Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Never you mind.’ The man in the balaclava took up position behind him. His words sounded ghostly, as if fragmented by the mist.

  ‘Wh-what do you want?’ Bobby stood stock still, literally petrified by fear.

  ‘You, Bobby.’ An arm locked around his throat. Before the blackness overwhelmed him, he glimpsed a flash of steel.

  A Pro Job

  ‘Jump to it.’ Allan Chisolm drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I haven’t got all bloody day.’

  From his workstation by the window, Douglas Dunn shot across the room. George Duffy followed at a more sedate pace. Chewing the last of his morning piece, Dave Wood lumbered to his feet. He joined Susan at the end of the table.

  ‘Where’s Burnett?’

  ‘Said he had a meeting.’

  ‘I’ll meeting him,’ Chisolm muttered. ‘Whatever it is, this is way more important.’

  His team waited, expectant.

  Chisolm let them wait. After a few more moments, he spoke. ‘By now, you’ll all know that Bobby Brannigan was assaulted last night.’

  There were nods and mutterings around the table.

  ‘This was a life-threatening attack.’

  ‘You thinking it was a hit, sir?’ This from Dunn.

  ‘It bears all the hallmarks: single wound to the throat…’

  ‘Sounds like a pro job to me,’ Wood interrupted.

  Idle twat. Chisolm shot him a look. ‘And you would know.’

  ‘Can’t have been that professional if the geezer’s still in the land of the living.’ This from Duffy.

  ‘Could be the assailant was disturbed. From what I understand Brannigan had just come out the pub. Might have been other folk around.’

  ‘Where’s the motive?’ Susan ventured in a small voice. As the most junior member of the team, she was still nervous about pushing herself forward.

  Duffy snorted. ‘He’s a snitch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Susan’s eyes widened. ‘Whose?’

  ‘Any bugger that will pay him,’ Brian answered, coming into the room. ‘Apologies, sir,’ he directed to Chisolm. ‘I was unavoidably detained.’

  ‘You can explain later,’ Chisolm snapped. ‘Right now, I want you to fill DC Strachan in on our friend.’

  Brian looked down the table. ‘We reckon Brannigan was fingered by James Gilruth to throw a drugs trial. Happened before your time,’ he elaborated, ‘but the results were far-reaching: trial had to be abandoned at huge cost to the taxpayer, and two of our own,’ he paused, ‘including my best mate, were sent out into the cold.’

  ‘Do you think Gilruth could have ordered a hit?’ Susan asked, her eyes like saucers.

  ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, though Brannigan hasn’t been active, not for a long time.’

  ‘So what could he have done,’ she queried, ‘to piss anyone off?’

  ‘Except threaten to grass?’ Douglas retorted. ‘And re-open a can of worms some folk would rather leave shut.’

  ‘Come on,’ Brian interceded, ‘Bobby Brannigan dropped totally below the radar until…’

  ‘Your girlfriend outed him,’ Dunn supplied.

  Brian whirled in his seat. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

  Douglas smirked. ‘And from what I hear she’s been turning the screw.’

  ‘How would you…?’ Brian started.

  ‘Cut it,’ Chisolm barked. ‘What we do know is, these past few years, Mr Gilruth has been a picture of probity, his drug activities disguised behind a wall of respectability – a wall that he has defended with extreme care. Until, that is, his own son made a chink in that wall. It may be that the raid on his club was a wake-up call. All that adverse publicity.’

  ‘And he knows we’re frustrated that he’s sent the son to the fucking Costa del Sol,’ George Duffy added.

  ‘He should be so lucky,’ Dave Wood observed. ‘Out of the frying-pan into the fire, I’d say.’ The look on his face was more mournful than ever. ‘They’re nutcases, the most of them, down there.’

  ‘Are you thinking that, combined with rumours of Brannigan’s revised testimony, forced Gilruth’s hand?’ Duffy enquired.

  ‘Doesn’t sound sufficient reason to me,’ Chisolm responded. ‘But there’s a lot we don’t know where our friend Gilruth’s concerned.’

