Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘I’m not worked up.’ She leaned back, defeated. ‘Just worn out.’

  ‘See,’ he came right back. ‘I knew you were depressed.’

  ‘I’m not bloody depressed,’ she shrilled. ‘Well, I am. But not because I’ve had a child. It’s because I can’t get through the day without you criticising me: my job, my housekeeping, my parenting skills, my fashion sense, my family, my friends…’

  ‘Whoa.’ He held up both hands in surrender. ‘Can’t be that bad.’

  She took a steadying breath. ‘It is.’

  Sheepish grin. ‘Sounds like I’ve been a bad boy.’

  Her heart tugged. ‘Yes, it does.’ She steeled herself. ‘That’s why I need a break.’

  ‘Don’t go.’ He cupped her chin, tilted her face towards his. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  Ros felt a stirring between her thighs. Willed it to go away.

  ‘My intentions are good, you have to believe me, Ros. You do…’ He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Don’t you, babes?’

  She flinched. God, she hated when he used that word.

  ‘If you’ve misunderstood, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re at it again,’ she cried, exasperated. ‘Twisting everything round. I can’t hack it, Nic. It’s doing my head in.’

  ‘Please!’ He grasped hold of her upper arms. Too hard. She could feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh. ‘We could go out somewhere… Supper, maybe even a hotel overnight. A date night.’ He flashed a boyish smile.

  ‘But…’ Ros could feel her resolve weaken. ‘The baby…’

  ‘We can get a babysitter. That cook from the halls…she managed fine that last time, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘You’re too hard on yourself, that’s part of the problem, my precious. Not that it isn’t a good thing to have standards,’ he added gravely. ‘In moderation, of course. Now…’ He planted a kiss on her lips. ‘Why don’t we make a day of it on Saturday. Catch up with each other. If you’re a really good girl, we might even buy you…’

  A treat! Ros framed the words in her head. Wasn’t that Nic’s answer to everything: when he commandeered the car for some sports fixture, when he rolled in late, when he splurged on computer games? Exasperated, she wrenched free.

  ‘So… Saturday.’ Nic caught hold of her wrist, held it in a vice. ‘What do you say?’

  She looked into his eyes. Read challenge tempered by apprehension. ‘Whatever,’ she replied.

  A Breakthrough

  ‘Enter!’ Allan Chisolm barked. Inwardly, he bemoaned the fact senior officers were ninety per cent deskbound. What he wouldn’t give, some days, to be out in the field.

  Douglas Dunn bounded in. ‘I’ve made a breakthrough,’ he announced breathlessly.

  Chisolm sighed. ‘Sit.’

  Douglas bounced up to the desk and sat down.

  Chisolm regarded the other man with a jaundiced eye. With his designer suits and Thomas Pink shirts, Douglas was the antithesis of everything Allan Chisolm stood for. With overt distaste, he eyed the baby-pink skin, the soft hands that rested confidently on the edge of the desk. The fingernails were pristine. Chisolm debated whether they were on the receiving end of a regular manicure… As for the haircut, who in hell would pay to have tufty bits sticking up like that?

  ‘Let’s have it, then.’ He tried to show willing, though in truth he couldn’t be arsed.

  ‘Well,’ Douglas leaned forward eagerly, ‘you know how we’ve got Gordon Struthers’ laptop?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘And you know how the techies only took a flier at it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Chisolm wondered where this was going.

  ‘Well.’ Douglas leaned across the desk. ‘I decided it was worth another look.’

  ‘You decided?’ Chisolm thundered. ‘On whose authority, Constable?’ He laid all the emphasis on the last word.

  ‘I – I didn’t think,’ Douglas stuttered.

  ‘That’s your fucking problem,’ Chisolm retorted. ‘You let your inflated ego lead instead of your fucking brain.’

  In a show of humility, Douglas dipped his chin.

  ‘Look at me, DC Dunn.’

  Warily, Douglas looked up.

  ‘Do I look like I suffer fools?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Chisolm continued. ‘Don’t play silly buggers with me.’

