Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  Brian ignored this. ‘A psychoactive drug which, we’ve established, your wife has been supplied with under prescription from her GP.’

  ‘She has?’ Behind the owlish spectacles, Struthers’ eyes popped.

  Brian leaned forward. ‘You weren’t aware?’

  ‘No. I…’

  He changed tack. ‘How would you rate your marriage?’

  ‘Do you expect me to score it out of ten?’ Struthers retorted with a sneer. ‘I thought they saved that sort of stuff for the tabloids.’

  Brian was caught on the back foot. ‘Generally, I mean.’

  ‘Gen-er-ally.’ Gordon Struthers accentuated each syllable, ‘Affectionate. Enduring. Cordial.’ His lip curled. ‘Get the picture?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Brian responded politely, though he’d have liked to shove the bastard’s spectacles up his arse.

  ‘“Cordial”, you said. Are you trying to tell me you and your wife don’t have rows?’

  ‘I’m not “trying” to tell you anything. I’m stating a fact.’

  ‘So you don’t have rows.’

  ‘As in any long marriage, we have experienced occasional…’ Struthers emitted an exaggerated sigh, ‘…difficulties.’

  ‘Regarding?’

  ‘Domestic matters. But I’m talking minor disagreements. I’d hardly class them as rows.’

  ‘These “disagreements”,’ Brian pressed. ‘Have they ever culminated in physical violence?’

  Behind his glasses, Gordon Struthers’ eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Then,’ Brian went for the jugular, ‘how do you explain your wife’s injury?’

  ‘Injury?’ The eyes popped. ‘My wife isn’t injured.’

  ‘On the contrary. Tests have shown that Mrs Struthers sustained a recent injury to her right forearm.’

  Struthers shook his head. ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no doubt.’ Brian was enjoying himself now. ‘I’ve seen the X-rays. They clearly show a fractured greenstick.’ He left a long silence, let it do its work. Then: ‘Can you tell me how your wife might have sustained such an injury?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘No. If my wife hurt herself, she didn’t let on.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you about the sleeping pills, you say. And now she hasn’t disclosed an injury – one that must have caused her considerable discomfort.’ Brian engaged his interviewee with a steely gaze.

  ‘My wife has a fear of needles. Even if she was hurt, she wouldn’t rush to…’

  Brian cut him short. ‘You’ve just described your marriage as “affectionate”. Doesn’t that imply that you’re close?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Doesn’t it then follow that you might confide in one another?’

  Struthers shifted in his seat. ‘As I said…’

  ‘Mr Struthers, I must press you on this.’

  ‘I’m telling you…’ There was a film of perspiration, now, on the pale brow.

  ‘So you maintain…’

  ‘I do.’ He hesitated. ‘Unless…’

  Brian’s ears pricked.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago, my wife had a fall. More of a stumble, really. We’d gone out to lunch. A very cordial lunch.’ He shot Brian a cutting look. ‘Afterwards we went for a walk. The path was somewhat uneven and Sheena caught her toe. She pitched forward. She must have hurt her arm in an attempt to break her fall.’

  Brian’s lip curled. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That’s the only explanation I can think of.’

  ‘This path, where was it exactly?’

  ‘By the sea. Catterline’s…’

  ‘Yes,’ he interrupted. ‘I know it well.’

  Brian had been there many a time. And he could just picture it: the row of whitewashed cottages, the towering cliffs, that dark, churning sea.

  A Total Bog

  ‘Didn’t say a word.’

  From the depths of the big chair, Maggie presented an ashen face. ‘You didn’t need to. Oh, Wilma, I’ve made a total bog of the Struthers case.’

  ‘Shush,’ Wilma soothed, from a comfy corner of the settee. ‘It’ll all work out.’

  ‘No, it won’t. A client comes to me saying her husband is trying to kill her. I can’t find a shred of evidence. Next thing I know you’re texting me she’s in intensive care.’

  Shrug. ‘Thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Too right I would,’ Maggie retorted. ‘How did you find out? No, don’t tell me. You heard it on the hospital radio at Foresterhill?’

  ‘Pretty much. And there was me thinking I could give up the ARI job any day. But that was before Ian threw a wobbly over the agency.’

  ‘He’s okay with it now,’ Maggie prompted, heart in mouth. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

  ‘Perverse bugger won’t commit himself either way. What I can say,’ Wilma grinned wickedly, ‘is his sex life has never been better.’

  Maggie groaned. ‘Too much information. But, to get back to Sheena Struthers, the latest is she’s at death’s door.’

  Wilma crooked an eyebrow. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘I had a coffee with Brian.’

  ‘Did you, now? He still got the hots for you?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Maggie could feel her colour rise. Prayed it didn’t show in her face.

  ‘What’s he saying, then?’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie ran a distracted hand through her hair. ‘Other than they think she’s not going to make it, he wouldn’t be drawn. Clammed up tighter than a…a…’

  ‘Nun’s arse?’ Wilma completed the sentence.

  ‘Wil-ma!’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘This is no time to be cracking jokes.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she responded innocently. ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Anyhow, as I said, Brian wouldn’t offer another word on the subject. No doubt trying to keep his nose clean after the fall-out from the Simmons affair.’

