Wilma grinned. ‘Who is?’
‘Nic uses the fact they live in rented accommodation as an excuse. Says he’s too busy at work to take her down to Edinburgh to visit them, doesn’t want her to go on her own. Anyhow…’ Maggie’s face clouded over. ‘Ros turned up at school the other day with a black eye. And you know how your Darren…’
‘That bastard. Don’t remind me.’
‘Still, you know about these things, Wilma.’
‘Aye, mebbe. It could have been an accident, though.’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Well, then.’
‘Equally, the husband’s behaviour could be escalating. From what she said, he’s the controlling type.’
‘What age is this dame?’
‘Early thirties.’
‘Could have told you. Young folk these days are all the same: that self-obsessed. They live in a bubble. It’s all me, me, me!’ Shrugs. ‘She’s likely looking for attention, like your pal Sheena.’
Maggie bristled. ‘You don’t need to rub it in.’
‘I’m not. My two are the same: got an inflated idea of their own importance. They’re aye banging on about disrespect. I mean,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘get a life!’
‘Regardless,’ Maggie rushed to steer the conversation away from Sheena Struthers, ‘it’s obvious there are problems in the marriage.’
‘Sounds pretty cushy to me,’ Wilma observed. ‘Them with two wages coming in.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Thing is, Nic’s on the demanding side. Expects her to jump to his every whim.’
‘Don’t they all? Talking of which, pour me another glass of red, will you pal? This record-keeping is doing my head in.’
‘Be serious,’ Maggie cautioned as she refilled their glasses.
‘I am being serious. Men are big weans the lot of them, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, well.’ Maggie pursed her lips. ‘That apart…’
‘You think you can fix it for her?’ Knowing look. ‘Maggie Laird, you’re some girl!’
Maggie jutted her lip. ‘There’s no need to make fun.’
‘I’m not. But, as I’ve been trying to tell you, it’s not up to you to sort.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Are you listening? This Ros is not your concern. Haven’t you learned your lesson from that Fatboy business? Sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted damn near got you killed.’
In truth, Wilma was more concerned about their current situation. Fatboy was ancient history. What was more worrying was the time Maggie had put in on the Struthers business. And Sheena Struthers hadn’t gone away. She said a secret prayer this Ros woman wasn’t going to be another diversion.
Maggie’s hackles rose. She knew Wilma was right. Plus, given the Struthers debacle, she’d been right twice running. Still, Maggie wanted to help her friend.
‘But…’ she started out.
‘Back off, Maggie,’ Wilma said firmly. ‘Leave your Seaton job at the door. You’ve enough to worry about with your own bairns.’
‘Accepted. But if you could just…’
Exasperated voice. ‘He doesn’t batter her, does he?’
‘Not as far as I can make out, though I’ve a question mark, still, over that black eye. It’s more…the guy seems to be forever putting her down. No,’ Maggie corrected. ‘That’s not true. He does hurt her, and not just verbally. She’s told me he’s in the habit of pinching her, giving a jab with his elbow, that sort of thing. Some might call it playful, I suppose, but seems it’s always that bit too hard.’
‘You don’t need to tell me!’ Wilma opted to humour Maggie. ‘The real bastards never hit you where it shows. When they do leave a mark, they make sure it’s easily explained. My Darren was a real pro: went straight for the kidneys, either that or the groin.’
‘Oh, I don’t think the problem’s in that league,’ Maggie countered. ‘According to Ros, the husband can be charming as well. It’s just he’s so unpredictable. One minute he’s caring, the next tearing strips off her. She can never predict.’
‘Domestic abuse isn’t just physical. It can be psychological, too. Sounds like her man’s a dead ringer.’
‘Doesn’t it just? I’ve been reading up on the Victims and Witnesses (Scotland) Act. Dire stuff. Must have led a charmed life with George.’
