica shook her head. "Mrs Lennox told us how you and John and Bruce were in the car that night. Seven years ago."

  "Yes." Mrs Wilson nodded. Kept nodding. "What does that have to do with Bruce being missing?"

  "Mrs Lennox told us how … John … how John died on impact."

  Mrs Wilson put her hand to her mouth. Held it there.

  "She told us how you suffered terrible injuries and almost died."

  "But here I am." Mrs Wilson uncovered her mouth. She was smiling, although her lips trembled. That twitch in her left eye was back too. "My skull shattered," she said, as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. "They said it was a fine old mess in there. But I'm as good as new, see?"

  "Mrs Lennox also told us about Bruce."

  "She told you what? She knows where he is?"

  Erica looked away.

  "If you know where he is, you have to tell me." Mrs Wilson stepped forward. "Take me to him. Please."

  As hard as I found it to believe what Mrs Lennox had told us, the evidence was clear in Mrs Wilson's face. If you were looking for batshit crazy, Mrs Wilson was a bat with more shit than most. I wasn't angry with her any longer. I couldn't be. But I couldn't let her keep this up either.

  I said, "We were considering charging you with wasting police time."

  "Wasting your time? My son's gone missing. You're supposed to help me find him. Isn't that what you do?"

  Damn it, maybe it was none of my business, but it had to be done. Somebody had to spell it out. "Mrs Wilson, your son was in the car the night you were hit by the drunk driver."

  There was a moment while she looked confused. Then she said, "I know. I know. Me and John and Bruce. We were all in the car."

  God help me. I took a breath. "Your son died that night."

  "Sweet Jesus," she said. "Sweet Baby Jesus. Ask for help and this is what I get?"

  "Bruce died that night." Erica moved towards her. "It's true."

  No doubt about it. We even knew where the boy's grave was.

  "What is this? You think saying it enough times will make it real? It won't." Mrs Wilson wiped her eyes. "I think you should go."

  "Is there anyone we can call for you?" Erica asked.

  "I really think you should go. Now."

  "Mrs Lennox said you were seeing someone. A psychiatrist. Would you like to speak to—?"

  "Get out. Get the hell out."

  "We're just trying to help." Erica stretched out a hand, but Mrs Wilson batted it away.

  "You pair aren't the first," Mrs Wilson said. "And you won't be the last. But you're wrong. My baby's alive and well. I make him a packed lunch every day. I take him to school. I pick him up from school. I take him to the park. I play with him. I have dinner with him. We talk about his daddy. I bathe him. I put him to bed. I read him stories." Her shoulders were shaking. "The bond we have," she said. "It's special. And nobody's going to break it."

  Erica and I looked at one another and turned to go. There was nothing more we could do here. I was so depressed my knees ached.

  "Clare," Erica said. "You need help."

  I grabbed Erica's arm, tugged her towards the door.

  "I'll find Bruce on my own," Mrs Wilson said. "I'll find him. I will."

  I had no doubt she would.

  11.

  I entered the code to the security door that led to the CID office and stepped inside. Erica was right behind me.

  An enormous cheer and clapping and wolf whistling greeted us from the clutch of detectives who'd gathered to welcome us back.

  So word had got out that we'd been played. I'd imagined that Dutton would have kept it to himself. I wasn't thinking, of course. The whole point of a joke was to share it.

  And there he was, leading from the front, big grin under that stupid moustache.

  I stepped towards him but Erica got there first.

  I wondered what she was going to say.

  "Want to see something really funny?" She clenched her fist and punched him.

  He went down, and stayed there and after a moment's silence, the cheering and clapping grew louder.

  12.

  My uncle, Detective Inspector James Fleck, was crouching in the corner of his office like a large duck. His hair was straight and as white as his shirt and slightly too long at the front.

  "Come on in and shut the door," he said.

  I was expecting a bollocking for not stopping Erica belting Dutton. She'd been sent home. It was hard to present striking a superior officer in a good light. No matter how much the superior officer was asking for it.

  "Your back still no better?" I asked.

  "Come over here." My uncle bared his teeth against the pain.

  I walked past his desk in too much of a hurry, bumping it, making a photo of my Aunt Sarah wobble.

