Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  Maggie ran a finger down the list. ‘Let’s go through these one by one, shall we?’ Her brow crinkled. ‘Mower? Can you elaborate on that?’

  Sheena looked Maggie in the eye. ‘Last summer my husband almost ran me down with the lawnmower.’

  How could you run someone down with a lawnmower? Maggie’s mind jumped to the rickety old thing George kept stored in their shed. Bloody head-banger! The words ricocheted around her head. She could just picture Wilma’s face.

  ‘It’s four times the size of me,’ Sheena persisted. ‘A ride-on. We have several acres, you see.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie said, without enthusiasm. ‘Right. But what makes you think…’

  ‘I was sitting there on a garden chair reading a book. Gordon was going up and down. He likes the stripes to be even.’

  ‘Yes?’ Maggie wondered where this was going.

  ‘He must have turned. It was the noise of the motor that alerted me. I looked up. And there was the mower, charging towards me full tilt.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Dropped the book. Ran for my life.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Gordon must have cut the engine, jumped off, because he came running after me. Full of apologies, he was. Said it must have been a malfunction.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Maggie offered. ‘Seems a reasonable explanation to me.’

  Sheena’s lip curled. ‘Plausible, more like.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The look in his eyes when he was coming at me. Wild. Like a mad thing. I was terrified, I can tell you. I’ve never seen my husband look like that.’

  ‘And the mower?’

  ‘He had the service people uplift it for an overhaul that very same day.’

  So, Maggie thought, another flight of fancy.

  ‘Let’s move on.’ Her eyes darted back to Sheena’s list.

  ‘Then there was my car.’

  ‘Right. Brakes failed, you say.’

  ‘Another malfunction. Wasted clevis pins, according to Gordon. Fancies himself as a car buff. Except…’

  ‘Yes?’ Maggie waited for the next bon mot.

  ‘The garage said they’d never seen pins so badly worn. Asked if someone had been tinkering with the car?’

  ‘Let me be clear…’ Incredulous voice. ‘You’re implying your husband may have tampered with the brakes?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think, not at the time. But that was before,’ Sheena’s eyes flashed, ‘he tried to poison me.’

  Under the table, Maggie’s fingers drummed on her thigh. She’d had her misgivings where Sheena Struthers was concerned, but been persuaded by the woman’s sincerity. Now, she could feel the situation developing from the questionable to the farcical.

  ‘Gordon had been away on a business trip to London,’ Sheena explained. ‘He always brings me back a little gift, wherever he goes.’ She smiled. ‘He’s romantic that way.’

  ‘And?’ Maggie was fast losing patience.

  ‘This time it was a china hare. My husband bought it in Fortnum & Mason. Never been there, but I’m told it’s wonderful. Anyway,’ catching Maggie’s irritated look, she moved swiftly on, ‘I thought it was an ornament. Pretty thing.’ Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. ‘But turned out it had game pâté inside.’

  Maggie’s stomach growled. She’d skipped breakfast. Greedily, she eyed the counter display.

  ‘Except I wasn’t to know that,’ Sheena rabbited on. ‘Gave me acute food poisoning. Laid me low for a week.’

  ‘Wasn’t your husband affected?’ Maggie enquired.

  ‘No.’ Wry face. ‘Gordon doesn’t like pâté. But it was his fault,’ she added stubbornly.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He’d removed the label before he gave it to me.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t want you to see the price.’

  ‘Possibly. But he could have told me about the pâté.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh, he knew alright. Then by the time I discovered…’ She broke off. ‘It should have been refrigerated.’

  ‘That’s not entirely your husband’s fault.’ Maggie resisted the urge to laugh. Compared to some of the sad cases she’d dealt with over the past year, this was bordering on the absurd.

