The soup course was served.
In between slurps, her neighbour attempted to make conversation. ‘Your baby…boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
There was an awkward pause.
Ros attempted to fill it. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a mathematician, aren’t you?’ She moved to safer ground.
He brightened. ‘That’s right… Statistics. Are you familiar with the subject?’
‘Not really.’ Behind the spectacles, his gaze dropped to her cleavage.
The mathematician took off his glasses, breathed on each lens in turn, polished them with his napkin, put them on again.
Ros challenged him with a look.
The man’s eyes swivelled back to his soup plate.
She shifted in her seat, trying to blank out her discomfort and the sweat that was pooling between her constricted thighs.
The Vice-Principal’s wife was flushed now, her complexion mottled as she dashed back and forth bearing steaming casserole dishes from the kitchen. Ros had offered to help, but been politely rebuffed. She marvelled that the woman – Norma was her name – was expected to entertain single-handed. Must be the cuts, she concluded. If Nic were to be believed, ‘the cuts’ insinuated themselves into every aspect of university life.
Norma fussed over the green beans, then: ‘Hand round the potatoes, Daddy.’
The Vice-Principal, who seemed not to mind this form of address, rose from his seat. ‘Yes, dear.’ He moved around the table, dutifully attending to his guests, then dispensed, with meticulous care, from a single bottle of Liebfraumilch.
Ros took a judicious sip of the thimbleful of wine at the bottom of her glass. Too sweet. Her thoughts turned to Max, lying in his cot at home, tucked up and soporific. Inwardly, she sighed. She’d have given a case of bloody Liebfraumilch to have been back home in a comfy pair of pyjamas. Dutifully, she turned to the man on her left.
*
Pudding came and went. Coffee was served. The conversation was animated, now, with talk of departmental budgets and research papers. Nic caught her eye. Winked. He seemed in good form, at ease with these senior academics.
For a moment, there was a lull.
Ros made an effort to contribute. ‘In my job…’
Nic cut her short. ‘My wife is a primary school teacher. Not exactly taxing on the intellect, is it, darling?’
Stung, Ros scraped back her chair. ‘The bathroom?’ She turned to her hostess.
‘Upstairs.’
Seething with resentment, Ros fled up the stairs. She came onto a pitch dark landing, off which led a number of doors. She tried the handle of one after another. Finally, she revealed a vast, tiled bathroom. Ros groped for the light switch, shut the door behind her and slid the door-snib to. Crossing her legs at the knee, she tugged the hem of the black dress up to her waist, tucked her thumbs into the waistband of the control knickers and eased them with her tights down her thighs. She lifted a towel from the side of the bath and spread it on the icy linoleum floor. Then she lay down, frock round her waist, knickers at her knees.
Ros closed her eyes. It was always the same, the way Nic put her down: clothed in endearments, but they were barbs just the same. Like acupuncture – the carefully selected puncture sites, the ultra-fine needles propelled from their sheaths, the precision timing. She wondered what she’d done to attract such vitriol. Nic surely hadn’t always been like that, otherwise why would she have married him? She concentrated hard, trying to pinpoint when – and why – his behaviour had changed. Then she felt a rush of guilt. He couldn’t help it. Poor soul was under constant pressure. And he was working towards a common goal, was he not? Why else would they be here in Aberdeen?
‘You all right in there?’ A woman’s voice. ‘Your husband is worried about you.’
With some reluctance, Ros raised her head from the floor. She looked down at her naked torso: the unkempt groin, the unshaven legs, the scruffy knickers. A tear slid down one cheek. Angrily, she brushed it away. If Nic hadn’t taken exception to her kaftan… If, just this once, she’d stood her ground…
‘I’m fine,’ she shouted, trying desperately to manipulate herself back into the too-tight Lycra. ‘I’ll be right down.’
Never Better
‘Wilma!’
Maggie spilled half a packet of bran flakes as Wilma stormed through the back door. She threw her arms around Wilma’s neck. ‘How are you? Where have you been?’
