Praise for Cross Purpose
Longlisted for the McIlvanney Award for
Scottish Crime Book of the Year 2017
“A brilliant new talent for the lover of crime…a vibrant crime partnership and sound forensic expertise.” Sue Black, DBE, forensic anthropologist
“A refreshingly different approach to the private investigator genre… a fast-paced tale.” – Shirley Whiteside, Herald
“An unflinching, often funny and yet ultimately tender portrayal of life on the margins of society…a lively debut, with a fresh, different vibe.” Crime Fiction Lover
“[A] fantastic new crime novel…a gritty book with a surprisingly warm theme of female friendship.” The List
“MacLeary’s prose is assured and engaging, bursting with the liveliness of the Aberdonian vernacular… an impressive debut.” Raven Crime Reads
“Proof that good things come to those who wait.”
Dundee Courier
“Crime fiction has a new stellar voice in Claire MacLeary. Cross Purpose is feisty, funny and darkly delicious.” Michael J Malone
“A terrific crime debut with an unlikely crime-fighting partnership that sets it apart from the rest…compelling to the end.”
Theresa Talbot
“Edgy and thought-provoking… With lashings of authentic Aberdeen and a fast paced plot keeping the pages turning. Highly recommended.” Grab This Book
“A surprising read with dialogue so salty and a plot so gritty that it could keep a Highland road clear all winter.”
Douglas Skelton
Also by Claire MacLeary
Cross Purpose
Burnout
Claire MacLeary
Contraband is an imprint of Saraband
Published by Saraband,
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB
and
Digital World Centre, 1 Lowry Plaza
The Quays, Salford, M50 3UB
www.saraband.net
Copyright © Claire MacLeary 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-
copying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining
the written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781912235117
ebook: 9781912235124
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
burnout n. physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion, caused by long-term involvement in situations that are emotionally demanding
I
Maggie
The woman leaned in. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I think my husband is trying to kill me.’
Wow! Maggie jolted upright. That’s a first!
She struggled to maintain eye contact whilst her mind worked overtime. If their initial telephone conversation was anything to go by, this Mrs Struthers promised to be a profitable new client for the agency. But a threat on her life? That was a whole new ball game.
Maggie re-lived the dressing-down she’d had from DI Chisolm earlier that year when she got herself involved in an active murder investigation. What on earth was she going to do now?
‘Mrs Laird?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘I did.’
Maggie took another squint at Sheena Struthers. Small-boned. Short hair. Good skin. Not much make-up. Pretty in an old-fashioned sort of way. And ages with herself, she reckoned, or thereabouts. In short, the realisation hit home, like Maggie in another life.
Poor woman looked a bag of nerves: eyes staring, fingers picking relentlessly at her cuticles. Almost as fraught as Maggie had been when she’d first picked up the reins of her husband’s private investigation business. Still, the woman would be frightened, wouldn’t she, if someone really was trying to top her?
‘That’s a very serious allegation, Mrs Struthers,’ Maggie continued.
‘Sheena, please.’ The woman opposite pushed her cappuccino to one side.
They’d met in Patisserie Valerie in Union Square. Maggie had passed it often enough but never been inside. In her straitened position, she couldn’t afford to stump up nearly three pounds for a cup of something and the same again for a pastry. But the easy parking suited both her and her prospective client, and the cafe was low-key, more private than Costa Coffee or Starbucks.
‘Sheena.’ Maggie started to smile, then, remembering the subject matter, hastily rearranged her face. ‘On what grounds, might I ask, is this allegation based?’
Lord, would you listen to yourself? Since becoming a PI, Maggie had schooled herself to think like a detective. Now she was beginning to talk like one.
‘Just a feeling, really. It’s hard to explain, but…’
‘It’s this time of year.’ She cut the woman off mid-flow. ‘The run-up to Christmas puts a strain on the most solid of marriages.’ What she wouldn’t give, now, to have a man at her side, strain or no.
‘You’re so wrong.’ Sheena Struthers looked her straight in the eye. ‘But before we go any further…’ She rummaged in what looked, to Maggie, like a designer handbag, drew out a snakeskin-covered notebook and slender silver pen. ‘May I put a few questions to you?’
‘Of course.’ Relief flooded through Maggie’s veins. That would buy her time to devise an exit. She took a judicious sip of her tea.
‘I understand you haven’t been a private investigator for long. Am I right in saying that your husband…?’
Is dead, Maggie finished the sentence in her head. Then, ‘Let me stop you there.’ She put down her cup. This was going nowhere. ‘I’m afraid…’ Frantically, she framed excuses in her head: inexperience, pressure of work, conflict of interest. No matter they weren’t entirely true, they’d do the job.
Sheena Struthers ignored this. ‘I’ve done my homework, Mrs Laird. Looked into other agencies, in Aberdeen and further afield. For one thing they’re much too big. You’ll appreciate that in my situation…’ She cast a furtive glance around the cafe. ‘Discretion is paramount. With companies that size, one can never be sure.’
‘But the police,’ Maggie interjected. ‘Shouldn’t you…?’
