Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  Maggie ducked her chin.

  ‘We’re supposed to be partners, remember?’ Wilma wasn’t going to let her off the hook. ‘And you pulled rank on me.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did so.’

  ‘Well,’ Maggie retorted, ‘if I did, that’s us just about even.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Serves you right for snooping on me when I was investigating the Seaton drugs business.’

  ‘I was watching your back, I told you.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  Wilma pulled a face. ‘Whatever! That aside, have you forgotten what we agreed? If I still had my doubts about your Mrs Struthers after meeting her face-to-face, you’d show her the door.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Too bloody right I do. From what I’ve seen, she’s just another menopausal woman having a loopy moment.’

  ‘Who said she was menopausal?’

  ‘Isn’t she? She’s about the right age.’

  ‘She’s only a few years older than we are.’

  ‘Aye.’ Wilma grinned. ‘We’ve that to look forward to.’

  She was met with a grimace.

  The grin vanished from Wilma’s face. ‘Ah’ll tell ye one thing, Maggie, and that’s for nothing. If this Sheena Struthers lands you in the shit, dinna come runnin tae me.’

  Maggie set her jaw. ‘She won’t land me in trouble.’

  ‘So you’re hell-bent…’

  ‘As I’ve said already, I’ve agreed to take on the case.’

  ‘Well, it’s your business.’

  ‘Ours.’

  ‘Aye,’ Wilma sneered. ‘Some days.’

  ‘Oh, Wilma…’ Remorseful look. ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this, pal, and that’s for nothing. If you go ahead with this Struthers thing…’ Wilma looked Maggie straight in the eye. ‘Make no mistake, you’ll be on your own.’

  Chisolm

  Rain streaked the window as Allan Chisolm power-napped at his desk. After a couple of hours battling with paperwork, his neck and shoulders had seized up. That morning’s gold meeting with strategic command had been a mixed bag: his squad had failed to secure the result they wanted in the Seaton case. Who’d have credited Christopher Gilruth would escape jail? Talk about one law for the rich? The DI let out a derisive snort. If his daddy hadn’t rolled out the big guns in the shape of Louis Valentine, young Christopher – aka Fatboy – would be safely banged up right now.

  The inspector had to hand it to his fellow Weegie, Valentine might be a total wanker but he got results. Not that it had been too hard on this occasion: the evidence led by a couple of fledgling female PIs and a bunch of wee boys. Talk about unreliable witnesses! One of the kids was soft in the head, a second denied all knowledge, the third wouldn’t open his mouth at all. As to the tenant of the flat where the alleged criminality took place, Kym whatever-her-name-was had appeared in the witness box so out of it she could hardly tell the time of day.

  Valentine had run rings round Maggie Laird as well. Still, it was her own fault for going where she had no business to be. Chisolm hoped she’d learned her lesson and would steer clear of what was, rightly, police business from now on. Mind you… Chisolm stroked his chin. The woman had balls: the way she’d squared up to all the shite that had been thrown at her, and her the size of nothing.

  You’re getting soft in your old age, he chided himself. Don’t even think of–

  ‘Sir?’ A voice broke his train of thought. The door edged open. ‘Got a minute?’ DS Brian Burnett peeked into the room.

  Chisolm shoved the budgetary reports to one side. In his opinion, all the flow charts and projections and value assessments in the world were worthless without the manpower vital to effective policing. He straightened in his seat. ‘I can give you ten.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ Brian approached the desk, sat down.

  For a few moments there was a strained silence, then: ‘Spill.’

  ‘It’s about my rank, sir.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I wondered…’ Brian twisted his hands in his lap. ‘That is, I was thinking…’

  ‘Spit it out, Burnett.’

  ‘Would you be willing to put my application forward to the review panel for inspector?’

  Chisolm leaned forward. ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘I’ve been marking time this past while. My wife and I…you might have heard…?’

  Chisolm nodded acknowledgement.

  ‘And I’ve been thinking – over Christmas and that – it’s time I moved on.’

  ‘You think going for inspector will help you do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brian did his best to sound positive. ‘I do.’

