Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  Back to business, then. ‘N-no.’ He had her on the back foot again.

  ‘You haven’t stumbled across any bodies lately?’

  Typical, Maggie seethed: the put-down to the little woman. Didn’t merit a response.

  ‘Mrs Laird? You still there?’

  ‘I’m still here.’ Frosty voice.

  ‘I gather you didn’t appreciate my joke,’ Chisolm offered.

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll take it that’s a “no”, then.’

  Maggie took a deep breath. If her quest for justice were to succeed she had to keep this man onside. But, still, she had her pride.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ she answered stiffly. Then she cut the call.

  Fish Fingers

  He raises a hand to his nose, takes a deep sniff. ‘Fish fingers!’ he exclaims.

  ‘Don’t be so vulgar,’ she retorts. Moments earlier those same fingers had been inside her, trying to make her wet.

  The smile vanishes from his face. ‘Where’s your sense of humour?’ he demands, wiping his hand on the sheet.

  She doesn’t answer. He’s been rubbing away forever and still she hasn’t come. No surprises there, not these days. She wonders when marital relations – she can no longer think of it as lovemaking – became a duty rather than a joy. Speculates as to what happened to her libido, if she ever had one. She questions most things these days.

  ‘Let me have another go.’ His hand strays back.

  She bats it away. ‘I’m sore now.’ And cross. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy sex. Didn’t. There was nothing to beat a straight fuck in the missionary position: the comfort of a male body – on her, in her – the loosing of tension from her limbs. She combs her mind, trying to recall the last time it had been like that. Can’t. No matter. It’s irrelevant now.

  ‘Turn over, then. We can…’

  ‘No.’ The vehemence in her voice surprises her. She’d always acceded to his requests: wanting to pleasure him in the beginning, then anything for a quiet life.

  ‘Go on,’ he coaxes. ‘We haven’t done…that…in a while.’

  And I know the reason why, she thinks, obdurate. ‘That’ will make me even sorer. She doesn’t respond.

  ‘You’re so narrow-minded,’ he sighs, rolling onto his back.

  ‘If you say so.’ She knows better than to argue, but it’s not true. She doesn’t mind a change of position once in a while: her going down on him, or him on her.

  It’s the other things that bother her.

  Pillow Talk

  ‘There’s been another incident.’ The words were out before Maggie had even sat down. She dropped onto a spindly bentwood chair. She was out of breath. Sheena Struthers had been quiet for a week or two. That morning’s phone call, requesting an urgent meeting, had caught Maggie on the hop.

  She’d been tempted to make an excuse. Wilma’s reading of Sheena Struthers as ‘just another menopausal woman’ had caused Maggie considerable disquiet. She bitterly regretted their falling-out. In all the time she and Wilma had worked together, they’d never exchanged such harsh words.

  Maggie would be able to bill for the time she’d spent on meetings and surveillance, so maybe it was time for her to swallow her pride and call it quits with the Struthers woman. It would be easily enough achieved. Hadn’t Wilma schooled her well in the usefulness of the glib lie?

  ‘You’d better tell me about it.’ She dreaded what was coming. If it was up to the standard of what she’d heard previously it would be one giant yawn.

  ‘This morning,’ Sheena said, keeping her voice low, ‘when I woke up, there was a pillow over my face. That’s why I asked you to come out here at such short notice.’

  Maggie looked around before she spoke. Terroir, a French bistro and deli on the main drag in Cults, was exposed to passing traffic through a large picture window. That and the open-plan interior weren’t conducive to discreet conversation. She noted, with some dismay, a posse of young mums with buggies in the rear and an elderly woman with a large dog sitting at the next table.

  ‘I’m not quite with you.’

  Sheena’s face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. ‘I’m convinced Gordon was about to smother me.’

  ‘Where was your husband at the time?’

  ‘In bed beside me. No…’ Sheena corrected. ‘He was actually kneeling over me.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Laughed it off. Said I must have moved the pillow myself. I haven’t been sleeping, you see.’

