‘Steel’s not answering her phone.’
The sound of little feet thundered past in stereo. ‘Thooloo! Thooloo!’
‘You didn’t agree to this in advance?’
‘Of course I didn’t! I bought bubble bath. I even bought fizzy wine for you to drink while soaking in the bubble bath. This is Steel’s revenge for me not babysitting last night.’
More thundering feet. Then Jasmine’s voice sounded loud and clear. ‘Aunty Tara? Aunty Tara, Naomi needs to go to the toilet.’
‘I’m not good with children, Logan. They frighten me.’
‘Look, I’ve got to go to the station and sign out, but then I’ll be right home. I promise.’
‘You’d better be. Because—’
‘Aunty Tara? Naomi really, really needs to go to the toilet!’
‘Oh God...’ She was obviously trying to put a bit of confidence into her voice. It almost worked. ‘Come on, Tara, if you can blind a man with your thumbs, you can do this.’ And then she was gone.
Logan grimaced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Yeah, that last bit wasn’t worrying at all...
21
That’s the thing about Aberdeen — as soon as the rain stops, people rush outside, trying to enjoy themselves, as if it’s the middle of a summer’s day. Only it isn’t.
A row of black metal lampposts cast a faint yellow glow into the car park, shimmering back from the puddles. About a dozen assorted hatchbacks and four-by-fours are spread out across the bays, but Sally ignores them, reversing in alongside a dirty grey Luton van in the corner instead. All four tyres are flat, and there’s a ‘POLICE AWARE’ sticker across the windscreen.
Hmph.
Yes, well the police might be ‘aware’, but, as usual, they’re doing sod-all about it.
She leaves enough space between the Shogun and the van to get the passenger door open, backing up till the towbar is a couple of feet from the hedge bordering the car park.
Her head itches, like it’s covered in ants. But that’s what she gets for listening to Raymond, isn’t it? I’ve bought you a wig, Sally. Put the wig on, Sally. No one will recognise you if you wear the wig, Sally. She tops the long, blonde, curly monstrosity with a baseball cap, flips up the hood on her old brown hoodie, and puts on her sunglasses. She looks like a stroppy teenager, but at least no one will ask for a selfie this time.
Right. Let’s try it again.
Sally gets the stroller from the boot, clacks it into shape on the wet tarmac and wheels it away down one of the paths that lead off into Hazlehead Park.
Nearly half past seven and there are lanky kids in AFC tracksuits and head torches, out whacking golfballs where they aren’t meant to. A knot of underage couples snogging and smoking and passing around two-litre bottles of extra-strong cider. Hands up sweatshirts and down jeans.
She keeps going, following the path deeper and deeper into the park. Moving from the waxy glow of one lamppost to the next.
Trees and bushes crowd in on the path as she pushes the teddy bear in its stroller. Following the sound.
Shrieks and yells and giggling laughter.
It’s not a huge play area: a seesaw, a climbing frame, and a set of swings. Almost a dozen small children have descended on it — some hanging from the bars, two going up and down and up and down, four roaring around and around pretending to be spaceships — while their parents stand on the periphery, looking bored. Chatting to one another or fiddling with their phones. Someone’s reading a magazine.
Sally wheels the stroller past them, keeping her head down — along the path as it curls past the far side of the play area and disappears between a clump of thick green bushes.
The kids on the other side screech and roar.
Maybe it would be...
She stops. Frowns.
There’s a small girl sitting on the ground beneath one of the bigger bushes where it’s dry, playing with a handful of Star Wars action figures. A pretty little thing — can’t be more than five years old — in denim dungarees, a wine-red T-shirt, and grubby trainers. Hair a froth of Irn-Bru-coloured curls.
No sign of her mother.
How could anyone just let her wander off like that?
Sally stands on her tiptoes, peering over the top of the bush. The parents barely seem to register the children screeching around in front of them. It’s unbelievable, it really is.
She hunkers down in front of the little girl. ‘Hello.’
No reply.
‘That looks fun.’
Still nothing. So Sally picks up the Darth Vader figure and makes it walk towards her, adopting an over-the-top French accent: ‘Ello. I have ze leetle boy who likes space stuff too.’
She doesn’t look up. ‘That’s not how Gunter talks. He’s American.’
Right. Of course he is. Sally swaps her Inspector Clouseau for John Wayne instead. ‘Well gee, I sure am sorry, partner.’
The little girl attacks a Chewbacca with a Princess Leia, biffing them together. ‘It’s OK. He’s a bit of a tit anyway.’
‘A bit of...?’
Chewbacca falls over and Princess Leia jumps on his head.
‘That’s what Daddy says when someone’s not as clever as he is.’ She puts on a deep growly voice. ‘“Christ’s sake, Becky, but your Uncle Kevin’s a bit of a tit!”’
‘I see...’ Sally forces a smile. ‘Well, Becky, would you and Gunter like to come play with my little boy?’
‘Is he a bit of a tit?’
Sally bites her lip for a moment, then pulls on the smile again. ‘No, he’s a lovely, handsome, clever, funny, little boy.’ She nods at the teddy bear, strapped into the stroller. ‘This is his best friend, Mr Bibble-Bobble. They’re playing hide-and-seek.’ She brings up a finger and points it at the bushes opposite. ‘Can you see him? He’s a very good hider.’
And at that, the little girl finally looks up from Princess Leia giving Chewbacca a kicking and stares at the bush, eyes narrowing, lips pursed.
Good. You keep facing that way.
Sally slips the homemade gag from her pocket — it’s only a tea towel with a knot tied in the middle, but perfectly serviceable. ‘Can you see him?’
Becky squints. ‘... Yes?’
She edges closer. ‘Ooh, look: there he goes!’ Swinging her finger towards the nearest exit. ‘I bet we can sneak up on him if we’re all super quiet and sneaky like spies.’
Becky scrambles to her feet. ‘Gunter is a spy!’
‘Quick, jump in the buggy and hide under Mr Bibble-Bobble.’ Sally unbuckles the bear. ‘He won’t expect a thing.’
Becky puts one hand on the stroller... then stops. Looks back through the bushes at the knot of parents.
Sally tightens her grip on the gag. Come on. Get in the buggy. Get in the buggy.
She scuffs away a step. ‘Maybe I better—’
‘Unless you’re too big a scaredy-cat to be a spy?’
‘Am not a scaredy-cat!’ She grabs Darth Vader / Gunter from Sally’s hands. ‘Come on, Gunter, don’t be a tit.’ Then clambers into the stroller and pulls the teddy on top of herself. It barely covers half of her, but it’ll be good enough from a distance.
She makes little giggling noises as Sally wheels her away along the path.
‘Shhh... You have to be very quiet.’
Past the play area, past the snogging underage drinkers. Past the where-they’re-not-meant-to-be golfers. Back into the car park. And Becky’s still giggling...