‘Reporting on the call-out to Murtle Den Road, Sergeant.’
‘Ye-es?’ Willie Esson removed his glasses and put them down on the desk in front of him.
‘There was a shout for the nearest unit to Milltimber. PC Miller and me responded.’
‘PC Miller and I, Souter.’
‘PC Miller and aye, sir.’
Willie Esson ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. He didn’t know where they got these young guys from. Some of them, even the university graduates, were barely literate these days.
‘What did you find when you got there, Constable?’
‘A body, sir.’
The sergeant sighed theatrically. ‘What sort of a bloody body, Souter?’
‘A female body.’
‘Go on.’
Souter scratched the side of his nose, unsure quite how to respond.
‘What about this body, Constable?’ prompted the senior officer. ‘Who found it? Where was it? Give me the facts.’
Forehead creased, Souter bent to consult his notebook. He straightened. ‘Incident called in 09.02 to emergency services. PCs Souter and Miller first to respond. Arrived Murtle Den Road, Milltimber 09.16. Entry to property given by Zofia Wisniewski, cleaner. Body of unresponsive female found in first floor bedroom. Identified as householder Sheena Struthers. No other parties present. Ambulance services arrived 09.22. Patient transferred to ARI.’
‘That’s better, son,’ Willie Esson leaned back in his chair. ‘Did you establish if there is anyone else resident at the address?’
‘Husband. Gordon Struthers.’
‘Has anyone contacted him?’
‘I left Miller to do that.’
‘All the same.’ The sergeant threw his constable an arch look. ‘We’d better follow that up.’ He scribbled a note. ‘Now, I’d like you to tell me, in your own words, exactly what you saw at the scene.’
‘Not a lot.’ Souter couldn’t meet his senior officer’s eyes. He stood, rooted to the spot. ‘It all happened in that much of a rush, sir: us gaining access, the ambulance arriving at our back.’
Behind the desk, his superior sat, anger seething out of every pore. ‘You have to do better than that.’
Souter blushed from the base of his neck to the roots of his hair. Finally, he spoke. ‘There were no obvious signs of injury, Sarge. Seems the woman suffered a heart attack, and…’
The sergeant cut him off mid-flow ‘How did you establish that, Constable? No, on second thought, don’t tell me.’ He drew a breath. ‘And don’t go making bloody assumptions. You’ve obviously been watching too much shite on the telly, Souter. Stick to the fucking facts.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where was Miller while this was happening?’
‘Downstairs, sir, with the cleaner.’
‘She gave you access?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Miller took a statement from the cleaner, then.’
‘N-no, sir,’ Souter stammered.
‘Why the fuck not?’
‘She doesn’t speak English.’
‘Christ Almighty.’ The sergeant’s face suffused with blood. ‘Not one word?’
‘Hardly any, sir. She’s Polish. Miller got her to write down her name, then…’
‘Never mind,’ Esson cut him short. ‘I hope you two wankers didn’t disturb anything.’
‘No, sir. That’s one of the first things…’
‘Right. And maybe one of the very few things you haven’t forgotten.’
Souter stammered. ‘S-sir.’
The older man sighed deeply. ‘What happened then?’
‘Well, me and Miller…’
‘Miller and I,’ thundered the sergeant.
‘I followed the ambulance. Miller stayed at the house.’
‘It’s taken us fucking long enough to get to this stage.’ Sergeant Esson let out a long sigh. ‘Now, before we’re done here, take a minute, son. Is there anything you’ve overlooked?’
Souter scrunched his eyes shut. He stood for a few moments, then opened them again. ‘No, sir.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then, away you go, and get the thing written up.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ Relief written all over his face, Souter turned away.
‘And Souter…’
‘Yes, Sarge?’ He swivelled on his heel to face his boss again.
‘Don’t forget to put a fucking case number on it.’
A Decision
How r u? Maggie texted. She didn’t dare go near Wilma’s place until she knew the coast was clear.
Can u come round? A text pinged back.
Maggie thumbed a reply. She grabbed her phone and shot out the back door.
