Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘It appears Sheena Struthers retained the services of Harcus & Laird some weeks ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t the woman come to us?’ Douglas demanded, his expression outraged.

  Chisolm pursed his lips. ‘Why indeed?’

  ‘How old is this dame?’

  ‘Forty-six. Same age as the husband.’

  ‘I’d lay a tenner on it’s the menopause. Sends them doolally,’ Duffy came back in. ‘When my missus hit the change…’

  ‘Quite.’ Chisolm silenced him with a look.

  ‘Sounds like a case of paranoia,’ Susan observed. ‘Either that or a cry for help.’

  ‘If she’d wanted help,’ Douglas again, ‘wouldn’t she have seen her doctor?’

  Susan eyed him balefully. ‘Given she was in possession of sleeping pills, she most likely did.’

  ‘She could have got them off the net.’

  Dunn would argue with his bloody shadow, Susan thought. Still, he had a point.

  ‘Some of these dames,’ Duffy observed. ‘Sitting out there in their big, detached houses. No kids to run after. No close neighbours. Nothing to do and all day to do it in. No bloody wonder they get depressed. If my missus…’

  ‘Whatever,’ Chisolm cut him off. ‘After our last dalliance with the inimitable Mrs Laird, I can understand your concern. However, now these allegations have been brought to our attention, we have a duty to investigate. I’ll instruct ARI to alert us when there’s a change in the patient’s condition. In the meantime, let’s have a chat with the husband, fill in the background. See to it, will you, Burnett.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘But, remember, this guy’s well-connected, so tread carefully. We wouldn’t want to upset anybody,’ he fixed Brian with a hard look, ‘now would we?’

  Shaz

  ‘Mum, meet Shaz.’

  Maggie’s eyes travelled from the dishevelled dark head to the eyebrow piercing and settled on the stud embedded beneath the lad’s lower lip.

  ‘Hello.’ She extended a hand.

  Shaz appraised her coolly. ‘Hi.’ He didn’t reciprocate.

  Maggie’s hand fell to her side. She looked to her daughter for guidance.

  Kirsty shrugged. ‘Can we have a drink of something? Bus was sweltering.’

  ‘Of course. What can I get you?’ Maggie addressed her guest. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something cold?’

  ‘A beer would be good,’ Shaz grinned. ‘And the lav. I’m bursting for a pee.’

  ‘On the right down the hall,’ Maggie muttered through clenched teeth. This hadn’t got off to a good start.

  Kirsty flopped down on the settee. ‘First impressions?’

  ‘He seems…’ guarded voice, ‘nice enough.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Well…’ Maggie played for time. ‘I’ve only just met your friend. I haven’t had time to form an opinion.’

  ‘You’re quick enough on the draw when it comes to other people.’

  Maggie had a mental vision of Wilma in all her glory that first time she’d called round. Resolutely, she erased it. ‘I suppose.’

  There was silence. Then: ‘He’s cute, though, don’t you think?’

  Quizzically, Maggie eyed her daughter. ‘“Wee” is the word I’d have used.’

  ‘Mu-um!’

  ‘Okay. Let me re-phrase that. He’s a bit on the small side for my taste.’

  Kirsty drew herself up. ‘There’s no accounting for…’

  Maggie cut her off. ‘Where did you say he was from?’

  ‘I didn’t. But Liverpool, since you ask.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Blank face. ‘Never been there.’

  ‘He’s going to take me when uni breaks up. Meet the family.’

  ‘Really?’ Maggie fought to quell the alarm rising in her stomach.

  ‘Yes. Big family. And, before you ask, they live in a Council house. Can you imagine? Eight of them in three bedrooms.’

  Maggie could. ‘Are his parents both…’ she struggled for the right word, ‘…around?’ she ended lamely.

  ‘No. His mum’s on her own. But you’d better stop giving me the third degree before he gets out of the loo.’

  ‘How are you, pet?’ Hastily, Maggie changed the subject.