  ‘Sir.’ The young detective’s eyes slid away.

  ‘Did you have another look?’ Chisolm relented.

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as a hacker, do you?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just…’ He stopped, unsure.

  ‘Yes?’ Chisolm’s voice rose.

  ‘My degree was in computer games technology.’

  Christ! Chisolm reckoned he’d heard it all. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘let me get this right. With neither his permission, nor the say-so of a superior officer, you broke into Gordon Struthers’ computer. How did you manage that?’ Chisolm’s mind whirred with a catalogue of chargeable offences. ‘No.’ He saw Douglas trying to come up with a slick answer. ‘Better for both of us I don’t know.’

  ‘For someone with specialist knowledge,’ Douglas responded eagerly, ‘it’s easy enough. The quickest way…’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Chisolm held up a hand. ‘I don’t want to know.’ Still, his curiosity was piqued. ‘Didn’t Struthers’ laptop have security?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But once you have physical access to a computer, any security measures are effectively worthless.’

  Smug bastard, Chisolm thought. ‘Is that right?’ was all he said. Still, he’d written Douglas Dunn off as a waste of space. Maybe, if the lad buttoned his lip once in a while, he could make a contribution to the squad after all.

  ‘I had a hunch there might be something in the search history,’ Douglas continued.

  ‘Isn’t that the first place the techies would have looked?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But they were tight for time, and they wouldn’t have gone in very deep, so I decided to have a rummage around.’

  ‘Can I take it you found something?’ Chisolm asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dunn responded with enthusiasm.

  ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘Porn.’

  ‘Hard porn?’ Chisolm enquired.

  ‘Not so much hard, sir, as deviant.’

  ‘Expand.’

  ‘Domination. Dog collars and that.’

  Chisolm sighed. He was depressingly familiar with the degradation men heaped on the female of the species. ‘Anything chargeable?’

  ‘Not on that account. Though the searches were…’ Dunn cleared his throat. ‘In-depth.’

  ‘A breakthrough, you said, Dunn? That’s hardly…’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘I take it this also relates to your…’ Chisolm paused, enjoying watching his DC squirm. ‘Investigative episode?’

  Douglas hesitated for a moment, uncertain, then: ‘Yes, sir.’

  He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Carefully smoothing it out, he slid it across the desk.

  ‘What’s this?’ Chisolm’s eyes narrowed as they ran down the typed sheet.

  ‘Struthers was still signed in to his Google account. What you have there, sir, is what I also came up with: repeated searches for…’

  ‘Pharms?’

  ‘Exactly. Specifically, drugs that leave no trace in the system.’

  Chisolm looked down at the paper. Looked up again.

  ‘So,’ Douglas couldn’t contain himself, ‘Struthers could have ordered the drug online, put it in the wife’s tea, and…’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Chisolm waved the sheet of paper. ‘This is good work…’ Grudgingly. ‘But it’s not enough.
Anyone can surf the net. What we need now is proof that these searches led to concrete action: that drugs were actually bought.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘We need to pull Gordon Struthers back in here, under caution this time. And pronto. See to it, Dunn. That poor woman has suffered enough. And get hold of Strachan. We need a statement from the wife. And we need it now. Once Gordon Struthers is detained, we’ve only got a twelve-hour window to work with.’ He broke off. ‘How much longer do we have that laptop?’

  Douglas checked his Apple watch. ‘An hour max. Solicitor is supposed to be sending someone round to pick it up at noon.’

  ‘Well, we’ve no time to lose. Get yourself back into that computer, Dunn. Chop! Chop!’ Chisolm clapped his hands. ‘Find me that purchase order, Constable. And fast!’

  In the Wars

  Ros walked into the staffroom.

  ‘Someone’s been in the wars.’ One of the older teachers remarked, her lips compressed in disapproval.

  ‘Oh.’ Ros put a hand to the livid bruise on her temple. ‘Doesn’t look good, does it?’