  Sheena jutted her chin. ‘It was mainly his fault. And another thing…’

  Maggie raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘He destroyed my hydrangeas. You’ll think me a silly woman, but they produced such a lovely show last year. Then Gordon…’

  Maggie’s heart sank to her stomach. She held up a hand. ‘Let me stop you there.’ Wilma was right. The woman was deluded. And Maggie had been well warned. What to do? Her head buzzed. Loth as she was to lose face with her business partner, she’d heard little to substantiate Sheena Struthers’ claims. Mentally, she totted up the time she’d spent with the client, cursing her own credibility. Although her pride would be dented by withdrawing from the case, she’d have to call it a day. She’d pass the buck, she decided. Suggest counselling, whatever. That would be the least awkward solution.

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ Maggie moved to bring the conversation to an end, ‘that you may be unwell?’

  ‘If, Mrs Laird, you’re implying I’m unhinged,’ Sheena’s face was a mask, ‘let me disabuse you of the notion.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ Maggie stuttered, embarrassed, now. ‘Perhaps your marriage is just going through a bad patch,’ she improvised. As she uttered the words, Maggie couldn’t help but recall some of the ups and downs of her own marriage: her insistence on getting on the mortgage ladder when George would have been happy to carry on renting, arguing the case for their children’s private schooling, his reluctance to see her go back to work. And that was without re-visiting the question of George’s so-called ‘retirement’, a topic that had caused Maggie such soul-searching ever since.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Sheena’s voice brought Maggie back to the present.

  ‘You’re quite sure? Most long relationships have their fair share of these.’

  ‘Yes.’ Firm voice. ‘I’m sure. That’s why I need you to check up on him.’

  Sod it! Maggie swept her scruples aside. She’d invested precious time on this client. Why not string the woman along, for a little while at least? The agency needed the money and Sheena Struthers, from what Maggie had heard, could well afford to pay.

  She resolved to check out the husband as instructed. No harm in that. It would keep her hand in. Maggie hadn’t done surveillance for a while, and it would make a change from the endless round of meetings and precognitions that formed the basis of her workload. Maybe she’d even get lucky, and Gordon Struthers would turn out to be up to something after all.

  And pigs might fly, a small voice echoed inside her head.

  Stinky Cheese

  ‘What’s all this?’ Nic surveyed the bulging plastic bags forming a loose pyramid on the floor.

  ‘Asda shop. Looks worse than it is.’ Ros fought to keep her voice light. ‘Stuart and Fiona are coming for supper on Saturday. You hadn’t forgotten?’

  ‘Totally. What a pain.’ Nic rolled his eyes. ‘We’ve only just got rid of your folks.’

  Ros bit her lip. Best not rise to the bait.

  ‘I take it they invited themselves.’

  ‘No,’ Ros answered, her voice quavering. She’d been looking forward to seeing the only real friend she’d made since they’d moved to Aberdeen. ‘You did.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ He crooked a finger. ‘Let’s have it?’

  Inwardly, Ros quailed. More than two years into her marriage she still hadn’t got used to this. She dug into her handbag, fished out her purse, and extracted a folded supermarket receipt. Tentatively, she held it out.

  Her husband snatched the narrow ribbon of paper,
smoothed it between long fingers. ‘Now, then…’ He ran a practised eye down the column of type.

  Ros felt her heartbeat flutter in her chest. Why did he always make her feel so guilty? It was only a bloody supermarket receipt.

  ‘What have we here?’ he pounced. ‘Camembert?’ Arch look. ‘You know I don’t like stinky cheese.’

  ‘Fiona does. I bought it for her.’

  ‘She’s not going to eat the whole thing, is she?’

  ‘No, but…’

  He brushed this aside. ‘Money isn’t made on trees.’

  She turned her head away. No point in making a fuss. It would only wind him up. Wouldn’t happen at home, she thought mutinously. The very idea that her father – big, solid, manly Dad – might carp over such a trivial matter brought a sudden smile to her lips.

  She turned back. ‘I just thought…’

  ‘That’s the problem.’ He waved the receipt under her nose. ‘You don’t think, do you?’

  With his free hand he chucked her under the chin. Rather too hard. She resisted an urge to rub at the sore bit.

  ‘You know we have to watch the pennies. And Max’s nursery fees…’

  ‘But my salary covers that.’

  ‘Might as well not. You’re way over-qualified for that scummy primary school.’