‘How’s you?’ Wilma met her halfway. Dressed in baggy grey trackie bottoms and an equally shapeless hoodie, her hair straggled in limp strands to her shoulders. Grim-faced, she was, for once, devoid of make-up.
‘Here.’ Maggie threw her arms wide. ‘Let me give you a hug.’
‘It’ll take more than a fucking hug.’ Wilma let herself be comforted. ‘Come in about.’ She led the way through to the sitting room and flopped down on the settee. ‘Cosy up.’ She patted the space beside her.
‘Well.’ Maggie did as she was bid. ‘What did Ian have to say?’
Wilma snorted. ‘Said he’d been a bit hasty, nipped back from work to apologise. But…’ The word hung in the air. ‘He insisted that didn’t change things.’ She uttered a loud sniff. ‘Told you he was a stubborn bugger.’ Her stomach rumbled. She rubbed her belly. ‘Now you’re here, how’s about I make us a spot of lunch?’
‘Oh,’ Maggie demurred, ‘there’s no need…’ But Wilma was already on her feet.
‘Cheese on toast do?’ she yelled from the kitchen. ‘I shouldn’t, not when I’m supposed to be watching my carbs, but it’s all I’ve got.’
‘Fine by me.’ Maggie followed her through.
‘Stick the radio on, will you?’
Obediently, Maggie moved through to the conservatory. She twisted the radio’s dial and was about to sit down, when:
A man has suffered a serious assault in the Torry district of the city.
‘Turn that up.’
Maggie reached over to the windowsill and turned up the volume on the lunchtime news.
The man, who has not been named, was rushed by ambulance to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. A hospital spokesperson described his injuries as serious, but declined to give further details. Police Scotland have issued a statement saying that enquiries into the incident are ongoing.
‘Christ.’ Wilma appeared in the doorway. ‘What a fright that gave me.’ She wiped her hands down the front of her tracksuit. ‘I can never hear Torry but I think of trouble.’
‘I’m sure,’ Maggie empathised. ‘Your two, have you heard from them lately?’
‘Not a dickey bird. Oh, Maggie…’ Wilma’s eyes stood out on her cheeks. ‘You don’t think…’
‘Wayne or Kevin? Don’t be silly. I mean, what are the odds?’
Odds indeed. Maggie gave a rueful smile. Why hadn’t she stopped to think before she’d gone chasing after James Gilruth? Or let her suspicions fester over Colin’s possible involvement in poor Lucy Simmons’ death?
‘I know. Still, once you’ve got them.’ She let out a sigh. ‘You never stop worrying about your weans from the day they’re born.’
Maggie’s thoughts turned to Kirsty’s cutting episode. Then Colin. He’d been acting cagey again. She nodded agreement. ‘Tell me about it. But, your boys, don’t you pay them the odd visit?’
Wilma shrugged. ‘Haven’t the time.’
‘They could come to you.’
‘To Mannofield?’ She sniffed. ‘Why would they? Torry’s t
heir world.’ She looked wistful, all of a sudden.
‘You don’t think…’ Maggie began, her mind jumping to Brannigan. Last she’d heard he’d been cautioned by the police and told to stay out of trouble. He’d be keeping a low profile, so the incident wouldn’t involve him.
Still, an anxious niggle tugged at the back of her mind. ‘I was wondering…’ Her words were drowned out by the shrill of a smoke alarm.
‘Shite!’ Wilma about-faced. ‘The toasties!’ She shot back through to the kitchen, Maggie at her heels.
Through a pall of smoke, Wilma grabbed a tea towel, groped for the grill tray and pulled it out. Two charred rectangles were all that remained of what should have been lunch.
‘Fuckit!’ She carried the tray to the sink and tipped the cinders into the waste bin.
‘My fault,’ Maggie volunteered, flapping smoke out of her eyes. Banishing all thoughts of Bobby Brannigan, she smiled in apology. ‘That’s what we get for obsessing over our kids. We shouldn’t have been eating toasties anyway,’ she added. ‘Wasn’t meant.’
