Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Oh, Brian,’ Maggie turned a stricken face, ‘that was all my fault.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘As I saw it, George was faced with two choices: face a disciplinary hearing and risk dismissal, or resign before he was pushed. He wanted to take it to a hearing, get the chance to clear his name. But I talked him out of it.’

  ‘But why, Maggie? I mean, was there anything concrete to set against him?’

  ‘The tape, I suppose.’ She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. ‘I’m not sure. Anyhow, what if he’d gone to a hearing and lost?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have lost, at least as far as I can judge. George was well thought of. I’m sure he’d have acquitted himself…’

  ‘But what if he didn’t? Perform well in front of the panel, I mean. He’d been under such stress. Was taking medication for it. What if he had an off day, what then?’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘I was terrified they would find against him, Brian. George could have lost his pension. We might have had to sell the house,’ Maggie’s voice wavered. ‘Everything we’ve worked so hard for. I decided it was too big a gamble. We had a blazing row about it at the time.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for that. God knows what any of us would have done in his shoes.’

  ‘Yes, well, there was the small matter of a family to provide for. Oh,’ she clapped a hand to her mouth, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She’d heard that Brian’s wife had left him, and they’d never had any children. ‘I was thinking of myself, me and the kids. I wanted to put the pair of them through private school, you see. Give them the advantages we never had. And George was happy enough to go along with me. But it’s been a strain, all these years, keeping it up in the air. And when it came to it, that’s what I was worried about. Not George. How he felt. What his future would be.’

  ‘George would have done anything for you, Maggie.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ A muscle worked in her jaw. ‘And I took advantage. Didn’t trust my own husband to fight his corner. It was the biggest mistake of my life, Brian, and it’s taken a trip to the morgue to make me see it.’

  Maggie was sobbing now.

  Brian stood. He wrapped his arms around her small frame.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Oh,’ she shook herself free. Brusquely she brushed the tears from her cheeks. ‘Kirsty’s going to give me a hand.’

  ‘Where are they, the kids?’

  ‘In bed, still – both of them. I looked in just before you arrived. Thought I’d leave them be.’

  ‘Best thing, in the circumstances. Have you any idea when the funeral’s likely to be? It’s just some of the guys have been asking.’

  ‘Next Tuesday, as far as I know. I saw the undertaker yesterday.’ Maggie’s thoughts strayed to the previous day’s appointment: the undertaker’s airless office with its bland furnishings and vertical blinds, the stiff silk flower arrangement on the desk, the funeral director with his soft hands and his unctuous manner. Her mind backtracked then to her visit to the mortuary. Coming so soon after that ordeal, the thought of George’s lifeblood being drained out of him was too much to bear. Time was, she mused, you’d have had your loved one at home. Maggie could remember her grandfather’s body lying in the front room at the farm: the drawn curtains, the family assembled. There was a closeness to it, a solidity, somehow.

  With an effort she brought herself back to the present. ‘They’ll put an announcement in the Press and Journal.’

  ‘I’ll tell folk to look out for it.’ Brian made to leave. ‘I’m really sorry that you had to get in touch, Maggie. You know I’d have come to see how you were. I care about you.’ He looked down, met her gaze. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she responded softly. Now she felt sorry. The man looked to be on the verge of tears.

  ‘I’d better be heading, though. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.’

  ‘Before you go,’ Maggie’s voice was uncertain, ‘I wasn’t going to bring it up, not since I haven’t seen you for such a long while. But if it’s not an imposition…’ she coloured slightly. ‘The funeral…could I ask… Will you say a few words?’

  A Daft Idea

  The doorbell chimed.

  Not that damn thing again. Maggie was demented by the stream of callers: old colleagues of George, parishioners from the church, neighbours bearing trays of home baking and Tupperware tubs of soup. Grateful as she was for the many small acts of kindness shown in the wake of her husband’s sudden death, she longed for some quiet. Time to gather herself, hold her children close.