  ‘How many pillows do you normally sleep on?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Don’t you think, if you had a restless night, one of them might have come adrift?’

  ‘Definitely not. And there’s another thing. We went down the coast for lunch last week and took a stroll along the cliff path afterwards. I took a bad stumble. Didn’t think much of it until today.’ Sheena broke off, wild-eyed. ‘But after this morning’s incident, I’m pretty sure Gordon pushed me.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Maggie responded. The woman really was trying her patience. ‘It’s been so wet this past while, you probably slipped.’

  Sheena’s voice rose. ‘I did not.’

  Maggie struggled to find something more to say. Failed.

  Sheena filled the silence. ‘Mrs Laird. Maggie.’ Her eyes flashed mute appeal. ‘You have to believe me.’

  Maggie wrestled with her conscience. On the one hand, she felt some affinity with Sheena Struthers, recognised in the woman aspects of her past life. On the other, Sheena was a mass of contradictions: the husband is devoted to her, next thing he’s trying to kill her. She says she loves him, but she endangers the marriage by putting a private detective onto him.

  Best be done with it, she decided. She drew a breath. Was just about to give Sheena the ‘I’m sorry, but I’m unable to take your case further’ spiel, when there was a commotion. The dog had slipped its leash and made a beeline for the back.

  The mums made a dive for the buggies.

  The babies emitted a concerted howl.

  When the fuss had died down, Sheena changed tack. ‘Did you check up on him – Gordon – like I asked?’

  ‘Yes, I made some discreet enquiries.’

  ‘And?’ Sheena Struthers sat forward. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Your husband is where he says he is.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve observed him going to and from his office, at his club, on the golf course. Though at this early stage, you’ll appreciate I’ve only clocked him in and out. Otherwise…’ Mentally, Maggie totted up the hours she could bill, despised herself for doing so.

  ‘That’s all I needed to know.’ Sheena smiled encouragement.

  ‘The rest of the time, as I understand it, you’re together either at home or on social engagements.’

  ‘Quite so. But Gordon is up to something, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘An affair, is that what you’re hinting at?’ Don’t put words in the client’s mouth!

  ‘No!’ Sheena Struthers appeared genuinely horror-stricken.

  ‘It’s the most common reason by far for someone like yourself to call on my services.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Sheena drew herself up. ‘But my husband is devoted to me. Or was, and…’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘I love him very much.’

  Then what are you doing here, silly woman? At that moment, Maggie would have given her eye teeth to have a husband to go home to, faithful or no. Instead: ‘He hasn’t taken extra care with his appearance lately, for instance?’

  ‘Gordon is always particular about looking well turned out.’

  ‘What about phone calls?’

  Puzzled face. ‘What about them?’

  �
�You mentioned he won’t turn his phone off at night. Has he made any covert calls? Broken off, perhaps, when you’ve come into the room?’

  ‘No,’ Sheena insisted. ‘He gets a fair number of calls at home – business and social. Texts too. But I can’t say I’ve noticed anything untoward.’

  ‘You mentioned he makes trips to London. Could…’

  Sheena cut her short. ‘He sleeps at his club – the Caledonian in Belgravia – I’ve checked. No.’ She compressed her lips. ‘I think we can rule out an affair. It’s something else entirely.’

  ‘How about money?’ Maggie was running out of options now. ‘Has there been any change in his spending pattern?’

  Sheena gave a small shrug. ‘I wouldn’t know. Gordon handles all our finances.’

  ‘Is he secretive?’ Maggie fished.

  ‘You could say that.’ Sheena picked nervously at her nail varnish. ‘More careful than secretive, I would say.’ Apologetic look. ‘He is an accountant after all.’

  ‘In short,’ Maggie was running out of steam, ‘your husband of over twenty years goes about his business as normal, does not appear to be conducting an affair and is not profligate with money. Would that be a fair summary of the situation, would you say?’

