‘So,’ Chisolm snarled. ‘DC Strachan finally chose to honour us with her presence?’
‘Yes, sir. She’d been at the hospital out of radio contact, and…’
Brusquely, Chisolm interrupted. ‘I’ll deal with her later. But back to Dunn. When he was outside, what happened?’
‘Solicitor goes head-to-head with Struthers, whispering Christ-knows-what. Could have been framing a positional statement, given the new evidence, whatever. Then, Dunn comes crashing back in. Says the wife has given a statement standing by her allegations.’
‘What was the reaction?’
‘Struthers fell apart. Literally. Toppled sideways off the chair, curled up on the floor, crying like a bairn. His specs flew off and got broken in the fall, and…’
‘The solicitor, what was he doing?’
‘Sitting there like a spare prick giving Douglas the evils.’
‘And you, Burnett? Where were you while all this was going on?’
Brian reddened. ‘I have to hold my hands up, sir, there were a few moments I just sat there. Didn’t know what the hell was going on. Then I went to render first aid to Mr Struthers.’
‘Mmm.’ Chisolm rolled his pen between finger and thumb. ‘Was he faking it, would you say?’
‘Hard to say, sir. I put him in the recovery position, and…’
‘Why did you think it necessary to summon an ambulance?’
‘I didn’t, sir. That was Struthers’ solicitor. Insisted upon it. He claimed his client had a panic attack. “On account of our mishandling of the interview process”. Those are the exact words he used.’
Chisolm tapped the end of the pen on the desktop. ‘Quite.’
He paused. ‘Did they keep him in?’
‘Who?’
‘Struthers, you idiot.’
‘Yes, sir, I checked. Detained overnight for observation.’
‘Christ.’ Chisolm chucked the pen the length of the room. ‘We’ve got a full fucking cast.’
‘I’m not with you, sir.’
‘Up at Foresterhill. Husband. Wife. And Bobby Brannigan for good measure. All we need now is for that fucker Gilruth to meet with a mishap and we’ll be able to present a full fucking pantomime.’
Brian studied the carpet.
‘Get out,’ Chisolm barked.
‘Sir.’ Brian leapt to his feet. He shot out of the room, pulling the door to behind him. With hurried steps he made for the male toilets. All of a sudden, he had a desperate urge to pee.
Maybe
Maggie stood in the big bay window. Through dirt-smeared glass, the front garden looked more uncared-for than ever. The privet hedge sprouted with new growth, the borders were choked, the lawn a patchwork of moss. She made a mental note to haul the old lawnmower out of the garage and at least cut the grass. As soon as the weather turned, she procrastinated. It was supposed to be spring, but the north-east had been battered for weeks by squalls of rain. She wouldn’t have to address the grass anytime soon.
Her gaze dropped to the big chair. Time was, she’d have found it a comfort, conjuring George sitting there with his newspaper after their evening meal. For over a year, that mental image had lent Maggie strength. Now, it had begun to dissipate, her husband’s burly figure dissolving, somehow, into the fabric. These days, all she felt was guilt: guilt that she’d talked him into resigning from the force, guilt that her children had been left without a father, guilt that, despite her best efforts, she was no nearer to restoring his good name.
The doorbell shattered her reverie. Maggie took one last, lingering look at the chair and walked quickly to the front door.
‘Oh.’ She took a step backward. ‘It’s you.’
‘Seems to be.’ Allan Chisolm was suaveness itself in his smart charcoal suit. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’
‘Yes.’ She beckoned, blushing. There was something about the man that she found unsettling. Something dark, contained, almost dangerous.
She stepped aside, sensing the heft of him as he brushed past her, catching the faintest whiff of aftershave. ‘Have a seat, won’t you?’ She followed him into the sitting room and indicated the settee, but remained standing. Gritting her teeth, she readied herself for what she knew was coming.
‘Your client, Sheena Struthers…’ he began.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she jumped in. ‘I’ve already heard.’ She brushed a weary hand across her brow. ‘I’ve been taken for a complete mug.’
