Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  The second door looked more promising, but turned out to be the bathroom of what must have been at one time a two-roomed flat. The avocado suite was dated but clean, hand wash and a fresh towel at the basin, a can of air freshener on the cistern. The toilet seat had been left up, the sight so poignant Maggie turned on her heel.

  She stumbled towards the third and final door. It stood slightly ajar. Tentatively, she pushed against it. This room was larger than the other, its walls freshly painted in cream emulsion. A patterned rug covered the floor. In the centre of the room sat an oak desk. Not a good desk. Utility, her mum would have called it. Maggie wondered where her husband had found the thing. The Salvation Army depot, most like, round the corner on the Castlegate. Behind the desk sat a black swivel chair. An elbow chair stood in front. Her heart warmed. Against the odds, George had made his place of work look professional. Still, she speculated as to how many hours he’d spent in this room, sitting behind that poor wee desk, trying to make ends meet. How many days he’d had to trail round in all weathers, drumming up business. Looking into other people’s business.

  Maggie crossed to the desk and cast a cursory glance over the computer monitor and keyboard. She bent, slid open the drawers, one after another. They held nothing of interest: some scrap paper, a few chewed biros, a handful of paper clips. There was a box of business cards, a memo pad with some writing on it. She felt a stab of grief as her eye rested on the familiar hand.

  A light was flashing on the telephone. Resolutely, she turned away. In the far corner of the room stood a dark green metal filing cabinet, its top drawer gaping. Swiftly, she crossed the intervening space, her pulse quickening as she moved towards it. It was only when she came up close that Maggie saw somebody had broken the lock.

  ‘Anybody there?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she whirled to face the man standing in the doorway.

  ‘You did say to meet you here?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I was distracted, that’s all. Thanks for coming, Alec. I know you’ve always got such a lot on your plate.’

  Alec Gourlay eyed her gravely. ‘Not so much I can’t make time for an old friend.’

  ‘All the same, I really appreciate it. And I’m glad you got here first. I want to thank you for those few minutes alone with George. I know you were pushing the boat out.’

  The pathologist cast his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Lucky for you the Senior Mortuary Assistant was on leave that week. There’s no way I’d have got you past him, post-mortem or no. And if there hadn’t been a locum from ARI…and he hadn’t owed me one…’ He gave a small shrug. ‘Best for both of us we forget it ever happened.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Maggie would never explain the primal urge that had propelled her onto that gurney.

  ‘But I’ve arrived first, did you say?’

  ‘I asked Brian Burnett along too. Before I bury George, I need to know about his final hours. Hoped between you, you’d fill in the gaps.’

  Gourlay raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘What precisely do you want to know?’

  ‘How long George had been dead when the police found him. Whether anyone else might have had access before then. Anything at all you can tell me.’ She hesitated. ‘The Death Certificate stated the cause of death was a myocardial infarction?’

  ‘Yes,’ his voice was matter-of-fact. ‘What happens is a blood clot occurs in the arteries of the heart and occludes it. The area supplied with blood by the blocked arteries loses its source of nutrition and oxygen and degenerates. If the block is severe, death can occur very quickly.’

  ‘Hello?’ Footsteps sounded in the hallway. ‘Alec?’ Brian Burnett strode through the door. ‘You’re a surprise.’

  The pathologist threw him a curt nod. ‘I was just about to tell Maggie that coronary thrombosis is the leading fatal affliction that strikes down otherwise healthy people.’

  ‘But what could have caused it?’

  ‘Genetic factors, obesity, heavy smoking, high cholesterol, diabetes, hypertension. I could go on.’

  ‘But we all know that George was a fit man. He didn’t drink heavily. Wasn’t overweight. Well, not significantly.’ She paused. ‘You mentioned hypertension. Could the stress of the last couple of years have caused a blot clot to form?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Did you find anything else when you examined George? Anything out of the ordinary? Suspicious, is what I’m really trying to say.’

