Wilma grinned. ‘You mebbe haven’t squared things with the father yet, but you’ve fingered the son.’
Maggie sat up straight. ‘I don’t see it like that. It’s a disaster whichever way you look at it: for that boy, Christopher. For the parents, for Kym, for wee Kyle. It hasn’t all been a disaster, though, the business – has it, Wilma?’
‘No, of course not. Look at the number of corporate clients we’ve got signed up now.’ She took another gulp of wine. ‘And the corporate accounts are where the big money is, don’t you think? All thon insurance frauds. And they’re on the up and up. You only have to look at the billing.’
Maggie took another sip of her wine. ‘I suppose.’
‘And if this new contract comes up trumps, we’ll really be sorted.’
‘I know. Who’d have predicted that day you’d to run me to Queen Street, I’d be able to get justice for George and build something useful out of the ashes of his career? And it’s kept me close to him, in a way.’ She looked wistful, all of a sudden. ‘We can’t be so bad at it, either, can we? A woman’s touch. Isn’t that what they said?’
‘Aye. And they’re no daft. Folk feel less threatened by a woman, Maggie, so you can get more out o’ them. Plus PIs can go places police can’t.’
‘You’re right. Fingers crossed, then.’
Wilma twined her fingers. ‘Fingers crossed.’
‘We might as well finish it.’ She upended the bottle into Maggie’s glass.
‘Dear Lord, have we drunk all that?’
‘Not a problem.’ Wilma struggled to her feet. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
Maggie closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe how far they’d come in the space of a few months. When she thought back to…
‘Here we go,’ Wilma emerged from the kitchen brandishing another bottle.
‘You’re a bad influence on me, Wilma Harcus. I’m fairly getting a taste for this stuff. I never used to drink till I teamed up with you.’
‘I remember,’ Wilma grinned. ‘One wee spritzer and you were out of it. Changed days, huh?’
Maggie couldn’t believe how much she’d changed since Wilma Harcus first stood on her doorstep. She might look the same. Well…she raised a hand to her head. Maybe not the hair. But she wasn’t the same. She was tougher. More decisive. More accepting of people as she found them. And more aware, of herself and others. Maggie felt the colour rise in her face as she recalled her reaction to Allan Chisolm.
‘Here you go, pal,’ Wilma proffered the bottle.
‘I can’t. Really.’
‘Course you can. No billing to do. No kids to get up for in the morning.’
‘All the same…’
‘Lighten up,’ Wilma joshed. ‘That’s your problem, Maggie Laird, you never let up.’
Maggie stiffened. ‘I can’t help it.’ She thought back to Methlick, to the farm. Her parents had led a hard-working, pretty cheerless existence. And she’d been the product of that: innocent, old-fashioned, her values from another generation. What was it Wilma called her once – a country mouse?
She jolted back to the present. ‘Well, if I’d let up, as you call it, we wouldn’t have got the results we have.’
‘True.’ Wilma refilled their glasses. ‘So why don’t we drink to that?’
‘Ah wis thinkin…’ Wilma’s accent always got broader once she’d had a couple of drinks.
‘What were you thinking?’
‘We’re needin tae think aboot oor USP.’
‘I suppose that’s another one you got off The Apprentice?’
Wilma drew herself up. ‘As a matter of fact…’
‘Oh, don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not. Anyhow, it stands for unique something-or-other.’ She burped. ‘What it is that you’re tryin to sell.’
‘But we’re not trying to sell anything.’
‘Yes, we are. Only it’s a service, not a product. And the name we got off George…’ Hurriedly, Wilma crossed herself. ‘God rest his soul. It isn’t that great, to be honest.’
‘I know.’ Maggie threw her friend a rueful smile. ‘I mean… Prestige? In a dump like that? Bless him! But I have to agree with you. It is a bit clunky.’
‘Cack-handed you mean? Like me?’
‘No, Wilma, quite the opposite. If you hadn’t talked me into this whole thing, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. With our very own business. The friendship we’ve developed.’
‘Works two ways.’
‘How come?’
‘You’ve turned my life around, Maggie Laird – an ignorant Torry quine like me.’
‘You’re not.’
‘Not any more,’ Wilma beamed. ‘But I’d have done nothin but low-paid jobs for the rest of my days if I hadn’t had this opportunity. And look at the weight I’ve lost. The fun I’ve had at the gym. Plus I feel I fit in now among these folk in Mannofield. I never felt that before.’
‘That right?’
‘Aye,’ Wilma hiccuped.
‘But back to the name… You’re right. It’s too long, too…’
‘Awkward,’ Wilma snorted. ‘Prest-ige Pri-vate In-vesh-ti-ga-shuns. Pretty fuckin useless when you’re pished.’
Maggie giggled. ‘And talk about being pished… Have you come up with any names, then, if you’ve been thinking about all this?’
‘Nope.’ Wilma shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘I suppose the USP, as you call it, would be a good enough place to start.’
‘Right enough, except…we don’t friggin have one.’
‘We must have one.’ Maggie knitted her brow. ‘We just have to put our heads together.’
‘Have a top-up, then, that’ll get the brain cells going.’
She held up her hands. ‘No more.’
‘Aw, come on. We might as well finish the bottle.’
‘We’ve polished off a whole bottle already. And anyhow, I thought alcohol shrank your brain cells.’
Wilma glugged wine into both their glasses. ‘Whatever.’
Maggie sat in contemplation for a few moments, then, ‘You could say we give a very personal service.’
Wilma snorted. ‘Sounds like a fuckin massage parlour.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Maggie rolled her eyes. ‘Except what else do we have to offer? We can’t say we’re bigger. Better. More professional. We don’t want to say we’re smaller. Cheaper…’ She broke off.
