Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  She glanced to her left. There were a good number of faces she recognised: friends from church, Wilma and Ian from next door, a teacher or two from Colin’s school. No Val. She’d rung from Kuwait the minute she heard the news, offered to fly back. But to come all that way… And for what? Maggie had insisted she stay.

  She wondered if Jimmy Craigmyle would have the brass neck to turn up. Scanned the pews, but failed to spot him. She turned her head to the right. Across the aisle, a row of police officers sat shoulder to shoulder, the silver buttons of their dress uniform glinting in the watery sunlight. Amongst them, Maggie spied Allan Chisolm. She cast a furious look in his direction. Bastards, every last one of you. Her hands clenched. Where were you when George was caught up in all that nonsense? What were you doing when the Investigation Team was rampaging through Force HQ, breaking into lockers, listening to whispers in the canteen, taking statements from every bit of lowlife from Torry to Tillydrone?

  The organ struck up. The minister motioned to the congregation to stand. Maggie sleepwalked through the introductory hymn. The words made less sense to her than ever they had. The hymn ended. The congregation sat down. There were readings. A prayer. More readings.

  A member of the congregation moved forward then and took the minister’s place behind the lectern. She fought to focus. The man was tall but slight in appearance, gangly and rather boyish. His eyes were blue, his hair fair. It curled, cherubic, at the temples, adding to the impression of youth. Of course, it was Brian Burnett. Maggie’s head felt woolly all of a sudden, as if she were swimming through soup. She cursed inwardly. She should never have taken that Temazepam tablet. The GP had prescribed them the year before, something to help her sleep. She’d come upon the packet when she was clearing out the bathroom cabinet. Put it in her bag. Swallowed one dry when she was in the limousine. She didn’t want to let George down.

  Burnett pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and laid it on the lectern. He adjusted the microphone and began to speak.

  ‘We come together today to pay our respects to our friend and colleague, George Laird.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What can I tell you about George Laird?’ He looked around the assembled company. ‘I can only tell you about the George I knew. The George I’ve known for over twenty years, ever since we started at Tulliallan together.’ He swallowed hard. ‘George was straight as a die.’

  Did Maggie imagine that Brian was looking directly at the top brass across the aisle from her?

  ‘In all the years we worked together, I never knew him do anyone down. He was the straightest, most decent, most hard-working guy you could come across.’ He paused. ‘George Laird loved the police.’ He looked towards the front pew. ‘And he loved his wife, Maggie. Loved her to bits from the day he first met her. He was forever talking about her: Maggie this, Maggie that. We all used to take the mick out of him about it.’

  There was a ripple of subdued laughter. Maggie dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

  ‘George was devoted to Maggie,’ Brian’s voice dropped, ‘and to their children, Kirsty…’ He glanced over to where she sat, alongside her mother. ‘And Colin.’

  Maggie extended a consoling hand to her son, who sat, head bowed, shoulders heaving.

  ‘George Laird was a man’s man,’ he continued. ‘A man I was proud to call a friend. The kind of man you would want to have at your back in a difficult situation. And believe me, there were plenty of those over the years we worked together.’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘George Laird was a good man: a good colleague, a good husband, a good father. Above all…’ He fumbled in his top pocket for a folded white handkerchief. Shook it out. Blew his nose noisily. ‘He was a good copper.’

  There was absolute silence in the kirk. Brian Burnett picked up the piece of paper and stuffed it back in his inside pocket. He stepped down from the lectern. As he made his way back to his seat, Maggie glanced from beneath lowered lids across the aisle to where the top brass were seated. To a man, their eyes were fixed on their polished black boots.

  She turned her gaze back to the coffin, appraised the sheaf of flowers. But there was something missing, she thought. Where was the dark blue police flag that should have draped the casket? The peaked cap with its distinctive Sillitoe check, the cap that George had worn with such pride for all those years? The leather gloves? His gloves. She clenched her teeth. Her husband deserved to be buried with full police honours. But those bastards sitting there had taken every last vestige of honour away from him. Taken it not only from George, but from his wife and children.

  In that moment, Maggie’s resolve hardened.

  She’d get justice for George if it was the last thing she did.

  II

  The Decent Thing

  There was a rap at the back door. Maggie looked up to see Wilma’s face framed in the glass. She was wearing full make-up: green eyeshadow and deep magenta lipstick, in lurid contrast to her orange tan. Maggie’s shoulders sagged. She wasn’t feeling up to Wilma. The woman was too full-on. And besides, it was way too early in the day.

