A Deadly Deception Read online

  Was this really sixty-one-year-old Mrs Janet Peacock of Azalea Avenue, Bearsden, stumbling into a car in such an undignified manner? Was she really going away, she knew not where, with a complete stranger?

  She felt confused as well as frightened. A few minutes passed before she was able to find her voice and ask, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Have you ever been in a high-rise building?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’ll be staying – for a while at least. Until we find you a council house of your own somewhere. But no one will hurry you. We just want you to feel relaxed and safe until you decide what you want to do next.’

  A council house? Janet couldn’t help feeling shocked. Not that she had anything against people who lived in council houses, she hastily assured herself. But she had never been used to anything like that. She had been brought up in a large bungalow with a loft conversion in a good area. She had gone to a private school. The best private school in Glasgow, her mother always insisted proudly.

  ‘It might not be as posh as Bearsden,’ Betty was saying, ‘but you’ll find the flat has a magnificent view. And there’s a park across the road and plenty of buses to and from the city centre. And Springburn’s just down the hill. Do you know Springburn?’

  Janet shook her head.

  ‘Or Balornock?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘Och well, never mind.’ Betty gave her a reassuring smile. ‘You’ll soon get to know the place.’

  Janet’s heart was beating faster by the minute. Her only comfort was the thought that she was escaping from Charles. She clung desperately to the thought.

  ‘Mary McFee is the woman you’ll be sharing the flat with. A nice wee soul. You’ll like her.’

  The name worried Janet.

  ‘Where is she from?’

  ‘The Gorbals.’

  The Gorbals? Janet now felt not only shocked but horrified. She had read about the Gorbals and the dreadfully rough people who lived there.

  What on earth was she getting herself into?

  3

  John Ingram was proud of the fact that, in his thirty-nine years, he never showed anger. He had felt anger often enough and never more so than since getting to know Angela. The bitch had led him on, encouraged him at every turn, promised herself on a plate, then refused to follow through. He had kept his cool. She was not going to get the better of him. She had tormented him. He had trusted her, confided his deepest, strongest feelings to her and she had thrown them back in his face.

  He had kept his cool. He had been as quiet and as gentle as a kitten. That did not mean she was going to get away with it. Oh no! She thought she was not going to see him? How wrong could she be? Oh yes, lady, you’ll be seeing me, all right. Only she wasn’t a lady. Cheap, lying, devious slut. They were all like that. The streets were hotching with the little madams, their bellies and half their bums bared for anyone to gawp at. She thought she was getting away with it. Making a fool of him. Taking him for a sucker. That’s what she thought but he’d find her. He was clever.

  Already he’d picked up clues. Once it had slipped out in conversation that she was ‘going across to the park to do some sunbathing’. Then she tormented him by describing how she would strip off to her bikini and lie there alone on the grass.

  Going across to the park, was she? Going to lie alone, was she? He’d see about that. Already he was working on it. He had made a list of as many parks in Glasgow as he could think of and was hell-bent on searching every inch of every one.

  He was also studying nearby houses, houses that were situated ‘across’ from a park. More recently, she’d let slip (after some of his crafty questioning) that she couldn’t see the trees for part of the buildings opposite. Could that mean very high buildings? He became quite excited. High-rise flats? Tower blocks? There were plenty of those in Glasgow. He made another list. He was a patient man. He’d get her all right.

  Of course, it might not be high-rise buildings. A hurricane of anger hit him as he realised the enormity of his task. He controlled it. Turned it into ice. After all, he had plenty of time to concentrate on finding her. He’d get her all right.

  Hatreds from the past seeped back to strengthen his resolve. It was his revenge, in a way, for all that he’d suffered in the past, his whole life in fact. He’d kept hoping that everything would turn out all right. He wanted to feel safe and happy and, most of all, loved. Always had. But first of all his mother had deserted him. Just walked out one day, left him alone in the house and never came back. He’d been put into care. Care? He couldn’t bear to think of the bloody woman who had been coining money for supposedly caring for him. He still had the scars to show for her so-called caring!

  Then there had been a few tentative approaches to girls that had come to nothing. They always seemed so much stronger, more confident, than him. How happy he’d been when at last he’d found someone who seemed to satisfy his desperate search for love and security. He had been over the moon. She was beautiful and she didn’t seem to mind his long gangly body in comparison. She had the extra attraction of a foreign accent and what to him seemed a tantalisingly mysterious background. They made great plans to visit her home country as soon as they could after they were married. But it had all come to nothing. He soon discovered that she had only married him for British citizenship. She had no desire or intention of ever setting foot in her native country again. She’d used him. She’d seen him as a good catch as well, of course. A successful businessman, albeit in a small way. He had a barber’s shop. Men could come into his shop and not be bothered by women. He employed only men to cut and shave his all-male clientele.

  There was a growing trend, however, for women hairdressers to tempt men into their fancy salons to sit beside women customers and get fancy cuts. Women were ruining his business, as well as his private life. Not long after their marriage, his so-called wife disappeared. The same as his mother had done. Just walked out one day and never came back.