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Give the girl a break,’ Shaz sauntered into the room. ‘All right?’ He stooped. Pinched Kirsty’s cheek so hard she flinched. ‘We’re here to chill. Ain’t that right, Lardy?’ He dropped onto the sofa beside her.

  Lardy? Maggie’s hackles rose. Her beautiful daughter embroiled with this…lout. And the way he treated her. Maggie eyed the red marks on her daughter’s face.

  In her role as a private investigator, she’d come across too many men who wielded control over women in myriad ways. Her thoughts jumped to Wilma. Hadn’t she spent the best years of her life with an abusive partner? Wilma hadn’t confided a great deal about her previous marriage, but from what Maggie had gleaned, Darren Fowlie was a bad lot.

  Then, mindful of the hard lessons she’d learned, she quashed her snobbish instincts.

  ‘I’ll fetch you that drink.’ With a forced smile, she stood and hurried from the room.

  You Tell Me

  Brian made a show of clearing his throat. ‘Thanks for coming in.’

  The man sitting stiffly in the seat opposite inclined his head. Didn’t speak.

  ‘Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’ the sergeant offered, heedful of the warning from his superior officer to treat the subject with kid gloves.

  This was met with a curt, ‘No.’

  ‘May I first say how sorry I am about your wife’s…’ Brian struggled for the right word. He’d been that pushed he hadn’t had time to get up to speed. Didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Settled for, ‘mishap.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Let’s get rid of the formalities first.’ He drew a pen from his inside pocket. ‘I need your signature.’ He slid a form across the table. ‘Just to confirm you’ve come in voluntarily.’

  Tight-faced, Struthers scribbled his name.

  ‘Now,’ Brian continued, ‘just to give me a clearer picture, could you talk me through your movements from the time you woke until the time you reached your office?’

  ‘I got up, made my wife a cup of tea, went to work.’

  ‘In more detail, Mr Struthers, if you would. What time did you rise?’

  ‘6.45.’ Firm voice.

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  Gordon Struthers pursed his lips. ‘That’s the time my alarm’s set for.’

  Figures, Brian thought. He bet this wee bastard accountant did everything by rote. Could picture him in his office, bent over columns of figures, specs on the end of his nose.

  He jotted a note. ‘And the tea?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’ Again, there was no doubt in the man’s voice.

  ‘How does she take her tea, your wife?’

  Sharp look. ‘Is that pertinent?’

  Brian summoned his sympathy face. ‘Everything you can tell me at this stage is helpful.’

  ‘Then, milk, no sugar. She uses sweetener instead. The powdered stuff, if that’s your next question.’

  Pompous little prick! Brian scribbled on his notepad. He looked up. ‘What time did you leave for work?’

  ‘7.30.’

  ‘By car?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Behind the glasses, Struthers’ eyes flashed with irritation.

  Brian ducked. ‘Quite.’ He recovered. ‘Do you always leave at that time?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Your office, it’s on the Queens’s Road, I understand.’

  ‘Correct.’

  This i
s going well, Brian mused. Talk about getting blood out of a stone. He wondered whether the wife wasn’t better off up at ARI, chastised himself for his cynicism. Who knows what went on in other people’s marriages? And who the hell was he to judge?

  ‘What time do you reach your office, would you say?’

  ‘Between 7.45 and 7.55. I like to be at my desk by eight o’clock.’

  ‘And Mrs Struthers, she’d be doing what?’ Brian left the question open-ended.

  ‘Still in bed, I imagine. She likes to read while she’s drinking her tea. Then she’ll usually take a shower.’

  ‘I see.’ That would tally with the report, Brian noted. ‘Does your wife have any medical conditions that you’re aware of?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Nothing physical, then?’

  ‘I just told you, Sergeant…’ That flash of temper again. ‘And you’d think I’d know.’ He puffed his chest. ‘I’m her husband.’

  Too right, Brian thought. And first in line when it comes to pointing the finger. He busied himself with his notebook, looked up. ‘How about her mental state?’

  The man bristled. ‘What are you hinting at?’