  With a show of reluctance, she turned the key in the lock.

  ‘OK?’ Wilma barged in, a waft of cloying scent in her wake.

  Smartly, Maggie stepped back. She’d never been one for heavy perfume. Less is more, her mother always said. Aside from which, there wasn’t room for both of them in the doorway. She managed a thin smile. ‘Getting by.’

  ‘That right?’ Wilma took in Maggie’s state of undress, her wan face, the half-eaten slice of toast on the kitchen worktop. ‘Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Wilma frowned. ‘You have to eat. Proper food.’

  Maggie dipped her chin. From the deliveries she’d observed, her neighbour seemed to exist on a diet of carry-outs and booze.

  The two sat facing one another across the table. Although she’d not long got out of bed, Maggie felt wrung out. She wondered if this was how life was going to be from now on. This overwhelming feeling of fatigue took her back to when her children were tiny: when day ran into night into day into night again, with no glimmer of respite. If she could only clear the fog in her head, think straight. Then she could assess priorities. Start to make plans.

  Her neighbour got straight to the point. ‘Have you made any inroads in what we were talking about?’

  ‘The agency?’ Not really. The only thing I’ve done,’ Maggie hugged her elbows, ‘is check out George’s office.’

  ‘Turn up anything interesting?’

  ‘Only a bunch of files.’

  ‘Oh,’ Wilma perked up. ‘What was in them?’

  ‘Don’t know. Haven’t looked.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I brought them home with me.’

  ‘Great stuff. Why don’t we check them out?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘Now?’

  ‘Good a time as any.’

  Wearily, she rose and crossed to the sideboard. ‘There you go, Sherlock.’ She scooped an armful of brown manila folders out of a shopping bag and dumped them on the table.

  ‘No need to be sarcastic, pal.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she turned a contrite face. ‘It got to me, George’s office, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, grab a bundle of these. That’ll occupy your mind.’

  For a few moments Maggie contemplated the files. Then she selected one at random and flicked through the papers inside: client details, dates, times, telephone calls, progress notes, invoice copies. It all looked so complicated. Angrily, she flipped the folder shut. She glanced across the table. Wilma’s head was resolutely bowed.

  Doggedly, she leafed through the remainder of the folders.

  ‘Well?’ Wilma looked up.

  ‘Well, nothing. I’ve read through this lot.’ Maggie brushed tired fingers through her hair. ‘Read them and re-read
them. There’s nothing in those files, Wilma, that’s the beginning and end of it.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I’m going to dump the lot in the bin. There’s got to be some other way of keeping a roof over our heads, me and the kids.’

  ‘Hang on. Don’t you want to see what I’ve got?’

  She looked down. Saw that Wilma’s folders had been divided into three neat piles.

  ‘From what I can see, these…’ Wilma indicated the first, ‘look to be closed cases. These…’ she pointed to the second, ‘are works in progress. And these…’ she stabbed a finger at the third, ‘are corporate. The names of the same few firms keep cropping up, Maggie. Looks to me like your George was on their books.’

  ‘Employed by them, d’you mean?’

  ‘Not directly. What’s the word again?’ She scratched her head.

  ‘Outsourced?’

  ‘That’s it. Anyhow, there are loads of searches, witness statements, stuff like that, relating to just those few law firms, so all you have to do is ring them up, say you’ve taken over the business.’

  Maggie sank back onto her seat. ‘But I’ve told you already, I’m not qualified to work as a private investigator.’

  ‘Licence could be done and dusted in a few weeks. I checked it out. Plus you don’t need to be licensed to consult public records or run credit checks, and you could use that time to bone up on…’

  Maggie cut her short. ‘Even assuming I were, there’s no way I’d work up that filthy close.’

  ‘No need. You could get the phone line transferred, work from here.’

  ‘Then what? Say I had to set up a meeting, interview a witness?’ She threw Wilma a warning look. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I invite these…clients into my home.’

  ‘Course not. You could meet them in a café, a pub, any old place, really.’

  Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, her mind in overdrive. She’d always been strong-minded. Wilful, her mother would call her. Bucked against the constraints of home and school. Married George at twenty-one, against her parents’ wishes. But this? Bringing up two kids on her own? Taking on a private investigation firm single-handed? No, this was a whole new ball game.

  Her eyes snapped open. ‘It’s not even that. To tell the truth, Wilma, I don’t have the confidence. Not any more. Put it down to all these years at home.’ Her body sagged. ‘It’s knocked the stuffing out of me.’

