Ten to one, Sheena had said. Regular as clockwork. That was an unexpected bonus. Since she’d taken on the business, Maggie had spent too many long hours sitting in her car, stiff, hungry and chilled to the bone. A creature of habit, as Gordon Struthers had been described, would make surveillance a whole lot easier.
Minutes later, a man emerged. He was short: no more than five-foot-eight, and slight. Reddish hair, round spectacles, was all Maggie could manage to make out from her viewpoint across the street, but she had little doubt she’d got her man.
He stood for some moments at the top of the shallow flight of steps, casting his eyes skywards as if checking for impending rain. Then he straightened the knot of his tie, tweaked the velvet collar of his tailored camel overcoat and made his way down the steps.
She watched as he threaded through the cars that were shoe-horned into the front drive. There was a car park at the rear, she’d established, but parking in the city centre was at a premium, even since the price of a barrel of oil had nose-dived into the North Sea. At the entrance he paused. Maggie took note of a striped shirt and what looked like a school tie. The hair was carefully combed, she saw, in a neat side-parting, the complexion chalky. Behind the thick, horn-rimmed glasses she couldn’t make out the eyes. The man reminded her of someone, she couldn’t quite think who.
Then it came to her: James Gilruth.
Despite her warm coat, Maggie shivered as she brought to mind the past year’s abortive visit to Rubislaw Den. What a manic creature she’d been, those first few weeks after George’s death, and what a long road she’d travelled since.
Struthers turned right towards Queen’s Cross.
Maggie turned the key in the ignition. Don’t make assumptions! She turned it off again.
Swiftly, she checked a file that lay open on the passenger seat, punched a number into her phone.
‘Ross and Struthers. How can I help you?’
‘Is Mr Struthers free to speak?’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. Can anyone else help?’
‘Thanks. I’ll ring back.’ Maggie cut the call.
She switched on the engine, signalled, and pulled out from the kerb.
He was strolling at a leisurely pace. Small steps – for a man – Maggie noted as she followed him with her eyes. Like David Suchet’s Poirot, and, by the looks of him, equally fastidious.
Maggie hung back as he crossed St Swithin Street to the old Royal Bank building on the corner and continued along Albyn Place. At the roundabout, she waited in line as a stream of cars and vans crossed in front of her, proceeding up Fountainhall Road or turning right into Carden Place.
Among them, a blue Vauxhall Corsa bore the insignia of a driving school. The young female under instruction sat, rigid, in the driver’s seat, neck craned stiffly forward, eyes glued on the road ahead.
Poor soul! Maggie watched as the car crawled at a snail’s pace all the way around the crowned statue of Queen Victoria on its polished pink marble plinth to the last exit, Albyn Place. Then her eyes scoured the pavement. There was no sign of Gordon Struthers.
Dammit! She cursed her momentary lapse of attention. He wouldn’t have had time to reach his club, and he couldn’t have just disappeared. Ignoring the toots and hand gestures of the encroaching traffic, Maggie shot across the roundabout. She passed by a succession of substantial granite mansions: Ryden, Albyn Hospital – now, like Gordon Struthers’ own business premises in commercial use. When she was halfway along she drew into the kerb.
Were it not January, the trees that graced Rubislaw Gardens would have rendered her surveillance less obvious. Now, they stood stark and bare. She peered ahead. Among the pedestrians heading for Holburn Junction there was no trace of her target. She checked her rear-view mirror: no joy.
Maggie took stock. Should she sit and wait? It was unlikely – on a Friday – that Gordon Struthers would rush back to his office. So should she cut her losses? She was weighing her options when, in her nearside wing mirror, she spied a trim figure emerge from the gardens and walk towards her.
Her mind worked overtime. Did Gordon Struthers suspect his wife was having him followed? Had he deliberately given Maggie the slip? And was he now about to confront her? Heart racing, she ducked into the passenger footwell, just in time to see a shadow pass by the car’s window. Cautiously raising herself to the level of the dashboard, she watched the man proceed a dozen paces towards the junction. He stopped. Looked right, left, and right again and crossed the road.