‘It’s alright for you,’ Wilma countered, ‘wee skelf that you are. But there’s not another thing in the fridge. And see me,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘Right this minute I could eat a fucking horse.’
‘Never mind.’ Maggie took her by the hand. ‘We’ll make do with a cuppa. But first, finish off what you were saying about Ian.’
Wilma settled herself in one of the big cane chairs. ‘It’s the agency,’ she said miserably. ‘I reckoned I had him talked round. We were doing away fine, the pair of us. Or so I thought. But it’s obviously been eating away at him, the whole thing. Oh, Maggie.’ Her chins wobbled. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘Go with your gut,’ Maggie said decisively. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned…’
Wilma sniffed. ‘Easier said than done. I’m in that deep. And…’ Her eyes stood out on stalks as mentally she totted up the amount of money she’d spent on gizmos. ‘There’s no way I’d want to leave you in the lurch, especially not after…’
Impishly: ‘Strong-arming me into it in the first place.’
Wilma sat up. ‘I never did.’
‘You most certainly did so. Back then, I’d never have had the nerve to do something so…’ For a moment she hesitated. ‘Out of character.’
‘But it’s come right?’ Small voice. ‘Hasn’t it?’
‘It has indeed.’ Maggie’s mind jumped back to the day she’d first confronted Wilma Harcus. Talk about role reversal! Who’d have thought that country mouse would now be offering moral support?
She reached across the coffee table and laid a hand on Wilma’s arm. ‘Trust me. It will all work out.’
Roughly, Wilma shook her off. ‘You don’t know my Ian. Once he sets his mind to something…’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘It’s all very well saying butter him up, but it’s too late for that. I’ve been an eejit, Maggie, that’s the beginning and end of it. Thinking I could rise above my station, become some big detective, sort out the…the…’ Her voice shook with emotion. ‘The fucking world.’
‘You have.’ Maggie, too, was on the verge of tears. ‘You can.’
‘No, I fucking can’t.’ The tears were streaming, now, down Wilma’s cheeks. ‘I have to make a decision: the agency or Ian. And I have to make it now.’
Back Burner
‘Right, folks.’ Allan Chisolm’s eyes swept the room. ‘Let’s get started.’
From their work-stations, his squad ambled over and joined him for that morning’s briefing.
‘What have we got?’ He addressed the expectant faces around the table.
Brian Burnett consulted his notes. ‘One case of aggravated assault, couple of minor scraps, bank scams, break-ins. Oh, and a possible drug overdose,’ he rattled off, anxious to sound on-the-ball.
‘Let’s start with the assault.’
Brian passed his superior a file.
Chisolm opened it, scanned the report inside. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, knitting his brows. ‘Keep me up to speed on this, Sergeant. We’ve had too many of these lately.’
‘Sir.’
‘And the break-ins?’
DS Dave Wood, his belly straining uncomfortably over the waistband of his pleated trousers, raised his head. In a world-weary voice, he answered, ‘Usual suspects.’
Chisolm shot him a sharp look. Thought better of it. Wood was within a year of retirement. After all the changes he’d been forced to adapt to over the past few years, who could blame him for a spot of cynicism.
‘Bank scams? Who’s on that?’
Sergeant George Duffy sighed. ‘Nowt to be done, not in these cases anyhow. Complainants instructed the transactions.’
‘I take it you’ve advised them to follow the bank’s complaints procedure as their first course of redress?’ Douglas Dunn interjected. DC Dunn was a graduate recruit and an unending source of irritation to his senior officers.
Brown-arsed wee bastard, Duffy thought. ‘I have, yes.’ He nodded.
‘And passed on details of the financial ombudsman,’ Douglas prompted.
Duffy gritted his teeth. ‘That too.’
‘Let’s move on.’ Chisolm drummed his fingers on the table. ‘This overdose? It’s only a possible, you say?’
Brian again. ‘Attending officers found the subject unresponsive. No apparent injuries.’
‘Why are we classifying it as a drug overdose, tell me?’
‘It was one of the paramedics found pills.’
Chisolm’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. ‘Attending officers?’ he demanded.
‘Souter and Miller.’
