‘They’re all This is an urgent message from the Bank of Scotland. There is a possibility there may have been fraudulent activity on your bank account, and we need you to transfer all your funds to a new, more secure account immediately to prevent their misappropriation… They’re getting the bastards panicking, aye, and no thinking straight, they’re no giving them time to maybe be a wee bit sensible and check it’s for real.’
‘Belter!’
‘Right, son. Get me the phone numbers of all the adoption agencies in Glasgow. I’ll call some and you call some, making out we’re from the Council doing checks. Auditors or that – what’s the name of that fucking committee I sent my complaint to about Mair?’
‘Scrutiny and Audit Committee.’
‘We’re on the Scrutiny and Audit Committee and we’re needing all the names of the case workers who’ve had anything to do with Bekki Johnson. If they say Sorry, that’s not one of ours, we try the next agency, and the next, until we get the name of the bint at the adoption agency who’s been the main one on Bekki’s case.’
‘Aye, and then?’
‘And then, we’ve got Adoption Woman’s name and number. Let’s say she’s called Bunty. We wait a few days. Then I’m Mair, right? I’m shitting myself because I’ve just telt the Johnsons where Bekki is. The fucking Johnsons have been and scammed me for real this time –’
‘But how would we –’
‘Naw naw. We dinnae. But I calls up Bunty. I goes, “Oh, hi, Bunty. It’s Saskia from Social Work.”’
Jed and Connor are pissing themselves.
‘That’s Mair,’ goes Connor.
‘“Bunty, I’m just checking, sorry if I’m being paranoid here, but you just called me ten minutes ago, yes?” Bunty goes, “No.” I goes, “Oh shit. I’ve just had a call from someone saying they were you… saying you were checking that all stakeholders had up-to-date details for Bekki Johnson’s adoptive parents, and asking me which address I had on file, because some mail from the Council seems to have been sent to the wrong address. That wasn’t you who called me just now?” Bunty: “No.” “In that case, we may have a problem. I – I’m afraid I read out the address we have in the database…” “Oh my God. Saskia!” “Well I thought it was you! It sounded like you!” You know how Mair would, she’d make out like it was Bunty’s fault for having a voice any fucker could copy. “Shit. I think we’ve been scammed. I think it could have been Lorraine Johnson.” Bunty’s thinking, You stupid fucking bitch. But she just goes, “Oh God.” Mair’s up shit creek and she’s like that: “I’m going to have to call the police. There’s a real possibility the Johnsons will try to snatch Bekki. I’ll alert the parents too. The mobile number I have for them is oh-blah-blah-blah. Is that right?” Bunty checks her files. “No, it’s oh-blah-blah-blah.” Mair goes, “And do you have their landline number and a current email address?”’
‘Belter,’ goes Jed.
‘Then you can use the phone numbers and email to find out their names and their address on the net, aye Connor?’
‘If they’ve got any kinda web presence, aye.’
‘And if they dinnae, we just phone them up and scam their names and address out them.’
‘Aw God Maw, that’s fucking wicked! You are a fucking evil genius!’
‘You watch your mouth, son.’ But I’m that made up I chuck the rest of the scone to the dug. ‘Gies the phone.’
7
‘Beckie?’ Ruth peered over the hedge to scan the paddock.
No sign.
Surely she wouldn’t have gone over to Emma’s without telling her?
‘Beckie?’ She turned and pushed her way through the knee-high grass between the apple trees, wading round the side of the house to the front.
There she was, still in her blue and yellow school uniform, trying to balance Fat Bear in the branches of the gean tree. The camera they’d got her for Christmas was carefully placed on the study windowsill. Hildebrand, the sinister cross-eyed lemur, was already in position, long legs hooked over a branch, leering upside-down at Ruth.
‘Mum!’ Beckie came bounding over and jumped up at her, hugging her arm. ‘Can I take a photo of you? Pleeeease? You look so pretty in that top. I mean, you always look pretty, but that top’s really really nice.’
Beckie knew how much Ruth disliked having her photo taken and was under the impression that it was because she was insecure about her rather full figure. Hence the flattery. But Ruth found herself looking down at the top she was wearing – a gypsy blouse in a floral print – and thinking it did rather suit her.
‘If you must, I suppose…’ While Beckie ran for the camera, Ruth stood under the tree. ‘Here?’
The little paparazza considered the composition. ‘If you move a bit that way, I can get you in the middle more.’ She was squinting at the screen on the back of the camera.
‘I’m not sure I want to be in the middle… Remember to hold the camera straight, Beckie.’
‘Oh yeah.’ A smile. ‘I’m so rubbish at photos. But I can delete them if they don’t work out, so it doesn’t really matter.’
‘You’re not “rubbish” at photos. That’s a lovely one of the sunset Dad has in the study.’
‘It’s so not! It looks like a monkey took it, or maybe you know that elephant who paints pictures? Maybe him. If I took a blurry photo of a big poop, you and Dad would still be like “Oh Beckie that’s lovely” and putting it on the wall.’
‘We certainly would not!’
‘Oh, hold it there, that’s good.’ Beckie started snapping. ‘Work it, Mum, work it!’
Where did she pick this stuff up from? Emma, presumably. Ruth put her hand on her hip and made a pouty face at the camera.
Beckie frowned through a smile. ‘Don’t make me laugh or it’ll be all shaky.’
‘That’s the general idea.’
Ruth posed and pouted and made faces for what seemed an age.
‘Come on, darling, that’s enough, surely? I’ll take some of you now.’
Beckie handed Ruth the camera, then pulled her hair out of her ponytail and fluffed it round her face. She had become self-conscious about her slightly protruding ears after a boy at school had started calling her Wingnut.
Ruth had gone straight to Miss Barbour, her class teacher, and it had been nipped in the bud. And then she’d had a big row with Alec about the possibility of an operation to have Beckie’s ears pinned back.
‘Why would you want to change her?’ Alec had said, dangerously quietly.
‘I don’t! I’m thinking of her! Of how it might just make her life a bit easier if she didn’t have to worry about her ears.’
‘Why should she have to worry about them? There’s nothing wrong with her ears. I love her pixie ears.’
‘So do I, but she doesn’t.’
‘What message would it send, bringing up the possibility of an operation? That we think she’s defective and needs fixed? How’s she going to feel about that?’
He had a good point, of course, but Ruth wasn’t going to give up on this. She’d revisit it in time. Let the idea sink in; let him get used to it. She loved Beckie’s ears too, but Alec just didn’t understand what it was like for girls these days.
Beckie had already picked up from somewhere how to pose for a photograph like a little cheerleader, one leg in front of the other, nonexistent chest pushed out, big false smile plastered on her face.