Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  If he could only move on. Maggie Laird for a start. Brian’s shoulders drooped as he recalled his tentative overtures to the widow of George Laird, his long-term buddy. Brian had carried a torch for years, ever since he and George trained together at Tulliallan. He’d never made a move, not until George was dead and buried.

  The meetings Maggie had set up – assignations in the art gallery and the Wild Boar – Brian had read as a desire for male company. She’d been lonely, he assumed, after George died, just as he, Brian, had been lonely these past months. Then there was the night Maggie had rolled up at his place. He’d thought all his Christmases had come at once until he saw the carload of kids. How they’d managed to get embroiled in that student’s murder – and her along with them – still flummoxed him. In all his years in the force, he’d never encountered a case so convoluted.

  When, after the round of statements had been taken at Queen Street and he’d finally hit the sack, Brian resolved he’d not be taken for a mug again. He’d draw a line under Maggie Laird. Keep his distance. No more cosy chats. She’d milked his long friendship with George, no two ways about it. Bev had been the same, only she’d screwed him for money. Both ways it had ended in tears.

  Not that he could blame Maggie Laird. Not entirely. Woman must have been desperate, what with the debts and the pension cock-up. Still and all, a bloke would have been upfront about it. No, Brian had jumped in too soon, he saw, now. Been too compliant. They took advantage of that, women, and Maggie Laird had been no exception. She’d played him, right from the start. Wangled information out of him: stuff he should never have divulged. He’d been lucky to get off with a verbal warning from his inspector. All because he’d let his feelings get the better of him, allowed himself to be sweet-talked into letting out more than he should. Less than was culpable, he consoled himself, now. As if he, Brian Burnett, would bring the police service into disrepute, and him with twenty-odd years of faultless service…

  There was an almighty clatter from upstairs, followed by total silence. Maybe one of the buggers had got knocked out. Then again it might have been a piece of furniture. Fuckit! he mouthed. Why in Christ should he care? The skanky bedsit he occupied had never been intended as more than a short-term fix.

  Now, Brian resolved, the time had come to gee himself up, make a start on the next chapter of his life. The New Year would herald a fresh beginning, his first priority to get himself out of this miserable howff he’d never managed to call home. Then he’d be able to invite folk back. He’d become something of a social leper this past while, so much so the invites had dried up.

  Hell, he might even find himself a woman. That wee DC Strachan seemed to be unattached. He could ask her out for a meal. No strings. Take it from there.

  Seaton School

  The dinner hall was festooned with festive cardboard cut-outs and gaudy crepe paper chains. Maggie surveyed the detritus of that day’s Christmas party. The kids had been even more hyper than usual, wound up by the prospect of a fortnight’s holiday and a bumper haul from Santa. She thought back to her own two: the pleasure she and George had derived from seeing their wee faces on Christmas mornings as they ripped wrapping paper from their presents beneath the tree.

  No point going down that road! The memories were still too raw. She banished the thought.

  Staff and guests stood in awkward groups around the buffet. Well, ‘buffet’ was stretching it. In reality they were mopping up the leftovers from the kids’ Christmas do. Padded out by bog-standard nibbles from the local Spar shop and a couple of bottles of wine, the congealed squares of pizza and curling sandwiches were an unappetising sight. The far from festive atmosphere wasn’t helped by the liberal dose of scented air freshener somebody had scooshed to mask the lingering smell of steamed vegetables and bleach.

  Wondering who’d come up with the idea – to invite partners to their end-of-term get-together – Maggie made a beeline for the only unaccompanied person in the room: Ros Prentice, a young teacher who’d moved up from Edinburgh the previous year. Back then, what with the few hours Maggie worked and her spell of compassionate leave, they hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know each other. But, although a few years apart in age, they’d been drawn together by the hostile attitude of some of the older teachers: Maggie on account of her lowly status – learning support was resented as an intrusion – and Ros on account of her progressive teaching methods. Over the past months the two had developed a close rapport.

  ‘Nic not able to make it?’ Ros was wife to a senior lecturer at the university and mother to a small son.