  ‘What makes you think there’s a vacancy? Detective inspectors’ jobs aren’t ten a penny, Burnett. Particularly in these times of budget constraints.

  ‘I heard on the grapevine, sir, you were being tipped for DCI.’

  Chisolm grimaced. ‘Did you, now?’

  ‘It’s not true, then?’

  ‘Might be.’ Guarded voice. ‘Though the outcome of the Seaton drugs business was less than satisfactory. Could go against me.’

  ‘Maybe so, sir. But that was only one part of the picture. You surely scored brownie points with the powers that be over your handling of that student’s death. And the university mummies and daddies will be mighty happy if the council clean up Seaton Park. Whatever, if you were to move up, it would create an opening.’

  ‘Which a number of candidates could apply for.’

  Brian’s face flushed crimson. ‘I realise that, sir. But we all know Wood’s marking time, and I doubt Duffy would be bothered. He’s got his hands full at home.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Chisolm drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘I know. How about Dunn, though?’

  Brian eyed his superior. ‘Lad’s ambitious.’ Did he detect the hint of a smirk? ‘He’ll want to go for sergeant.’ Smarmy little bastard, he thought. ‘But it’s mebbe a bit early.’ He wasn’t going to diss the guy. Brian knew Douglas had rubbed enough noses in it to queer his own pitch.

  ‘If I were to put you forward, Burnett,’ Chisolm fixed him with a hard stare, ‘what, do you think, are your chances of success?’

  ‘I’ve done my time as sergeant, sir, got a solid track record. Plus…’ he broke off.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m an all-rounder: good in the field, on top of the admin, well-developed social skills…’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘So if there are any,’ he cleared his throat, ‘developments, I’d appreciate if you’d give me the nod.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Chisolm looked at his watch. ‘But for now…’

  ‘Sir.’ Brian took the hint. He rose to his feet and hurried from the room.

  Siblings

  Colin, Maggie’s teenage son, was sitting in front of his computer monitor reading articles on Reddit when: ‘Have you seen my pen?’ His sister Kirsty burst through the door.

  ‘No.’ He swivelled in his seat. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because you’re always nicking my stuff.’ She advanced on him. ‘That’s why.’

  ‘And I suppose you never “borrow” anything of mine?’

  ‘I most certainly do not.’

  ‘Liar. What about the time you…?’

  She back-tracked. ‘Not lately anyhow.’

  ‘That’s because you’re never here.’

  ‘And that doesn’t alter the fact my pen’s gone missing.’

  Colin unfolded himself from his seat. ‘What’s the big deal, anyway?’ He looked down, a full head taller, now, than his sister.

  ‘It’s the one Dad gave me.’ There was a catch in Kirsty’s voice. ‘When I got into uni.�
��

  Her brother shrugged. ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘You must remember. We went out for dinner at Gerard’s, the four of us, and Dad produced it at the end of the meal. It’s a Parker, slim, silver-coloured…’

  ‘Whatever.’ Sarky face. ‘Haven’t seen it.’

  ‘That’s typical of you.’ Kirsty faced him down. ‘Forever ducking responsibility: the way you closet yourself up here, shy away from interaction with other people. You did the exact same thing when there was all that trouble over Dad.’

  Colin held up his hands. ‘If I did come up here, it was most likely to give him space.’

  ‘Space?’ Kirsty spat. ‘Who are you kidding? You were up here so you didn’t get nabbed by the reporters.’

  ‘Look who’s talking.’ There was a smirk on her brother’s face. ‘Who was it did a runner but Daddy’s Little Darling? If my memory serves me right, the minute it went pear-shaped you were out of here like a bat out of hell. It was me that got lumbered with the crap: the drawn curtains, the phone ringing off the hook. Not to mention the olds: Dad’s nerve was shot, Mum was in total denial.’

  ‘She was not.’

  ‘How would you know?’ he sneered. ‘You weren’t here.’

  Kirsty gave him a sideways look. ‘I know a lot more than you think.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘Kirsty?’ There was a shout from downstairs. ‘Food’s ready.’

