‘So you’re saying they’re not really dangerous at all. That they’re harmless, like – like kids using naughtiness to provoke a reaction. And that we should stop stressing about it and just ignore them?’
‘Exactly. Everything they’ve done has obviously been designed to provoke us into doing something stupid, so a lawyer can argue that we’re the ones who are unfit to have custody of Beckie.’
‘But we know that they are dangerous. They’re hardened criminals. We can’t afford to let down our guard, especially not where Beckie’s concerned. Maybe that’s what they want us to do. Maybe they want us on the back foot, maybe they’re counting on us relaxing and thinking “As long as we don’t react, everything will be fine”, and that’s when they’ll strike.’
‘If they were going to “strike”, they’d have done so by now. If snatching Beckie has been their aim, let’s face it, there’s nothing much we could have done to stop them, “hardened criminals” as they are.’
She’d felt the bed rock as he’d pushed himself out of it.
‘I’m going to Glasgow to see Saskia,’ she’d said.
‘What good’s that going to do?’
‘I thought you agreed that we should speak to her? Find out which of the neighbours to approach…’
‘That was before it became clear what the Johnsons are up to. And anyway, we can’t believe a word that woman says.’
Breakfast had been strained to say the least. But Flora knew she was right about this: they had to get as much on the Johnsons as they could from Saskia, and pick her brains on how to tackle them. Maybe Saskia would know something about the garage that had supplied Travis Johnson’s so-called alibi; and she might let Flora have the names and numbers of the neighbours who had been prepared to talk and had described the Johnsons as a ‘family from hell’, so Flora could call them and maybe arrange to meet at a café or something – because no way were either of them going anywhere near Meadowlands Crescent again.
The landline started ringing on the side table by the TV.
She picked it up. ‘Hello, Flora Parry here?’
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Parry. This is Karen Baxter. I’m a Children’s Reporter with the Scottish Children’s Reporter Administration. I’m calling to ask if it would be possible to arrange a time when I could pop round and see you and your husband and Beckie, just to check that everything’s okay?’
Still smiling at Beckie, she pulled open the glass doors and took the call outside. ‘What do you mean, to check that “everything’s okay”? Scottish Children’s… what?’
‘Scottish Children’s Reporter Administration. We deal with child welfare and protection in Scotland. We’ve had a referral from a member of the public with a few concerns about Beckie. I need to just pop round and see you. Would after school on Monday be convenient – say, 4:30?’
Flora shut her eyes. Breathed in the fresh, early morning scents of the garden. ‘Concerns? What kind of concerns?’
‘We can talk about that when I see you.’
‘But that’s not necessary!’ She crossed the patio to the expanse of grass, wanting to take this call as far from Beckie as possible. ‘Beckie’s fine, there’s no –’
‘We have a duty to investigate every referral made, Mrs Parry – if, as you say, everything’s fine, no further action will be taken. But we do have to carry out an investigation, as I say, once a referral has been made.’
‘This is the Johnsons. Beckie’s biological family.’ The grass was still dewy, moisture soaking into her pumps. ‘It’s meant to be a closed adoption, but they’ve found out where we live and they’ve been harassing us. It’s the Johnsons, isn’t it, who’ve made the referral?’
‘I can’t discuss that with you.’
Oh God. Neil, of course, was going to see this as support for his theory that the Johnsons were basically harmless, out to discredit them and nothing more; to make out that they were unsuitable parents for Beckie.
‘No. Of course. All right. Tomorrow at 4:30, then. I suppose you have our address?’
The place is a fucking disgrace so it is, fucking needles and that lying in the close and a big jobbie that looks fucking human.
Ryan’s pulling on the white forensic suit over his shirt and the wee cushion he’s got strapped to his belly, and then he’s putting on the tabard with ‘Environmental Health’ on the back like I’m wearing. When he’s done, I lean on him to put on the blue plastic covers for my trainers, and he’s leaning on me to do the same, then we’re pissing ourselves when we’re getting the showercap whoogies on us over the wigs, and pulling up the masks, like we’re dealing with fucking Ebola here.
Aye well, what we are dealing with isnae any less virulent, eh?
I make sure the false neb’s still in place under the mask. Ryan got it off of the internet and it’s that realistic wee Kai didnae even know me when I was practising with make-up and that, the poor wee bairn was ‘Hello?’ and his wee face was Who are you and where’s my Nana?
I pull on the gloves and buzz the buzzers at the door. I’ve got my story all ready – we’re from the Council, Environmental Health, here to get the place cleaned up – but I dinnae need it, the door buzzes open. Fuckers cannae even bother their arses to ask who’s there?
Candy from a bairn.
Mair likely thinks she’s safe enough in this dump.
Ryan’s whistling his way up the stair, taking it two steps at a time.
I like to see a man happy in his work.
At Mair’s flat door I do a rap-tap-a-tap-tap nice and cheery, and I go, ‘Hi, Saskia, it’s Claire from the ground-floor flat, can I have a wee word?’ Mair isnae gonnae know anyone in the stair. ‘It’s about the wee lassie in Flat 2, she’s in the hospital and I’ve got a card going round…’
There’s sounds from inside the flat. Footsteps.
I’ve got the dishcloth I’ve brought with me over the peephole.
‘Just take a sec for an autograph,’ I goes, so fucking cheery it would make you boak.
There’s scraping and clunking and then the door’s opening and Ryan’s breenging against it and Mair’s ‘Uh! Uh!’ like she’s a fucking chimp, and then we’re in with the door shut behind us and I’m ‘Hello Saskia-hen’ and she’s making a run for it to the bog and Ryan’s got her by the arms and he shoves her back against the wall.
I can tell he’s grinning away behind the mask.
I shove the dishcloth in her gob.
She’s a fucking mess so she is, like she’s no brushed her hair for a fucking month, and the stink off of her!
‘Aye hen,’ I goes. ‘You fucked with our wean and now we’re fucking with you. That’s justice. That’s fucking justice, eh?’
Mair’s shaking her head.
‘You hurt our Bekki. You took her whole fucking family off of her and gave her to fucking randoms. Her whole fucking family, that loved her to pieces and that she loved right back.’
Mair’s pure white and she’s shaking like an alky.
‘Saskia-hen – I can call you Saskia, aye? Saskia-hen, it’s payback time. Me and the family have been having a wee conference about what all you can do to make it up to Bekki. That right, son?’
Ryan smacks Mair back against the wall and goes, ‘Aye. We’ve had what you might call some constructive interfacing around the whole issue and we have come to the conclusion that you, hen, are a piece of shite needs wiped off the arse of the fucking planet.’
Mair’s going, ‘Oh go… gay gay-eh-eh!’