  ‘Can’t blame the guy.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but where does that leave me?’

  ‘Us.’

  ‘This is my mess, Wilma. And it’s all down to false pride. I hold my hands up to that. I thought I knew better than you, and I was wrong.’

  Wilma leaned forward. ‘You do know better than me. You’re that smart, Maggie. It was you landed Innes Crombie, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded with a wavering smile.

  ‘And look at the business you’ve brought in since.’

  ‘Nothing major.’

  ‘Small cases, I grant you, but they’re building. And these are corporate accounts, Maggie, companies like Harlaw Insurance. Once we have their confidence they’ll grow even more. And they pay. That’s a consideration. And more than can be said of some people.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’ Maggie blushed as she recalled one of her major boo-boos: a sweet-talking patter merchant who’d left them out of pocket to the tune of several hundred pounds.

  ‘Do you remember thon day you said we’d to divvy-up?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you gave me the full-on lecture on how we were to divide our workload according to our skill set.’

  ‘Really? Did I do that?’

  ‘Aye. And to anyone looking at us, it’s pretty obvious. You’re the brains and I’m the…’ She affected a macho stance. ‘Muscle.’

  Maggie grimaced. ‘Not where my kids are concerned.’

  ‘How no?’

  ‘Ever since Kirsty brought that boy home I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘Thought something was bothering you. You’ve had a face on you this past while like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’

  Bristles. ‘I have not.’

 
‘Don’t come the high horse wi’ me, Maggie Laird. I ken you ower weel.’ Wilma draped herself on the arm of Maggie’s chair. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘He’s a bit on the brash side for my taste. And much too familiar: the way he comes up close, sticks his face in mine. And his accent. Nice, is it? or Good, is it?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s just the way it comes out: the curled lip. Challenging, confrontational almost. That boy’s too cocky for words.’ She paused. ‘If I’m honest, I think he’s too working class for Kirsty.’

  ‘You fucking snob!’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I know. Blame it on my parents.’ Who she hadn’t seen for long enough, she reminded herself, neither her nor the kids.

  ‘Och, dinna fash yourself. He’s likely just her bit of rough.’

  ‘That’s precisely what’s concerning me. The way he behaved in front of me, her own mother, I worry about what…’

  ‘Chill, Maggie!’ Wilma cut her short. ‘Kirsty will be fine. It’s a phase they all go through.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Aye, well, we know about you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  Wilma gave Maggie an affectionate nudge. ‘Methlick’s got a lot to answer for.’

  Maggie brushed her off. ‘Don’t you start, Wilma Harcus.’

  Grins. ‘I’m not. Seriously, though, your Kirsty’s got more sense than to get in the sack with some nutter.’

  ‘Who said they were sleeping together?’

  ‘Aren’t they?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ Wilma echoed. ‘Seriously, though, I’ll lay a tenner on it’s just a passing fancy. ‘

  ‘I’d like to think so. But I have my doubts. Usually, Kirsty gives as good as she gets. Not this time. I’m fearful she lets him push her around.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘There’s a fine line between horseplay and full-on abuse.’

  ‘Relax,’ Wilma urged. ‘Kirsty can look after herself.’

  ‘To get back to what we were talking about…’ Maggie changed the subject. ‘I’ve screwed up. Landed myself in another hole. And now I’ll have to dig myself out of it.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Wilma stood up. ‘We’re partners, are we no’?’

  ‘We are. And thank you.’ Maggie blew a kiss. ‘What are we going to do now, then, the two of us?’

  ‘We’re going to do what we always do.’ Wilma advanced across the room. ‘First, establish the facts.’

  ‘How the hell are we going to do that,’ Maggie countered, ‘if Brian won’t tell me anything and the client is quarantined in the ITU? Sheena Struthers might even be under police guard, for all we know.’

  ‘She’s not.’ The words were out before Wilma could stop herself.

  Maggie leapt out of the chair and squared up to her. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I had a wee go at getting in there.’

  ‘To the intensive therapy unit?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Maggie’s eyes were wide. ‘First Seaton, now this. Have you been snooping on me again, Wilma Harcus?’

  ‘No. All I was doing was taking a leaf out of your book: using my connections to move the agency forward. Plus, I still work at the infirmary, remember? Have a problem with that?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Maggie dropped back onto the chair. ‘And I’m sorry, Wilma. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. It’s just, I feel such a fool. And never mind me, think of that poor woman.’ She drew breath. ‘How did you find her, anyway?’

  Wilma perched on the arm. ‘Horizontal.’ She grinned.

