‘I was just,’ she said, assuming her poshest accent, ‘looking for a friend. I’ve only just heard she’s been admitted.’
‘A friend?’ Fowlie looked her up and down.
Like she was dirt. Wilma was used to that. Her role as a healthcare support worker was only one notch up from the domestics. For a moment she wished she’d had the benefit of further education. Then, she had second thoughts. If it meant learning all those big words Maggie Laird kept coming out with, she was better off without.
Wilma stood up straight, pulled in her stomach. ‘Sheena Struthers.’
‘Ah!’ Wary look. ‘Mrs Struthers.’
‘She here, then?’
Momentarily, Carol’s eyes slid to her left. ‘She is, yes. But before you ask, there’s not a chance in hell of you getting anywhere near her.’
*
Wilma pressed her nose to the glass. The woman the charge nurse had unwittingly identified by her sideways eye movement as Sheena Struthers was lying on her back, her head propped against a bank of pillows. Her eyes were closed, her hands resting on the white sheet. There was no apparent sign of injury. In fact, from this distance you might have thought she was sleeping, until you registered the machines at the bedhead, the wires and tubes snaking from her nose and head and hands.
Wilma had lurked in a sluice room until she saw Carol Fowlie disappear down a corridor, mug in hand. Ten minutes, she reckoned. Apart from anything else, Wilma had gone AWOL from her own ward. She was way over her break time already. And there’s no way she could afford to lose her job. Still…ten minutes. She could learn a lot in that time.
She narrowed her eyes, trying, in the dim light, to memorise what details she could. Sheena’s notes were beyond her reach. And the chances of squeezing information out of Carol Fowlie – zilch.
It was difficult to suss Sheena’s level of consciousness. She’d most likely be sedated, Wilma knew, perhaps even still in a coma.
She tried tapping on the glass to attract attention. The figure on the bed didn’t stir. She called Sheena’s name, all the while keeping a weather eye out for medical or nursing staff, to no avail.
Christ! Wilma racked her brains. How was she going to get around this one?
She heard the approaching squeak of rubber-soled shoes.
Took one last, lingering look at the body on the bed.
Did a runner.
An Ultimatum
‘Thanks for coming,’ Jimmy Craigmyle gave an embarrassed smile. ‘My nerves are that shot, I didn’t want to take another chance on being seen in town.’
‘You’re right.’ Maggie regarded her late husband’s former colleague. ‘Holburn Street’s too close to your place of work and,’ she sat down opposite, ‘we neither of us want to be caught in the other’s company. Not until I’ve assembled all the evidence I need and George’s case has been reopened.’
‘That’s why I asked for this meeting.’
‘Oh.’ Maggie’s face lit up. ‘Have you found something out?’
Craigmyle scowled. ‘Nae chance. Since they re-branded the club, new management has been drafted in, procedures tightened up. There’s no access, now, to that back room. Not for the likes of me, anyhow. Plus, I reckon Gilruth’s moved his drugs operation elsewhere.’ His mouth turned down. ‘He’d be mad not to, not after…’
With a heavy heart, Maggie cut him off. ‘I suppose.’ She looked around. They were in a country restaurant on the back road to Banchory. Well, more of a tearoom, really. Renowned for its home baking, it was a popular stopping off point for commuters needing a reviving cuppa or families out for a weekend drive. On this late midweek afternoon, customers – one elderly couple sat by the window and what looked like a rep totting up his sales – were thin on the ground.
‘No,’ Craigmyle’s voice broke her train of thought. ‘It’s the other thing I wanted to talk about: holding my hands up to the interview tape. Have you heard anything back on Brannigan from Queen Street?’
‘Not a word. I chased it up with Chisolm the other day. All he could tell me was what we already know: that they’re working towards getting a formal statement out of Bobby. But you know how it is: the wheels turn at a snail’s pace.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘It might put a pin up their backsides if you were to come clean right now.’
‘That’s just it.’ Craigmyle toyed with his teaspoon, wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘For as long as I’m in James Gilruth’s employ, there’s no way I can give the police that statement. Bottom line is, if I help you out now, I can forget about Gilruth. For good and all.’ Grim face. ‘Man like that doesn’t forget folk who grass.’