  ‘Has Bobby agreed to give a statement, then?’ Wood asked. ‘I thought we only had the tape recording them two wifies screwed out of him.’ He chortled at his own joke.

  ‘You’re right.’ Chisolm answered his question. ‘We do, at present, only have a tape, improperly obtained. But I was on the cusp of bringing Brannigan in to try to get a formal statement out of him when the assault occurred.’

  ‘With incentives, can we assume?’ Douglas piped up.

  Chisolm threw him an icy look. ‘We can.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence,’ Wood muttered darkly.

  ‘Quite so. But, whatever the motive behind this attack, our first priority is to obtain that formal statement.’

  ‘How do we manage that?’ Douglas wanted to know. ‘The guy’s unconscious.’

  ‘He might not make it,’ Wood added, his expression glum.

  ‘I have a twenty-four-hour guard on that man,’ Chisolm pronounced, grim-faced. ‘And I intend to get a statement out of him, come what may.’

  A Farm Steading

  The red Fiesta bumped its way down the rutted farm track. Bastard! Wilma swore under her breath as the undercarriage connected with something solid. She checked the rearview mirror as she changed down a gear. A large stone protruded from a tussock. Teeth clenched, Wilma scoured the way ahead. Ian had spent many of his days off doing running repairs. Clapped-out or no, he’d invested that much effort on keeping the vehicle roadworthy he’d kill her if she pranged it.

  She’d had to take the assignment at short notice. In normal circumstances the case would have fallen to Maggie: the client a farmer who’d been defrauded in the sale of sheep. Maggie was familiar with farmers and their ways, unlike Wilma, a city girl born and bred. But early that morning Maggie had received a panicked phone call from that bloody Struthers woman. Wilma screwed up her nose in distaste. Another drama!

  Wilma had hoped to get on the job at the double, catch the perp – a fellow farmer – before he was out and about. But the agency phone had rung off the hook and it was too early days, still, to let messages go unanswered for long. Then she’d decided she better stick on a washing. There couldn’t have been any clean pants nor socks when Ian got up that morning. Not that he’d said, but she was on probation, still, after their estrangement.

  Now, she negotiated a bend in the track. In a hollow stood a Victorian one-and-a-half storey cottage: four-paned sash windows either side of a deep-recessed door, two dormers jutting from a slate roof. No car, though it could be in the steading. Across a muddy yard, the outbuilding was in an advanced stage of dilapidation, doors hanging at an angle from rusted hinges, half the roof caved in. Wilma nosed the car into a corner and switched off the ignition. Didn’t bother to lock it in case she needed to make a rapid exit. Wrinkling her nose against the strong country smells, she crept across the yard, rapped smartly on the door. No answer. She peered in one window, then the other. Saw nothing other than cobwebs and an ancient chenille suite.

  He might still be in bed. Unlikely, though, for a farmer. Or perhaps in the scullery. Cautiously, she made her way round the back. The kitchen was housed in a wooden extension, with a small window that offered sight of a red formica table and one of those 1950s cabinets with a pull-down zinc work surface. Wilma wondered if you’d get money for it. There was no sign of her man.

  Wilma retraced her steps till she reached the steading. She pushed against one of the rickety doors. She half expected it to topple, but it swung open with a creak. The interior was in near darkness, the hole in the roof throwing the interior into s
hadowy relief. A tractor stood to one side. Even in the half light, Wilma could see it was decrepit. Alongside the vehicle, a range of implements lay scattered. There was nobody around. That much was obvious.

  If you snooze you lose! Wilma cursed her tardiness. She turned to go. Then her curiosity got the better of her. If she’d wasted her morning, she might as well have a nosey before she headed home.

  Through a carpet of matted straw, she picked her way towards the rear. She’d only advanced a few steps when she heard the noise: a soft snuffling at first, followed by a wet snort, then an angry bellow.

  Christ! In a metal-railed pen, Wilma could just make out the haunches of a huge beast.