Slumping back into her seat, she observed Gordon Struthers turn in the entrance of the Northern Club at No 9. Maggie had staked out the building the previous day, sneaking in through the rear car park. The dining room, she’d established, was accessed off the front reception hallway or through the Garden Room extension at the back, so she’d scant hope of achieving more than timing her quarry in and out. She settled down to wait. Still, Inky Fingers! Giddy with relief, she suppressed a giggle. For all Sheena’s protestations, Gordon Struthers looked, to Maggie, more like a boy wizard than a murderer-in-waiting.
III
Seaton School
‘You okay?’
Ros was sitting on a corner of the AstroTurf, head bent, knees drawn up to her chin. She looked up, nodded.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Maggie addressed her friend. ‘You’re not on playground duty, are you?’
‘No.’ Ros looked up. ‘I just needed space to think. Staffroom’s a bit stuffy.’
‘In more ways than one.’ Maggie joked. ‘The old guard getting to you?’
‘No. I’m glad to be back.’
Maggie smiled. ‘I know the feeling.’ After the Christmas holiday, it had been a relief to return to her wee job at Seaton School. ‘Still…’ She hugged her chest. ‘It’s perishing out here, and you look done in.’
‘Bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Join the club.’ It had been an effort getting out of bed that morning. ‘Anything I can do to help?’ She squatted down, the artificial grass pricking at her hands.
‘Not really. Just feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Job getting on top of you?’
‘No. I mean it’s a hard slog, sometimes, but I count myself lucky to have landed something full-time. It’s all supply and maternity cover these days. Oh!’ Ros put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’d forgotten you were only part-time. Anyhow, it’s good to have the income coming in, plus…’ Her face lit up. ‘I love the kids.’
‘Me, too,’ Maggie enthused. ‘They fair take me out of myself.’
‘Must be a help, especially now…’ Ros broke off, embarrassed.
‘Now I’m on my own, do you mean?’
‘Well, that,’ she conceded, ‘and the other thing – the one that got you written up in the newspapers.’
Maggie pulled a face. ‘Don’t even go there.’ She’d been keeping a low profile since Fatboy’s trial. ‘But, seriously, if it’s not the job…’ She hesitated. Wasn’t it in this same playground she’d elicited a clue from a member of the Meston gang: a snippet of information that had set in train seismic events? ‘Is it your wee boy you’re worried about?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Everything alright at home?’ Maggie was treading on dangerous ground now, she was all too aware, but she’d become so adept at posing leading questions she found it hard to stop.
‘Yes. Well…’ Ros presented a wretched face. ‘Sort of.’
‘Nic?’ Maggie’s mind went to fast-forward. She bet the self-satisfied bastard was having a fling. Just as quickly she dismissed the thought. The downside of working as a PI was looking for an agenda.
‘Want to talk?’ Maggie asked softly.
Ros nodded, mute.
For long moments the two sat in silence, then: ‘It’s not Nic,’ Ros whispered. ‘It’s me.’
‘You?’ Maggie echoed.
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, just, I feel so inadequate. I don’t seem to do anything right, not since…’ She broke off, her voice cracking.
Post-natal depression, Maggie decided. She’d been there, could still recall that feeling of being in a long black tunnel, a tunnel with nary a chink of light at the end. Then, pack it in! Wasn’t she forever telling Wilma off for jumping to conclusions? ‘Go on,’ she encouraged.
‘I didn’t feel that great after Max was born. Put it down to baby blues. Then I was at home with him for the first six months. Nic wanted me to breastfeed. I wanted that, too, of course. But it didn’t go away, that feeling of helplessness. It was as if everything I’d built up over the years – my skills, my self-confidence – had been swamped in a sea of Babygros and nappies and cuddly toys.’
