Hunt Hunted, Murder Murdered

by Michael McBride

  ‘I’ll catch you later Marie, I better go’.

  ‘OK, see yerself out’.

  1.6 Emma McAndrew

  Emma sat on her bed and replaced the handset. Tom was an enigma. He stayed away with work all week and, rather than zoom back into her arms, he shot off to see friends and relatives, always with a valid excuse for spending hours away from home, before collapsing in a heap onto the couch or bed and snoring through to the next trip away.

  He had been caught out once. And that would never happen again without repercussions. They had discussed it, and Emma would be out of here before he could get out of the next whore’s bed.

  But the mistrust was horrible. She could not chase these feelings and had ended up with a stranger one night just to make sure he couldn’t make her feel bad again. Getting the revenge in before it happened. This was not the life and she had to change it. Monica would say she was imagining it and that Tom was a good man really. He was a jack-the-lad, a bit shifty, a ladies’ man – but he loved her and would always be there. But did she want that? Just that? She wanted change. Was she being unfair?

  Then there was last summer when Dev died. That was horrible, as much as she didn’t like Dev. Tom changed. Where had he ended up that night when they had meant to be out on the Treasure Hunt? Too embarrassed to say they hadn’t been together, she had lied for him. He would never have killed Dev. Why would he?

  She came down the stairs and walked through to the living room. The rust coloured envelope to Tom opened. Again a valid excuse. Maybe she should just lighten up. Anyway Tom would be home soon. Maybe he’d be full of passion, full of compliments and give her the warmth and longing she was denied when he was traveling.

  Often he would return with gifts and flowers or woo her with a song he had written for his guitar while he was traveling. Then all would be well. OK at first this was the norm. Less so now, unless they had fought, or she had been off with him.

  Maybe he was just a nice semi-romantic. She pushed the envelope aside and looked at the other mail. She had been applying for work in the city. Bored of the call centre and the same people she saw everyday in the office, then at the store, then at the post office, then at the gym and finally at the pub. Small town, small talk. They had talked about her during Tom’s affair and she knew they would – because she and Mon often talked about the others! Listening intently to what they heard about Spiv with his young partners, and anything about Marie - or Pamela. What was there to say – she was almost too young to understand right from wrong, but now she was part of their group and they would all meet up next weekend for some more friendly chat and get - together, before Emma and Mon would be on the phone early Sunday to snipe and bitch again about the other 2.

  It was routine. It was norm. It was dull. But this letter looked promising. PA in a small lawyer’s office on Coates Crescent in Edinburgh Centre. An interview and the dreams could take over from the mundane reality.

  1.7 Simon Deuchar

  Spiv sat in a drunken stupor. 4pm and his team was beat. He’d been following the Pars since he was a laddie and watched them fall from grace, rise from the ashes and fall again to mediocrity. And on a cold January afternoon, along with 2 thousand hearty souls, he sat as his team ran out to a lukewarm second half welcome.

  ‘Come on ti fuck Dunfermline’

  ‘Come on ye Pars, Come on ye Pars’ sailed in the frozen air momentarily before the team was forced onto the defensive in a game which would end in another home defeat.

  Spiv, bleary-eyed, spoke to a neighbour in the crowd.

  ‘Hoy, what’s the score noo?’

  ‘2 nil to Hamilton’.

  ‘Fucksake’.

  Spiv had been at Rory’s bar from 11 until 10 mins before kick off. It was time to get back to the pub to meet the others, he felt.

  ‘Nothing more to see here. Screw you guys, I’m going home.’ His shouts warranted a glance from the Pars’ full back who turned back to see Hamilton race away with the ball again.

  The second half. What was the point when you couldn’t remember the first half? But a fish supper and a vodka red bull and he’d be back on track. Tomorrow he may even read about their miraculous recovery. Where’s Pam today? Studying again. This was the time he thought about going back to the drawing board and chatting up one of the other students at the College where he worked Monday to Friday 7 til 2.30. Brilliant hours. In the pub by 3 and no responsibilities other than to make sure Pam knew he cared. And he did. So meal and sex at least twice a week. She had enjoyed coming to the fitba too. But it was an expensive day out when she tagged along and good drinking time was eaten into while she straightened her hair. And he had to behave at the pub instead of fondling the staff in the pubs where he hadn’t already been barred.

  East End Park to the town centre in 10 minutes. No much crowd when you are out of the SPL, but they were sleeping giants, and they’d be back to the top soon. All football fans are the same. Living with their dreams.

  Spiv took a short cut across the roundabout to the disgust of various drivers.

  ‘Prick!’, one of the many drivers called out a side window.

  Spiv responded with the bird signal and continued to walk nee stumble, towards the central reservation. Here he sat on the grass, wondered if Pam would have sex with him here, and searched for the fags in his pockets. This could take some time in his state. Eventually he gave up and lay behind the barrier. Cold would soon get him back on his feet and he’d find himself propping up the bar with Bob and Aids. But for now they would have to wait.