  ‘Wil-ma!’ Maggie reached up, threw a mock punch. ‘If you crack one more joke…’

  ‘Didn’t get much more than you got from Brian. Charge nurse threw me off the ward.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie’s face fell. ‘So…’

  ‘Nearest I got was a look-see through the window. It was weird an all, being on the other side of the glass: her laid out wi muckle tubes runnin out o’ her and close to death by all accounts. Bit like thon day I took you down the mortuary, only… Oh, Christ!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Maggie, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. It was upsetting at the time, seeing George lying there dead: the way they’d combed his hair all wrong, things like that. But, now, what I remember is the weird stuff: the fake flowers in the viewing room, the sheet that covered him. Green, it was, not white like you see on TV. And there was this pillow. I hadn’t expected a pillow. Not a pink one, anyhow. Creased to death, they were, too.’ She looked embarrassed at the pun. ‘I remember thinking – imagine the Council supplying a washing machine and no iron.’

  ‘Oof!’ Wilma exclaimed. ‘Must have been a man.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘To get back to Sheena Struthers…’

  ‘Stuck-up bitch of a charge nurse wouldn’t tell me a thing.’ Wilma wrinkled her nose. ‘Not even who it was brought her in.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  Grins. ‘Used my detective skills. I’ve ways, you know. Hot-tailed it round to the ambulance station. Lucky our guy was on shift.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Overdose.’ Triumphant look. ‘Official line is it was accidental, but between you, me and the gatepost,’ Wilma tapped the side of her nose, ‘they’re treating it as a suicide attempt.’

  ‘But…’ Maggie struggled to compose herself. ‘We both know it’s not suicide.’

  Wilma cocked her head. ‘Do we?’

  ‘Of course we do.’ Irritated voice.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Wilma shot back. ‘It’s two cheeks of the same arse.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Maggie wasn’t going to argue.

  She felt like a dead weight had been lodged in the pit of her stomach.

  Sheena Struthers was going to die.

  And if she did it would be all Maggie’s fault.

  An Unlikely Pairing

  Allan Chisolm surveyed the mass of paperwork spread over his desk. Changed days. Talk about effective policing! He hardly made it out of the office any more. To add to his team’s caseload, now there was this blessed Struthers case.

  With a sigh, he pushed the file he’d been working on to one side and picked up the box of TicTacs he kept on his desktop. Eeeny-meeny, he juggled it back and forth between his hands. Could be something, could be nothing. Who knows? What he did know for sure was it had taken up far too much time – his and that of a load of overworked and underpaid detectives. Might be time to put some pressure on – he weighed the box in one hand – see what they could come up with before they called it a day.

  There was a tentative tap on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door opened. A young civilian officer crept into the room.

  ‘Well?’ Chisolm looked up.

  ‘I’ve a message for you, sir. Call came in while you were upstairs. I didn’t think you’d want to be interrupted.’ Apologetic look.

  ‘No.’

  There was silence, then: ‘Out with it.’

  ‘It was from ARI, sir. To do with a Mrs Sheena Struthers,’ the girl broke off, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re saying she’s regained consciousness.’

  ‘Right.’ Chisolm turned his attention back to the reports in front of him.

  The officer stood, waiting for further instructions.

  He looked up. ‘Off you go then.’

  ‘Sir.’ She scuttled out of the room.

  After the balls-up uniform had made of the call-out to Milltimber, he’d best send somebody sensible to take a statement from Sheena Struthers. If the husba
nd was a big wheel in the city, upstairs wouldn’t want the guy kicking up. He performed a mental head-count of his officers: Wood and Duffy he dismissed as being too old-school. When he’d first taken up his post, Chisolm had toyed with the idea of sending the pair on a Diversity Awareness Course, concluded it was way too late. Dunn, he decided, was a tad too brash to interview the older woman. That left Burnett and Strachan.

  Flipping open the perspex lid with his thumb, Chisolm tipped a couple of mints into his mouth. It was over a year since he’d stopped smoking – just one of the things he’d sloughed off when he’d turned his back on Glasgow. Or had it turned its back on him? He uttered a rueful snort. Who knows?

  Burnett would do the job, he chewed thoughtfully. Bit buttoned-up, but he’d get a result. Chisolm wondered if his sergeant had always been that unforthcoming, or whether the fallout from the marriage break-up – Chisolm had heard the stories – had caused the man to retreat into himself…

  Chisolm swallowed down the last of the mints. That wee girl, Strachan, though… She might only be a DC, but she’d shown real insight since she joined his squad.

  Wasn’t it always the same? The female recruits were invariably more collected: didn’t feel the need to strut their stuff, not like the blokes. Not unless…

  His face creased into a grin, as he remembered the dyke from his last posting. Talk about gay pride! The woman was aggression writ large: tried at every turn to shove her sexuality down your throat. The complete opposite of that Laird woman.

  Maggie Laird. The grin vanished from Chisolm’s face. All that soft femininity. The last time he’d called on her, he thought she’d got the message: if she must play private detective, she’d have to confine herself to more mundane things in future. She’d taken it on the chin, and he’d warmed to her, then, even toyed with the idea of asking her out. Nothing heavy. A casual drink, maybe, just to break the ice. But that was before she turned up again like a bad penny, looking to gate-crash police enquiries at will.

  Chisolm couldn’t imagine anyone trying that sort of thing on in Glasgow, least of all some pint-sized female. As for the other dame? Jesus! She was a joke. The DI had only seen the neighbour in passing, but to say the two were an unlikely pairing was putting it mildly. Women! He stroked his chin.