Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  Still…Strachan. She’d earned her credentials on the Seaton case, the insight she’d shown into that Fatboy bastard’s make-up, her compassion towards those toe-rags. Maybe she’d be the one could get into Sheena Struthers’ head.

  He’d give the wee girl a chance.

  He reached for the phone.

  A New Friend

  ‘Happy?’ Nic broke off from nuzzling her neck.

  ‘Ish,’ she muttered, not turning.

  ‘That all?’

  Ros rolled over to face him. ‘Sorry.’ She wished she could sound more enthusiastic but, truth be told, all she felt was worn out.

  ‘Still feeling low?’ He stroked her cheek.

  Her body went rigid. ‘Don’t give me that again.’

  ‘Give you what?’ He assumed that blond, blue-eyed, little-boy-lost look that had so captivated her, in the beginning.

  ‘Oh.’ She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘The mental health card.’

  ‘Babe…’

  ‘Don’t you “babe” me, Nic Prentice. I’m not suffering from depression. I’m lonely, that’s what it boils down to.’

  ‘But…’ Puzzled look. ‘You’ve got Max.’

  ‘Babies don’t talk to you. Well…’ she corrected. ‘Maybe later on they do.’

  Her mind ran back to that first six months she’d spent at home – those endless days when she’d seen no one, spoken to no one, and the phone didn’t ring. Even when she’d girded herself to take a walk with the buggy up the Chanonry and through Seaton Park or down High Street and over the Spital into town, not a single person had exchanged a greeting. Ros sighed. She might as well have been invisible.

  Nic interrupted her train of thought. ‘How about the mums at nursery?’

  ‘I’ve no time to sit around and chat, Nic. I’m always in such a rush.’

  ‘Fiona, then.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you.’ Ros spluttered. ‘You’ve done your best to drive Fiona away.’

  ‘Now you’re being paranoid.’

  ‘I’m not bloody paranoid. Maggie Laird says…’

  He cut in. ‘Who’s Maggie Laird?’

  ‘We work together.’

  ‘You don’t mean that dame I met at the Christmas do?’ he sneered.

  ‘That’s exactly who I mean.’

  ‘Oh, come on. She’s just some sad divorcee.’

  ‘She’s a widow. And she says…’

  ‘You’ve found a new friend, have you?’ he spoke over her. ‘First it was Fiona – Fiona this, Fiona that. Now it’s Maggie Laird.’

  ‘I gather you don’t like her either.’

  ‘It’s not a question of “like”. What the hell does a nonentity like that know about anything?’

  ‘She’s…’

  ‘It’s not even Maggie Laird. It’s you, Ros. You can’t stand on your own two feet, can’t make a decision to save yourself, can’t…’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, you’ve told me often enough.’ She broke down in tears. ‘All that’s wrong with me,’ she snivelled, ‘is I’m worn out trying to juggle a full-time job, a house and a baby all on my own.’

  ‘You’re not on your own.’

  ‘No? If you’re not in the department, you’re in Senior Common Room, either that or out running.’

  ‘I do help.’ Plaintive voice. ‘I’ve dropped Max off at nursery twice this week. Plus, I bathed him and unloaded the dishwasher and…’

  ‘It’s not that sort of help I had in mind. It’s…’ Noisily, she blew her nose. ‘Moral support.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  She sighed. ‘What I’m saying is, for every practical thing you do to help… And don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate it. You come out with some niggle or other. If it’s not the house, it’s the nursery, or the shopping, or how often I use the car. And it’s ground me down. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells all the time, and I can’t take any more.’

  ‘Whoa!’ He caught hold of her wrist. ‘What brought this on?’

  She wrenched away. ‘Your attitude.’

  ‘My attitude?’

  ‘Yes. You’re so negative, Nic. The way you’re forever finding fault. And it’s not just me. It’s my folks, my friends. Small wonder I hardly see them anymore.’

  ‘How’s about a night out?’ He tickled her chin. ‘That positive enough for you?’

  She swatted his hand away. ‘Be serious.’

  Grins. ‘I am being serious.’

  Ros let out a long sigh. ‘Nothing’s ever your fault, is it, Nic? And whenever I try to have a serious conversation, all you do is duck and weave.’