  Fucking hell! She near shat herself, and that’s before she clocked its big, hairy…

  Heart racing, she backed away, tripped on the rusted blade of a scythe and toppled backwards onto the ground. For some moments she lay winded, thankful that her tumble had been cushioned by the straw.

  Beneath her buttocks it felt reassuringly warm. And alarmingly wet.

  She raised a hand to her face. Took a cautious sniff. Screwed up her nose. Sharn? Shite? No word could adequately describe the pungency of fresh manure.

  Furious, she sat up.

  Desperately, she beat at her back and thighs, trying to dislodge the gunk and straw that were clinging to her clothes. But that only seemed to make the mess worse.

  Fuckit! She scrambled to her feet.

  The beast – whatever it was – pawed the ground.

  Wilma flinched as heavy hooves clattered against hard concrete, shrank from the sound of its heavy breath.

  She turned and ran – out through the creaky door, across the muddy yard.

  Bugger this! She vowed to stick to the city in future as, panting with exertion after her unaccustomed sprint, she reached the relative safety of her car.

  Small Talk

  ‘Mrs Gilruth?’

  Yes?’ The woman on the doorstep smiled, suggestively.

  With a swift once-over, Brian took in the glossy black hair, the crimson lips, the hourglass figure. Not that this was necessary. Brian already knew Sharon Gilruth by sight. Christ, the whole of Aberdeen knew Sharon Gilruth by sight. If she wasn’t strutting her stuff at some charity do or other, she was splashed all over the newspapers.

  Sharon was a handsome woman. And sexy with it. He dragged his eyes away from her cleavage. ‘DS Burnett and DC Dunn.’ They showed their warrant cards. ‘Is your husband at home?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ One knee bent, one hand on the door jamb, Sharon adjusted her pose.

  Bloody hell! Brian’s temperature soared. He’d never seen Sharon up close. This close. She was a hot piece of stuff, that’s for sure.

  His train of thought was broken by the sound of Dunn’s voice. ‘We’re making enquiries about a serious assault that occurred last night in the Torry area of the city.’

  Sharon’s come-hither look morphed into one of acute suspicion. ‘I don’t see…’

  ‘The victim has a connection to your husband,’ Brian supplied.

  Sharon’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of connection?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss it on the doorstep,’ he parried. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘This isn’t a good moment.’ Sharon took a backward step and made to shut the door.

  Dunn took a step forward. ‘We won’t take up much of your time.’ He flashed a toothpaste smile. ‘Save us disturbing you again.’

  Brian followed his constable down the hallway, thankful, for once, of Dunn’s forward nature. They were led into what Sharon described as ‘the lounge’, a vast space at the rear of the house decorated with enough braid and bullion fringe to stock a haberdashery store. Vast brocade sofas were heaped with plump cushions. An army of side tables twinkled with Swarovski crystal ornaments.

  ‘Lovely room,’ he lied, lowering himself onto one of the sofas.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sharon sat down opposite, crossing her legs provocatively. ‘We like it.’

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ Dunn asked from his perch on a delicate side chair.

  ‘A few years.’ She smiled.

  Brian cut to the chase. ‘Does the name Brannigan mean anything to you?’

  The smile turned to a frown. ‘Should it?’

  Brian pressed. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Defensive voice. ‘Why?’

  ‘We think Mr Brannigan may be on your husband’s payroll.’

  Sharon shrugged. ‘My husband has loads of employees. Hundreds, in fact. I’ve never heard him mention anyone by that name.’

  ‘Mrs Gilruth,’ Dunn chipped in, ‘am I right in thinking he works from home?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But he’s not here at the minute?’ He fixed Sharon with a searching look. The Rubislaw mansion was such that Gilruth could easily be closeted out of sight.

  For an instant she hesitated, then: ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to be long.’

  ‘We’ll just be off,’ Douglas responded smoothly, ‘once you confirm Mr Gilruth is away from his office.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘When do you expect him home?’ Brian enquired.

  ‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s away on business.’

  ‘What did you say his business was?’ Douglas Dunn jumped in.

