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‘Well maybe, but I’m fairly confident he has a gold cludgie in the Vatican.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘Max, seriously, pal. We go home, and we stay out of it. If your “anonymous source” contacts you again, you’ll just have to give him Lenny Maxwell’s number. It’s not worth your job, and there’s no doubt that DCC Campbell would take the greatest of pleasure in getting us the tin-tack, as your cockney former colleagues would say. It’s a slam dunk gross misconduct, sacked, ruined pension and divorce certainty. So, I’m going home. I’m gonna look after my kids, mow the lawn and prune the fucking roses.’
‘Firstly, it’s winter, so there’s nothing to mow. Secondly your kids are in their thirties, and will be at work. And you have no roses that I can recall,’ said Max with a chuckle.
‘Aye well, piss off home, and stay out of this job, Max.’
‘I will,’ said Max, avoiding Ross’s eye.
‘I mean it, man. Stay away from anything to do with Davie and Frankie Hardie, slimy bent solicitors and the like, okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Max, wondering if it was true.
‘I’ll have another word with Miles and tell him to watch his back, but I think after my slightly disrespectful encounter earlier, he may not be that receptive.’
‘Aye, your tact and diplomacy really worked a treat,’ said Max, smiling.
‘Maybe I should think before I swear at senior officers. I’ll call him and eat a bit of humble pie. Maybe tell him to take some backup, but he wasn’t in a listening mood earlier.’ Ross shook his head ruefully.
‘What’s done’s done. Come on, let’s get back to the office, and get everyone home.’
13
MAIRI MALONE WENTto the combination-lock key box by the back door of the small, pebble-dashed bungalow in a quiet side street in one of the better suburbs of Glasgow. She positioned the numbers into place until the box sprung open revealing the solitary key inside. She took the key and slid it into the lock, the door creaking arthritically as it swung open. She stepped in, her nose wrinkling at the smell, which was the familiar pungent mix of piss and biscuits underpinned by the tang of cleaning products deployed to combat the ever-present unpleasant odour.
‘Hector? It’s just me, Mairi,’ she said, closing the door and tucking the key into the pocket of her purple tabard that had ‘Alba-Care’ emblazoned on the breast pocket. An ID badge on a bright purple lanyard was around her neck, declaring that she was Mairi Malone, together with a photo of her smiling, broadly.
‘Hector, will you look at the state of you, man?’ she said, striding into the cluttered room, clucking at the tiny and almost skeletally thin man who was sitting in the high-backed Shackleton chair in front of the two-bar electric fire. The carpet was worn and wildly floral, and the curtains were a deeply clashing geometric-shaped mess. The TV, which looked almost as old as Hector, was switched on, but the sound was turned down, with subtitles slashing across the flickering screen. Hector was pretty much deaf, despite the hearing aids that protruded from his ears that seemed far too large for his tiny head, which was covered in a silver-grey halo of fine, almost baby-like hair.
‘Mairi, my darling, I didnae hear you come in. I’ll get Morag to put the kettle on.’ He turned to face her, his face lighting up at the sight of his home carer.
‘Oh, Hector, hen. You remember that Morag’s no longer with us, she passed ten years ago,’ she said, sitting next to him on an upright chair, and stroking his hair, affectionately.
‘Ach, yes. Of course, she is. I just forgot for a moment. Is it bath day?’ His rheumy eyes appraised her from behind thick semi-tinted spectacles.
‘It is, you look bogging, man. And you need a shave, look at them whiskers. If you’re to go to the day-centre later, you’ll need to scrub up, eh?’
‘Aye, you’ll be right, hen. Now will you run a bath for me?’
‘That’s why I’m here, Hector. Have you eaten?’
‘Aye, young lady came in this morning and made me breakfast, and I think I have soup and sandwiches for lunch.’
‘You do, and I’ll heat it up after your bath, man. Come on, now you’re a bit whiffy, man. I’ll go and run it now and you can have a soak whilst I fix lunch.’ Mairi ruffled his hair, and headed to the tiny bathroom. He was a nice man, Hector. Never inappropriate and, despite occasionally forgetting that his wife had passed away some time ago, was almost always cheerful. She quickly ran the water, adding some bubble bath, which Hector always loved, and she carefully checked the temperature with her elbow. She smiled at this, as it reminded her of what she did for her kids, and it struck her as prophetic how more child-like her clients became as they got closer to death.
Quickly striding back to the living room, she saw that Hector had managed to stand, and was moving towards the door, his walking stick clasped in his bony hand.
‘All ready for you, hen. I’ll help you get in and then get your lunch sorted.’
‘Aye, but no peeking, ya ken. I know what you’re like, Mairi Malone.’ His eyes twinkled mischievously.
‘Och, Hector. You’re far too young for me.’ Mairi giggled as shetook his arm and steered him to the bathroom. She then followed the familiar routine of helping the skinny, arthritic old man into the chipped and worn aubergine-coloured tub, with her eyes closed, as he lowered his undernourished frame into the bath. Once in, he said, ‘Okay, open now’ as he sat there, tiny and frail and almost up to his neck in bubbles.
Mairi opened her eyes and grinned. ‘Now make sure you get into all the creases and wrinkles. Need you smelling all fresh for the ladies. I see you have your aftershave all set and ready to go,’ she said, pointing at a bottle of Old Spice.
‘They can’t resist it, hen. Now scoot whilst I perform my ablutions,’ he said, nodding at the door.