  1.8 Pamela Watters

  Simon hadn’t called, but she knew he’d be in the bar by now. Dunfermline had lost again and he’d be drowning his sorrows. If they’d won he’d be celebrating fully. Regardless he would be enjoying himself, as usual. Pam was still dressed in her robes, but had managed to get through 2 essay questions for her next assignment. A good day’s work and this would allow her a night off to spend with her love.

  Simon was a silly man. But sexy. Dammit he was sexy and when he wooed her at first it was like a dream. Now 18, she had been seeing him for 2 years and she was still so glad to have him. She had watched others in awe of her. She was lucky.

  She would only see him a couple of times a week, because she was keen to get her degree and, as a bright girl, she already had a head start on her peers, leaving school to go directly into her degree course. She had even been in the Dunfermline Press as the youngest student at Lauder. Now, a wee bit older and wiser, she doted on her boyfriend. The age gap didn’t bother her (although it had irked her mother and she wouldn't tell her dad!).

  The straighteners gave out a burning smell. She would preen herself as best she could; hiding her unsightly hips and bum beneath a sarong, switching the light off before Spiv could see her glory. She would one day earn enough to get rid of her monstrous thighs and ass. She hoped. Simon couldn’t be allowed to see these embarrassing features. The state she was in. Instead she would concentrate on showing off her best assets. Her bust was superb, even if self praise was no praise. Her tits were great and when she wore her best clothes out she would turn heads and make men take notice. She wasn’t interested in them, although the attention made her feel good. But Simon was proud of her and he would always give her all the attention that she needed when she needed it.

  The party next week would be fun. Everyone still saw her as a wee lassie, but she was becoming more and more accepted into their group. They were a close bunch. Well the blokes were. But each of the girls had been nice and had given her time during the past 2 years. So now, instead of it being a chore, it sometimes turned into a nice girly night as she discovered more about them and their past.

  She would wear a basque and her voluptuous body would spill out. But that’s what they wore in the 50’s wasn’t it? Simon would fondle and arouse her. He did everything right.

  He would be dressed in a 50’s suit with Stetson and fake moustache for comedy value. She would dress him and everyone would app
reciate the effort.

  Tonight it would be a drunken night at the bar, though, and then coping with drunken fondlings until she was drunk enough to appreciate and reciprocate the attentions. Possibly some back alley action or some stroking in the disabled toilets. But that was something she enjoyed. Not something she worried or felt bad about. It was part of the excitement of being with Simon. She loved him and she would do anything for him.

  2

  Ian Ingram lay staring at the pale ceiling in his cell. It had been a year already. He shouldn’t be here. His thoughts over the past year had often reduced him to tears. His wife hadn’t coped and had been put on suicide alert after being taken into Gogarburn hospital. She would remain there. There was nothing he could do to help her. His world had been turned upside down and all that was left to Ingram was to think.

  The cell door lay open. Exercise time. Ingram lay a bit longer. Staring. Thinking. He knew what he had done was wrong, but what hurt most of all was that his actions had not avenged his little Olivia’s death at all. He pushed himself from the wafer thin mattress, moving towards the openness of the large hall in front of him. The bars overlooking the mezzanine gantry of Barlinnie Z section had been painted a rusty red colour. Forth Bridge Red. His thoughts had moved from anger to deep sadness, to anger, to deep sadness. Positivity was difficult here and a deep screamed shout was followed by two officers dragging a suited con away after another skirmish. It was not something that made him jump anymore. It was the norm. It was Ian Ingram’s life. But still he thought. About the night he found his little girl lying in the mud. A dirty body lying on top. He had plunged, he had lunged. Thrown the body off. It was him. From the bar. It was him. Looking for something. A treasure hunt they said. Looking for a clue.

  He cracked each knuckle and put his hands in his pockets looking down the cold steel stairs towards the exercise ring. He needed more information about the people who were on that treasure hunt. He was sure of this now. The man known as Dev Coulding was there, it was true. But he was lifeless. He was still warm, but lifeless. He needed more information and there was still a clue that those people were not looking for. He knew it and it was there. He had found his little girl with the biggest clue because she was wearing it around her on that horrific, cold night.

  A bell sounded. No time to go to the ring. No worries. Some more time to think. He had one person who still believed in him. His solicitor had not done well for him. He lacked spirit and they got into a dogfight. It was easy for the prosecution to say Ingram had the weapon in his hands. Had been seen by others storming after Coulding. Had been found dripping fresh blood from Couldings body. Had no reason to be there, but no recollection of why he had chosen to search up the lane towards Olive Island. Car headlights. Something turned him off the main road towards his daughter. A father’s love. A faint cry. A subconscious knowledge that something just was not right.

