Brannigan

‘Mind if I join you?’

The man looked up. He was small, hair slicked back off a bony face, shirt collar too big for his neck. ‘Wha’s askin?’

‘Maggie Laird.’ Get yourself installed. She dropped onto the seat opposite. Smiled politely. ‘How do you do?’

The wee man regarded Maggie, eyes flicking back and forth between her own. They settled, finally, on her forehead. ‘Nane o’ your fuckin business how ah’m daein.’

Make small talk. ‘They tell me you’re a regular here.’

‘They? Who’s “they”?’

Be circumspect. ‘Friends of yours.’

‘What freends?’

Establish a connection. ‘In the Drouthy Duck.’ Oh, hell, you shouldn’t have let that out.

‘Ach,’ the man spat, ‘ye dinna want tae listen tae a load o’ ex-cons.’

‘No?’ In for a penny. ‘Aren’t you one yourself?’

He threw her an evil look.

Dammit! Maggie cursed inwardly. This was her big opportunity, maybe her only opportunity, to beard the man. She’d been cock-a-hoop when, finally, she pinned down the pub that Brannigan habituated. And yet, in spite of all she’d read, the careful pre-planning that had preceded this meeting, there she went again, going for the jugular.

She regrouped. ‘Mr Brannigan, isn’t it?’

‘Wha telt ye ma name? These freends again?’

Maggie nodded.

‘So,’ the wee man jeered. ‘What if ah am?’

‘The reason I’m here is…’ she paused.

Brannigan eyed her warily.

Keep it vague. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

‘An ah want tae drink ma pint in peace,’ Brannigan drained his glass and set it down with a clatter.

‘It won’t take a minute.’

‘Forget it.’

Maggie eyed the empty glass. ‘Maybe I could get you another?’

‘Pint of heavy. Don’t mind if you do.’

x

‘As I was saying…’

Brannigan took a deep slurp of his beer. ‘Ye said ye wanted tae ask me somethin,’ he rolled his eyes. ‘Ask away.’

Oh, well, too late now. She took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember a drugs trial?’

‘Trial?’ Brannigan studied his pint. ‘Naw.’

‘You sure?’

He shrugged. ‘There’s trials every day o’ the week.’

‘This one was special.’

‘Special? How?’

‘Judge threw it out.’

Brannigan cocked his head. ‘That right?’

‘You know it is.’

The man’s lip curled. ‘What if ah dae?’

‘Thought you might,’ Maggie continued. ‘Seeing as you were the star witness.’

‘Star?’ Brannigan sneered. ‘Aye, that’ll be right.’

‘In fact, it was your evidence, was it not, that brought the thing down?’

‘Ye’re talkin through a hole in yer heid,’ Brannigan sneered. ‘Case got thrown out fair an square.’

‘Fair and square?’ Maggie’s hackles rose. ‘Is that what you call it? Lying in the witness box? Wrecking people’s lives?’

‘Now, come oan. You accusin me o’ perjury?’

‘Yes,’ she leaned across the table, ‘that’s precisely what I’m doing.’

Brannigan took a swill of his beer. ‘What aboot thon tape?’

‘The one that was turned off?’

‘Aye. In the interview room.’

‘I know all about that. It’s you I’m asking.’

‘Sae what if it wis ma test-i-mony?’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Maggie lowered her voice. ‘I don’t suppose you gave a moment’s thought to the consequences?’

‘Such as?’

‘The repercussions for those two policemen: the effect the outcome of your testimony had on their careers, their families, their lives?’

‘What’s it tae you?’

‘My husband was one of those officers.’

‘Aye?’

‘George Laird.’

‘Thon sergeant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuckin filth. How wid ah give a shite fur ony o’ them?’

‘Because he’s dead,’ Maggie said softly.

‘Dead? How?’

‘Heart attack.’

‘Naethin tae dae wi me, missus. It’s no as if ah hit him ower the fuckin heid wi a hammer.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘You might as well have.’

‘How?’

‘Because it was the stress of the whole thing that killed him.’

‘Well, ye can fuck aff oot o’ here,’ Brannigan made to rise.

‘Hold on.’ Maggie changed tack. A confrontation was precisely what she’d been hoping to avoid.

Brannigan sat back in his seat.

‘You got kids?’

‘Four,’ he fingered his glass.

‘So you’ll know…’

‘Ah dinna see them. Ah’m divorced.’

‘I’ve got two myself.’

‘That right?’ Disinterested voice.

‘Yes. Their dad’s death has affected them badly.’

Brannigan shrugged. ‘Happens.’

‘I was hoping you’d be able to help.’ She gazed at the man in mute appeal.

‘Me? How?’

‘By owning up.’

Brannigan guffawed. ‘Put ma hauns up tae fingerin the filth? Ye’re aff yer fuckin heid.’

‘A man’s dead. And if you had any decency…’

‘Decency is it now?’ Bobby Brannigan bared a mouthful of bad teeth. ‘Well, ah’ve a wee suggestion fur ye.’

‘What’s that?’ Maggie leaned forward.

‘Ye can dae the decent thing an fuck aff.’