  For no reason at all, except selfishness. She’d suited herself at every turn. Got what she could out of him. That was what this telephone woman was doing. Angela, she was called but she was no angel.

  Why didn’t she agree to meet him? That was the crux of the whole thing. Her continuing refusal made it quite obvious that all she wanted was to squeeze as much money out of him as possible and for as long as possible.

  In his search to find Angela, he went first of all to the Botanic Gardens. He wandered through it and around it. On the Great Western Road side, there was a hotel and some terraced houses. From them, the park was perfectly visible. It was the same along Queen Margaret Drive. Even looking down from Botanic Crescent. Slowly, carefully, he made his way all round the streets – stopping in front of houses and staring towards the park. Eventually he crossed the Botanic Gardens off his list.

  Queen’s Park was his next destination. Yet again he was frustrated. After a long walk, he found nothing that fitted what he was looking for. This was not the place. His frustration and exhaustion fuelled his anger. He hated the telephone bitch more than he’d hated anyone or anything before in his life. When he found her – and he would find her – he’d kill her.

  He arrived home footsore and furious. He collapsed into a chair. Then, after he had recovered his self-control, he lifted the telephone. Her soft voice with its unusual lilt was soon tormenting him again. He kept his cool. Smooth as syrup, his voice was. He asked her casually, ‘Been across at the park today?’

  ‘No, I took the bus into town and bought some sexy underwear …’

  She proceeded to describe the strapless satin bra and thong and all her other intimate purchases.

  ‘So you haven’t a car?’ He managed to get a word in eventually.

  ‘No, I don’t drive. But it’s never been a problem. The bus stop’s just across the road.’

  ‘And just as handy coming back too, I suppose?’ he said casually.

  ‘Oh yes, there’s a s
top outside.’

  So, a bus stop across the road in front of the building that blocked her view of the park and a bus stop exactly in front of her building. He was getting there, slowly but surely. He laughed.

  ‘And of course, you hadn’t a heavy load of shopping to lug up the stairs. Only lightweight satin stuff.’

  ‘Och, there’s a lift, so I’d be all right anyway,’ she laughed in response. Stupid cow. Now he knew it was a high-rise building and she lived high up. And if she lived high up and couldn’t see the park for the buildings opposite, the chances were the buildings opposite were high-rise too.

  Now, that meant he really was getting somewhere. There would only be a few buildings with parks nearby which would meet such exact criteria. He began to feel excited.

  Maybe only one.

  4

  Mabel enjoyed a trip into town to Marks & Spencer’s. It was her special treat every week. Eyes flickering down, she left the safety of the house into the bleak brown square of a landing, scratched and chalked with graffiti. She glanced nervously around at the other flats before scuttling into the lift. She felt relieved that no riotous youths had burst from behind any of the doors. This had happened before and, although they ignored her and perhaps didn’t mean her any harm, she had felt vulnerable and frightened.

  The lift plummeted down. Every time it stopped, men, women and children crammed in. The men could not have come from inside one of the refuge flats because she’d heard that no men, not even fathers and brothers, were ever allowed access to any refuge. Plunging down and down. Doors clanging open and shut. Falling, sinking again. Then at long last she was escaping into the entrance hall. She saw the concierge’s office. She caught a glimpse of the green uniform of the concierge as she hurried past. Out now, buffeted by the usual flurry of wind.

  By the time she reached the bus stop across the road, she was shivering with the cold air beating around her. Here, because of being on Balgray Hill, she could see the magnificent view through the space between the buildings. She could see green hills and the sparkle of the river in the distance.

  The bus came and she struggled on, her bus pass ready in her hand to show to the driver. Before she returned it to her handbag, she checked its date. It wouldn’t be long until she had to apply for a new one. That meant the nuisance of having another photo taken. She sighed as she looked at the photo. She had never been attractive. Her mother and father had not been able to hide their disappointment in her. They were both tall and handsome. And there she was, small and skinny with thick pebble glasses. She’d always had to wear them, even as a young child. Now well past retirement age, she had a stoop and, because of her arthritis, had to walk with the help of a stick. Once her hair had been mousy brown but at least it had been thick. Now it was grey and so thin that her pink scalp shone through it in places.

  Her mother and father had been ashamed of her. They never said so, of course, but she had always keenly felt their disappointment and shame. She had tried to make up for everything else by being good. She was a very good little girl. They had to admit that. Quiet, obedient, always ready to help in the house or by running errands. Later, when first her mother had become ill and then her father, she was a conscientious nurse and carer.

  So good, so helpful, so desperately conscientious that she never had time for a life of her own. Never in her whole life had she even had a friend. She realised now that her mother and father were such a devoted and happily married couple, they had no need of friends or anyone else but each other. As far as their only daughter was concerned, they were totally selfish. Instead of encouraging her to get out and have a life of her own, they believed it was her duty to dedicate herself to them. They took her for granted. The only crumb of praise they occasionally threw in her direction was, ‘You’re such a good girl.’