‘My dear…’ Keen brown eyes gazed into Maggie’s own. ‘One gets the impression they’re stretched enough, don’t you agree?’
Maggie offered a non-committal, ‘Mmm.’ No way was she going down that road.
‘And besides,’ Mrs Struthers insisted, ‘you must realise that any police involvement could endanger my marriage.’
For the second time that afternoon Maggie was caught on the back foot. Make your mind up, woman: your marriage or your life? ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured, ‘I see what you mean,’ though she was at a loss to follow this line of reasoning.
‘Nor could I take the matter to a solicitor,’ Sheena Struthers continued. She leaned in close, dropped her voice. ‘My husband is an accountant, you see. Moves in rather a closed circle. And Aberdeen, it’s small enough, still. Word gets around,’ she looked to Maggie for reassurance. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly does.’ Maggie buried her nose in her cup. She knew only too well what the woman was alluding to. The police were as much a closed circle as any other professional body. Because of one man’s perjured testimony and another’s breach of interview protocol her detective husband had been forced out of a career to which he had devoted his life.
‘From what I’ve read in the papers, your late husband was an experienced detective.’
Maggie abandoned the tepid tea. ‘That is correct.’
‘So I assume the business has some standing. And you, from what I’ve heard, are a person of some integrity. And operate outwith,’ she raised a questioning eyebrow, ‘what one might loosely call “the establishment”. In short, Mrs Laird, your firm seems the perfect fit.’
Oh, to Hell! Maggie had intended to bring the meeting to a close. Now she’d let this Struthers woman take control.
She straightened in her seat. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, but I really don’t think I’m the right person.’ Her mouth turned down. Wasn’t that how she’d reacted when Wilma Harcus had urged her to take on George’s business? A daft idea, she’d called the proposal from her gallus new neighbour. And it was. But Maggie had yielded in the end, in part as a conduit to clear her mounting debts, but primarily as a means to clearing her husband’s sullied name, a quest for justice that was still ongoing.
‘You will help me, won’t you?’ Sheena reached across the table, clutched at her arm. ‘Please?’
Maggie played for time. ‘Well, I…’ She asked herself why she was still sitting here. Wilma wouldn’t give this woman the time of day.
Sheena Struthers’ eyes brimmed with tears. ‘You’re going to say no. I can tell.’
Here we go! Maggie couldn’t count how often she’d had to harden herself to situations like this. But it had to be done.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ She assumed an expression of sincere regret. ‘But I’m afraid I must.’
Wilma
‘You did what?’ In the conservatory to the rear of her bungalow, Wilma nearly jumped out of her chair.
‘Took on that Mrs Struthers I told you about.’
‘Maggie Laird!’ She lapsed into the vernacular. ‘Will ye no learn?’
‘Yes, yes.’ From the fat cushions of the cane chair opposite, Maggie held her hands up in a show of surrender. ‘I know you’re going to throw that Argo case at me again, but this is different.’
‘Different? How? Tell me that, will you?’
‘Mrs Argo was sick.’
‘I’ll give you “sick”. She was a bloody head-banger!’
‘That’s unfair, Wilma, and you know it.’
‘Unfair, now, is it? Pesky creature wasted hours of our time. And this Struthers woman sounds to me like more of the same. I’d put money on it she’s shooting you a line.’
‘Sheena Struthers is scared,’ Maggie insisted. ‘I could see it in her eyes.’
‘Why doesn’t she go to the police, then?’
‘Moves in exalted circles. Wants to keep it quiet.’
‘She could divorce the bastard.’ Stage wink. ‘On the quiet, like.’
Maggie shrugged. ‘Loves him, by all accounts.’
‘Och,’ Wilma snorted. ‘They all say that, leastwise till they’re lyin up at ARI wi muckle tubes runnin out of them. Anyhow, did we no agree we were tae phase out the domestic stuff?’
‘You’re right, Wilma. We did, only…’
Wilma cut her short. ‘An did we no mak that decision for a reason?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘A good reason. And that reason was, them cases take up too much fuckin time,’ Wilma was pink in the face, ‘for all they fuckin bring in. Ye’re a grown wumman,’ she wagged a fat finger, ‘but ah wonder, sometimes, what’s atween yer ears.’
Maggie stiffened. ‘There’s no need to be insulting.’
‘None intended. Dae ye no see?’ Wilma leaned across the coffee table, took hold of Maggie’s hand. ‘Ah’m only tryin tae protect you, ya feal quine.’
Maggie snatched her hand away. ‘I’m perfectly capable of managing a case on my own, thank you. As you’ll concede I’ve been doing for some time now.’
‘Perfectly capable,’ Wilma mimicked.
‘Now you’re being facetious.’
‘Fac-ee whit? Fur fuck’s sake, Maggie, cut it wi the lang words. All ah’m sayin is ye’re a soft touch.’
‘I am not.’
‘No? Dae ye mind thon bodybuilder?’ Wilma sat back, folded her arms. ‘He was desperate, says she. An that pair at Westhill? An the woman out Sheddocksley way? An…’
‘Point taken. I might have been a bit gullible then, but if I’ve learned one thing from my experience as a private investigator it’s to trust my instincts.’