DC Susan Strachan, the only female in the company, shot Brian a sideways look. She couldn’t believe the uniforms had missed such a crucial piece of evidence. Those two were in for a bollocking, that was for sure.
‘Fatal?’
‘No, sir. Leastways not yet. Victim’s in intensive care. From what I can gather it’s touch and go.’
‘A druggie?’
‘No, sir. Middle-aged wifie from out Milltimber. A Mrs Sheena Struthers.’
‘Accidental?’
‘Looks like it.’
Christ, Chisholm thought, a cushy life in Milltimber and it still wasn’t enough. ‘Nonetheless, make sure those pills have been dusted for fingerprints. There wasn’t a note?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You sure?’ Doubtful voice. If uniform could manage to miss a package of pills, Christ knows what else they’d overlooked.
Brian ducked. He didn’t reply.
‘I’ll take that as affirmative. Witnesses?’
‘Woman was alone in the house. Discovered by the cleaner.’
‘I take it we have a statement.’
‘Belatedly. Cleaner is Polish. Speaks very little English. Luckily, her partner is a builder working out at Peterculter this week. We managed to get hold of him and he translated. Cleaner said she wasn’t due until 9.30, but got a lift with the boyfriend and arrived early. She rang the doorbell. Had her own key, but didn’t use it in case her employer was in the shower or summat. When there was no response, she let herself in. Poor girl was in bits, rabbiting on if she’d been half an hour later, her boss could have been…’
‘What’s the current state of play?’
‘Hospital’s running tests. I’ve asked Souter to follow up on the results.’
Chisolm crooked an eyebrow. ‘Double check. Given the…’ he hesitated, ‘…circumstances, better not leave it to uniform.’
‘Sir.’
‘Right.’ He shuffled his files together. ‘If there’s no evidence of criminality, we’ll put that one on the back burner for now.’
The Inversnecky
Maggie looked up. ‘You made it.’
‘Yes,’ Ros shrugged out of her coat and dropped onto the se
at opposite. ‘Didn’t even have to make an excuse. When I checked my timetable, I saw the kids had PE last thing, so I did a runner.’
Following their conversation in the playground, they’d meant to meet for coffee, but one or other of them had been forced to call off. When, finally, they’d made a firm date, the Inversnecky, a short drive along the Esplanade from Seaton School, had seemed the ideal venue. Until, that is, Maggie recalled it was where she’d sat with a car-load of small boys on the fateful evening she’d learned of their involvement in the desecration of a corpse. She stowed the thought away. That’s ancient history! Italian owned, the café was an Aberdeen institution, somewhere she and George had shared many a cuppa, a plate of fish and chips or, on a fine day, a dish of ice cream.
A young waitress approached, order pad at the ready. ‘What can I get you?’ She smiled.
‘Pot of tea,’ Maggie said decisively. ‘I’m gasping.’
‘For two?’
‘Diet Coke for me,’ Ros said.
‘How are things?’
‘Oh,’ Ros breathed a sigh. ‘Same old.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s not as if we have blazing rows. It’s just,’ she brushed a hand across her brow, ‘this constant drip-drip of criticism. Seems no matter what I say or do I’m in the wrong.’
‘Have you challenged him about it?’
‘Yes. In the beginning, at least. Before Max was born, that is, I used to stand up to him, fight my corner. But he’d throw it back in my face, twist it round so I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Then, if that didn’t work, he’d play the IQ card: how men are more logical, all that.’
‘Has he ever been physically violent towards you?’
‘Physical? Oh, he’s physical alright. We used to have great sex. Sometimes I ask myself if that’s the main reason I married Nic. But even that’s gone downhill recently. But violent? No. Quite the reverse. He’ll sulk, sometimes for days, but he’s never lifted a finger to me,’ Ros uttered a contemptuous laugh. ‘Doesn’t have to. He has such a way with words. He’s so smart, Maggie. So quick, I gave up fighting in the end. After that, I decided everything probably was my fault: the cock-ups, the breakdowns in communication. I’ve been so tired, you see. Doesn’t help when it comes to making rational decisions.’
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