‘Lucky you!’ Wilma retorted. ‘Darren wiped the floor with me, literally sometimes. Put me off men for life.’ She grinned. ‘Until I met Ian, that is. Speaking of sex gods, does your friend have any problems in bed?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘How can you tell? Sexual abuse isn’t just marital rape, you know, Maggie. There’s this woman I know, her man used to…’
‘Let me stop you right there,’ Maggie grimaced. She wished she hadn’t started the conversation. ‘I sense too much information coming on.’
‘But,’ Wilma ignored the remark, ‘how did you get landed with all this?’
‘Ros and I are on the same wavelength, tend to stick together in the staffroom.’ Maggie pulled a face. ‘Fight off the old fogies. And lately, well, I expect she felt she could confide in me. Small things: she’s told me Nic keeps tabs on her spending, right down to checking her supermarket receipts. And there are other things…’ She broke off.
‘Classic!’ Wilma jumped to her feet. ‘This is all about control.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Never mind “suppose”,’ Wilma advanced across the room. ‘From what you’ve said, this fella wants to control your friend’s every move, isolate her from outside influence, on top of which he plays mind games, blows hot and cold. Take it from me.’ She wagged a forefinger at Maggie. ‘Guy’s a fucking…’ She broke off, frowning. ‘Canna mind the word.’
‘Narcissist?’ Maggie supplied.
‘That’s the one. Guy’s a fucking narcissist. End of.’
I Can’t Explain
For the third time in as many weeks, Brian faced Gordon Struthers across a table. Only this time the table was bolted to the floor.
He ran through the formalities for the tape: date, officers present – Sharon was at the hospital, so he’d been paired with Douglas Dunn.
He served the caution. Then, in the awkward silence that followed, mentally ran through the interview plan they’d agreed beforehand. After the couple of black marks he’d earned from the boss, he’d have to run this one by the book.
‘Tell me about your marriage,’ he began.
‘I answered that at our last meeting.’ Gordon Struthers’ eyes darted to his solicitor, who nodded imperceptibly. Then he looked back at Brian.
Brian smiled. ‘Humour me.’
‘As I already informed you,’ Struthers said stiffly, ‘our marriage has not been without its…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Difficulties.’
‘Minor difficulties, I think you described them.’
‘That is correct.’
‘And might these “minor difficulties” extend to the bedroom?’ Brian fished.
Startled face. ‘Sex, do you mean?’
‘I do.’
‘That’s hardly relevant.’
‘In your situation, Mr Struthers,’ Brian replied, ‘it is incumbent on me as interviewing officer to decide what is relevant and what is not.’
Struthers stole another look at his solicitor, who sat impassive. ‘Our sexual interaction has always been healthy. More than that. Robust, I’d say.’ He gave a satisfied smirk.
Christ. Brian wondered if their sex life was as clinical. ‘So can you explain to me, please, the pornographic images we found on your computer?’
Behind the spectacles, Struthers’ eyes widened. His gaze flickered from Brian to Dunn to his solicitor and back to Brian.
‘Lots of men look at porn,’ he said, at last, his tone defiant.
/> ‘Domination? Degradation?’ Brian interjected. ‘I don’t think so.’ He consulted his notes. ‘You’ve told me there are no difficulties in that department. Sex, I mean.’
Gordon’s lips pursed. ‘That’s not what I said. If I must spell it out,’ he broke off, a look of distaste on his pasty face. ‘Sheena – my wife – is at an age where there is a certain dryness in the vaginal walls. Discomfort on penetration. Need I elaborate?’
Brian shook his head. ‘Have you looked for…’ He hesitated. ‘Comfort elsewhere? Other than online,’ he added, for wickedness.
Gordon Struthers sat upright. ‘Certainly not, Sergeant. My wife and I are devoted to one another. As you’re no doubt aware, we’ve been married for over twenty years.’
The two detectives exchanged a glance. That would square with Dunn’s report. Brian moved swiftly on. ‘So, other than the “minor difficulties” you’ve described, you would have no grounds on which to wish your wife harm?’
‘Of course not.’
‘We believe otherwise,’ Brian said quietly. He fixed Struthers with a steely look. ‘Now is your opportunity to tell us the truth.’