‘Give me a minute, pal.’ Beaming broadly, Wilma unhooked Maggie’s arms and led her through to the dining room. She arranged herself on a chair. ‘Christ, I’m gasping. Be a good soul and brew me a cuppa.’
Reluctantly, Maggie did as she was told, side-stepping the mess on the kitchen floor to fill the kettle at the sink. ‘Are you okay?’ she called, fetching down a couple of mugs and plopping in two teabags.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I was worried about you.’ Maggie filled the mugs with boiling water, added milk from the fridge. ‘Hope someone’s been looking after you.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. My two saw it as an opportunity to get their dinner cooked and the house cleaned.’
‘Poor you.’ Maggie carried the mugs through, set them down on coasters. ‘Still, you’ll have had the chance to catch up. How are they doing, your lads?’
Wilma sniffed. ‘Don’t ask.’
Maggie changed the subject. ‘Have you and Ian managed to sort out your differences yet?’
Shifty look. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘Poor man has a point, you know. He’s had reservations right from the start.’
‘Och,’ Wilma scoffed, ‘He’s a right Aberdonian: feart to step outside his comfort zone.’
‘I accept he’s risk-averse, but…’
‘Christ, there you go again. you wi your fancy phrases.’
‘There’s no need to jump down my throat.’
‘Sorry, pal,’ Wilma waved an imaginary white flag. ‘I’m a bit touchy at the moment where he’s concerned.’
‘And with good reason. So…’ Maggie fished, heart in mouth, ‘if you’re back in Mannofield, can I take it you’ve settled your differences?’
Wilma looked at her feet. ‘You could say that.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Seems someone,’ Wilma threw Maggie an old-fashioned look, ‘talked sense into him.’
‘That right?’ She looked the picture of innocence.
‘Aye,’ Wilma took a greedy slurp of her tea. ‘Praised me to the heavens, by all accounts.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie said lamely. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Not enough to change the bugger’s mind, though.’
‘Really?’
‘No. He’s only agreed to take me back under certain conditions.’
‘Oh.’ Maggie’s heart plummeted into her shoes. She recalled Wilma’s parting shot.
I have to make a decision: the agency or Ian.
‘Does that mean…?’ she began. Then the implication dawned.
Wilma had made her choice. And she’d chosen Ian.
Maggie’s head spun. Months of hard work down the drain. More than that. Without Wilma’s input, there’s no way she could keep the business afloat. And without the business – mentally she calculated her meagre salary from Seaton – she couldn’t pay the bills. As if that wasn’t catastrophic enough, Maggie’s quest for justice, which drew heavily not only Wilma’s contacts but her moral support, might be compromised.
For some minutes the two sat in silence, then: ‘Ian needs his sleep, what with the overtime he puts in and his early start.’
Maggie wondered where this was going.
‘My late nights have been getting to him, so we’ve agreed a weekend curfew.
‘Oh,’ sh
e murmured. ‘That’s sensible.’
‘Also means regular nookie.’ Wilma offered a lascivious grin. ‘I reckon he’s been missing that and all.’
‘Mmm.’ That was one place Maggie didn’t want to go.
‘And there’s to be no more ready-meals.’ Stage wink.
Maggie felt a pang of conscience. Colin ate everything she served up, processed or no. Still, she fretted about the additives. He was still developing. They couldn’t be doing him a lot of good. ‘So…’ She didn’t dare hope. ‘The agency?’
Wilma reached across the table, took Maggie’s hand in hers. ‘You didn’t think I’d leave you in the lurch, did you?’ She smiled affectionately. ‘Daft quine!’
How’s Tricks?
‘How’s tricks?’ Maggie smiled into Brian’s eyes.
Tricks? he thought scornfully. They were back in the Wild Boar, scene of a previous meeting. Her suggestion this time. Brian hadn’t been keen. The little bar was way too intimate for a casual coffee. The previous year, he’d chosen it with care in the hope of progressing the relationship. He still carried the open sores of Maggie Laird’s rebuffs.