  ‘Women…’ Brian broke off. He’d need to tread carefully. ‘When they reach a certain age…’

  ‘My wife is not menopausal. At least…’ For the first time a flicker of doubt appeared in Gordon Struthers’ face. ‘She may be approaching that time of life…’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Nothing, other than that Sheena has always been a sound sleeper, but she hasn’t been sleeping well of late.’

  ‘Ah,’ Brian exhaled. Now we’re getting to it. ‘That might explain the pills,’ he said.

  ‘What pills?’ Struthers started back in his seat.

  Brian suppressed a grin. ‘I was rather hoping you would tell me that.’

  V

  Sorry

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Ian demanded as he pushed through the kitchen door.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Wilma retorted. ‘I’m making your dinner – liver and bacon, just how you like it.’ Impish grin. ‘Wi a puckle fried onions on the side.’

  ‘If you think you can soften me up,’ his face didn’t crack, ‘with a decent plate of food after months of dishing up shite, you can think again.’

  ‘Oh.’ She set down the fish slice and crossed to his side. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  He shrugged out of his jacket. ‘Like what? If you think you can swan in here and sweet-talk me after all that’s been said, you’ve another think coming.’

  ‘I know.’ She hung her head in a show of submission. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry is as sorry does.’

  Pig-headed bastard!

  ‘Truly I am.’

  He sat down at the table.

  ‘And I have been thinking,’ she moved to stand alongside, ‘about lots of things, not just…’

  ‘That fucking detective agency,’ he supplied. ‘We were doing away fine – you and me – before you hooked up with that snotty bitch next door.’

  ‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘But you’ve got Maggie Laird all wrong. She doesn’t mean to look down her nose. It’s how she was brought up.’

  ‘Thought it was Methlick she was from.’ Ian cast a hungry glance towards the cooker.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, then.’ He pursed his mouth. ‘She’s no better than you or me.’

  ‘Nobody ever said she was,’ Wilma began. Then, realising she was in dangerous territory, changed tack. ‘We thought we were doing good.’ She batted her eyelashes, to no avail.

  ‘Aye? Running around the country, neglecting your duties, out to all hours like a pair of…’

  Hoors? Wilma stifled a chuckle.

  ‘…tarts.’

  ‘I’ll give you we’ve been putting in long hours. But that’s going to change. Once the money starts to come in regular from the corporate accounts, we…’

  Ian raised a hand. ‘Spare me the explanations. Too little, too late, Wilma. Now, if we’re done…’

  She swivelled on her heel and crossed to the cooker. ‘You’ll not be wanting your dinner, then,’ she challenged, her back to him. Surreptitiously, she turned up the gas under the frying-pan.

  ‘Well, I…’

  The aroma of bacon and onions filled the room.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Turning the dial to its lowest setting, Wilma did as she was bid.

  ‘I’m willing to give it another go,’ Ian offered, grim-faced.

  She met his eye. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Under certain conditions.’

  You’re kidding!

  ‘Name them,’ she said.

  You’re Not Wearing That

  The Vice-Principal’s residence was cavernous and gloomy with an abundance of heavy furniture and florid stained glass. In the formal dining room, a two-bar electric fire sputtered in a Victorian tiled grate. Over the dining table, a neon-bright rise and fall light fitment swung hypnotically in the draught. The table was draped in a yellowing damask tablecloth, upon which sat a regiment of slightly tarnished silver-plated cutlery and a mismatched collection of cut-glass.

  There were eight in the company. In an elbow chair at the table’s head presided the Vice-Principal, a huge, bear-like shambles of a man in a shapeless tweed suit. His wife, a shrivelled stick of a woman with bad teeth and over-permed hair, fidgeted anxiously at the other end. Between them sat two professors and their spouses, along with Nic and Ros.

  She’d already tiptoed her way through a pre-dinner round of drinks. If, she thought mutinously, you could actually call a glass of sweet sherry a drink. A vision of a long vodka floated tantalisingly in her head. Not that she was much of a drinker. But, still!