  He turned back towards his bed again. Bad, grey fabric covered the home comfort of his criminal life. He had been able to dream some nights, and felt the freedom that allowed before he would again awaken and open his eyes to the scratchings of previous tenants on the breeze block wall beside him. He pushed his hand under his pillow, feeling for an envelope. A guard moved past his cell, glaring at him through the bars, before continuing with his patrol. Same old, same old. Ingram pulled the envelope out from the bed. It carried the prison stamp. He had worked favours, cigarettes aplenty for this. It was something he needed and it might just work. Might just get him out of here. Might just help him to find out who stole his daughters life from her.

  2.1 Aidrian

  The first letters had arrived in November. The postmark showed they were from the Prison Service in Glasgow, from a post office box there. The Inspector in charge, David Duffel was not familiar to Aids but the request seemed reasonable and who was going to argue with the authenticity. The letter asked for further information regarding the night when Dev died. Where he was, who had set up the game, who had written the clues, which couples had gone where. He would speak to Bob before responding. They had all been through this. Did they want more turmoil? Hadn’t they been through enough over this horrible event?

  Finding out a good friend was dead was bad enough. But that he had been a paedo and a murderer was too awful to comprehend. Aids had thought about how he could or should have helped Dev. Instead he had kicked him to the kerb after getting together with Monica and having the kids. Dev seemed lost. A little directionless and unfocused. Sometimes he would appear after weeks of no contact announcing huge ambition and creativity then once again lose himself in it all and disappear once more. Next time he saw him he would be drunk at the bar spouting shit and telling Aids how much he loved him and that everything would work out. Aids had a big heart and wished he had been more caring – but Mon always made him feel bad about having Dev about. She had once dated him and it obviously had not ended well. But if it hadn’t been for that he would not be with the woman he loved and who shared his life.

  Then on top of the worries about Dev had come the financial worries. One huge bill had come in and it was make or break. A 20 to one shot had meant the gas and electricity stayed on and gave a little more for Aids to play with besides! It had been a little miracle and as he watched the unfancied filly romp home, he had pledged to use this good fortune to get out of his mess. A few weeks later the bills needed paying again and he took a gamble too far. A cheque had come in, unsigned, from a customer at work. Aids had put it aside and requested a duplicate be sent over. Meantime he had accidentally written off the cheque when trying to update the database and, all of a sudden, a company was free from debt with a 10,000 pound cheque to spare.

  It was not a difficult decision, no matter how gut wrenching it was for him to swallow. For Mon, for the kids, he had to make sure they paid the bills. The cheque cleared in his personal account days later and that was it. A few months later a letter had come through from the customer. They had requested receipt of the cash. One falsified receipt later, explained away as a mistake, and a valid receipt number disappeared from Fleck and Fraser office and back to the customer.

  He would not have thought about doing it again until a quote came in which was for a new security system in their office. The quote had been for 60,000 pounds. It had been pushed through by the MD. He just had to send out the order.

  The letter he sent declined the offer. Bob had helped him to get a good system for 15K and with 3K labour costs, they had managed to make 42,000 profit. 21K each. Both schtum with the girls and any of the others. But this time the bosses had become wary. They wanted assurances. They had paid for an around the clock, 24hr call line and were waiting for the attention of the company. Aidrian had managed to talk around the issue at various monthly meetings, but time was growing thin. It would come out - and how. It was fraud. He would be found out, especially when they traced some of the money going to his bank account.

  So Dev had died at a time when things were bad… but to some extent this improved Aid’s situation. His company gave him leave of absence on full pay. Without the name of the company they had dealt with they did not have a direct lead, and so long as he and Bob said nothing, they would not. Unless F and F checked their own employee bank accounts.

  Aids tugged on the bedsheet, wrapping it up to his ears like a child hiding away from a scary film. Mon was already out with the kids. It was Monday morning and after nine. He should have been at work. The phone had not rung yet and Mon said she was not phoning in on his behalf. He could do it himself if he was just going to fanny about the house all day getting under her feet. He felt bad enough and now Mon was on his back. He would have to tell her. Even if it made matters worse.

  Dev had known about his problems. Dev had a good ear. But maybe it was just as well he was dead. Because things were just about to be opened up and Mon wouldn’t rest until she heard everything from everyone who knew anything.

  ‘Hi it’s Aidrian. Listen I’m really under the weather. Something I�
��ve picked up from the kids. Hopefully I’ll be in tomorrow, but I’ll see how I feel. Might just go to see what the doctor thinks.’

  2.2. Monica

  What would she do now? She sat holding the steering wheel. Children away to school for the day. Monica had an appointment in the house at 10. It was well paid, too. Aidrian was spoiling her life. It was hard to be harsh on him. He worked hard and something was bugging him. If he said it was nothing she believed him though – so be it. She would have to cancel. Shit.

  She picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello’

  ‘Hi it’s Monica’

  ‘Hi there, I’m just on my way’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t ok’

  ‘Oh. Ok. Just this week or …’