Now, he affected an upbeat tone. ‘Busy-busy.’
As if. Chisolm hadn’t revisited the subject of Brian’s promotion prospects, and he’d got short shrift when he’d made a tentative pass at DC Strachan.
‘That’s good.’
Under the keen gaze of those hypnotic eyes, Brian could feel his temperature rise. Maggie’s phone call that morning had roused mixed emotions: on the one hand, maybe she was ready to eat humble pie and start afresh. On the other – if her track record was anything to go by – she might well have another agenda. In his head, Brian did a quick recce of his caseload, but couldn’t think of anything she could possibly have managed to get herself embroiled in.
She cut to the chase. ‘What’s the story on Sheena Struthers?’
So that was it. A rush of blood suffused his neck and threatened to engulf his face. Chill, he told himself. At least she’d been straight up about it this time.
‘No idea.’ He wasn’t about to be drawn.
‘Brian,’ a girlish voice trilled. A pert blonde materialised out of the gloom.
‘Oh.’ Brian looked up, smiled broadly. ‘Hello, Megan.’
‘Didn’t know you hung out here?’ Coquettish look.
‘I don’t,’ he said pointedly. ‘Megan, meet Maggie Laird. Maggie’s an old friend.’ He sneaked a glance in her direction. ‘A very old friend,’ he added.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Maggie offered a grudging smile.
‘You too.’ Megan returned the smile, displaying a set of sparkling white teeth.
‘Megan’s a civilian officer,’ Brian explained. ‘Just recently moved up from South Wales.’
He noted, with some satisfaction, Maggie giving Megan a covert once-over. Couldn’t help but conclude that, weighed against Maggie’s petite frame and unruly red curls, this svelte young blonde with her big blue eyes and milky skin looked a million dollars.
‘Will I see you later?’ Megan turned her attention back to Brian.
‘Yes.’ A blush spread from below his shirt collar to the tips of his ears. ‘The Athenaeum?’
‘Fine. Catch you then.’
‘Good to meet you, Maggie.’ Megan turned to go.
Brian squirmed in his seat. Wasn’t it just his bloody luck to get caught in a compromising situation? Not that you could count Maggie as a love interest. Not now, anyway. But young Megan wasn’t to know that. And he’d got good vibes there, reckoned he was onto something. Bugger Maggie Laird. He gripped the edge of his chair. The sooner he got to the bottom of what had prompted this meeting and got back to the station, the sooner he could make inroads with Megan. Before some other bastard beat him to it.
‘Sorry about that.’ He turned to Maggie. ‘Where were we?’
‘You were telling me about the Struthers case.’ The words tripped off her tongue.
‘I don’t think so.’ He caught her in the lie.
Her cheeks tinged with colour.
‘What’s your interest anyhow?’ he demanded.
‘Sheena Struthers is a client of mine,’ Maggie said airily.
‘Not for much longer, maybe.’
‘What do you mean?’
Brian reminded himself of the promise he’d made to himself: to keep Maggie Laird at arm’s length. ‘Nothing.’ He could have bitten his tongue.
‘Brian?’ She leaned into him.
He caught a whiff of her fragrance. That scent she used: lilac, freesia, whatever it was. Then shampoo. And something else. Something more. He felt a stirring in his crotch.
‘I had the husband in to the station the other day,’ he let out.
‘Oh.’ Her eyes flashed interest. ‘Find out anything?’
Don’t even go there! His resolve hardened along with the beginnings of an erection.
Maggie Laird had led him by the nose. He wouldn’t give her tuppence, no matter he was soft on the woman. He willed the tumescence to subside.
She took his hand in hers. Clasped it tight.
‘She might not make it, do you mean?’ she persisted.
Brian crossed his legs, uncrossed them again. To hide the bulge in his trousers he cupped his free hand over his groin, feeling like a twelve-year-old.
‘Brian?’ He could feel her breath on his cheek.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Looks like it.’