  Ding, dong, it chimed once more. The ugly cream-coloured box with its dangling brass tubes had been in place when they bought the bungalow. They’d always meant to replace it. Now the thing was so old it was back in fashion.

  Balefully, Maggie eyed it. ‘Com-ing,’ she bawled.

  She stomped down the hall. Yanked open the door.

  Wilma Harcus stood on the doorstep.

  Wilma was a big girl: a size 16, at the very least, to her own size 8. Maggie took in the fake tan, the low-cut top, the sprayed-on leggings. She sighed inwardly. Although she owed her new neighbour a debt of gratitude, they didn’t have a single thing in common.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Maggie stuttered. Then, mindful of her manners, ‘Come in, won’t you?’ She summoned a smile.

  There were letters lying on the carpet. Heart sinking, she stooped to pick them up. She couldn’t face another flurry of condolence cards, digest more carefully chosen words of sympathy. She shuffled the mail in her hands. There were a couple of cellophane-windowed white envelopes, a letter from Scottish Gas, another from the DVLA and an official-looking long envelope.

  Wilma followed Maggie through to the dining room. ‘I didn’t want to call before. You’ve your kids to see to. Only I was worried about you. How you doing?’

  ‘I’m…fine.’

  They sat down at the table.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes. No,’ a sob broke from Maggie’s throat. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like – getting through the day, climbing into a cold bed at night. And it’s been no time since… I can’t begin to contemplate what…’

  ‘Oh, Maggie,’ the big woman extended a comforting hand. ‘You’ve still Colin for company, haven’t you?’

  Maggie’s expression softened. ‘Yes, but the poor boy’s in bits.’

  ‘How about your daughter?’

  ‘Kirsty? She’s a different kettle of fish. Been a big help already. Mind you,’ she sighed, ‘I’m sure a lot of it’s for show. I’ve no idea what’s going on in her head.’

  ‘Your folks, are they still around?’

  ‘Yes. They live out in Oldmeldrum. My dad’s given up the farm, but they’re getting on now. I wouldn’t want to burden them.’

  ‘Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, I’m an only child.’

  ‘What about friends? Is there anyone close you could…?’

  ‘Just the one.’ Wry face. ‘My school friend, Val. And she’s in Kuwait.’

  ‘If you ever need somebody to…’

  ‘Let me get rid of these.’ Abruptly Maggie changed the subject. She ripped open the first of the envelopes. ‘Junk mail.’ Slit open the second. ‘More of the same.’ Turned to the third. ‘I’d no idea it cost that much to tax a car.’

  ‘Bloody nightmare, the price of things.’

  Maggie turned her attention to the missive from Scottish Gas. ‘Oh,’ her eyes widened, ‘it says they’re owed nearly £400.’

  ‘Will you manage to find the money?’

  ‘Yes, it’s peanuts in the scheme of things. You wouldn’t believe the cost of a funeral. Thank God I’ve George’s pension to fall back on.’

  She reached for the
final envelope. Slid out the folded pages inside. Brightened. ‘It’s from the SPPA.’

  ‘Who?’ Puzzled look.

  ‘The police pension people.’

  ‘Wow, that was quick.’

  ‘Wasn’t it? Still, I could fair use some good news, don’t you think? I’m counting on the pension to keep things up in the air, Wilma. At least until Colin’s finished school and Kirsty’s got her degree.’

  She started to read. Blanched. Clutched a hand to her chest.

  The letter fluttered to her feet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Wilma started from her seat.

  ‘George’s pension…’ Maggie’s voice was barely audible. ‘They’re saying he opted out. I’ll be getting nothing at all until I can sort this out.’

  x

  Maggie sat, head in hands. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t you worry. Something’ll turn up.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I could sell the car.’

  ‘But, Maggie, the MOT…You’d need to get that sorted first.’

  ‘Oh,’ her face fell. ‘I forgot about that.’