  Sheena Struthers blushed crimson. ‘When you put it like that. Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘But these are the facts,’ Maggie said gently. ‘At least as you’ve described them. And yet you maintain that your husband is “up to something”.’

  Stubborn look. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You said, last time we met, that your marriage is “traditional”.’ Maggie was clutching at straws now. ‘Could you elaborate on that?’

  ‘My husband likes to be the man, if you know what I mean.’

  Maggie played dumb. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Gordon wants to make the decisions, call the shots.’

  Small men! She’d lay odds on he was a bully.

  ‘And he’s a bit of a perfectionist. Likes things just so. Goes with the job, I suppose, being meticulous. Plus, he’s a creature of habit. Follows his little routines.’

  ‘Your husband is the dominant partner in the marriage, then, would you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happens when things don’t go his way?’

  ‘He gets a bit,’ Sheena Struthers chewed on her bottom lip, ‘het up, I suppose you would call it.’

  ‘And do you get het up?’

  That stubborn face again. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Might I suggest,’ Maggie fixed her companion with an earnest look, ‘that the problem – if there is one – may lie with you?’

  Sheena rallied. ‘You’ve asked me that before. I don’t have mental health issues, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Not at all.’ In her dealings with Mrs Argo, Maggie had encountered acute psychiatric problems. ‘But I’ve noticed, during our conversations, a level of anxiety that…’ She decided to improvise. ‘Let me be frank. Is it possible you’re suffering from mild depression? In a long marriage like yours, one sometimes becomes uncertain, wonders what it’s all…’ She broke off suddenly. How did she know? She’d never have that now.

  ‘Everybody does that,’ Sheena retorted.

  Maggie let that pass. ‘From what you’ve told me, and the limited activities I’ve managed to observe, your husband doesn’t appear to be undergoing a mid-life crisis. Might it be possible that you yourself are going through a period of…?’ She struggled to find a tactful expression. ‘Emotional flux?’

  ‘Well, I…’ Sheena Struthers fiddled with her teaspoon. She couldn’t meet Maggie’s eye.

  ‘You mentioned you haven’t been sleeping. That can have a knock-on effect on your health. Might it not be worth paying a visit to your GP?’ she suggested. ‘Just to rule out anything medical.’ She reached for her coat. ‘Then we can take it from there.’

  Playing Away

  The red Fiesta sped through Banchory Devenick and hurtled past the pillared entrance to Ardoe House Hotel. Wilma sat forward in the driver’s seat, but she wasn’t admiring the scenery. She was a woman on a mission. And she’d been thwarted more than once already.

  It was the old story: the client suspected her husband of having an affair. Although, officially, the agency had sworn off matrimonial cases, February had been a slow month, cash flow helped not one bit by the hours Maggie had been putting in on the Struthers case. Having failed to dissuade Maggie from her cause, Wilma had resigned herself to playing a waiting game. In the meantime, she’d resolved to pick up whatever additional business came their way.

  Waste of time, had been Wilma’s reaction when she’d rolled up to the house: a whacking great ranch-style bungalow that would put the Ponderosa to shame.

  Mark Rowland, devoted father of four children, had started acting completely out of character.

  He’s become obsessed with his body, Tina Rowland had told Wilma. Last week I caught him doing press-ups in the bathroom. He hasn’t taken exercise in years.

  Wife had done the usual: riffled through his receipts, emptied his pockets, checked his phone. Nothing. Then she’d called Harcus & Laird.

  By the sound of things, the husband was having a wee mid-life crisis. Wilma had seen it many a time: a fella suddenly dressing half his age, trying to screw everything in sight. Last one she’d come across had cashed in his pension, bought a red Ferrari, cruised up and down Union Street until he was taken to task.