A Wee Posse
Ros turned, flushed with excitement, as Nic came through the door.
‘You’ll never guess…’
He tossed his satchel into a corner, shrugged off his jacket, dropped onto a chair. ‘Guess what?’
‘Sophie’s just off the phone. She’s coming up in a couple of weeks.’
‘Here?’
‘No, silly.’ Ros wiped her hands on her apron, crossed to drop a kiss on top of his head. ‘Edinburgh. Visit her folks. Amazing thing is, Louise is over then for a conference. And Sarah…well, Glasgow’s not that far.’
‘So?’
‘She mooted a reunion, Sophie that is. If we went down…’
‘No chance.’ Nic’s brows rearranged themselves into a frown. ‘I’ve far too much on my plate.’
‘But, Nic, I haven’t seen her since we moved here. It must be two years, at least, since our wee posse had a real get together.’
‘Posse,’ Nic scoffed. ‘Coven, more like, the way you lot huddle together, gossiping about God knows what.’
‘We’re not gossiping. We’re catching up, that’s all.’
He shrugged. ‘Whatever. Anyhow, all that girls together stuff gives me a sore head.’
‘Nobody’s asking you to join in. Mark will be coming as well. The pair of you could…’
‘Mark’s a tosser.’
Ros winced. ‘That’s not true.’
‘They’re all tossers, those city types, living off the backs of…’
‘Do I detect a note of jealousy?’ Teasing voice.
He had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Maybe. If we had their money…’
‘Well, we don’t, but we’re none the worse for it.’ She worked to keep her tone light.
Ros cursed herself for raising the subject. She should have known better than to broach it when he’d just got in from work. Never ask a man for anything until you’ve fed him. Wasn’t that what her maternal granny used to say? Best drop it for now, she decided, bring it up another time.
She changed the subject. ‘How was your day?’
He grimaced. ‘Full morning of lectures. Departmental meeting in the afternoon. More cuts. Nightmare! Everyone at each other’s throats.’
‘Poor you.’ Gently, her fingers kneaded the nape of his neck.
‘How’s Max?’ He didn’t ask about her day.
‘He was shattered when I picked him up. I put him down for a nap before tea. It will be a while yet.’ She broke off, crossed back to the sink. ‘I was a bit pushed this afternoon. Can I get you something for now? Cup of tea?’
‘It will take more than that.’ Nic rose, made for the pantry.
Oh, hell! Ros could feel her chest constrict. Desperate for a sugar rush, she’d eaten one of his chocolate bars earlier. Heart thudding, she said a fervent prayer he wouldn’t notice.
‘Now, then,’ his voice echoed from the recess of the cupboard. ‘Who’s been raiding my treats shelf?’
Better own up. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled an apology. ‘I was desperate.’ Her voice sounded far away.
Nic re-emerged, gnawing on a cereal bar. ‘Thought you were desperate to lose weight?’ He clutched a handful of spare flesh.
‘Ow!’ She pulled away. ‘I was. Am.’
‘Well, we won’t lose weight stuffing ourselves with choccie bars, will we?’
That’s the girls’ reunion out the window, Ros thought, miserably.
There was a wail from upstairs, closely followed by another.
Dejected, she made for the stairs.
Loose Ends
Brian addressed the man sitting across the low table. ‘I appreciate you coming in.’
‘Did I have a choice?’ Gordon Struthers asked, his face wooden.
Brian ignored this. ‘There are some loose ends I need to tie up.’
‘What do you mean, “loose ends”?’ Struthers’ eyes flashed a warning. ‘Should I be calling my solicitor?’
Suit yourself, Brian thought. Instead, he summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘You’re not under caution, Mr Struthers, so there’s no need.’ He paused. ‘Not unless there’s something you’ve been holding back.’
‘Like what, for example?’ Stony look.
‘Like the Zopiclone I broached in our last meeting: pills which were found in your bedroom, and of which you claim to have had no knowledge.’
‘I have no knowledge,’ Struthers insisted.
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