‘But I thought you just said he’d shut down his drugs operation.’
‘I said he’d moved it elsewhere. And it just so happens I’ve been offered a job at the “elsewhere”, no doubt in consequence of keeping my nose clean all these months. And,’ his face darkened, ‘my mouth firmly shut.’
‘So does that mean…?’
Craigmyle finished the sentence for her. ‘I’d still be working on the inside, mebbe get closer to the action now I’ve served my apprenticeship, help nail the bugger for money-laundering if the police can’t get him on drugs. But I’m between a rock and a hard place, Maggie. Either I take the job and get personal gratification by going after Gilruth, or I do as you ask.’
‘Mmm,’ Maggie’s mind tumbled with conflicting thoughts: sympathy for Craigmyle, anger towards James Gilruth, frustration that her quest for justice was getting nowhere.
‘Added to which,’ Craigmyle ran on, ‘I’ve had a call from the wife. Wants me to move back in. At least,’ he set the spoon down, ‘the kids are wanting their dad home. I guess Vera’s fed up getting pestered. Anyhow,’ he offered a shy grin, ‘I’m hoping to move once we sort out the practicalities.’
‘That’s great news.’ Maggie beamed. Although she’d never entirely trusted Jimmy Craigmyle, she was genuinely happy for the man.
‘But that gives me another problem.’
Her brow puckered. ‘I don’t see why.’
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Vera’s given me an ultimatum.’
‘Oh?’ Perplexed look.
‘No unsocial hours or I can forget about the whole thing.’
‘How does that…?’ Maggie hesitated. Then, ‘Oh, I get it. If you take up Gilruth’s job, Vera will withdraw her offer.’
‘Aye.’ The man sitting opposite looked wistful all of a sudden. ‘That’s it in a nutshell.’
‘What are you going to do, Jimmy?’
‘I’ve been mulling it over all night, ever since the subject of the new job was raised. It would be a promotion. More money. Easier access to the inner circle.’ He grimaced. ‘Plus, I’m desperate to nail the bastard. Forget about George. I owe that to myself. And, besides, I can hold my hands up to that tape anytime. You said yourself the wheels turn slowly. But I have to let them know about the job by the end of the week. That’s why I wanted to bounce it off you.’
Maggie’s heart hung heavy in her chest. Jimmy Craigmyle’s admission to turning off Bobby Brannigan’s interview tape was integral to her campaign to vindicate her dead husband. If Craigmyle were to take Gilruth’s job it could take months, even years, of working undercover before he achieved a result.
‘Where does that leave your kids?’ She felt bad playing that card, but bringing Gilruth to justice could wait, whereas clearing George’s name… Too much time had already passed, and interest at force HQ was cooling, that’s for sure.
Craigmyle scratched his head. ‘There is that.’
‘So…’ Maggie braced herself. ‘Which way are you going to jump?’
He grinned. ‘What do you think?’
One Sentence
‘Pete?’
The man straightened. Turned. ‘I’m busy.’ He ran his eyes from Wilma’s extravagant blonde coif, to her mischievous blu
e eyes, to her full red lips. They travelled on down over her generous bosom to her shapely legs. Then they travelled all the way up again. ‘But, for you, darlin…’ His lips parted to show a handsome set of gnashers. ‘I’ll make an exception.’
She batted her false eyelashes. Not that she fancied the bugger. Except…he was showing enough muscle under that green jumpsuit to make any warm-blooded woman wilt. And a man in uniform, well, that was always a turn-on. Plus, she’d always been a sucker for guys with a cleft in their chin. Mind you, that baldy head…
Cut to the chase! ‘I need some information.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘On a patient you brought in yesterday.’
‘Oh.’ The paramedic’s face darkened. ‘That’s different, sunshine. Can’t help you there.’
Wilma’s heart plummeted into her high-heeled shoes. She’d scored a blank from the ITU, but this was too important to let go. If she was going to help Maggie, she had to get a head start on finding out what had happened to Sheena Struthers.