Maggie extended a comforting hand. ‘It’s not uncommon, you know. I can remember, right after Kirsty was born: the four-hour feeds, the lack of sleep. I could have cut my throat.’ She grimaced. ‘Hormones!’
‘That’s what I told myself,’ Ros replied. ‘They say pregnancy plays havoc with them. Affects your mood. God only knows what else? But it’s been over a year, now, and I’m not making any progress. I’d put it down to exhaustion, but it can’t just be that. I mean…’ She appealed to Maggie. ‘Other women cope, don’t they? Women with far more on their plate than me. How come I’m forever getting things so wrong?’
‘It takes two, you know,’ Maggie said softly.
Ros shook her head. ‘I can’t put it on Nic, not when he has lectures to write and meetings to attend and research papers to produce. If anything, he should be more stressed than me. No, he’s not the cause.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I tried to find the answer. Read up on post-partum depression. It affects one in seven women, apparently. Can even manifest as psychosis: paranoia, hallucinations, the works. I wondered, then, if that was me.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Still do.’
‘Did you take any steps to…?’
‘Of course,’ Ros cut in. ‘Ate healthily, took more exercise. Then, when none of that seemed to be working, I made an appointment with our GP. The minute we moved up here, a few weeks before Max was even born, Nic registered us with a wonderful chap who’s red-hot on paediatrics.’
Bloody lot of use to a depressed new mother, sang a small voice inside Maggie’s head. Instead she asked, ‘What did the doctor have to say?’
‘He said,’ the corners of Ros’s mouth turned down, ‘“Wait till you have three”.’
‘There’s Aberdeen for you,’ Maggie joked. ‘He didn’t prescribe anything? A mild anti-depressant? That can sometimes help.’
‘No. He was much more interested in Max. I had to take him with me, you see. We’d not long moved up here before the birth. I didn’t know anybody, and it’s not as if Nic could take time out from the department…’
Not to support a wife who was in dire need, by the sounds of it. Maggie seethed inside. ‘Oh.’ She assumed a knowing expression. ‘Right.’
‘After that, I told myself I was being a wimp. Made a huge effort to pull myself together. Decided it might help to be more sociable. I joined a babysitting circle. Though,’ she grimaced, ‘that didn’t last long. Nic had too much on for us to get out much, plus he didn’t like the idea of me looking after other people’s kids. Still, I showed willing: invited the university ladies in for coffee, had Nic’s colleagues round for supper. I thought things were looking up, especially after I went back to work. It’s been a long haul. Max is nearly walking, now.’ Fond look. ‘And I love this job. But, still…’
Maggie’s heart went out to the girl. ‘Your family, you don’t see them that often I’ve heard you say.’
Ros shrugged. ‘Birthdays and Christmas.’
‘That’s a shame. They’re in Edinburgh, aren’t they?’
Nods.
‘That’s no distance.’
A long pause, then: ‘No.’
Maggie heard warning bells, changed tack. ‘How about friends?’
With a pang of loss she pictured her own friend, Val, still out in Dubai nursing her ailing mother. ‘You’ve often mentioned Fiona. Doesn’t she…?’
‘Fiona’s been a tower of strength. Other than Fi, though, it’s people from school.’ She smiled, suddenly. ‘People like you.’
‘If there’s ever anything…’ Maggie began.
‘Thanks.’ Ros glanced at her watch. ‘Yikes,’ she struggled to her feet. ‘Got to go. I’ve a class in five minutes.’
‘Too bad,’ Maggie said lightly, cursing the timetabling system. She had the feeling Ros had been trying to tell her something. Something more troubling than the physical symptoms she’d described. ‘I won’t be far behind.’
Maggie watched as, head bowed, Ros made her way towards the school entrance.
A Private Matter
‘Grumpian Police, Moira speaking.’ The voice on the other end of the phone bore the unmistakable vowels of Aberdeenshire. There was a pause, then, ‘Sorry, caller.’ Suppressed giggle. ‘Police Scotland Aberdeen. I keep forgetting.’