  She set her jaw. ‘I like it. And, besides, it was the only job…’

  ‘If you’d set your sights higher…’

  Like you? she wanted to scream. Nic sure wasn’t lacking in the ambition stakes. But wasn’t that what had attracted her to him in the first place? It seemed light years, now, since they’d met at that conference – the young Edinburgh graduate and the self-assured junior lecturer from Hampshire. He’d planned a career in law, he confided, then. Had set his sights on a Russell Group university. But he hadn’t achieved the grades. Had settled for history. He had great plans, though: a senior lectureship by thirty-five, a chair by forty.

  ‘But, the baby,’ she managed, before he launched forth again.

  ‘…held out for a decent job, you could have been earning…’

  Here we go again! Ros drew a steadying breath. ‘We’ve been through all that. It’s not just about the money, Nic. It’s quality of life we’re talking. And didn’t we agree I should settle for something less demanding, at least until Max starts school?’

  ‘In theory,’ he seethed. ‘But that’s not how it has turned out, is it? Seems to me this Seaton job’s full-on. And it pays bugger-all.’

  ‘I’ve got company, at least. People to talk to.’

  ‘Like that sad, squinty-eyed little classroom assistant.’

  ‘Maggie Laird isn’t sad.’ Defensive voice. ‘She’s a very able woman.’

  ‘Come off it. I’ve seen firsthand. There’s not a soul in that place you’d mix with socially. And it’s not as if you’re making a difference, Ros, not with the amount of social deprivation or whatever they call it these days. You’d be far better off at home. Save us a fortune in…’

  Camembert?

  Instead: ‘I’m sorry.’ She extended a conciliatory hand. ‘That was silly of me. I won’t do it again.’

  Second Time Around

  Wilma watched as the man approached the row of lock-ups. He fumbled in his trouser pocket, mouthed a curse. Tapping numbers into his phone, he turned on his heel and legged it. From her first-floor vantage point in the stairwell of a nearby block of flats, Wilma sent up a silent prayer of thanks. This was unfinished business. And Wilma didn’t like loose ends.

  ‘Second time around,’ she muttered darkly, for they had form: the small-time fraudster and the wannabe PI. They’d crossed swords the previous year – a year when Wilma, in her headlong rush to learn her craft, had been dead keen but equally green. She’d fingered the bugger for car fraud: reporting a vehicle stolen and obtaining a pay-out before selling it on to a suspect body shop to be cut up for parts. He’d got one over on her, then. In her mind, Wilma could still see the look of triumph on the bastard’s face as his souped-up vehicle outran her old Fiesta, his V-sign framed in the driver’s window. But that was before she’d invested in a GPS tracking device. Wilma grinned. He wouldn’t escape her twice.

  She’d thought the deception to be an isolated instance. Learnt since that it was part of a wider fraud, her quarry acting as runner for a large-scale operation, a succession of supposedly ‘stolen’ vehicles passing through his hands. A source had told her that he was based in Torry. But where to begin? The district on the south side of the River Dee where Wilma had been raised was extensive, stretching from the historic fishing settlement at the river mouth all the way to the Brig o’ Dee.

  Footdee – pronounced ‘Fitty’ by the locals – was a favourite stomping-ground when she was a kid. Most summer evenings during the long school holidays, she and her pals repaired to the warren of tiny fishermen’s cottages. To kids reared in tenement flats, it was a magical place: a huddle of houses and wash-houses hugging close behind the sea wall. There were smokehouses, too, for the fish – little more than wooden huts – and a sturdy Fishermen’s Mission in the middle.

  They’d play games of tag, and hide-and-seek. Pretend to be housewives, or fisher-folk, or spies. Not that different from what she was doing now, Wilma allowed a wry smile, as she shot down the stairs, lock-picks at the ready. She’d have started with keys, but that would have taken more time, and she had no more than a few minutes, she reckoned.

  Now, she focussed on the job. Her hands shook as she inserted the picks into the lock.

  Calm down! she told herself, as she tried one after the other. This type of lock should be a doddle. If you weren’t peeing yourself, that is. Wilma wiped sweating palms on her thighs.