‘You’re not going to give me patient confidentiality?’
Pete grinned. ‘For starters.’
‘But…’ She pouted. ‘Sheena’s a friend of mine.’
‘Then you’ll know the husband,’ Pete came back. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘We don’t get on.’
‘That right?’ Disbelieving voice. ‘Still can’t help you, darling.’ Winks. ‘Much as I’d like to.’
‘All right.’ Wilma was so close to him now, she could almost taste what he’d had for breakfast. ‘I’ll level with you, Pete. I’m a journalist.’
Suspicious look. ‘What paper did you say you worked for?’
Wilma grinned. ‘Good try! I didn’t. I’m freelance. It’s a bummer these days trying to scrape a living, I can tell you. There have been that many cuts. Look…’ She made cow eyes at him. ‘All I’m asking for is a few wee details. Just enough to get a heads-up on the big boys. Though I’ll bet there’s not many of the buggers…’ Her eyes dropped to his crotch. ‘As big as you.’
‘We-ell.’ A wash of colour rose in his face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Please?’ Wilma herself was pretty hot by this time, what with running round to Ashgrove Road in double-quick time and turning it on for this wanker.
Close at hand, an alarm sounded.
Pete started. ‘Gotta go,’ he mouthed over his shoulder as he reached for his kit.
‘No!’ Wilma sensed her chances of helping Maggie disappear down a vast sinkhole. She clutched at Pete’s arm. ‘Come on, man. Two sentences.’
He shook from her grasp.
‘One sentence.’ She followed his receding back in the direction of the parked-up emergency vehicles.
He turned.
Whispered in her ear.
And then he was gone.
Something to Share
Maggie leaned on the kitchen worktop, nervously thumbing her phone. Although she’d sworn off all future contact with Queen Street, this was her second call to Force HQ within a matter of weeks.
The text from Wilma had come as a bolt from the blue. The news that Sheena Struthers – who Maggie had blithely seen off from the Cults cafe with advice to consult her GP – had been admitted to hospital shocked Maggie to the core. With Wilma out of circulation, Maggie struggled to formulate a plan. Not being a close relative of Sheena’s, she’d get scant information out of ARI. She decided her best option was to act the daft housewife, see what some plod at Queen Street would let out of the bag.
When her call was answered – thankfully not by Moira – Maggie asked to speak to whoever answered the call-out to Sheena Struthers at Milltimber.
She’d only been on hold for a couple of minutes when a tetchy voice cut in. ‘Chisolm.’
Damn! Maggie had expected to be put through to some anonymous uniform. Hadn’t spoken to the inspector since New Year. Then, relations had been relatively cordial. Now, if the curtness of Chisolm’s greeting was anything to go by, she’d get sod all out of him.
She came straight to the point. ‘It’s about a Mrs Struthers.’
There was silence, then: ‘What about her?’
Maggie swallowed hard. She was right. Chisolm wasn’t going to give anything away. ‘The incident may have come to your attention. Mrs Struthers was admitted to ARI earlier this week.’
‘Let me think…’ The DI paused. ‘Drug overdose, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Accidental as far as we know.’
‘Yes. Only…’ Her voice tailed off. Why did this man always make her feel like a kid out of school? Still, she girded herself, now the inspector was on the line, she’d better own up to her own involvement. ‘It may not have been an accident,’ she whispered.
On the other end of the line there was a long silence, then: ‘Is there something you wish to share with me?’
‘We-ell…’ Maggie’s mind rewound to the dressing-down Chisolm had given her after the Seaton job. He’d come to her home. Quizzed her on the investigation, the standards of her agency work, and – most embarrassing – her relationship with his sergeant. She’d been humiliated, then. But this time, she summoned all her courage to stand up to him. ‘You should know, Mrs Struthers is a client of mine.’
His voice rose. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. And…’ Her nerve deserted her. ‘She told me her husband has been trying to kill her.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘Or so she alleges,’ Maggie added lamely.
‘On what grounds did she…?’ the inspector began.