  ‘No. That’s why I didn’t feel it necessary to do a post-mortem. In any event,’ Gourlay gave Burnett the nod, ‘that’s one for your detective here.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Maggie turned to Brian. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘As I recall, George’s body was discovered by Bob Duffy in the late afternoon. Duffy was responding to a call-out from another business at this address. He wasn’t able to gain access to George’s office and had to call for back-up,’ Brian scratched his head. ‘I’d need to go back to Duffy to check who exactly was in attendance.’

  ‘What did they find when they got in there?’

  ‘George was lying face down on the floor of the main office. There was no pulse and…’

  Maggie broke in. ‘Didn’t anybody even try to save him?’

  ‘Yes. Bob Duffy attempted immediate chest compression, and an ambulance with resuscitation equipment would have been summoned as a matter of course. If it’s any consolation, the paramedics worked on George for long enough, but they were too late.’

  ‘But why did the police feel the need to take him to the mortuary?’

  ‘There have been a number of opportunistic thefts over the past few weeks. King Street,’ Brian sighed, ‘is not exactly salubrious.’

  Maggie was painfully aware of that. She grimaced. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘Added to which,’ Alec Gourlay chipped in, ‘the doctor wanted a second opinion, and seeing as the mortuary is just across the street…’

  ‘But aside from that,’ Brian again, ‘we’d want to do it by the book. After all,’ he pursed his lips, ‘George is one of our own.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Was, then. But he was held in high regard.’ Brian focused on Maggie’s right eye. ‘Nobody believes George bribed that wee bastard Brannigan.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Upstairs do.’

  ‘Not all of them. You only have to look at the turnout to his funeral, the number of senior police officers who attended.’

  ‘Not the Commander.’

  ‘No. But I’d put that down to political expediency.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s all down to political expediency these days.’

  ‘But none of this makes any difference to the reality of the situation,’ Alec added. ‘My external examination indicated no unusual features, and the police report suggested no extraneous involvement.’

  Maggie turned to Brian. ‘What about the damage to the front door?’

  ‘Back-up would have done that to get in.’

  ‘And that filing cabinet,’ she waved her hand. ‘Someone’s broken into it.’

  ‘Don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘So we’ll never know,’ she looked at each man in turn. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  Brian Burnett answered. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Thank you, both of you. I’m grateful to you for coming along today.’

  Gourlay threw her a sympathetic look. ‘I hope I’ve reassured you, Maggie, at least as to the clinical aspects of George’s death.’

  ‘You have, yes, but only up to a point. You’ve been good friends, both of you. To George. And to me. And I have to accept your findings. My husband died of a heart attack. What I’m still not convinced of is…’

  Both men eyed her warily.

  ‘What brought it on.’

  Working on it

  ‘How about this?’ The salesman indicated another su
it on the crowded rail. Seamlessly, he slid out the hanger and held it at arm’s length.

  Colin looked at his feet. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You could try it on,’ Maggie suggested.

  The three of them were in Slaters, a vast menswear store upstairs from Oddbins in Bon-Accord Street.

  ‘If I have to.’ Colin shuffled sideways. He followed the salesman to a changing room.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into that boy.’ There was a tremor in Maggie’s voice. ‘Your brother’s changed, Kirsty. Just look at his hair. And he won’t talk to me any more.’

  Kirsty flapped her hands in front of her face. ‘Calm down, Mum. He’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘And those clothes he wears. Things with studs. What are they supposed to…’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s his Emo phase. Hardcore punk music,’ she responded to Maggie’s puzzled expression. ‘Nightmare. Trust me, it’ll be over before you know it.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I hope so.’ Already she regretted the idea of buying her son a suit for the funeral. She couldn’t afford it. Not now, what with the pension letter. But it broke her heart to see her kids hurting, and she’d hoped it might prove a diversion, this shopping expedition. Get them all out of the house.