  ‘Yes.’ Ros turned, an anxious look on her face. ‘He said he’d come, but…’ An awkward silence ensued.

  Maggie filled the gap. ‘He’s likely just running late.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Ros didn’t look too convinced.

  ‘It’s this time of year,’ Maggie reassured her. ‘Folk get caught up. Throws you off kilter, doesn’t it?’ Her smile masked the loneliness she felt.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Ros concurred. ‘It has been a madhouse here today. I expect it’s near as bad in Nic’s department. And it’s no better at home. What with the job, the housekeeping and Max, I’ve been toiling just trying to stay on top of things.’

  ‘Has the wee one settled at nursery?’

  ‘Loves it. The Rocking Horse is so handy. Nic says…’

  ‘Do I hear my name taken in vain?’ A voice at Ros’s back.

  She whirled. ‘Nic!’ A crimson flush rose in her neck and suffused her face.

  ‘And you are?’ he demanded of Maggie.

  ‘Maggie Laird.’ She’d heard plenty about Nic, but they’d never met. With a practised eye she filed a description: six-foot-two, slim build, fair hair, blue eyes. Handsome, in an effete sort of way.

  She stuck out her hand.

  ‘A colleague,’ Ros added.

  ‘You teach here?’ Nic ignored Maggie’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I wish,’ she quipped, letting it fall to her side. ‘I’m only a classroom assistant.’

  ‘That right?’ Dismissive voice.

  Despite herself, Maggie bristled. She’d barely exchanged two words with Nic Prentice and already she disliked the man. It’s the posh accent, she told herself, that and the supercilious manner.

  Don’t be in such a rush to judge. She scolded herself. Wasn’t it her own hoity-toity attitude that had landed her in trouble? Insisting on sending her kids to private schools, pressing George to take early retirement rather than risk a disciplinary hearing. She snapped back to the present. Ros’s husband is young, she reminded herself. Maybe he’s nervous in company. Overcompensates. She allowed herself a wry smile. We all do.

  ‘Maggie runs her own business.’ Ros rushed to her friend’s defence. ‘She only does a few hours here because she loves being around the kids.’

  ‘Well, I…’ Maggie began. That was only partly true. She did, indeed, love the kids, even the toe-rags. Her mind jumped to Willie Meston. Willie and his gang had led her such a dance when she’d become embroiled in Lucy Simmons’ murder. She gave a small sigh. But the principal reason she clung to her Seaton job was to bring in some much-needed cash.

  ‘Rather you than me.’ Nic interrupted her train of thought. ‘I couldn’t stand it: brats misbehaving, peeing their pants.’ He pulled a face. ‘Students are bad enough.’

  Maggie forced a smile. ‘I daresay.’

  ‘I don’t know how Ros stands it,’ he ran on. ‘She’s wasting her time,’ he cast his eyes around the disordered space, ‘in a dump like this.’

  Ros threw him an anguished look.

  Maggie willed herself not to respond.

  ‘Anyhow, mustn’t keep you talking.’ Nic flashed a set of perfect teeth. ‘Lead on,’ he gripped Ros by the elbow. ‘You’d best introduce me to your Head.’

  Smoke and Mirrors

  ‘A feeling, you
said, last time we met.’ Maggie eyed the woman opposite. ‘I’m afraid we’ll need something more solid than that if we’re to progress with your case.’

  This was her second visit to Patisserie Valerie, and Wilma’s first. They’d been ahead of the game: getting to the meeting place early, securing a secluded table at the rear, observing the woman’s approach. It was astonishing how much you could learn just from watching and waiting – standard stuff for a private investigator and second nature to them, now.

  Sheena squirmed in her seat. ‘I don’t know how to answer you.’

  ‘Well?’ Maggie prompted. They’d agreed she should lead the interview. ‘Has your husband done anything specific to give you cause for concern?’

  ‘Nothing major.’ Sheena drew a deep breath, exhaled at length. ‘More, lots of little things, I suppose.’

  ‘Such as?’ Maggie pressed.