‘That’s not entirely the case. It would appear this whole business emanated from your client’s fragile emotional state. But then it took on a life of its own.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The allegations made by your client are not entirely without foundation, the fall in particular. Added to that, we have evidence of internet searches on Gordon Struthers’ computer for so-called date-rape drugs, an order subsequently placed…’
Stunned, Maggie stuttered, ‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘Precious little, I fear. Too many imponderables. There’s a question mark over who bought those drugs. Added to which…’ He sighed. ‘Even if we manage to bring a case against Gordon Struthers, I think, given the background, your client may not prove a reliable witness.’
Maggie had to agree. She didn’t respond.
‘Plus, there’s always the possibility she’ll refuse to press charges. in cases like these, women rarely do.’
Maggie’s shoulders slumped. ‘All that time and effort for nothing.’ She grimaced. ‘Yours and mine.’
‘I’m used to it. But you mustn’t take it personally.’ The inspector’s voice was full of concern. ‘Nobody could have predicted…’
‘You’re wrong. I told my partner.’
‘Partner?’ His eyes flashed alarm bells.
‘Business partner. I told Wilma – time and again I told her Sheena Struthers was crying for help. But Wilma wouldn’t listen. And I dug my heels in.’ She looked daggers at him. ‘Too damn proud. And look where it’s got me.’
‘Come, now.’ He rose from the settee, made to move towards her.
‘Don’t.’ She held up her hand. ‘I can do without your sympathy, especially after…’
He offered a wry smile. ‘I tore you off a strip? And not just once.’
‘You did,’ she shrugged. ‘And I deserved all I got. I was finding my feet, you have to understand and…’ The tears brimmed over and streamed down her cheeks. ‘We all make mistakes. Even you.’ She met his eyes in mute appeal.
‘I’m not some automaton, you know.’ His voice softened, but he kept his distance. ‘I have feelings. Strong feelings.’ His steel-grey eyes sought hers. ‘But in my position, I have to maintain a distance, remain objective.’
‘I know. And I understand. It was the same with George.’ She cast a sideways glance at the big chair. ‘He internalised so much stuff. It’s just, I’m always s-so tired,’ she hiccupped. ‘I’ve got such a lot on my shoulders – the house, the kids, the agency – and to tell the t-truth I can’t cope.’
‘Mrs Laird.’ He crossed the room to stand beside her.
She raised her face to him, uncomprehending.
Then: ‘Maggie.’ He enfolded her in his arms. ‘There.’ Gently, he kissed her hair. ‘There.’
Involuntarily, she stiffened.
His grip tightened. ‘Don’t cry.’
Despite herself, she yielded to his embrace.
It’s only for a minute, she rebuked herself, then… Then what? Her sobs started anew.
‘Trust me.’ He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Everything’s going to be alright.’
A rush of happiness engulfed her. She looked up, met his earnest gaze. And for the first time in many months Maggie thought maybe – just maybe – everything really would work out.
Abruptly, he pulled away. ‘I�
�m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘No,’ she replied, confused. ‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay.’ Allan Chisolm raised a supplicant hand. ‘I overstepped the mark.’
Maggie had a wild urge to grab hold of his hand. Too late. She watched it stray to the knot of his tie, hover for a moment, then drop to his side.
The inspector backed off and resumed his place on the settee.
Coward! She seethed with frustration. Just when she’d reconciled herself to a possible future with Brian, she’d let someone else sneak into the frame. She’d had it all worked out. A gentle courtship: drinks, pictures, dinner. If they got on, Brian could move in with her. Except… Out of the corner of her eye she could see the chair. Wouldn’t that sort of life set her back to where she’d left off? Brian was a decent guy but, like George, content to settle for the status quo. Maggie wanted more. She’d always wanted more, but the thirst was stronger, now she’d had a taste of independence.
‘Whilst I’m here…’ Chisolm’s voice broke the silence.