The absorption of the Grampian police force into Police Scotland hasn’t made a whit of difference! Maggie thought, with some rancour. She took a breath. ‘Maggie Laird here.’
Another pause, then: ‘I’m sorry?’
Maggie was sorry too. Sorry that the civilian in the comms office hadn’t the foggiest who she was. Sorry that she had speak to Force HQ ever again. Sorry for herself.
‘Maggie Laird,’ she repeated. ‘George Laird’s…’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘widow’.
‘Oh!’ She could picture the girl’s confusion, the frantic signals to whoever else was on duty. ‘Mrs Laird. How can I help you?’
‘I want’ – Maggie corrected – ‘need to speak to Detective Inspector Chisolm.’
‘May I ask what it’s in connection with?’
None of your bloody business!
‘It’s a private matter.’
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘Hello?’ Maggie’s voice rose. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
She’d imagined she detected a hint of embarrassment in Moira’s tone. Pack it in, she said to herself. You’re becoming paranoid.
‘If you’d like to hold the line, Mrs Laird,’ the girl hesitated for a moment, ‘I’ll check if he’s available. Or perhaps it would be more convenient if he called you back.’
‘I’ll hold.’ In her mind, Maggie had rehearsed what she was going to say. She’d no intention of being fobbed off.
The background music on the line – Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik – played over and over. Played for so long that it began to scramble Maggie’s brain. She looked at her watch. Who on earth chose these tunes in the first place, she wondered? And why didn’t it occur to them to change the track every now and again? She’d give it another two minutes, she decided. Perhaps the music was chosen on purpose to wear people down, lower their resistance. Like some form of psychological torture.
Calm down! If the girl had asked her to hold, Chisolm must be on duty. And at least Maggie hadn’t been told the inspector was in a meeting. In her experience, men were always ‘in a meeting’, when they were simply bunking off.
She was just about to hang up when there was a click.
‘Mrs Laird?’ Detective Inspector Allan Chisolm’s deep voice spoke her name. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘It’s…’ A shiver ran down Maggie’s spine. ‘About the case.’
‘The Seaton case?’ he cut her short. ‘I thought that was done and dusted.’
‘No, not that.’ She hadn’t spoken to Allan Chisolm since the Seaton debacle. ‘The other one.’
‘Lucy Simmons?’
‘No.’ Maggie was becoming increasingly agitated. What was it about this man that so unnerved her?
There was a long silence, then: ‘Which is it?’ Could she detect a hint of amusement in the inspector’s tone?
‘My husband,’ she managed. ‘I wondered…’ Small voice. ‘If you’d heard anything from upstairs?’
‘On re-opening your husband’s case? Not a dickey bird. Though I have to hold my hands up. What with one thing and another I haven’t made any moves on that front, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh.’ Maggie couldn’t mask her disappointment. ‘But you said…’ For the second time that day Maggie felt stung. She’d committed everything in her – admittedly restricted – armoury to vindicating her husband, only to be let down.
‘That I’d take your case forward, Mrs Laird? Yes, I did. And I’ve kept my word. Passed the information you provided together with the,’ he paused, cleared his throat, ‘tape recording to the fifth floor.’
‘But you haven’t heard anything back?’
‘No. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.’ The inspector’s tone was reassuring. ‘At least they haven’t rejected the new evidence out of hand.’
‘But I thought…’
‘The information obtained under duress? You’re right. That does present a problem. It may be, though, that Mr Brannigan can be persuaded to ratify that with a voluntary statement. Last I heard we were working towards that outcome. But it all takes time, as I’m sure you appreciate, and with resources stretched as they are…’
‘I understand.’
‘All the same, I’ll chase it up and let you know.’
‘Would you? I’d be grateful.’
‘My pleasure.’
Did Maggie detect real warmth in Chisolm’s voice? She couldn’t be sure.
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