  Sheena’s eyes flicked from Maggie to Wilma, vibrant in sky-blue eyeshadow and shocking-pink lipstick. An embarrassed silence ensued before they slid back again.

  Finally, she spoke. ‘The way I catch him looking at me, sometimes.’

  ‘And what way is that?

  ‘Cold. No love there at all. Like he could see me dead and buried.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noticed Wilma’s lips were twitching. ‘Oh,’ she rushed on, ‘I’m sure we’ve all looked daggers at our spouse at some time or other.’

  ‘Point taken. But there have been other things.’

  ‘Can you give me some examples?’

  ‘He snapped at me the other day because I creased his morning paper.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ The words were out of Wilma’s mouth before Maggie could silence her.

  Maggie shot her partner a filthy look. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘He refuses to switch off his phone at night. I don’t sleep well as it is, then it pings and wakes me up.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Maggie made a show of stirring her latte.

  Wilma inspected her nails.

  ‘He won’t let me open his mail, and…’

  ‘Let me stop you there.’ Maggie had a growing feeling Wilma was right about Sheena Struthers, but wasn’t ready to admit it. ‘Has anyone else noticed anything amiss?’ She pressed on in desperation. ‘Your kids, for example?’

  ‘Gordon and I, we don’t have any children.’

  ‘Oh.’ Small voice. She’d dug another hole for herself.

  ‘No.’ A shadow crossed Sheena’s face. ‘When it wasn’t happening, I wanted to get us both checked out, but he wouldn’t agree to it. Male pride, I suppose.’

  Wilma let out a loud snort.

  ‘And, then, well, we were both working. Gordon was still studying for his professional exams and I was teaching. Time runs away, doesn’t it?’ She looked to Maggie for confirmation.

  ‘Doesn’t it just!’ Maggie could barely believe that this time last year she’d been happily married. Well, perhaps not so happily given the nightmare George had been through. But they were together, still, a family unit. Maybe this Struthers woman should be thankful for what she’d got.

  ‘His behaviour has been so out of character. That’s what first alerted me. Gordon’s so considerate, normally. So…equable, I think, is the right word.’

  ‘Sounds like my Ian,’ Wilma chipped in. ‘Right pussy, he is.’

  ‘At least he was, until…’ Sheena eyed Wilma like a scared rabbit.

  ‘Still,’ Maggie continued, ‘singularly or taken together, what you’ve described hardly constitutes a threat.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t sound much. But there have been other things.’ Sheena engaged both women in turn with a beseeching look. ‘Incidents.’ She looked around, checking she wouldn’t be overheard.

  A clear case of paranoia was what was running through Maggie’s head. She wondered what Wilma was thinking. She needn’t have worried. Her companion was hungrily eyeing the tempting display of cream cakes on the counter.

  ‘Fill me in on the background, will you?’ She’d give it one last go. ‘How long have you and Gordon been married?’

  ‘Twenty-five years, give or take.’

  Much like herself. Maggie raised the mug to her lips. Only what she wouldn’t give to have her husband back.

  She set the mug down. ‘How did the two of you meet?’

  ‘At school. Cults Academy,’ Sheena clarified. ‘His folks moved up from Fife. Dad worked offshore. It was the end of fourth year, as I recall, and in comes this new boy, all plooks and prescription glasses.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘Sounds a bit of a geek.’

  ‘He was. Right swot, we all thought, so much so we called him “Inky Fingers”. Not that I was the class pin-up,’ Sheena hastened to add. ‘I was spotty too. A vision in puppy fat. Wore glasses as well.’

  ‘So you felt sorry for him?’

  Wilma shot her a warning look. Shut up, Maggie. Don’t go putting words in the client’s mouth.

  ‘Not at all.’ Coy smile. ‘If anything, it was the other way around. I used to take it to heart, you see. Being left out of things: sports fixtures, not being asked up at school dances. But Gordon seemed impervious to what other people thought. Maybe that’s what drew me to him. He might not have been a hunk like some of the rugby players, but he was funny. Had a quick mind and…’ Wry face. ‘A savage tongue. Anyhow, we started going out, stuck together right through uni, and, as they say, the rest is history.’