‘Well,’ Wilma reverted to business mode. She unfolded her arms and raised a finger to her face. ‘My nose is telling me this Struthers thing is a bit whiffy.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Maggie remonstrated. ‘Sheena Struthers comes across as perfectly straight. She’s genuinely apprehensive, otherwise why would she go to the trouble of approaching us? And despite what you say, I warmed to her. She’s a nice woman.’
‘Nice, is it? You’re too easily taken in by appearances, Maggie Laird. Just because she lives in Milltimber and the husband doesn’t get his hands dirty doesn’t stop her taking you for a mug.’
Since she’d moved to Mannofield, Wilma couldn’t credit how easy folk made a crust. Back in Torry you’d be on a building site in all weathers, or standing in a fish processing factory on a wet concrete floor.
Maggie sighed inwardly. Right again! She could still remember her reaction when Wilma had rolled up on her doorstep: how she’d shrunk from the sheer vulgarity of the woman. Then that first time she’d been invited into Wilma’s home: how gob-smacked she’d been at the over-the-top furnishings, how she couldn’t stop herself from mentally totting up the cost.
‘If you must know, I did turn her down.’
Wilma calmed down. ‘There you are.’
‘But in the end she managed to convince me.’
‘Christ!’ She bristled again. ‘Didn’t I say you were a soft touch?’
‘It wasn’t only that. If you must know, I fancy a challenge. When we started out, we were only going to pick up a bit of this and a bit of that. Basically, what the big players didn’t want. We’ve been all over the place. It’s time we moved on.’
Wilma grinned. ‘I’m up for that.’
‘Be serious! I know the bread and butter stuff is the backbone of the business, but it would be nice, just once in a while, to tackle something really meaty.’
‘Do you not think we’ve challenge enough, Maggie, taking the business forward and still holding down our jobs? You’ve two kids and all to think of.’
‘Agreed.’ Maggie recalled, with a pang of guilt, the number of times she’d made it to school by a whisker, the duties she’d skimmed over, the ready-meals she’d dished up. ‘But it’s such a grind, this endless round of witness statements and credit checks.’
‘Get you! It’s me does the bulk of the checks.’
‘I know.’ Shamed look. Though Maggie had worked to improve her IT skills, Wilma was more clued up, her fingers nimbler on the keyboard. ‘All the same, it would be good to focus on something that would tax my brain cells.’
‘You could take up crosswords.’
‘As if.’
Wilma stroked her chin. ‘If you’re having second thoughts, you could still back out.’
‘How can I?’
‘Give the Struthers dame a ring. Say something’s come up.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’ Indignant voice.
‘Why not?’ Wilma’s blue eyes widened. ‘You haven’t gone and given her our terms of business, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, you’re not committed.’
‘But how could I…?’
‘If you don’t want to ring and tell her yourself, just don’t accept her calls. She’ll get the message soon enough.’
‘Wil-ma, that would be a dreadful thing to do.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but a whole lot better than landing yourself in it.’
Pursed lips. ‘Sheena Struthers is the real
deal.’
‘So you say.’
Maggie turned on her friend. ‘If you’re so sure she’s a phoney, why don’t you sit in on our next meeting and judge for yourself?’
Wilma squared up. ‘I might just do that.’
Brian
Brian Burnett sat on his sofa bed. He flicked through the TV channels. On the coffee table in front of him, the remains of that evening’s takeaway – sweet and sour pork and egg fried rice – congealed in glutinous lumps in their silver foil containers. He looked around. In one corner of the cramped bedsit, an airing rack draped with washing sagged alongside an ancient night storage heater. Beneath his feet, the carpet hadn’t seen a Hoover in months. Behind thin curtains that barely met, the single window onto Urquhart Road dripped with condensation. He killed the TV, chucked the remote. Christ, what a fucking way to live!
From the flat upstairs came the dull thump-thump of bass, overlaid with heavy footsteps clumping back and forth. He sat back, let his eyelids droop. His student neighbours were decent enough lads, but laminate flooring and sporadic horseplay were no recipe for a quiet life.
In his job as a Detective Sergeant at Aberdeen Police HQ, Brian had spent an arid few weeks either on duty or steadfastly avoiding eye contact with those well-meaning colleagues who, he feared, might invite him to join in their pre-Christmas celebrations. And all the while obsessing about his soon-to-be ex-wife Bev: Bev whom he’d doted on, Bev who’d cheated on him, Bev who even as he sat there was most likely out on the razzle with one or other of her toy-boys.
There was a crash from upstairs, closely followed by hoots of laughter. Brian’s head jerked up. Above him, the light fitting, with its nicotine-stained shade, swung alarmingly. That was all he needed, the bloody ceiling coming down. What the hell were they doing up there?
He jumped to his feet. He’d better go up and have a word. There had to be more than two of them in the flat to make that sort of racket. Come to think on it, he had noticed a couple of new faces on the stair. Brian wondered how many students were actually dossing in the property. One way to find out. He took a step towards the door. Turned. He really ought to go up, but he couldn’t be arsed. He sat down again.
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