  ‘Ducking and weaving is my speciality.’ He landed a kiss on the tip of her nose.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake…’ She turned her back on him.

  ‘Love you, baby.’ He ran his fingers up and down her naked spine.

  Against all her inclinations she giggled.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He spooned into her. ‘Sounds like I’ve been a grouch.’

  ‘Mega grouch!’ she mumbled.

  ‘Pressure of work.’ He rolled her to face him. ‘Poor baby. I’m really sorry I’ve been so tied up. But I’ll make it up to you.’ He kissed her, on the mouth this time. ‘I promise.’

  Women of a Certain Age

  ‘Jump to it,’ Allan Chisolm looked down the table. ‘We’ve a ton of stuff to get through this morning.’ He eyeballed Brian. ‘Any movement on the Struthers thing, Burnett? Did you get any joy out of the husband?’

  ‘Not a lot. Denies all knowledge of the medication we found at the scene.’

  ‘Wife’s gone behind his back, then?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘But why would she do that? I mean, sleeping pills, it’s not as if they’re uncommon, especially in…’

  ‘Och.’ Duffy stuck his oar in. ‘I’ve told you. Women of a certain age.’

  ‘Never mind “a certain age”,’ Wood’s face bore a permanently sour expression. ‘Women full stop.’

  Brian ducked his head. Amen to that.

  Susan glowered at them both. If anyone said ‘a certain age’ one more time she’d give them one in the nuts.

  ‘She might have had suicidal thoughts. Got hold of the pills. Hidden them while…’

  ‘Could be,’ Chisolm cut her off. ‘Anything from the hospital?’ he queried.

  Brian shuffled the papers in front of him, flipped open a file. ‘Test results just came through this morning.’ He scanned the print. ‘Gist of it is…’ His head shot up as a fire alarm rattled through the building.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ Chisolm swore. ‘That’s all we bloody need.’ That morning’s fire drill had completely slipped his mind.

  Untidily, the detectives seated around the table rose to their feet and made for the door.

  Nice and orderly, guys, if you please,’ their inspector chided. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  *

  Susan hugged her arms to her chest as she slid back into her seat. When the alarm went off, she hadn’t had time to grab her jacket, and the muster station in the rear podium car park was exposed to a biting wind off the North Sea, even on the balmiest of days. To cap it all, that dickhead Douglas Dunn had made a crude pass at her. Brian Burnett had been bad enough; stuttering and blushing like a teenager. But at least he was decent. A bit of a social misfit, maybe, but she felt sympathy for the guy. Unlike this creep, who she deemed a total wanker.

  ‘Alright, darling?’ Dunn occupied the chair next to her.

  With a scowl, Susan scraped her seat sideways.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Douglas wheedled.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she hissed, turning her back on him.

  Douglas leaned in. ‘You’ll come round.’ He smirked. ‘They all do
.’

  She whirled to face him. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said…’

  ‘Cut it out, you two,’ Chisolm entered the room. He sat down. ‘Burnett, as you were saying before the meeting broke up…’

  Brian cleared his throat. ‘Drug screen states meds in the bloodstream weren’t sufficient to put Sheena Struthers in a coma.’

  ‘Well.’ Duffy sat up. He flexed his shoulder muscles. ‘How about that?’

  Chisolm pursed his lips. ‘How indeed?’

  ‘That would square with the blister pack we…’ Remembering Souter’s cock-up, he corrected himself. ‘That was found in the bedroom. There weren’t that many pills missing, plus they were standard dose: 7.5 mg. She’d have had to take a fair few to put her in that state.’

  Chisolm surveyed his squad. ‘That throws up an interesting question: what else could have happened to produce that outcome?’ He looked down the table. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘Alcohol?’ Susan Strachan offered. ‘Could have interacted with the pills.’

  ‘Good point,’ Chisolm said. ‘Any history there, do we know?’ He looked pointedly at Brian.

  ‘Not that I’m aware, sir.’ Brian felt colour seep from under his collar. Fuckit! He should have asked. ‘But,’ he looked down at the file again, ‘it says here no alcohol was present.’