  ‘If it was any help,’ Wilma ventured, ‘my Ian could give it the once over for you.’

  ‘Thanks. That would be a saving.’ Maggie sat in silence for a few moments. She racked her brains. ‘I suppose, if all else fails, I could sell the house.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to leave it, surely.’

  Her eyes welled with tears. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie,’ Wilma’s open face was filled with concern, ‘I hear you’ve had your troubles this while back, and now this.’

  ‘You know about the trial, then?’

  Although Wilma had moved in with Ian Harcus several months before, the only time Maggie had really engaged with the woman was the day she’d had to beg a lift to the mortuary.

  ‘Aye. Could hardly have missed it, what with them red tops kickin up, and the telly and that. But don’t you fret, it’ll all come right.’

  ‘How?’ Maggie scrubbed the tears away. ‘Tell me that.’

  ‘Folk have short memories, you know. And even good coppers can be tempted.’

  ‘Tempted?’ Maggie turned on her neighbour. ‘My husband wasn’t corrupt, Wilma Harcus. And now he’s dead.’

  ‘Sorry I opened my big mouth.’

  Maggie drew herself up, ‘There’s only one way I could possibly make things right, and that’s by clearing George’s name.’

  The two sat, lost for words, then, ‘Wasn’t your husband running a wee business when he…?’ Wilma asked.

  Maggie brushed a drip from the end of her nose. ‘Wee is the operative word.’

  ‘But,’ her neighbour persisted, ‘it is still up and running?’

  ‘It hasn’t been wound up yet, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘There you are, then – you’ve a ready-made business just waiting to be picked up.’

  Maggie spluttered, ‘I couldn’t possibly do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because…’ she groaned, ‘it’s a private investigation agency.’

  Wilma grinned. ‘All the better. You’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Don’t get you.’

  ‘Make a living and work to clear your husband’s name at the same time.’

  ‘But the business has barely got off the ground. As for clearing George’s name, that wouldn’t happen overnight. Before I could make a case, I’d have to establish the facts and…’

  ‘No better training than working as a PI.’

  ‘Wil-ma… ’ Maggie got to her feet. ‘Be serious. I couldn’t possibly do a private investigator’s job.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Solving crimes? All that cloak and dagger stuff?’

  Gently, Wilma drew Maggie back down onto her chair. ‘Private investigators don’t solve crimes. That’s a detective’s job. They look into cases, that’s all. And besides, PIs don’t work like that any more. It’s mostly desk stuff these days. Didn’t your husband tell you that?’

  ‘No.’ Maggie hadn’t dared speculate on what unsavoury activities her husband had got up to since he left the Force, and with whom. ‘He was pretty cagey about the whole thing, if you must know.’

  ‘Well, most of an investigator’s work really is done on the telephone – either that or on the computer.’

  ‘That’s another thing, Wilma. I’m hopeless with technology: computers, tablets…’

  ‘That boy of yours could help.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’d need a SIA licence. That takes time, costs money. Plus a PI’s job can’t just be desk stuff. I’d have to be out and about some of the time.’

  ‘So? Colin’s seventeen, isn’t he? You can leave him to it.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave him on his own. He’s young yet. I’d worry about him.’

  ‘I could keep an eye on him,’ Wilma countered. ‘My two lads are grown, and you kind of miss it sometimes – the hands-on stuff.’ She paused. ‘Well, what are you thinking?’

  Maggie’s head was swimming. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t you check it out?’ Wilma pushed on, undeterred. ‘There’ll be computer equipment in your husband’s office.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And George’s mobile, where is it now?’

  ‘Most likely with the personal effects the police brought the other day.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I’m not going into George’s phone, Wilma, if that’s what you’re thinking. It would be too ghoulish for words.’

  Sly look. ‘It could be useful.’