  "Whoops." I caught it before it fell. I put it back alongside a photo of my uncle's boat. Lucky I hadn't knocked that photo off or there would have been big trouble. He'd had to sell the boat a few years back and Aunt Sarah had said the fuss he'd made, you'd think he'd been forced to sell one of his children.

  "Never mind that," he said. "Take one of your shoes off."

  He had strange notions sometimes. Although he hid it well. Still, almost everybody was scared of him. Even his superiors. And they thought I would be too. Which is why they moved me here."Come on, sunshine," he said. "I'm not asking you to flap your cock in my face. Just take a fucking shoe off."

  I bent down, unlaced my shoe. Slipped it off. I stood there, feeling unbalanced.

  "Good." My uncle waddled in a tight circle so he was facing the opposite way. "Now place the sole of your foot in the small of my back."

  I raised a bent leg and let my foot rest on his shirt. "There?"

  "Just a bit higher."

  I moved my foot up a bit. Slipped for a moment. Then steadied myself.

  "Super." My uncle stretched his arms out behind him. "Now grab my wrists."

  I took hold of his wrists.

  "Lean back and pull."

  I said, "I don't know about that."

  "Shitebags. Just fucking do it."

  "Okay." I puffed my cheeks out. Then leaned back and tugged.

  He yelled. He kept yelling.

  I kept pulling as I leaned back. "Want me to stop?" I shouted over the noise he was making.

  "No, keep doing it."

  "You sure?"

  "You fucking deaf?"

  I had a good mind to let go. Watch him spring forward and headbutt the wall. But I didn't.

  "That's better," he said after a while.

  I relaxed my grip slightly.

  "No, no, no," he said. "Keep the tension up."

  I dug my heel into his back.

  "Ah," he said. "That's good. Yes. Keep it there. Fuck, yeah."

  "This is becoming a little too sexual for my liking."

  "Very funny," he said.

  "You getting any proper treatment for this?" He'd had a bad back for as long as I could remember. Although it came and went.

  "I'm seeing a specialist tomorrow. Another one. Costing me a fortune."

  "Any closer to knowing what's wrong?"

  "They won't tell me," he said. "That's the way they like it, of course. More cash for them while they 'find out'. Let's try this treatment. Oh, it's not that. Then let's try this instead. Oh, dear. Not that either. Well, let's see … Meanwhile, I'm so skint I can't afford to put a few quid on the horses any more."

  "You'll find a way."

  "Sound like your fucking aunt," he said.

  "Just stating a fact
. You won't let it stop you. Am I right?"

  "The more that bag gets on at me, the more I'll bloody do it. Tells me to stop gambling. Gambling. I don't fucking gamble."

  "You don't?" I asked.

  "Course I fucking don't. I'm a betting man. Gambling's a lottery. Odds are against you. Whereas a betting man looks for value. Only plays when the odds are favourable. Your aunt should know that. Old bag's been married to me for God knows how long. She doesn't listen." He leaned forwards. "No bugger does, mind you. Keep the pressure on, eh?"

  I adjusted my grip on his wrists.

  "Ah, yes," he said. "Oh, that's nice. See, a gambler will take any odds. Gambling's the thing if you're a gambler. Fucking profound, I know. Now a betting man, he'll look for value. A while back there was a football match on. European game. And I got a tip that one of the bookies had screwed up. There was a defender and striker in the same team who have similar names. And the bookies had listed them the wrong way round. Bulgarians, you see. Funny names. So, anyway, the striker's odds of scoring the first goal was 20/1. And the defender, he was listed as 2/1. There's your fucking value bet. I stuck a shitpile of money on the striker. 20 to fucking 1 when the true odds are nearer 2/1? Fucking value like you rarely find, sunshine."

  "How much did you win?" I asked.

  "Not a penny. Some other fucker scored first. But it's the principle of the thing. It was a value bet. You get enough of them, then over time you'll come out on top. But you have to take some hits along the way. That's what your aunt doesn't understand. You get it?"

  "Totally," I said. "Makes perfect sense." And in a way, it did. Can't say I was a convert, though. I'd rather keep my money.

  "Good. You can let go and put your shoe back on now."