Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

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.”