Maggie pulled herself together. ‘Brannigan?’ she asked, eager for good news. Shattered as she was by this latest turn of events, she mustn’t lose sight of her quest.
‘No change there, I’m afraid.’ A muscle worked in Chisolm’s jaw. ‘It could be a while yet before they’re able to predict an outcome.’ His face brightened. ‘There is some slight progress, however, on the other matter.’
‘Is that right?’ Dismissive voice. Maggie assumed Chisolm was referring to the Struthers case.
‘Sergeant Craigmyle.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ex-Sergeant Craigmyle… paid us a visit yesterday.’
‘Oh?’ Maggie noted, with a pang of regret, that Allan Chisholm had reverted to police speak. ‘He did?’ Her mind took a leap, a giant leap. ‘In connection with?’ Her heart was thudding so hard, her breaths so short, her mouth so dry… she staggered to the big chair and sat down heavily.
‘James Craigmyle has given a formal statement confirming it was he, not your husband, who switched off the tape recording that contributed to the collapse of a major trial.’
Happy Valley
‘Christ.’ Wilma settled herself in a conservatory chair. She reached for her glass. ‘It’s been some year.’
‘Year?’ Maggie queried. ‘We’re not even halfway through.’
‘Feels like a feckin year,’ her friend retorted. ‘Seems a bloody age since we were through the house drinking champagne.’
‘I’ll hand you that,’ Maggie conceded.
‘Still,’ Wilma took a greedy slurp, ‘this’ll do the job.’
Maggie raised her glass in a toast.
‘We’ve fair had some turn-ups,’ Wilma grinned.
Maggie ducked. And all down to her. She hoped Wilma wasn’t trying to rub her nose in it.
‘All the same,’ Wilma rattled on, oblivious, ‘we’re getting there, are we not?’
Grudgingly: ‘You could say that.’
‘Oh, come on, Maggie.’ Wilma took another swallow. ‘Lighten up.’
‘All I meant was,’ Maggie clarified, ‘it’s been a mixed bag: the fraud business taking a dip, the…’
‘It’s no surprise insurance companies would rather settle than pay a PI.’
‘No, but…’
‘And the downturn only affects the small stuff. They’ll still contest the big claims.’
‘Maybe,’ she responded dourly. ‘But their business will go to the well-established agencies.’
‘Still and all,’ Wilma argued, ‘look at the corporate clients you’ve signed up. We’ve a solid list now, bringing in steady money, month in, month out.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Keeps the wolf from the door. And you’ve been doing a great job, Wilma, mopping up everything that’s thrown at you, and never a word of complaint.’
Wilma swelled with pride. ‘Well, then.’
‘It’s just…’ Maggie’s voice wobbled.
Wilma shot out of her chair. ‘What’s up, pal?’ She bent to her friend.
‘I feel so bad,’ Maggie said. ‘These past months, I’ve taken my eye off the ball.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Wilma patted Maggie’s head as if she were a small child.
She raised a distraught face. ‘I’m not being daft. I did a body-swerve,’ she grimaced. ‘First with Sheena…’ She broke off. ‘Come to think on it, I haven’t heard anything more on that front. Have you?’
Wilma gave her a sideways look. ‘I might have passed her door, just on the off-chance, stuck my head in.’
‘And?’
‘She was sitting up in bed – quite the thing – reading a cruise brochure.’
Maggie flushed scarlet. ‘I don’t bloody believe it. That poor man…’
Wilma cut her short. ‘Gordon Struthers was the devil incarnate last time we spoke.’
‘That was then. But Brian told me…’
‘Hold your horses.’ Wilma held up a hand. ‘Thought you and Brian weren’t speaking.’
‘We’re not. Well…’ Maggie’s cheeks were still tinged with pink. ‘We are, but only just. Anyhow, Brian rang me up.’
‘Thought he was courting. Didn’t you tell me he had some wee bint…?’