  Douglas added his tuppence-worth. ‘Another substance, then?’ he opined.

  ‘Such as?’ Duffy countered. Any opportunity to nail the twat.

  ‘Oh.’ Douglas ruffled his already artfully disordered hair. ‘Too many variables. I’d have to confer with toxicology before I could give a definitive answer.’

  ‘As fucking if!’ Duffy fixed him with a withering stare.

  ‘You two,’ Chisolm barked. ‘Enough. In short, we have only one valid suggestion: that another substance was ingested. And that begs what question?’

  Susan broke the ensuing silence: ‘Did Mrs Struthers take an additional substance of her own volition or…’

  Anxious to put his oar in, Douglas piped up. ‘Was it administered by another party? There was a half drunk cup of tea, if I’m not mistaken, on the bedside table.’

  ‘Quite.’ Chisolm acknowledged this contribution with a curt nod. ‘But only one set of fingerprints on the pills.’

  Brian attempted to interject. ‘Can I just say…’

  Chisolm ignored him. ‘Before we go down that road, there’s something else we have to consider.’

  Around the table there were baffled faces. Then: ‘A pre-existing medical condition?’ Susan volunteered.

  ‘Well done, Strachan.’ Chisolm nodded his approval.

  ‘There is one more thing, sir,’ Brian coloured. He better get this in before their deliberations went down yet another channel. ‘X-rays are showing an injury to Sheena Struthers’ right arm.’

  Chisolm scowled. ‘Why didn’t you raise this before?’

  ‘I…’ Christ, Brian thought, I’ve screwed up again. ‘Tried,’ he added lamely.

  ‘Well, now you’ve finally got there,’ Chisolm threw him a pointed look, ‘are we agreed the Struthers case warrants further investigation?’

  He was met by murmurs of assent.

  ‘To summarise, we’ve a number of hypotheses: drugs – what we’ve found plus question mark something else – were self-administered, whether by accident or design; drugs were administered by another party; injury was accidental, or not. As to the actions, someone had better have another chat with Mrs Laird. No, not you, Burnett.’ He eyeballed Brian. ‘You’ve got form there. I’ll do it myself. Haul Gordon Struthers back in here. Sounds like he’s been less than forthcoming. If he’s hiding something, we need to find out what. Strachan, I want you up at ARI. Establish the latest on Sheena Struthers’ condition. And no visitors, not that ITU is likely to admit anyone. Well, nobody but the husband. We can’t stop him, I suppose. But I don’t want anyone else near her until we get a statement. And Duffy, ask their lab if they’re willing to run more tests.’

  Best Guess

  ‘You’d news, you said,’ Maggie blurted as she caught sight of Jimmy Craigmyle. They’d settled on Duthie Park for that morning’s rendezvous. The show of spring bulbs was stunning, but it was nippy, still. The David Welch Winter Gardens afforded a secluded base away from the prying eyes of the public in general and Jimmy Craigmyle’s wife, Vera, in particular.

  ‘Yes,’ he emerged from the shelter of a giant tree fern. ‘I’ve decided to take up Gilruth’s job offer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie felt nauseous, suddenly, whether from the let-down or the humidity.

  ‘In the short term, at least. Good news is I’ve landed another job altogether.’

  Maggie’s heart raced. ‘Where?’

  ‘Bridge of Don. Warehouse manager,’ he elaborated. ‘Pay’s not that great, but all the security jobs I’ve gone after have been unsocial hours. At least this is eight to four.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful,’ Maggie said without conviction, unsure whether this news was good or bad. ‘When do you start?’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s the downside. Current guy is working his notice. They don’t need me for another month.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t you see? That gives me a window of opportunity. I can start at the new venue. Play along. Stick my nose in. Now I’m off, it’s not as if I have much to lose.’

  ‘No, I suppose.’ she conceded.

  ‘And Vera’s happy. Well,’ he qualified, ‘as happy as she’s likely to be till the kids settle down and…’ Stage wink. ‘Her and me get lovey-dovey again.’

  Lovey-dovey! Maggie’s imagination ran ahead of her.