From Gordon Struthers there was an obdurate silence.
‘Moving on.’ Douglas took over. ‘Your home, am I correct in saying it’s in your wife’s name?’
Behind the horn-rimmed spectacles Struthers’ eyes bulged. ‘I…’ He looked up at the camera. ‘I…’ He looked down again.
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘Yes. But that’s not unusual.’ Gordon Struthers looked to the lawyer for reassurance. ‘Not in my profession anyhow. It’s a question of tax planning.’
‘Ah.’ Douglas nodded sagely. ‘And talking of tax planning…’ He let this hang in the air. ‘When our technical department examined your laptop computer, they threw up a number of loan applications.’
Behind his spectacles, Struthers blinked. ‘What of it?’
‘I understand you may be liable for your – sadly – late partner’s equity payout.’
‘I’ve long made provision for that,’ Struthers snapped.
‘My apologies, sir.’ Brian assumed his fall-back expression. ‘And sincere condolences.’ He allowed a respectful interval, then: ‘The loan applications?’
‘Were made by me on behalf of…’ Struthers loosed the knot of his tie. ‘Another party.’
Gotcha! Brian’s nerve-endings tingled.
‘Would you be happy to divulge this person’s identity?’
‘Indeed. My godson. I’m assisting him with a business venture.’ Gordon Struthers offered a knowing smirk. ‘He’ll happily confirm the details.’
‘Right.’ Brian slumped back in his seat, deflated.
‘If that’s all,’ the solicitor intervened. ‘These are spurious grounds for detaining my client. For the record,’ he cast a scathing glance at the camera, ‘I intend to file a complaint.’
‘There is just one more thing,’ Douglas jumped in. ‘When we had a look at your search history, in addition to the distasteful pornographic images you,’ he looked Gordon Struthers straight in the eye, ‘appear to consider normal, it threw up some additional surprising results.’
He flipped open a folder, lifted the topmost sheet of paper, turned it around and slid it across the table. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
The man sitting opposite ran his eyes down the data. He looked up, first at Douglas, then at the camera, then at his solicitor and back to Douglas. He seemed to shrivel in his seat. Behind the round spectacles, the blue eyes blinked an SOS.
The words, when they came, were scarce more than a whisper. ‘I can’t explain.’
LoveBunny
Like Maggie’s home in Mannofield, the Craigiebuckler property was a bungalow, but there the similarity ended. Detached from its neighbours, its privacy bolstered by a thicket of shrubbery, it sat on a large corner plot defined by ornate railings, the up-and-over doors of the double garage accessed over fancy block paving.
Maggie sat in the sitting room. The fireplace was marble, the drapes silk, the buttoned velvet sofa an impractical shade of pale taupe. Around her, a gaggle of women dressed in cashmere and designer jeans engaged in animated conversation.
Wilma had talked her into it.
Like a Tupperware party, she’d opined. Only not.
It was the ‘not’ that bothered Maggie.
You do it, Wilma, she’d insisted. You know more about that sort of thing than I do.
And you’re used to mixing with folk like that, Wilma had come back. Posh folk.
But…
Besides, it’ll be a bit of fun. Take your mind of thon Struthers business, that and your wee pal from school.
I don’t need my mind taken off…
Fair enough. But I’ve been out three nights this week already, and you ken fine I’m needing to keep my nose clean.
In the end, she had no choice.
*
Now, the hostess – Moyra with a ‘y’ – drifted around the room dispensing chilled prosecco into crystal flutes.
She settled herself on an oversized pouffe. ‘Right, ladies.’ She tinkled a dainty cut glass bell. ‘Are we sitting comfortably?’
There were nods and murmurs of assent.
‘Then I’ll begin.’ She smiled brightly, displaying a set of expensively capped teeth. ‘For those of you unfamiliar with the LoveBunny Party Plan,’ her gaze took in Maggie and a rather blowsy blonde in black leather trousers. ‘Our little soiree this evening offers an exclusive opportunity to browse, and even…’ she did a double-take at Maggie’s lazy eye, ‘…try out a range of saucy outfits and sex aids in the privacy and comfort of a private home. For the benefit of the new guests, I’ll quickly demonstrate our best-sellers. First up…’ Stage wink. ‘Something the rest of you ladies have grown to love.’ She dipped into a box at her feet, extracted a pink plastic object. ‘Rampant Rabbit.’ She brandished it in front of her face.
