Bairns!
‘In a wee while,’ I goes.
‘I’m gonnae save this for Bekki,’ goes Kai, and he lifts up the slice of pizza he’s piled pepperoni on that he’s picked off of the slice he’s eaten. Kai doesnae like pepperoni. It all falls on the carpet and the dug hoovers it.
‘She willnae want pizza,’ goes Corrigan. ‘Bekki only eats organic shite made by beardy wankers cos she’s saving the fucking planet, the fucking wee snob.’
‘Travis!’ I goes. ‘Are you gonnae just sit there and let him aff wi’ that?’
Travis is on his tablet. He doesnae even look up, he just goes, ‘Shut it ye wee bass.’
Looks like Travis and Mackenzie are maybe getting back together, and I’m no sure how I feel about that. It’ll be barry seeing more of the weans, and they need taking in hand right enough, but that wee minger Mackenzie, I hate her fucking guts. She’s a shite mother. Puts Jordaine in wee crop tops and lets her wear make-up and Jordaine’s only five year old. Films her doing sexy moves, grinding her wee hips in time to Beyoncé. Gives me the boak. Gonnae end up a tart like her maw if we dinnae nip that in the bud.
Carly goes, ‘Do you reckon Ailish heard?’
‘Oh aye, darlin’. She heard all right.’
Timing was spot on. You could set your watch by that Ailish bint. Back home 2:30 every Thursday with her weekly shop from Marks and Sparks. So she’s out there unloading for two, three minutes, and no way is that nosy cow not earwigging when two gobby bitches roll up at the Parrys’ door.
‘Flora was bricking it,’ goes Carly.
‘“But I never hit Bekki!”’ I goes.
Ryan and Travis are pissing themselves.
‘You were ace, Maw,’ goes Carly. ‘Here, if I have this wean preterm, I could maybe sue those bastards, eh, make out like it was the assault caused it –’
‘Jesus Chutney! Dinnae even think about it!’
‘I’m joking you!’
Aye, but is she? God’s sakes, this fucking family.
And now Travis is going, ‘Aw Christ, look at the state of it,’ because Connor’s at the lounge door in his funeral suit, and Mackenzie’s cackling, and Corrigan goes, ‘Put a suit on a bampot, it’s still a bampot’ and Travis is leaning over to high-five the wee shite, and I’m, ‘Corrigan!’
‘Aye Corrigan,’ goes Connor. ‘You’ll maybe wannae reflect on the fact that when I was your age I could spell my own fucking name, aye? So if I’m a bampot, what does that make you?’
Corrigan’s giving him evils.
‘He’s fucking dyslexic?’ goes Mackenzie.
‘Aye, and the rest,’ goes Ryan.
Connor eyeballs me. ‘You ready, Maw?’
‘Aye son.’ I get up off my arse. ‘Aye son, let’s us get outta here.’
I park on the street opposite 24 Turner Drive. It’s a nice area, a posh wee street with bungalows and gardens for folk that’s got nothing better to do than go at their lawns with nail scissors, and bonnie blossom trees, and it’s a right bonnie evening with the sun hitting the blossom, still as anything, and at the end of the street you get a wee keek at the sea with the sunlight dancing off of it.
I need a jobbie. Fucking pizza lying heavy.
We start with Number 22 next door, but the place is dead and no bastard answers. Number 26 but, a wee wifie comes to the door carrying a yappy wee dug, a manky Scottie with brown scliters down its gob.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I goes in a polite wee voice. ‘My name’s Susan Marchbanks and this is Kenneth Brown – we’re from a company called We-Locate that searches for heirs of people who’ve died intestate and left a sizeable estate…’
‘As featured on Heir Hunters,’ goes Connor.
Aye, and that’s got her attention right enough. ‘Although it’s mainly our Solihull branch features in the programme.’
She’s nodding along, pound signs dancing across her fucking eyeballs.
‘It’s Ruth Innes we’re looking for,’ I goes.
It’s pure comical so it is – the trip to the Canaries and the new smart TV gone for a Burton.
‘The last address we have for her is 24 Turner Drive,’ goes Connor.
I says, ‘There’s a monetary reward for information that allows us to trace an heir. Any information you can provide about Ruth Innes or her family could qualify.’
‘Oh? What kind of… monetary reward would you be talking about?’
Connor opens the folder he’s got with him and makes like he’s checking. ‘Given the value of the estate, we’d be looking at a sum in the region of one thousand three hundred pounds.’
She’s back interested. ‘Well, I don’t know if what I can tell you would be of any help…’
‘You’d be surprised. Mrs…?’ I smile.
‘Campbell. Jean Campbell.’
‘Would you like to talk to us now, or…’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Please come in.’
She shuts the dug up somewhere ben the house and comes back in the front room with a tray with mugs and biscuits. Connor’s got the form he printed out last night, and he sits there on the Parker Knoll and starts reading out questions – name, date of birth, all that shite, then it’s, ‘Do you have a current address for Ruth Innes?’
Wifie: ‘No, I’m afraid not. After her mother died and the bungalow was sold, I didn’t see Ruth again.’
Me: ‘Did you know the family well when they lived next door?’
Wifie: ‘Not to say well, but she was a good neighbour, Liz Innes, especially after my husband died. We’d have morning coffee together now and then, and go for the odd walk.’
There’s something she’s no saying. There’s something here right enough.
Connor: ‘And did you see much of her daughter Flora?’
The wee diddy. ‘You mean Ruth, Kenneth.’ I roll my eyes at the wifie. ‘I think you’re getting mixed up with Flora Adams from a previous case.’
‘Oh aye. Aye. Sorry, Maw.’
Fucking hell.
‘Susan,’ he goes, a right beamer on him.
I shake my head and give a wee giggle. ‘They call me “Ma” in the office because I’m always asking if they had enough for breakfast and telling them to wipe their feet – and this one’s getting a clip round the ear in a minute! Ha ha ha!’
Wifie smiles, but like she’s thinking Eh…?
‘So,’ I goes. ‘Did you see much of Ruth?’
Wifie: ‘No, Ruth wasn’t home much. She was at boarding school, you see, and then university.’
‘So they weren’t close, then, Mrs Innes and her daughter?’
Wifie sucks in her cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t say they were close, no. It was odd, actually – I always thought it was odd that she hardly ever mentioned Ruth. I’m always blethering on about my two boys and the grandchildren, you can’t shut me up, but Liz – if you asked her how Ruth was doing, she’d just smile and say, “Oh fine,” and change the subject.’
I knew it! I fucking knew it!
‘She was a cold woman in a way. Perfectly nice, but… not much warmth to her. On the few occasions Ruth was home, I never saw them go out together to the shops or anything. They seemed to live very much separate lives, which I thought was sad. Ruth was a lovely girl. She used to take Molly – my old Westie, Dee-Dee’s great-grandmother – for walks, and she’d come in and feed her and cuddle her and groom her. Lovely. I wondered – even before the accident, I mean – I wondered if maybe Liz was depressed.’
I goes, ‘This is the accident with the milk float you’re talking about?’
Wifie: ‘Awful. It really was. I saw it happen, you know. I was potting up plants at the front door… Primroses, I think. No – no, it was pansies. Liz was crossing the street – the milk float had been parked at the kerb, but then it started reversing. Liz – she seemed rooted to the spot. I shouted at her and dropped a pot onto the slabs, and it smashed, and then the milk float hit her and she went under the wheels. She could have got out of the way, but she didn’t even seem to try. I almost got the impression – as I said at the time – I almost got the impression that she couldn’t be bothered moving. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the way she just stood there sort of slumped… As if she was in a daze…’