  In the chill of the room, silence reigned. Ros sat stiffly on her high-backed Queen Anne chair. The control knickers she’d been forced to unearth were digging into her waist, and her breasts bulged from the plunging neckline of the black dress. Like a brace of cantaloupe melons, she thought miserably, as she eyed the dark veins threading the pallid skin. Why anyone would pay for breast augmentation was beyond her.

  The hostess broke the silence. ‘Mrs Prentice has a new baby,’ she announced to the assembled company.

  ‘Oh…’ Ros felt her face flood with colour. ‘Not that new. He’s fifteen months now.’

  ‘Correction. Sixteen,’ Nic interjected. ‘Isn’t she lovely, though?’ He cast a proud glance in Ros’s direction. ‘My girl.’

  Around the table, all eyes turned to Ros. Self-conscious, she fingered the necklace at her throat. A statement piece, that’s what the salesman had called it. And it was that, alright – a chunky semi-circle of silver fastened at the back with a slender chain. Like an upmarket dog-collar, she’d thought at the time. Ros would have preferred something more delicate. And significantly less expensive. She’d quailed when she caught sight of the price tag. But Nic had more experience than she when it came to things like that. More experience, full stop. Plus, it pleased him, and that was what mattered. She smiled inwardly as she recalled the look on his face when he’d handed her the beautifully wrapped package. Unlike earlier. Her eyes travelled down to her left hand, where her wedding ring winked at her. The solitaire diamond engagement ring lay, these days, in its velvet-lined box in the top drawer of the dressing-table. She’d stowed it away that last time they’d rowed. Like tonight. In her mind, she replayed their earlier scene:

  ‘You’re not wearing that?’ Nic’s face was a picture.

  ‘Why not?’ Ros squinted at her reflection. The silvering of the wardrobe mirror was patchy with age. She thought she looked okay.

  ‘It’s too big.’ He raked her body with forensic eyes. ‘Makes you look like a sack of potatoes.’

  Her mouth turned down, but she steeled herself not to answer
back. She’d asked him to come home early so that she could have a bath, ease the tiredness in her limbs after the working day, take time to do her hair and nails, look her best. Nic had been late, abstracted, the bath forgotten. A babysitter had been hired for Max: one of the cooks from a nearby hall of residence. Ros had spent too long familiarising the girl with Max’s routine. They’d ended up pushed for time.

  She forced a smile. ‘Hides a multitude of sins. And, besides, it’s my favourite.’ She’d picked up the cotton kaftan in India. Jewel-bright, it made her feel confident and cheerful. ‘I’ll feel more relaxed if I’m comfy.’

  ‘Not nervous are you?’ he jibed.

  ‘Some. I’m a fair bit younger than the other wives who’ll be there. Conversation might be a bit…well…hard-going. And the men, you’ll have to remind me their subjects so I don’t look a complete fool.’

  ‘All the more reason to wear something glam, knock them for six.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That black number you had on at the Principal’s do.’

  ‘That was yonks ago. It’ll be way too tight.’

  He grinned. ‘Show off your boobs, then.’

  ‘I don’t want to show off my boobs. They’re obscene.’

  ‘Try it on,’ he wheedled.

  ‘No.’

  ‘For me?’ He slid an arm around her waist.

  She spun to face him. ‘I’m telling you, Nic, it’s too tight for me now.’

  His grip tightened. ‘This dinner is important to me, Ros.’

  She breathed a sigh. ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’re not just doing it for me. We’re a team, remember?’ His fingertips made nascent bruises on her spine.

  She nodded assent.

  ‘So, be a good girl and try it on, then we’ll see.’

  And now, only a couple of hours later, there he was – charm personified – chatting animatedly to the lady on his left.

  Ros was seated next to a small man, who she now knew to be a mathematician. He was almost completely bald, with a shiny round head and shiny round wire-framed glasses. He was wearing a rather shiny suit over a not-quite-white nylon shirt and an elaborate bow tie.