There was a ripple of laughter.
Dear Lord! Maggie felt the colour rise in her neck. She knew what a vibrator was but had never seen one up close, far less in someone’s front room.
‘Rabbit comes to you in silicone in a variety of colours and finishes,’ Moira continued. ‘Even platinum.’ Out of the box she drew a shiny silver job.
‘Got one of those last time,’ piped up a mousy fifty-something from the chaise in the bay window. She grinned. ‘I can recommend it.’
‘Is it much better than the standard one?’
‘Loads. Whole thing rotates. Done wonders for me.’
Too much information. Maggie took a careful sip of her Evian water.
‘And a snip at only forty-five pounds,’ the hostess beamed.
‘I’ll have one, then.’
A hand shot up. ‘Me, too.’
Two sales and they’d hardly got started. From her research, Maggie had learned a party like this could rake in a good few hundred pounds in a couple of hours, double that at Christmastime. In her head she ran through the agency’s remit: Moyra had reported an unusually high level of wastage over the past few months. The company’s area manager reckoned she was under-stating sales and skimming cash. All Maggie had to do was sit through the afternoon’s proceedings and make a list of what was sold.
‘For those ladies whose taste isn’t quite so…shall we say, exotic…’ Moyra flourished a white object. ‘This little number comes in a discreet finish, offers three speeds and three pulses and has the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.’
Maggie’s ears burned, as the vibrator was passed around and another couple of sales registered. She’d always identified the Good Housekeeping Institute with more mundane products.
Squirming, she sat through a succession of butt plugs, cock rings and jiggle balls. When an innocuous-looking plastic object was brandished, her interest piqued, for th
e thing looked for all the world like the string of bobble beads her mum kept, still, in her old jewellery box. How, as a child, Maggie had loved popping and un-popping that necklace. Her buttocks clenched involuntarily as the object was described as ‘anal love beads’.
Stifling a hysterical giggle, she jumped to her feet, excused herself and headed for the bathroom. Once there, she splashed her scarlet face with cold water, then, composure regained, she perched on the toilet seat and jotted down a list of the sales she’d memorised.
*
By the time she returned to the sitting room, the noise level had risen in line with the cluster of empty prosecco bottles, and Maggie had totted up four hundred and seventy pounds in sales.
The hostess moved on to what she coyly described as ‘mood enhancers’. A succession of tipsy women lurched upstairs to the ‘master suite’, returning in various stages of undress. With ill-disguised distaste, Maggie regarded the outfits: French Maid, Naughty Nurse, Sexy Schoolgirl. There was even a Bunny Girl. She stifled a yawn. Even she knew bunny girls were old-hat. Slack-jawed, she took in the array of underwear Moyra fished from her seemingly bottomless box: peephole and harness bras, black stockings and basques. There were crotchless, open-back and spanking knickers, wet-look thongs, even a complete bondage kit.
Fainting with embarrassment, she dipped to the carpet and fished her phone out of her bag. On the pretext of checking her messages, she clocked the time.
‘Nothing take your fancy?’ Moyra plonked her trim rear onto the sofa.
Maggie dropped the phone. ‘Not really.’ She shifted sideways. ‘Not much call at the moment.’ She smiled, trying to make a joke of it. Felt the smile die on her face.
‘Well, you know what they say…’ Moyra pressed on, relentless. ‘Round every corner…’
‘I know.’ Brusquely, Maggie cut her short, though she had to admire the woman’s persistence. Then: Mind you buy something! Wilma’s words rang in her ears. Otherwise they’ll shop you!
Scarlet-faced, she reached for the catalogue she’d been given and riffled through the pages.
Something small, she told herself, just to show willing.
Burnout Page 25