  Finally, success. The handle turned. The garage door swung up.

  She left it at an angle and ducked underneath, reading off the number plate as she went.

  For a moment, she hesitated, unsure, then read it again. She’d have been gutted if, after all this time, she’d got it wrong. But, no.

  Wilma fished in her pocket, stooped to the rear wheel arch, attached the GPS. The device, together with the small arsenal of other gizmos she’d already built up, fair helped to oil the wheels.

  You wee darling! She grinned with satisfaction. Of all the accoutrements, this had been one of her better investments. It would buy her time. On this occasion, when she tailed the subject to the breaker’s yard – Wilma said a silent prayer this was the plan, for why else would he visit a lock-up so far from home – she’d be able to sit well back. Colour rose in her face. What a rage she’d been in when he’d given her two fingers all those months before! Then all she had to do was get a few happy snaps.

  If she got lucky, she’d mebbe even manage to hang around till the fucker had taken his lift home. She could shoot the breaker a line about scrapping her own car. Christ knows it wasn’t worth a helluva lot more. Say she was feeling faint. Have a sittie-down in the Portakabin he called an office. Take a wee shuftie at the paperwork. In her head, she’d got it all planned out.

  Wilma backed out of the lock-up and lowered the door. With a glance over her shoulder, she flicked through a set of keys and secured the lock, double-checking that it was secure. Then, like a bat out of hell, she made a beeline for her car. This time there would be no giving her the slip.

  Talking Dirty

  ‘Say it!’ The face is inches from hers, the voice insistent.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come.

  ‘Go on,’ he urges.

  She tries again. ‘I’m a…a…’ Her lips open and close like a fish coming up for air.

  ‘A…?’ he prompts.

  She summons a breath. ‘A dirty…’

  ‘A dirty what?’ He has that look on his face.

  She screws her eyes shut against him.

  ‘Look at me.’ He shakes her by the sho
ulders.

  With an effort, she blinks her eyes open.

  ‘You were about to say…’

  I was? She knows it pleases him: to talk dirty, act dirty. Turns him on.

  She steels herself. ‘I’m a dirty little…’ But she can’t finish. Can’t say the word.

  He’s heavy, now, on top of her. ‘Come on,’ he coaxes. ‘You know you like it.’

  I bloody don’t! She wants to scream, but her chest is constricted. It does nothing for her – talking dirty. Never has.

  ‘It’s not that hard.’

  That’s not true. She’d gone along with it. Thought it was normal, the things he did. The things he asked her to do. But their relationship has changed. She’s changed.

  ‘Is it?’

  Spit it out, she tells herself. Then it will be done.

  ‘I’m a dirty little c…’ Curly ‘c’ or kicking ‘k’? The image presents itself as she tries to frame the word.

  She feels a sudden urge to laugh.

  Then: ‘Cunt,’ he spits, with such force she can feel a spray of spittle on her face. ‘You’re a cunt.’ He looms over her. ‘What are you?’

  ‘A c-c-cunt,’ she manages.

  ‘That’s it. You’re a dirty little cunt.’ His face carries an expression of affection mingled with distaste.

  Gordon

  The grand former merchant’s house that fronted the Queen’s Road was set back from the pavement behind a low stone wall and a sweep of gravel, now largely given over to parking.

  From the safety of her car, Maggie kept watch as a succession of sober-suited figures came and went through the imposing glass doors. She’d found a space directly opposite.

  She checked the time on her phone. 12.45. On Fridays, she’d learned from Sheena, Gordon Struthers lunched at his club, the Royal Northern and University. Founded in 1854 and given its ‘royal’ status following a visit by Queen Victoria, it was not only home to the city’s great and good, but located close to Holburn Junction, a short stroll from Gordon’s office. Maggie had heard mention of the place. Knew it was a dining and social club, that you had to be someone in Aberdeen society to be proposed for membership. But she’d never been inside. She didn’t even know if the club admitted women members, though she had a hazy recollection of a piece in the P&J: the old guard digging their heels in and refusing to bow to pressure. Typical!