‘Yes.’ It was Maggie’s turn to interrupt. ‘Megan, the civilian officer I met in the Wild Boar. They had a couple of dates, but it didn’t work out. Brian said she was far too young. Couldn’t talk about anything but Facebook and pop music. That’s why he rang me: to apologise.’
‘For going on a couple of dates? Christ, Maggie, didn’t I tell you? Fellow’s mad for you.’
‘He was quite upset, right enough,’ Maggie said, her face a study in confusion.
‘But, back to Gordon Struthers.’ Wilma changed the subject. ‘Did you get anything juicy on that front?’
‘Only that, according to Brian, the man’s suffering what is tantamount to a complete nervous breakdown. He still maintains his innocence, continues to profess his undying love for Sheena, won’t hear the least criticism of her.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In a private clinic at Westhill.’
Wilma hooted. ‘While she’s up the road planning her next holiday?’
Maggie’s mouth turned down. ‘Be serious.’
‘I am being serious. If you hadn’t convinced me Sheena Struthers has been the victim of sexual abuse, I’d have put money on she set him up.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Wilma squared up. ‘Ridiculous, is it? If you’d seen the look I got when I appeared at her door, you wouldn’t be arguing.’
‘What sort of look?’
‘Like she was giving me the finger.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Maggie reasoned. ‘You’re imagining things.’
‘Is that right? If you ask my opinion, those “incidents” of hers were a fuckin fairy tale.’ She coughed. ‘Excuse my language. There’s never been a shred of evidence to back them up.’
‘That’s not true. According to Allan…’
‘Ooh,’ Wilma trilled, ‘it’s “Allan” now.’
Maggie ignored this. ‘The police have their suspicions with regard to that fall.’
‘Serves Sheena right, say I. She comes to us with a load of bollocks and it comes back on her. Like a… a… what do you call it?’
‘Self-fulfilling prophecy?’ Maggie offered.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Sheena may have intended to send her husband a warning,’ Maggie contended. ‘And she may have exaggerated some…’
‘Some?’ Wilma cut in. ‘Woman’s a total fantasist.’
‘How about the drugs? They’re real enough.’
‘She could have ordered them.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Maggie
groaned. ‘Next thing you’ll be trying to persuade me the poor woman poisoned herself.’
‘She may well have done. If she knew her way around the husband’s computer, she could as easy have ordered up those drugs and overdosed herself.’
‘Really? And put herself in a coma?’
‘You’re right, Maggie.’ Sly look. ‘Again. Faking your own attempted murder is ludicrous, not to mention risky. Woman near died.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘On the other hand, she mebbe meant to top up them sleeping pills, make it look like a murder attempt gone wrong. Think on it. If Gordon Struthers were to get done for attempted murder, she’d be footloose and fancy free. Loaded an all.’
Maggie didn’t respond. Sheena Struthers might well be facing life as a single woman. But it was no catwalk being on your own, solvent or not.
‘Or she could have done it to scare the shite out of him and make him back off. But now you’ve got me thinking,’ Wilma rattled on. ‘Them drugs, the husband could have ordered them up right enough. Except…’ Pregnant pause. ‘For another purpose.’
‘An affair, you mean?’
‘That, or to date-rape a bunch of other women. From what I hear he’s a sneaky wee bastard.’
‘There’s no evidence,’ Maggie insisted.
‘Or he may not have meant to actually kill Sheena.’
‘I see where you’re going. Just ramp up the abuse to maximise his dominance over her.’
Wilma grinned. ‘Would you listen to the pair of us? Proper detectives, are we no?’
‘I wish,’ Maggie came back. ‘There are so many possibilities my head is spinning.’
‘Bottom line is, it’s all about control. And that will never change, not in a million years. It’s just that nowadays it tends to be less physical. Some of the time, at any rate.’ Winks. ‘We won’t mention my Darren. But think on your pal, Ros.’
‘Agreed. Control has many and devious manifestations.’ Maggie paused. ‘Looks like we’ll never know how Sheena Struthers ended up in a near-fatal coma.’
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