  ‘Nic been on the razzle, then?’ A new voice.

  ‘Nothing so exciting.’ She felt herself flush in embarrassment as she sat down. ‘Whacked myself with a broom handle.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ Maggie had a sneaking suspicion there might be more to it.

  ‘Stood on the brush-head. Next thing I knew the other end whipped up and caught me one.’

  ‘Ouch,’ someone said, with a shudder. ‘I hope you put ice on it.’

  ‘I wish. I was trying to blitz the housework.’ Rueful smile. ‘You know how it is. I’d just defrosted the fridge. Didn’t even have a pack of frozen peas.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘Ran the cold tap. Wrung out a tea towel. That got some of the swelling down. Then Max woke up and, well…’

  ‘Where was Nic while all this was going on?’ Maggie lapsed into private investigator mode.

  ‘Working late.’ Ros didn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘Poor you.’

  ‘I know. Put it down to lack of sleep.’

  ‘Pity you couldn’t manage a break,’ someone offered.

  Her face lit up. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got one planned.’

  ‘Oh, when’s that?’

  ‘Weekend after next. Nic’s giving a paper at a conference in Cambridge. I’ve taken the Monday off. Max and I are going down to Edinburgh for a long weekend.’

  Maggie flushed with pleasure for her friend. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Better than good,’ Ros beamed. ‘I’ll be staying with my folks. They absolutely dote on Max, so I’ll be able to catch up on my sleep, maybe even meet up with some of my old school buddies.’

  And get away from that controlling husband of yours! The thought ran through Maggie’s head.

  Ros’s smile vanished. ‘That’s if Nic doesn’t change his mind.’

  ‘Why would he?’ Maggie queried. ‘Didn’t you say he was going to be away?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I’m sure it will turn out fine.’ A third voice. ‘In the meantime, what about that eye?’

  Maggie seethed. She’d spent many a fretful night deliberating over the subject of Nic Prentice – that’s when she wasn’t worrying about Sheena Struthers or her kids. Time and again she’d told herself it was no business of hers. More, that marital problems were best left to a trained mediator. But she had a growing affinity with the young teacher, not only because they’d joined forces against the old guard in the staffroom, but because Maggie saw, in Ros, a mirror of her own isolation. They both, in their own way, ploughed a hard and lonely furrow.

  ‘What are you saying, Maggie?’ A voice broke her train of thought.

  ‘About?’ Startled look.

  ‘Ros’s black eye. Arnica or liver?’

  ‘Oh,’ she joshed. ‘Give me a lump of liver every time.’

  A Diamond Ring

  Situated just beyond Hazlehead Park on the western outskirts of Aberdeen, Aberdeen Crematorium occupies a wooded location and is approached by a sweeping drive.

  Wilma sat in her car. She clocked the straggle of mourners. They filed in and out of the East and West Chapels at frequent intervals. Although forty-five minutes was the official time allotted by the Council between services, in practice it frequently took only fifteen minutes to dispatch the dead.

  It’s your funeral! Her lips twitched as she recalled her parting shot to Maggie. Changed days. Time was, it was her business partner who wagged the finger, reined Wilma in. Now the boot was on the other foot.

  Wilma’s fingers itched as she watched a sober-suited man nip the end of his cigarette and attach himself to the end of a line filing into the squat concrete building. Funny how the stress of occasions like these heightened your dependence. Wilma busied her fingers with fishing out her phone. She’d given up smoking at the tail end of the year, but still succumbed from time to time.

  She checked the mugshot on her phone one more time. The image was fuzzy, snatched on the hoof. The case was another Harlaw Insurance job: a claim flagged up as potentially fraudulent. The claimant had lost her engagement ring on holiday in Majorca, she asserted, somewhere between the swimming pool and the restaurant. Couldn’t be more specific than that.

  Her claims history had raised concerns.