She cut him off. ‘That’s just it.’ The woman’s claims were so far-fetched. And if they sounded fantastical to Maggie… She could just picture the scathing expression on the DI’s face. ‘Everything she’s said, Sheena Struthers… And I’ve questioned her closely, honestly I have. But…well…none of it adds up.’
‘With respect, Mrs Laird, I’ll be the better judge of that.’
Maggie’s ears were burning. She didn’t reply.
‘But it prompts the question,’ Chisolm continued. ‘If Mrs Struthers is so deluded, why did you take her on?’
‘She seemed so genuine.’ Maggie wasn’t going to admit she’d cynically strung the woman along in an attempt to bump up the agency’s fee. Instead she played the sympathy card. ‘I felt sorry for her, I suppose.’ That was partly true, at least.
‘Ah.’ Another silence, then: ‘If the woman is genuine, why hasn’t she brought her suspicions to us?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Small voice. Viewed from this perspective, it sounded feeble. She felt a total fool.
‘As by now you should be well aware, Mrs Laird,’ the inspector’s delivery was toneless, ‘if there is criminality involved, this is a police matter.’
Maggie’s mind whirled with flashes of past misdeeds. But why? She’d addressed Sheena’s allegations and found them groundless. The woman was unbalanced. No fault of Maggie’s.
‘Leave it with me,’ Chisolm filled the silence. ‘And Mrs Laird…’
‘Yes?’
‘If this does turn into a criminal investigation, I’ll expect your one hundred per cent co-operation, client or no.’
A New Development
‘Listen up, folks.’ Chisolm called his team to attention. ‘We have a new development in the Struthers case.’
Around the room, there were blank faces.
‘Let me jog your memories: Milltimber. Drug overdose.’
‘Oh…right.’ Gradually, recognition dawned.
‘From information received, it seems Mrs Struthers has made a series of accusations against her husband.’
‘What sort of accusations?’ Douglas Dunn sat forward, eager as a schoolboy.
‘Repeated attempts on her life.’
‘Any grounds?’ Brian beat Douglas to i
t this time. He’d need to show willing if he was to make inspector.
‘Circumstantial, from what I can make out. Tampering with her car’s brakes, trying to run her down…’
‘With said car?’ Douglas this time.
‘With a lawnmower.’
‘Christ.’ George Duffy spat a wad of chewing-gum from his mouth, stuck it to the underside of the table. ‘You couldn’t make it up.’
‘Agreed. Seems pretty far-fetched to me, too. Unfortunately, the lady in question is not, currently, in a position to substantiate those allegations. As you know, Mrs Struthers is in intensive care in a critical condition. The latest from the registrar is she’s at level five on the Glasgow Coma Scale. To you and me, she’s totally out of it, and likely to remain so for quite some time.’
‘No hope of getting a statement, then,’ Dave Wood said, gloomily.
‘Not until she recovers.’ Chisolm grimaced. ‘If she recovers.’
‘What do we know about the husband?’ Susan enquired.
‘Gordon Struthers, age forty-six, accountant. Partner in his firm. That much,’ wry look, ‘Souter established when he attended the scene.’
‘Has someone spoken to Mr Struthers?’
‘Only to inform him of the situation.’
‘Should we bring him in, do you think?’ Thoughtfully, Susan chewed the end of her pen.
‘What about the intel, though?’ Brian again. ‘Is it from a reliable source?’
‘I’ll leave you lot to be the judge of that,’ Chisolm said, his face unreadable. ‘I had a call late yesterday from a Mrs Laird…’
Christ! Brian thought he was going to throw up. Saw his chances of promotion going down the drain.
Around the table there were titters, hastily suppressed.
Then: ‘That Mrs Laird?’ asked Douglas Dunn.
‘Afraid so.’
There was an embarrassed silence. They all knew chapter and verse on Maggie Laird’s involvement in the Simmons case. To Susan Strachan, the woman was a role model: the way she’d picked herself up and taken on the husband’s business, how she’d stood up for those wee boys. To the others she was a thorn in their flesh.
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