  Colin emerged from behind a curtain. He stood, uncertain, eyes cast down.

  ‘What do you think?’ the salesman enquired.

  The boy lifted his chin a fraction. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Mum?’ The salesman smiled at Maggie. Right eye, left eye, and away. She’d seen the reaction so often it barely registered. This time it wiped the smile from his face. Maggie experienced a sharp stab of hurt. Over the years she’d become inured to the sideways glances. But now, in her depleted state…

  She rallied. ‘The trousers are a bit baggy round the ankles.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ He concentrated on Maggie’s ‘good eye’ this time.

  ‘Mu-um,’ Kirsty jabbed her mother in the ribs, ‘that’s how they’re supposed to look, isn’t that right, bro?’

  Colin eyed his sister from beneath lowered lids. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Cut it out, Kirsty.’

  ‘I was only…’

  ‘I said…’

  ‘Forget it,’ Kirsty turned on her heel. ‘See you downstairs.’

  x

  ‘That looks nice.’

  Colin had gone for the bus, suit carrier slung over one shoulder. Kirsty was in the White Stuff changing room, Maggie leaning against the wall outside.

  ‘Nice?’ Kirsty shrugged out of the garment and let it drop to the floor.

  Maggie experienced a quick stab of envy, her daughter’s firm, young body making a mockery of her own. ‘What’s that on your arm?’ She caught a flash of white.

  ‘Nothing.’ Kirsty tugged at the sleeve of the dress she was stepping into.

  ‘Here.’ Maggie lunged forward, grabbed the girl by the wrist. ‘Let me see.’ With her free hand, she exposed her daughter’s forearm. A line of raised white weals marked the fine, pale skin.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ Kirsty struggled to break free.

  Maggie’s grip tightened. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I scalded myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Trying to make soup.’

  ‘These aren’t scald marks. They’re cuts. Do you think I don’t know the difference?’

  No answer.

  ‘I’ve seen it before.’ That was a fib. Maggie had never come across such a thing, but she’d read about self-harm. She let go of the girl’s wrist. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked in a gentle voice. ‘You can tell me. I’ll understand.’

  ‘How can you?’ Kirsty raised an anguished face.

  Maggie took her daughter’s hand in hers. ‘Try me.’

  ‘It’s just…I feel so guilty, Mum, the way I ran off last year back to Dundee. I couldn’t hack it: the press hammering on the door at all hours, the phone ringing off the hook. It was doing my head in.’ She gulped for breath. ‘I abandoned my dad,’ her voice wavered. ‘Just when he needed me most.’ She turned a wretched face to her mother. ‘I hated him. Can you understand that? Hated what he’d done to us. I couldn’t bear to look him in the face. Couldn’t stand to look at you either, if you must know – the way you carried on as if nothing had happened when our whole world was collapsing around us.’

  Maggie struggled for a response. ‘I… I was just trying to hold things together. Keep things normal at home.’

  ‘Normal?’ Is that what you call it?

  ‘Listen to me, Kirsty Laird,’ she cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. That trial, it shook me to the core. Just because I didn’t look distraught all those months doesn’t mean I wasn’t churning inside.’

  Tears glistened on the girl’s face. ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘But forget about me, pet. How do you feel now?’

  ‘Now? I feel like some little kid who’s got lost in a big department store. I just want to stand there and howl.’

  Maggie could identify with that. Ever since the two police officers had come to her door, she’d felt a mounting sense of isolation and helplessness. A dislocation, almost, as if she were tumbling through space.

  ‘That bad business,’ she said softly, ‘it wasn’t your dad’s fault.’

  ‘I know. And now we’ll never get the chance to tell him.’

  Maggie spread her arms, pulled her daughter close.

  ‘Love you, Mum.’

  Her heart tugged. ‘I love you too. Now…’ She freed her daughter, took a backward step. ‘Let me have a look. I think that one’s perfect, don’t you?’