  Wilma had already checked out the subject’s Facebook account. She’d pinned down her place of work and followed her around her local supermarket, but the ring in question wasn’t in evidence. She’d come to the conclusion the subject only wore it on social occasions, had wasted the precious weekend waiting for one such. Was about to call it quits when she spotted the funeral announcement in the P&J. It was required reading these days for the two private investigators, for who knows what gems of information lurked in its classified columns. Wilma smacked her lips. Maggie wouldn’t approve, she knew. But it’s not like it was the husband had copped it. The deceased was a cousin, it transpired, and by all accounts they weren’t close.

  Her attention sharpened as the door of the East Chapel opened and the first of the mourners reappeared. Smartly, she exited the car and crossed the car park to join them.

  Making a show of reading the cards on the wreaths that were being removed from the chapel foyer and set out on the forecourt, she sneaked a covert peek.

  A knot of men in dark overcoats exited the chapel, closely followed by what she took to be their wives. Deep in conversation, their heads were bowed, their attention elsewhere. Right behind them she spotted the subject. There was no mistaking that hooked nose. Wilma edged closer, saw her opening, stuck out a hand.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ She clasped the mourner’s right hand in a firm grip, her eyes all the while fixed on the left. And bingo! There it was, glinting on the ring finger of the other hand – the two and a half carat diamond solitaire that was the subject of the insurance claim.

  The woman gave Wilma a quizzical look. ‘I’m not sure I know…’ she started, but Wilma had moved swiftly on, glad-handing mourners as she went.

  As she reached the comparative safety of the smokers’ corner, she dug in her handbag for her phone. All she needed now was photographic evidence.

  She turned. The subject had moved away and was now in murmured conversation with an elderly couple. Dammit! Wilma palmed her phone while she waited for an opportunity. If all else failed, she could always follow the cars to the purvey. A bit dodgy, that, but it was near dinner time. Save her grabbing a sandwich later.

  Edging closer, she dashed off a few shots of the wreaths, just out of respect. Then she crept up behind the subject, knees bent so as to remain as insignificant as possible.

  The old geezer looked to be in the middle of a rambling story. The two women made a show of listening, but their eyes roamed the assembled company.

  The subject’s left han
d dangled loose by her side. Wilma had just managed to fire off a couple of shots of the ring when the woman turned and caught her in the act.

  The mourner’s mouth yawned wide.

  Anticipating an outraged yell, Wilma legged it across the car park. Thanking her lucky stars she’d left the Fiesta unlocked, she fired up the engine and shot at speed down the long winding drive.

  Back Off

  ‘Wilma?’

  ‘Mmm?’ She didn’t look up.

  They were sitting at opposite ends of Maggie’s dining-table, their laptops open in front of them, cross-referencing their growing client list. On the sideboard, an open bottle of wine was already half-empty.

  ‘Can I pick your brains?’

  ‘What about?’ Wilma raised her head. ‘No.’ Seeing Maggie’s anxious face, she raised a quieting finger. ‘Don’t tell me. You’ve got yourself in another fankle over that Struthers woman.’

  ‘I have not.’ There was no way Maggie was going to own up to her problems in that quarter. ‘It’s just, there’s this girl at school…’

  Wilma chuckled. ‘You giving the wee boys a wide berth these days?’

  Maggie ignored this. ‘Not girl. Woman – a teacher – she’s having a bad time at home, and I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Och, you. You’re a born worrier.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I know. And I wouldn’t bring it up, only this girl – Ros is her name – is at such a low ebb.’

  ‘She’s got family, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Not close by. She moved up here from Edinburgh. Husband works at the university. They’ve a wee one at nursery.’

  ‘Doesn’t this Ros have any friends?’

  ‘Not in Aberdeen. Except one, Fiona her name is.’

  ‘Why hasn’t your pal offloaded on Fiona, then?’

  ‘She has, but the husband and Fiona don’t hit it off, so he doesn’t encourage the friendship apparently.’

  ‘Her folks, then. Don’t they come to visit? Surely they’d see if there was something not right?’

  ‘From what I’ve gathered, the husband isn’t that keen on having his in-laws to visit.’