‘We could say we’re two feal quines,’ Wilma chortled, ‘like thon adverts on the telly. Sheila’s Wheels.’ She belched loudly. ‘Only not.’
‘Why don’t we use our own names, then: Laird and Harcus?’
‘Naw,’ Wilma slurred. ‘Disna rhyme.’
‘Well, of course it doesn’t rhyme,’ Maggie asserted. ‘I mean, Laird has one syllable, Harcus has two. Laird has a hard ‘a’, Harcus has…’
‘There you go again, fuckin Miss Know-It-All.’
Maggie leaned forward in her seat. ‘I’m not disagreeing with you, Wilma. You’re right, you know. Laird and Harcus does sound wrong.’
‘Pity,’ Wilma hiccupped. ‘They sound posh, like, our names. A whole lot better than Prestige Private Investigations, that’s for sure.’
‘I’ve got it!’ Wilma leapt to her feet. She stood, tumbler in hand, swaying alarmingly.
‘What?’ Maggie opened one eye.
‘Turn the names back to front: Harcus and Laird.’
‘Sounds pretty good.’
‘Pretty good?’ Wilma hiccuped once more. ‘It’s fuckin amazin.’
She bent. Drained the last of the bottle. ‘How’sh about we drink to that?’
Maggie grasped the arms of her chair.
Hauled herself to her feet.
She stood, unsteady, gripping her glass.
‘Harcus and
Laird,’ she slurred.
Wilma threw her a wolfish grin.
‘Harcus and Laird,’ she raised a toast.
Maggie Counts her Blessings
Maggie sat, knees drawn up, in George’s chair. She cast a critical eye over her front room. Pulled a face. Compared to Wilma’s immaculate home, hers was this side of shabby. Still, it would have to do a while yet. Kirsty had a year of her university course still to complete, four if she took Honours. Then if she opted to remain in law, there would be the Diploma in Legal Practice to obtain before she could get a job. Since the cutting incident, she’d been studying hard. Or so she said. As for Colin, if he settled down…applied himself…there’s no reason why he couldn’t follow his sister to uni. He might even get a bursary. Maggie closed her eyes. She was mortified now that she’d ever suspected her sweet-natured son of involvement in that poor girl’s death. But she’d been at her wit’s end, what with losing George so suddenly, the mounting debts, her children’s manifestations of distress. And then that guy Gilruth in the middle of it all: the way he’d sent those men after her. No wonder she’d been stretched to breaking point, had imagined so many irrational things.
Kirsty still made the occasional jibe about Wilma. But that was born out of grief. Maggie could hear her daughter’s shrill voice still:
That fat cow…she’s just some slag from Torry…landed on her feet from what I can gather…
Then, later:
Nobody asked you to take on my dad’s business. You say you’re doing it for the best. Best for you, maybe. You’re trying to be Dad. And you can’t be. You never could be.
George had been the family’s rock, there was no two ways about it, and Maggie had been devastated by his death. In the space of a few months, her life had changed radically. Talk about a reversal of fortune! Not only was she a single parent now, but her role as a mother had dwindled. She’d have to accept that her son and daughter didn’t need her any more, not in any meaningful way. Still – she gave herself a little shake – she should be thankful for her blessings. Didn’t she have two healthy children and a solid roof over her head? Plus she’d made a good friend in Wilma. The thought of her comforting presence through the party wall was enough to bring a smile to Maggie’s lips. They’d negotiated a winding path, the pair of them. And there would be pitfalls ahead. But with every day that passed, she’d grown in confidence.
And what of the future? Well, it wasn’t so bleak. With the reopening of the case, she’d made significant progress in her quest for justice for George. She’d managed to hang on to her post at Seaton, a job she enjoyed. The agency was now on a sound footing: the workload shared, the admin well-organised. Maggie’s sorties into the field had taught her to draw on her inner resources. She’d had a string of minor successes and, if Allan Chisolm were to be believed, had made a significant contribution to solving a major police case. Plus she’d learned to trust her instincts. Grit, though, that’s what her experiences as a private investigator had really brought to the fore. Reflectively, she stroked the solid arms of the chair. His chair. George would be proud of her, of that she was sure.
Maggie opened her eyes.
Straightened her spine.
A country mouse – wasn’t that what Wilma had called her?
Well, Maggie Laird wasn’t a mouse any more.
Acknowledgements
For early reading and advice, I am indebted to Professor Kirsty Gunn, Jenny Brown and Esther Read..
For specialist input, Professor Sue Black, Ronald Manning of Aberdeen Public Mortuary, Sergeant Teresa Clark of Police Scotland and former Detective Sergeant Bill Ogilvie.
For patient and skillful editing, Allan Guthrie, Sheila Reid and Louise Hutcheson.
Thanks go to my publisher, Sara Hunt, for seeing Harcus and Laird’s potential.
For support and encouragement, to my family and friends, not least Maggie Laird, to whom my protagonist bears no resemblance whatever.
And to the good folk of Aberdeen, whose Doric tongue I have diluted, my apologies.
The events in this novel are entirely fictional and inaccuracies wholly mine.
About the Author
Claire MacLeary lived for many years in Aberdeen, before returning to Glasgow following a career in business and subsequently gaining an MLitt with Distinction from the University of Dundee. Her short stories have been published in various magazines and anthologies. Cross Purpose is her first book, and will be followed by a sequel, Burnout.
Copyright
Contraband is an imprint of Saraband
Published by Saraband,
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB
www.saraband.net
Copyright © Claire MacLeary 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 9781910192641
ebook: 9781910192658
Cross Purpose Page 33