  Well, she was fed up being bloody good. She was going to make up for lost time by being as bad as she could. Better late than never. Now she was being bloody bad and making money into the bargain. If only they knew. A bitter surge of laughter choked in her throat. She swallowed it down.

  They hadn’t even left her any money. She had nothing but her old age pension. Or at least, that’s all she would have if it wasn’t for John and his regular and lengthy phone calls. She still put up with some calls from other men but they never lasted long.

  She was giving John value for money, of course. Nightly sexual excitement for one thing. But much more than that. She was being a good and sympathetic listener. She was comforting him when he needed comfort. An affection had grown between them, friendship even. He had said as much. It was one of the many reasons he had given in trying to persuade her to meet him, go with him for a meal or to a show.

  If she had been the person he thought she was, the shapely young woman with the long blonde hair and short skirts, she would have met him. It would have been wonderfully exciting to have met him and gone out with him. If only she could. She felt sorry for him. He pleaded so desperately, yet so gently. She had begun to feel quite desperate herself. She longed to be tall and beautiful with long, blonde hair and a shapely curvaceous body. She still felt a young woman inside. It was only her outside shell of a body that had grown old. The young woman inside her longed to have the sex with John that they so often acted out together. She felt guilty for deceiving him.

  In an effort to dispel her guilt, she kept assuring herself, kept repeating to herself, ‘I give John value for money. I do all I can for him in the circumstances.’

  Every evening she tried to pleasure him in every way she could imagine.

  Suddenly she was jerked back to the present by the bus driver shouting at her, ‘Is it a round trip ye’re after today, auld yin?’

  They had arrived at the Buchanan Bus Station and everyone else had left the bus.

  ‘Och, I must have dozed off. I’m so sorry.’ Clutching at her stick, she struggled up.

  ‘It’s one of them zimmer things ye’re needing, hen.’

  He got out of his driver’s seat and half lifted her off the bus.

  She smiled up at him.

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Och, I’ve an old granny at home. I’m well used to this.’

  She made her way slowly out of the bus station, past the tall silver sculpture of huge running legs topped with a round white clock in a silver square. She passed one big hotel, then another. It always amazed her how many hotels there were in Glasgow. There seemed to be no end to the building of them. She supposed it must be a sign of prosperity. Across the road was the big concert hall. She passed it, then, turning on to West Nile Street, she braced herself for the wind that always gusted down there. Once she got round on to Sauchiehall Street, she could relax and feel steadier on her feet.

  She tutted to herself as she passed all the shops selling cheap T-shirts and miniskirts. Everything was geared for young people nowadays. Across the road was the shop with a windowful of ridiculously skimpy satin underwear. It had been from that window she had gathered her information about the underwear she’d described to John. Long gone were the days when Sauchiehall Street was high class, with beautiful shops where everything had been good quality and in good taste and the assistants were respectful and called every customer ‘Modom’.

  At least Marks & Spencer’s had not changed all that much. She didn’t need to buy clothes now. She had enough to last her out. But oh, she did enjoy Marks & Spencer’s food. She hobbled about the food aisles with the help of her stick. She enjoyed the sight of the many tasty-looking dishes so much. In the past she could only look and dream but now she could treat herself. Now she had money to buy not only tasty chicken dishes but delicious puddings and even fancy cakes as well.

  Thanks to John.

  If only things had been different. Poor John. They could never meet and he would never understand.

  She had one of Marks & Spencer’s special bags that kept the frozen foods cool. She filled it with her purchases and made her way slowly back to the bus station.<
br />
  The wind tugged at her when she reached her destination on the Balgray Hill and crossed the road to The Heights. Then, just as she got through the entrance door, the tall Women’s Help worker struggled past, lugging two large suitcases. She was followed by an elegant-looking, grey-haired woman in a lavender costume and matching hat with a side feather. It reminded Mabel of the outfit the Queen had worn at the first opening of the Scottish Parliament. The woman wasn’t unlike the Queen, in dignity at least.

  Oh dear, Mabel thought. She won’t fit in here. Especially in the women’s refuge. She didn’t look as if she’d been battered. But apparently men of higher social class made sure the results of their battering weren’t seen. They never aimed at the woman’s face. She’d seen a programme all about it on television and she’d read articles in the newspapers. It seemed incredible but only too true that it wasn’t only drunken working-class men who were abusers. There were far more people like judges, lawyers, doctors, psychiatrists, company directors, policemen and even ministers of religion. It was all a question of manipulation, power and the abuse of power, apparently.

  As she stood in the lift beside the Women’s Help worker and her companion, Mabel wondered what this woman’s husband was – apart from an abuser. Despite her dignified bearing, the poor soul’s eyes were brimming with fear and apprehension.

  Men could be right beasts, absolute monsters.

  Except her John, of course.

  5

  ‘If you don’t do something about him, Mammy,’ Cheryl Patterson said, ‘I will.’

  Her mother, shoulders hunched in misery, twisted thin fingers on her lap.

  ‘What can you do, hen? I know you mean well and I appreciate it. I really do. But you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Yes, Mammy. I know what he’s like. He’s a hopeless drunk.’