  She half turned, called over her shoulder, ‘Okay.’ She turned back. ‘Before we go down, I have to say it really pisses Mum off, the way you behave.’

  ‘Me? How? You’ve just given me stick for keeping out of her road.’

  ‘This room, for instance. Look at it.’ With distaste, she surveyed the dog-eared posters covering the walls, the rumpled single bed, the clothes strewn on the floor. ‘It’s a pigsty. Plus,’ she wrinkled her nose, ‘it stinks.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Colin’s lip curled. ‘And I don’t suppose yours stinks? All that perfume and hairspray and stuff you can’t do without?’

  ‘Kir-sty.’ The call came again.

  She took a breath. ‘Coming.’

  ‘And how do you think it makes Mum feel,’ Colin pressed, ‘when you have a go at her? Since you went to uni you’re forever doing that: sniping at her down the phone from Dundee. She comes off really upset. She tries to hide it, but I’ve caught her. You’re so self-obsessed, I don’t suppose that even occurs to you.’

  ‘I don’t “snipe” as you call it. Mum and me, we may not always see eye to eye, but…’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘That’s the understatement of all time.’

  ‘Regardless, Mum’s got enough on her plate with this house and her Seaton job without you making extra work for her. Then there’s Dad’s business…’

  Colin cut in. ‘It’s her business, now.’

  Filthy look. ‘Hers and that big slapper next door.’

  ‘If she didn’t have the support of “that big slapper” as you call her, Mum would still be trying to clear Dad’s name all by herself. You do know she went to see that thug James Gilruth?’

  Kirsty shrugged. ‘I didn’t. But that’s beside the point. If Mum has a score to settle with Gilruth, I can’t see that Wilma Harcus will make a bit of difference.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Colin retorted. ‘Anyhow, if Mum can’t get back at the bastard, with or without the help of Wilma, I will.’

  ‘How do you plan to do that?’

  Colin shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  Kirsty ignored this. ‘As I was saying, as if it isn’t bad enough…’

  ‘Having her hook up with the riff-raff,’ Colin supplied. ‘Mix with low-life? You’re such a snob, Kirsty Laird.’

  ‘That isn’t the worst thing you could call me, little brother,’ she came back. ‘But at least I haven’t resorted to drugs.’

  His eyes slid away. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, no? How about getting smashed out of your skull? Not to mention the spliffs?’

  He reddened. ‘It was only the once.’

  ‘Come off it.’ Kirsty stuck her face in his. ‘It’s splashed all over Facebook, Col – you and your mates getting wasted, making rude gestures, acting the clown. You know what? You’re so immature it’s pathetic.’

  ‘I’d rather be immature than self-righteous.’

  ‘Seriously, bro,’ Kirsty lowered her voice, ‘You want to be careful what you post. Once you’re in the job market, prospective employers pick up on that sort of thing.’

  Colin snorted. ‘Just because you’re doing law, doesn’t give you the right to judge other people.’

  ‘I’m only offering some sisterly advice.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need advice from you, so the sooner you go back to…’

  ‘Do you two want to eat?’ Maggie bawled. ‘Or will I throw the whole lot in the bin?’

  ‘Coming, Mum,’ Kirsty responded.

  ‘If you’re done.’ Colin took a step forward.

  Kirsty turned. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going.’

  On the threshold, she hesitated. ‘About my pen?’

  ‘I told you, I haven’t seen it,’ Colin spat. ‘Now, get out. And,’ he followed her down the stairs, ‘next time you want to come into my room, knock first.’

  A New Year

  The peal of bells and the explosion of fireworks echoed from the television.

  Ian raised a toast. ‘Happy New Year!’

  Maggie slid from the leather settee. ‘And to you!’ They clinked glasses.

  ‘Hope it’s a good one!’ Wilma added her champagne flute to the mix.

  ‘Yes, well…’ Maggie broke off.

  They were in Wilma’s front room. Lowered window blinds and a hissing gas fire kept the space snug against the wintry weather outside. On the giant wall-mounted television, STV’s Hogmanay party was in full swing.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to see the back of the aul year,’ Ian said, cheerily. ‘Everything that’s happened, like.’