  ‘You make it sound so straightforward,’ Maggie railed. ‘Checking out the office. Downloading messages off George’s phone. But then what am I supposed to do? I don’t know the first thing about benefit fraud. Or divorce proceedings. Or whatever investigators do these days.’

  ‘You’re not telling me you’ve been married to a policeman all that time and not picked up a thing or two?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Plus you’ll have contacts. In the police,’ Wilma winked. ‘Wherever.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting…’

  ‘Maggie…’ Wilma’s voice was stern all of a sudden. ‘Do you want to clear George’s name or don’t you?’

  Maggie’s heart palpitated in her chest. ‘There’s nothing I want more in this world.’

  ‘Then taking on the business seems to be the obvious solution.’ Wilma’s broad face was the picture of innocence. ‘If it doesn’t work out, there’s no harm done now, is there?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Warily, Maggie eyed her neighbour. Wilma Harcus was well-meaning, she reckoned, but totally misguided.

  She felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Wanted nothing more than for Wilma to leave so she could fall back into bed, lose herself in the darkness.

  ‘What are you saying to it?’ Wilma pressed.

  Maggie slid down in her seat.

  ‘No offence, Wilma. But I still think it’s a daft idea.’

  No Job too Small

  The heavy door that led from the pavement had come off its hinges. Maggie stepped around it and headed for the stairs. As her nostrils caught the sour reek of old piss, she cupped her fingers over her nose and mouth, averting her eyes from the jumble of takeaway cartons that lay heaped in the lee of the stairwell. She couldn’t imagine why her husband would have chosen such a place, sandwiched between a bookmakers and an Indian restaurant, so close to Queen Street, with all its bitter memories. But it would have been handy for the Sheriff Court, she supposed. And cheap.

  The first-floor landing was in shadow, a pair of brown varnished doors plastered with the sort of instant plastic signs they make up in shoe repair shops:

 
A1 DENTAL LABORATORY

  ACE DOMESTICS

  24HR TV SERVICES

  ‘All right?’ An old guy materialised from behind a door marked ‘Same Day Jewellery Repairs’.

  Maggie’s nerves jangled. Lord, what a fright you gave me!

  She drew a deep breath. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she murmured. Heart thudding, she darted past. Climbed on upwards towards the second floor.

  She spotted it at once. The door had been mended recently, a ragged rectangle of bare hardboard tacked over one of the upper panels. Maggie took in the security features: the discreet spyhole, the heavy mortice lock set below the Yale. So typical of George.

  The cheap name plate the door bore was, like the others on the stair, made up in plastic and black, the letters picked out in white.

  PRESTIGE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

  She wondered where her husband had got the name from, who’d made up the poor little sign. She could picture him in some Timpson branch or other. He’d be fretting over the colour, the font, the cost.

  Below the name plate, a piece of white card was secured with four brass thumb tacks. On the card was printed in careful capital letters:

  NO JOB TOO SMALL

  She grimaced. No wonder George had been so insistent she didn’t come near his place of work.

  She bent into her handbag and fumbled for the bunch of keys. As she drew them out of the bag, she could see that her hand was trembling.

  The door swung open. Maggie found herself in a cramped hallway, punctuated by three cheap panelled doors. Gingerly, she turned the handle of the first. The room was devoid of furnishings. Beige Anaglypta wallpaper covered the walls, stained fawn carpet the floor. A dusty lightbulb hung overhead, suspended by a twisted, dark brown cord. At the far end of the room was a single grimy window. Quickly, she crossed to it, only to find it gave onto a bleak back court. In the window recess, a rust-ringed stone sink was littered with the carapaces of a myriad dead insects. On the bleached wooden draining board sat a cheap electric kettle and a solitary dark blue mug. Maggie recognised the mug as one she’d bought in a small gift shop in Ullapool. She’d wondered where it had gone. She picked the mug up. Pressed it to her lips. Ran her tongue round its rim. Oh, George… She put the mug down again with a clatter. She beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door firmly behind her.