  Sharon shot him a hard look. ‘I didn’t.’ Her expression softened a fraction. ‘James has a wide range of business interests.’

  ‘Would any of them be in Torry?’ Brian insinuated.

  ‘Definitely not,’ she snapped.

  ‘And you’re positive you haven’t heard the name Brannigan in connection with your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ She faltered. Then: ‘No.’

  ‘Which is it?’ Brian insisted.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She turned her head away. ‘Now you’re confusing me.’

  ‘Apologies for my colleague,’ Douglas said, adopting his bedside voice.

  Sharon turned back. ‘That’s okay. It’s just, my husband doesn’t like me getting involved in his business affairs.’

  I’ll bet! Brian had registered the way Sharon Gilruth clammed up the minute her husband’s commercial enterprises were mentioned. I bet she has dirt on him, he mused, and plenty of it. Wouldn’t like to be in his shoes if she ever takes umbrage. He suppressed a grin.

  ‘We quite understand,’ he said. ‘This is a routine enquiry. No need for you to get upset.’ He paused. ‘I understand you do a lot of charity work.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sharon brightened. ‘Not enough hours in the day.’

  ‘And Mr Gilruth, does he have interests outside business? Golf? Shooting? That sort of thing?’ Brian wondered if Gilruth kept guns in the house. And, if so, whether they were licensed…

  ‘He doesn’t have a lot of spare time but, yes, he plays the occasional round of golf.’

  ‘Don’t have the time myself,’ Douglas quipped. ‘Or the skill. I’d rather save my free days for a decent holiday.’ He let the notion take seed, then: ‘Do you have anything planned?’ he asked.

  Sharon took the bait. ‘We’re hoping to have a week in Spain sometime soon.’ She smiled, coyly. ‘That’s if James can fit it in.’

  ‘Will you be meeting up with your son?’ Brian enquired, deadpan. ‘Christopher, isn’t it?’

  Enough

  ‘Sheena?’

  The woman on the bed stirred. For a moment her eyes flickered, then half opened. She turned her head. Saw Susan. Frowned.

  Susan leaned towards her. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Struthers,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Don’t be alarmed. My name’s Susan. I’m a detective. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’ She paused. ‘If you feel up to it, that is.’

  Slight nod.

  ‘You know
you’re in hospital?’

  Her eyes roamed the room. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me how you came to be here?’

  ‘No.’ Sheena Struthers gave a small shrug. ‘I’ve been trying to work it out in my head.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again. ‘But I can’t remember.’

  What’s the last thing you recall, Sheena? Is it okay if I call you that?’

  Another nod. ‘Getting into bed.’

  ‘On Thursday night, would that have been?’

  Confused look. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, just say it was, do you remember anything after that?’

  Sheena yawned deeply. ‘No.’

  ‘What about waking up?’ Susan prompted.

  Shake of the head.

  ‘Getting a cup of tea?’

  ‘There’s nothing.’ She turned her back. ‘Mind’s a complete blank.’

  Susan bunched her fists in frustration. This was going nowhere.

  ‘Do you have any memory of coming to hospital?’ She gave Sheena’s shoulder a small shake.

  There was no response.

  ‘Sheena?’ Susan stood up and leaned across the bed.

  But Sheena Struthers had lapsed from consciousness.

  *

  The moment Sheena stirred, Susan leapt from her chair.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she encouraged. ‘That’s good. I’ve just a couple of questions for you.’

  Through filmy eyes, Sheena stared, uncomprehending.

  ‘What’s the first thing you saw after going to bed that night?’

  Sheena scrunched her eyes shut. ‘A doctor. He was changing the cannula to my other hand. It hurt.’ She pulled a face. ‘Must have woken me up.’

  ‘Can we go back a little?’ Susan asked. ‘Your husband told us he usually brings you a cup of tea in the morning.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And he must have done so on the morning of your accident, because our officers found a cup of tea by your bed. Thing is…’ She watched Sheena Struthers keenly. ‘The cup was half empty, so you must have drunk some of it.’