  The wife had let herself go, that much was obvious. Woman would be better off spending the money she was paying the agency on an exotic holiday – Wilma reckoned more middle-aged blokes went ape out of sheer bloody boredom than lack of sex – either that or some judicious Juvederm filler. Still, when it came to marriage, who was she to judge, especially in the light of Ian’s recent moodiness? And it’s not as if the client was short of cash, if appearances were anything to go by.

  Mark Rowland worked in the oil industry, had always kept long hours, so no surprises there. For weeks Wilma had tailed him from his place of work to a series of restaurants and bars. He was a good-looking guy: tall, dark, still had all his hair. And trim enough, regardless of what the wife said, not soft in the belly like older men tend to go. Rowland tended to frequent quiet venues, not the trendy bars that were popular with his younger colleagues. But she’d never spotted him with another woman, or at least always in a crowd, never alone.

  The breakthrough came when she’d followed him to a flat in Prospect Terrace. Sitting high above the harbour at the back of Crown Street, the Victorian terraced cottages would have had a view, once, out over the old railway terminus at Ferryhill to the harbour. Now the intervening space was largely occupied by office blocks and the Union Square shopping centre, the cottages divided into flats.

  Her quarry was only there for a short time. It took Wilma till the following evening to find out why. The flat had been let on a short-term lease. After an elderly upstairs neighbour had repeatedly complained about sounds of sexual activity – like animals, she’d told the landlord – and the tenant had failed to respond, the locks on the interior door had been changed.

  Nosy cow, Wilma’s teenage informant snivelled, the way she’s aye at the window. Like living with your granny. Then, the teenager had helpfully supplied her with the details of the caravan park he’d offered to the forlorn Mark Rowland as a stop-gap.

  Switching the heater up full blast – there hadn’t been snow, but it was bitterly cold – Wilma shot past the turn-off for Milltimber. Not that she was pushed. The text the GPS had sent confirmed the locus. But the days drew in early at this time of year and Wilma was anxious to get the job done. Besides which, she supposed caravans would have blinds these days: proper, fitted blinds, not scaffy old curtains like in the draughty residential homes she’d shared with Darren. If she landed lucky, she’d get some decent photos.

 
Must be nearly there. She kept her eyes peeled for the sign. This should be good, she had a quiet chortle to herself. She’d checked out the holiday park online, knew there was a mix of lodges, caravans and camping pods. Pods? That was a new one. Kids were that pampered these days. What was wrong with a bloody tent? She speculated as to how many units would be occupied in the winter months. She could ask at reception, if it was manned, but that would be giving the game away. And, besides, Rowland might have booked under an assumed name. She’d start with a recce for his car, she resolved. Shouldn’t be too hard. There couldn’t be that many 7 Series Beamers on a bloody camping site in January, now could there?

  The sign sprang into view. Wilma flicked her indicator and turned off the B9077.

  As she’d expected, the accommodation was set out in rows. For a moment she hesitated. If there were only two of them, they’d rent one of the smaller units, wouldn’t they? Plus, although price probably wasn’t a factor, in this icy weather a small unit would be cosier.

  She crawled forward, parked the Fiesta behind a toilet block. And then she spotted it. The BMW was slotted neatly between two caravans.

  Bingo! Wilma delved for her camera, turned up her collar and slid out of the driving seat, closing the door part-way so as to make no sound. Crouched low, she crept forward until she was level with the suspect’s car.

  No lights were showing from either caravan, but there were no blinds drawn either. She was debating which to try first when she heard a noise. Not a loud noise. More of a muffled gasp.

  She turned. That caravan couldn’t be rocking, could it? Wilma stifled a giggle. Took her back to those early days of PI work: thon couple in the car at Nigg. She pressed her body against the side of the caravan. Calves aching, she raised herself inch by painful inch till her eyes were level with the underside of the window.

  There were two people on the bed, both stark naked. The errant husband was on all fours, pumping away. Beneath him a figure knelt, blonde head half buried in the pillow. That must have been the noise she’d heard, Wilma reckoned: the smothered panting.