  Kirsty scrubbed her knuckles into her eyes. ‘If you say so.’

  She squinted at the label: £69.95. What with that and Colin’s suit, she wouldn’t have much change out of £200.

  ‘Can I have it, then?’

  For a moment Maggie hesitated. She’d planned to treat herself to some wee thing. Not a hat. She’d never wear it again. A scarf, maybe – something sumptuous in silk was what she saw in her mind’s eye. It would perk up her black wool coat, the only thing she had that would do for the funeral. Never mind. She dismissed the thought. Her kids were more important. And George would want them to look smart.

  ‘Of course. Hand it over,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see you at the till.’

  Kirsty wriggled out of the dress. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She summoned a weak smile.

  Maggie squared her shoulders. ‘I’m going to make things right. For you. For Colin. For all of us.’

  Kirsty raised a tear-stained face. ‘How?’

  Maggie looked into her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure, pet. Not yet… But I’m working on it.’

  Something Missing

  Maggie stepped out of the big black car and stood on the curve of the pavement. The rain that had been forecast had held off, but dark clouds lowered and a sharp wind stirred into small eddies sand and grit and the occasional scrap of litter. Around her, dark-clad figures stood in small huddles: the men in sombre suits, the women in overcoats and scarves, a few of the older ladies sporting conservative felt hats. Oblivious to their pitying looks, Maggie was aware only of a blur of movement in her peripheral vision, of a dull throbbing behind her temples.

  She felt a light touch at her elbow. It was only then she became aware of the other figures standing close by her – the sweet, sad sight of her lovely daughter and the stricken face of her only son.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’ Kirsty enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ she summoned a weak smile. ‘You?’

  ‘Mrs Laird?’ Reverend Keith Whitehead took hold of her arm. ‘Here, let me help you up the steps.’

  The double oak doors of Mannofield Church stood open. Maggie stood, leaning slightly into the man who had been t
heir minister ever since they’d moved to Mannofield. She closed her eyes, recalling Kirsty and Colin’s christenings, the Sunday school the pair of them had attended, the events over the years in the church hall. She felt a gentle tug at her sleeve. Her eyes jolted open. She let herself be led from the familiar bustle of the street into the hushed calm of the church.

  In front of the central bank of pews, the plain oak coffin rested on a folding metal trolley, the single sheaf of white lilies adorning its lid wafting its heavy scent into the chill air. Behind the coffin stood the solid bulk of the carved altar table. To the right of that a simple wooden lectern, its sloping surface empty yet of readings. There was the buzz of muffled conversation, a hand raised here or there in acknowledgement as someone caught sight of a kent face, a fleeting smile. The hum of voices swelled, floating upwards to the vaulted ceiling. A laugh escaped all of a sudden from a pair of lips. Then a guilty hush fell over the congregation as this nascent burst of jollity was quenched by a battalion of stern looks.

  With faltering steps, Maggie followed the minister down the aisle. To either side of her, the figures of the congregation seemed to merge into one dark mass, the sonorous notes of the organ music to come from miles away. On her right, Kirsty kept pace, one arm threaded through her mother’s, a small hand clasping Maggie’s own. To her left towered Colin, chunkier than ever in his new dark suit. Her heart wrenched. For all their outward appearance, they were still kids, the pair of them.

  Hastily, Maggie checked herself as she caught sight of the coffin. A lump rose in her throat. George always bought her lilies. Had always bought her lilies.

  Her parents were already installed in the front pew. Ever fearful of having to make a late entry, they’d have arrived way too early for the service. As she sank down onto the seat flanked by her children, Maggie had an impression of her dad in his good suit, his cheeks sunken now behind his ruddy complexion, her mum shrunken and stooped. She turned her focus on her children. Colin’s left knee jerked, a spasm in the soft darkness of the pew. Kirsty sat very still. Her new dress had ridden up to reveal shapely legs clad in opaque black tights. Maggie caught her mother throw a sharp look.