  Wilma threw him a warning look.

  Maggie buried her nose in her glass, affecting not to notice. She let the effervescent bubbles prick her nostrils, savoured the honeyed aroma. Ian was right, though. She was thankful to draw a line under the year past: a year in which George, her devoted husband of more than twenty years had died, her children been in crisis and she, Maggie Laird, rudely plucked from her cocoon of domesticity to embark on a career as a private detective.

  She thought back to their first New Year together, she and George, in that poky rented flat in Ferryhill: top floor, two rooms, kitchen and bathroom. How, when the ships’ hooters sounded, they’d rushed to the window and thrown up the sash. They’d rested their elbows on the sill and watched, transfixed, as crimson flares lit up the sky, all thoughts of toasts and TV abandoned. It was only when the harbour fell silent, and chill air nibbled at their elbows, that they’d lowered the window and crept through to their sagging three-quarter bed to spoon in the dark.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘Come for a bosie.’ Wilma threw her arms wide.

  Grateful, Maggie allowed herself to be enfolded in her friend’s embrace. Changed days, she reflected, since Wilma had first moved into the douce West End suburb of Mannofield. It seemed no time since she’d first appeared on Maggie’s doorstep, all Ten Ton Tessie in her sprayed-on leggings and fake tan. Then, Maggie had been a bit sniffy, she had to admit. But now look at the pair of them: so attuned to one another they could almost read each other’s thoughts.

  ‘You okay?’ Wilma relaxed her hold.

  ‘Yes.’ Maggie wiped the tears away. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘No worries.’ Wilma grinned. She turned to her husband. ‘Top us up, will you? My pal here’s needing a bittie cheering up.’

  ‘I’m fine. Really,’ Mag
gie protested, as Ian trickled fizz into her glass. ‘Thanks! It’s great just to have company.’ She toasted them both. ‘Cheery company,’ she added, smiling.

  She looked around. Wilma’s house was ablaze – candles lit, chandelier twinkling, silver baubles glittering on a huge, fake tree. And that was just the inside. Maggie shuddered as she recalled her reaction to the curtain of LED lights dripping from the front of the adjacent bungalow, the giant illuminated reindeer standing by the front door. Made her own, dark house look like an old folks’ home. Time was, her family would have driven out to Tyrebagger, the four of them, and picked a real tree from the Forestry Commission’s site. Maggie hadn’t had the heart, not this year. Instead, she’d unearthed the small fake tree that usually sat on the dining-room sideboard. A forlorn sight it looked, too, marooned as it was now in the sitting room bay window alongside George’s empty chair.

  ‘Where are they, your kids?’ Wilma’s voice brought Maggie back to the present.

  ‘Colin’s at a sleepover out at Cults. Kirsty’s on the razzle with her pals. So I’m glad to be here with you guys, especially after the Christmas I’ve had.’

  ‘That bad?’ Wilma had been embroiled with her own extended family over the festive season, so there hadn’t been time for small talk.

  Maggie made a face. ‘Nightmare! My folks meant well, inviting us out for Christmas lunch, but it was hard going, I can tell you. My dad sat slumped in his chair, hardly said a word. As for Mum, I scarcely saw her. She spent half the time in the kitchen, wouldn’t let me do a thing. I don’t doubt she was fretting over me the whole darned time, whilst I sat next door with dad and the kids worrying about her.’

  Wilma chortled. ‘I can just see it.’

  ‘We had to sit all the way through the Queen. The kids were bored witless: Kirsty making eye signals at me, Colin thumbing his phone. Then, by the time we finally made it to the table, Col was so famished he stuck his head in his plate and wolfed every last thing that was put in front of him. If my mum wasn’t biting her tongue at his total absence of table manners, she was sneaking horrified looks at Kirsty’s navy-blue nail varnish. My dad, God bless him, was totally oblivious. It’s sad, really, the way he’s retreated into himself. Mum’s the exact opposite. Once she’d had her annual ration of sweet sherry, she couldn’t hold back from giving me the third degree.’