Alex Gray - Glasgow Kiss

Maggie shuddered. That trait in his character might well be used against him now. She could imagine the things his detractors might say: how he was over-friendly with the kids, how he was always smiling and joking with them. Overfamiliar, they’d say instead of simply acknowledging that Eric Chalmers was a born teacher who wanted to do his best for every child in his care. What had the police team made of him? she wondered, making a mental note to ask her husband. Surely these men and women with their expertise in reading the human character would have seen him for what he truly was? Yes, that must be the case, Maggie nodded to herself, feeling better; otherwise, why would Eric have been allowed to go free?

Her hand still shaking with emotion, Maggie reached for a carton of apple juice and drew it towards her. As she sucked from the tiny plastic straw, an image from the Chalmers’ home came back to her — baby Ashleigh at her mother’s breast, a tiny helpless infant nurtured and protected against the storm that was raging around her parents’ world. And maybe the little one would never know about the terrible things now being said about her father; maybe it would all blow over once the real perpetrator of this vicious crime was caught.

At first she thought it was a car door banging but the second thump was followed by the sound of breaking glass downstairs, making Ruth jump. Instantly the baby began to howl, the source of milk suddenly snatched from her toothless gums.

‘Sorry, wee one,’ Ruth whispered, swinging the infant over her shoulder, covering up the naked breast with her free hand. Heart thumping, Ruth crept over to the nursery window just in time to see the figures of three men running away from her front gate. Then there was a raised hand and a missile hurtling towards her. She stepped back as the rock made contact with the window, crashing its way into the room, leaving a gaping hole surrounded by a spider’s web of cracked glass.

At Ruth’s scream the baby’s howls redoubled, forcing the young mother to retreat into the safety of the upstairs corridor. Cuddling the baby with one arm, Ruth picked up the handset and dialled 999, her mouth open with shock.

Frank Donaldson slowed down, his chest heaving from the unaccustomed exercise. Ahead of him, Arthur and young Eddie Pollock stood waiting at the end of the lane. The van was across the dual carriageway, parked next to the garage, an easy place for a quick getaway.

‘Awright, lad?’ Arthur clapped him on the shoulder as Frank drew alongside the two men. ‘That wis good, eh?’ His brother-in-law’s eyes were alight and even young Eddie was standing grinning like an idiot.

‘Aye,’ Frank replied shortly, though what he was feeling was far from good. The sight of that young woman’s face at the window with her wee baby had sickened him. How had he been talked into this mad exploit? As he staggered across the mid-section of Great Western Road, his feet slipping on the wet grass, Frank Donaldson already knew the answer to that one: too much drink and a hasty temper, twin ingredients in a recipe for disaster.

‘Think she saw us?’ he panted.

‘Naw, nae chance. We wis too damn quick fur her!’ Arthur replied. ‘Lucky the man wisnae in. Eh?’ His brother-in-law gloated as they dodged the traffic and headed for the van.

Frank Donaldson merely nodded in reply. Lucky? The man he’d come to avenge hadn’t been there and now all he felt was a sense of guilt at his cowardly actions. What if Mary was right after all? He knew she hadn’t believed Julie’s story about the teacher. Her silent and anxious looks had told him as much. Frank bowed his head into his chest as he sat in the back of the van. But someone had killed his little girl and if it wasn’t Eric Chalmers, then who was it?

‘We’ve had a call through from Anniesland,’ DC Irvine informed her boss. ‘Mrs Chalmers has reported an attack on her property.’

‘Is she all right? Where’s Chalmers himself?’ Lorimer asked.

‘She’s had a hell of a fright,’ Irvine replied. ‘A couple of uniforms are with her now but they thought we’d better know what was going on,’ she added grimly. Every last person in Glasgow would be aware of the serious case involving the teacher, thanks to the morning papers. ‘We don’t know where Mr Chalmers is,’ she admitted. ‘His wife left a text message for him though.’

‘Great,’ replied Lorimer grimly, ‘just what we don’t need: some vigilantes taking the law into their own hands. Does she know who it was?’ And when Irvine shook her head he made a face and turned back to the mass of paperwork on his desk. This was the sort of mindless reaction that a less than scrupulous newspaper could provoke. He’d been through several battles with the gentlemen of the press before now, coming away each time with a harder attitude towards the fourth estate. Just putting Eric Chalmers into the same paragraph as the death of Julie Donaldson was tantamount to suggesting he was responsible for the girl’s murder. As yet, there was no sign of a forensic report but perhaps they’d know later today if Barbara Cassidy’s article had any shred of credibility. Lorimer found himself hoping that Chalmers’ DNA swab proved negative — that would wipe the smile off the journalist’s face. But, he asked himself, would it also mean that blame might fall on the boy, Kerrigan?

Her First Years could be pretty demanding, but Maggie had already found a rapport with them and, as they filed into the classroom, she was met with an occasional friendly grin. Kids that age didn’t dwell too much on the bad things in life, maybe, and as she counted heads sitting at desks Maggie Lorimer could see that there was nobody missing from class. That was good. Her Fourth Year class was decimated, many pupils having opted for the advice given by the counsellors; Take time off to nurse your wounds, as Sandie had put it sarcastically. No teacher enjoyed disruption to their routine, but this was different and Maggie had drawn her friend a dark look of disapproval.

‘Right,’ Maggie began, ‘who can tell me the name of the pirate cat?’

Several hands shot up and there were audible murmurs of ‘Growltiger’.

The dark-haired woman facing twenty eleven-year-olds smiled at them. This was what she needed, what they needed: to slip into a writer’s make-believe world and escape for a while from their own. Mentally she blessed her favourite poet and his quirky collection; Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats had served her well over the years.

As the afternoon wore on, the smile on Maggie Lorimer’s face gradually disappeared. The First Years had been a tonic after that desperate scene in the staffroom but subsequent classes were less inclined to knuckle down to work, and it was with some relief that she welcomed the bell at the end of a weary afternoon. Maggie rubbed her eyes, not caring if the last traces of mascara were being smudged into dark circles. God, she was tired! The tension in that last class had worn her out. The kids had regarded her warily, no doubt wanting to ask the forbidden question about Eric: ‘D’you think Mr Chalmers-’ But Maggie’s insistence on normality being restored in every lesson precluded such gossip coming from them. Sometimes it was hard being so firm, especially as she was the sort of approachable teacher the kids could talk to whenever a problem arose: Mrs Lorimer was famous for the ever-ready box of Kleenex tissues inside her desk drawer. But this was different. Even if Manson hadn’t insisted on it, Maggie would have gone down this road of concentrating on classwork as a diversion from the horrors of recent days. She’d doled out plenty of homework too, giving herself extra loads of marking into the bargain. Ah well, she thought resignedly, it was for their own good, and it would give them all a head start with this year’s folio work.