  ‘Is he still like that, your husband?’ Maggie fished.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fond look. ‘Sharp as a tack. Maybe that’s what makes him such a good accountant. I retired some years ago from my teaching post. Not that I’d lost interest. But Gordon didn’t want his wife going out to work, not when he became senior partner. Argued it could harm his…’ She hesitated. ‘Connections. I didn’t mind, not at the time. The discipline – or lack of it – at school was getting to me. I understand you work in education, so you’ll know.’

  ‘I’m only a teaching assistant,’ Maggie responded. ‘And the job’s just a few hours a week. But, yes, it’s an uphill struggle, some days, getting the kids to settle.’

  ‘All the same…’ Wistful look. ‘I came to regret my decision. It’s lonely being at home on your own all day. You lose your confidence.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Maggie could identify with that.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Sheena continued. ‘Gordon and I have a good life: bridge, golf, foreign holidays. We’re comfortable. More than comfortable. We own a lovely home. Move in rather an elevated circle.’ Knowing look. ‘Our friends would say we’re a solid team.’

  ‘Can’t be all bad, then,’ Wilma offered with a curled lip.

  Maggie ignored this. ‘And you?’ she pressed. ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I’d say,’ Sheena chose her words with care, ‘we have a marriage that’s traditional, some might say old-fashioned.’

  Like Maggie’s own had been. ‘I see.’

  ‘Not perfect. But it has worked for me. Us,’ she corrected. Her brow furrowed. ‘Until now, that is.’

  ‘Then why,’ Maggie persisted, ‘if your marriage has endured and your husband still demonstrates the same qualities that attracted you in the first place, would you want to rock the boat?’

  Sheena looked puzzled. ‘I don’t. That’s why, as I said at our first meeting, discretion is paramount.’

  ‘You’re still of a mind, then, that your husband has designs on you?’

  ‘I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Wilma could contain herself no longer. ‘You’re telling us he wants to kill you, but you’ve no evidence to support this, only vague “feelings” and trivial incidents. Not one single concrete fact. When it all boils down, there’s nothing there but smoke and mirrors.’

  Sheena’s eyes welled. ‘You don’t need to be so hurtful. I
know it doesn’t sound like much, the things Gordon has done, but you weren’t there. And now you’re going to send me packing,’ she sniffed. ‘I feel so alone.’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Then why don’t you go to the police?’ Wilma pressed on, relentless. ‘That’s what they’re there for.’

  ‘I can’t. The publicity…’

  That, Maggie could understand. During the long months between George’s suspension and his eventual resignation, her hitherto tight family unit had been subjected to horrendous strain: her husband the subject of false rumour and innuendo, her children in distress, the Laird name making lurid press headlines.

  ‘Better that than being dead,’ Wilma snapped.

  This provoked such an anguished sob that other customers eyed the trio with some asperity.

  ‘Perhaps it would move us forward if you were to jot down these “incidents” as they happen,’ Maggie sought to calm the situation. ‘Then, next time we meet…’

  Viciously, Wilma dug her in the ribs.

  ‘…we can work through them, decide where to go from there. Is that a good idea, do you think?’ She engaged Sheena with a questioning look.

  ‘Yes.’ There was silence, then: ‘Thank you.’ The woman’s eyes shone through her tears. Ignoring Wilma, she rose to her feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  *

  ‘I don’t bloody believe you did that,’ Wilma hissed when Sheena Struthers was safely out of sight.

  ‘Did what?’ Maggie played dumb.

  ‘Let the bugger off the hook.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Christ,’ Wilma spluttered. ‘I set you up with an exit plan and you fuckin blew it.’

  ‘If you mean I was supportive of another woman in distress?’ Maggie recalled her own sense of isolation and helplessness after her husband’s sudden death. ‘Then I’m not going to apologise.’

  Wilma eased herself out of the confines of the red tub chair. ‘Don’t give me that crap, Maggie Laird. Some days you really are up yourself. Admit it, you fucked up, instead of killing the thing stone dead.’