  ‘Downside is,’ Craigmyle’s voice broke her train of thought, ‘it’ll take time. I mean, we’ve been separated for over a year now, Vera and me. You can’t just walk back in and…’

  ‘No, I can see that.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t want to rock the boat by dredging up that whole drugs business. I mean, no offence, Maggie, but it’s ancient history, and Vera’s touchy enough about the ignominious end to my police career…’ His voice tailed off.

  Maggie steadied herself against a banana tree. She closed her eyes. Seemed it was peppered with potholes, this unrelenting road to justice. Just when she thought she was making progress, something set her back. Take Bobby Brannigan. She’d had to muster all her courage to track him down, and Wilma had shown initiative and tenacity in obtaining his taped statement, only for it to be deemed inadmissible. Plus, the guy was slippery as an eel. Who knows what tactics he’ll employ to wriggle out of ratifying his confession. She’d been banking on expediting Craigmyle’s testimony. Mentally, Maggie calculated when she could reasonably ask Jimmy to proceed. Clearly, not whilst he was still in Gilruth’s employ. In her mind, she substituted ‘months’ for the ‘weeks’ she’d estimated earlier.

  ‘Then there’s the money side of things,’ he ran on. ‘I’ve a six-month lease on my place. And there’s the deposit to consider. I can’t afford to lose that.’

  ‘No.’ Maggie went weak at the knees. She could see Jimmy Craigmyle’s statement – admitting that it was he, not George, who’d turned off Brannigan’s interview tape – vanishing into the ether. ‘Is it hot in here or is it me?’ She brushed a film of moisture from her forehead.

  ‘Not hot, no. Temperature’s fine for me.’ He grinned. ‘And them, obviously,’ he gestured to the lush foliage that filled the space from ground level to the arched roof of the glasshouse.

  Oh Lord! Maggie said a quiet prayer she hadn’t been hit with her first hot flush. ‘So, your statement, how long do you think until…?’

  Craigmyle cut her short. ‘Best guess? Tail-end of the year.’

  One Less

  ‘Well,’ Dave Miller plonked his tray of tomato soup down on the canteen table. ‘They cracked it yet?’

  Ian Souter stopped chewing on his ham sandwich for a momen
t.

  ‘What?’ He spoke out of the side of his mouth.

  Miller sat down. ‘Thon Struthers case, ya moron.’

  ‘Mebbe,’ Souter masticated a few times more. ‘Mebbe not.’ He swallowed. ‘Husband’s been interviewed a couple of times.’

  ‘Anything out of him?’

  ‘Same old. Still maintaining total innocence.’

  ‘Well…’ Greedily, Miller slurped his soup. ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘But the evidence…’

  ‘Circumstantial, from what I gather. Either the wife’s havering,’ he offered a knowing look, ‘or the tox tests will give us something.’

  ‘Them pills…’ Souter broke off.

  ‘Christ,’ Miller wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘We screwed up there.’

  Ian Souter bolted down the last of his sandwich and reached for a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer.

  ‘We did that. Arse-licking in order, pal, eh no?’

  His companion grunted. ‘Too right.’ He broke a chunk off his rowie, dipped it in his soup.

  ‘Thought the test results were in.’

  ‘The boss has requested more.’

  Souter bit into his biscuit. ‘Where d’you get that?’

  ‘Jungle drums.’ Miller spoke through a mouthful of soup and roll. ‘Don’t know what he’s after, but you have to hand it to him,’ he swallowed noisily. ‘He’s a fly bastard, our new man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t disagree with you. That Struthers is a sleekit wee cunt by all accounts. If he’s hiding summat Chisolm will winkle it out of him.’

  ‘Story goes…’ Miller winked. ‘Our suspect has a bidey-in.’

  ‘Where d’you get that?’

  ‘Down the pub.’

  ‘You sure it was Struthers?’

  Miller’s voice faltered. ‘Pretty sure.’

  ‘Och,’ Ian Souter scoffed, ‘You don’t want to believe the stuff you hear when folk are in their cups.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I wouldn’t broadcast it either, if I were you. If you’ve heard wrong, the DI will have your guts for garters.’

  Miller choked on his soup, sending gobbets of tomato-coloured dough into his partner’s face.