  ‘You’ve held down good jobs, have you no?’

  ‘Before the children were born. Only bits and pieces after that.’

  ‘But you went out and got yourself something, didn’t you, once the kids were up?’

  Maggie snorted. ‘Yes, I did. As a classroom assistant in Seaton. Job’s part-time. Brings in peanuts. And I only took that to get out of the house. Anyhow,’ she fixed her companion with a steely look, ‘now I’ve got an idea. If you’re so convinced there’s potential in it, why don’t you go out and do the detective stuff and I’ll do the admin?’

  ‘Because,’ Wilma sniffed, ‘I’ve got Torry written all over me.’

  Battling to smother her prejudices, Maggie turned her head away.

  ‘Take a good look,’ Wilma jabbed a finger at her ample cleavage.

  Maggie took in the dark roots dissecting her neighbour’s dyed blonde hair, the cellulite dimpling her upper arms, the love handles hanging over the waistband of her leggings.

  ‘Now, look at you.’

  She glanced down at her neat blouse, her boyfriend jeans, her Footglove loafers. Saw nothing unremarkable. ‘What about this eye of mine?’

  ‘What about it?’ Dismissive voice.

  ‘Oh, come on, Wilma, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘Well, it’s mebbe a wee bit skelly.’

  Skelly! One word took Maggie back to the playground: the taunts that had stung so for years. She wiped the image from her mind. ‘That’s an understatement.’ She tried to make light of the matter. ‘I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for years.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bloody bother, if I was you.’

  Maggie touched a hand to her face. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Aye. If anything, that skelly look gives you an advantage. Makes folk look twice.’

  Maggie summoned a smile. ‘I’d never have thought of it like that.’

  ‘And you’re so refined, Maggie Laird, you’d have those lawyers eating out of your hand.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. And even if you were right, it would all take time. And I haven’t got time, not if I’m to pay the bills.’

  ‘Agreed. But there’s stuff here that we can get to work on right now. These…’ Wilma indicated several fat folders, ‘are cases that are almost complete. And this one…’ she flicked open the topmost, ‘looks to be wrapped up. All it’s needing is an invoice sent out and Bob’s your uncle, the dosh comes rolling in.’

  Maggie snatched the folder and scanned the contents. ‘It still needs the hours and expenses calculated.’

  ‘Well,’ her neighbour grinned, ‘let me do that. I’m red hot on figures. We’ll work together, you an me.’

  Perish the thought. ‘That’s all very well,’ Maggie countered. ‘But have you shared this bright idea of yours with Ian? I mean, having your neighbour fix up your car is one thing, but taking on a detective agency is a major commitment.’

  Coy look. ‘I might have mentioned it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said…the size of me and the size of you, we’d make a bonny pair.’

  Despite herself, Maggie chuckled. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, he said it’s not on.’

  Thank God for that. ‘That puts the lid on it then.’

  ‘Och,’ Wilma huffed, ‘dinna you worry about Ian. I’ve ways of talking him round. The messages Colin downloaded off George’s phone before the funeral…’ She rushed on. ‘The emails on his computer, and now these…’ She waved an arm across the files. ‘There’s loose ends need tying up, just like I said.’

  ‘I can see that. But the way I feel right now…’ Maggie scrabbled for another line of defence. ‘I’m just not up to it, Wilma, to tell the honest truth.’

  ‘But these are folk that have gone to your husband for help. Shouldn’t you give them a ring at least? That would only be decent.’

  Maggie’s conscience pricked. Isn’t that what George would have done: the decent thing?

  ‘And the earlier you do that, the quicker you learn the ropes, the sooner you can make a start on clearing that man o’ yours.’

  ‘Well…’ Maggie swithered. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘Come on,’ Wilma’s voice was insistent. ‘What have you got to lose?’

  Oh, help!

  Small voice. ‘Not a lot, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, then. Deal?’

  Go for it!

  Decisively, Maggie drew herself up.

  ‘Deal.’

  Do You Think I’m Fat?

  ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

  The sleeping form twitched, stirred, rolled over.

  ‘I-an…’ More urgent this time.

  A face appeared from under the duvet. An eye blinked open. ‘Wha-at?’

  ‘Fat,’ Wilma persisted.

  ‘What?’ The form jerked upright. Her husband ground his fists into his eyes, craned towards the luminous dial of the clock on the bedside table. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Wilma.’

  ‘I know,’ she let out a sigh. ‘And I’m sorry, pet, waking you up like this. God knows, you’ve an early enough start. It’s just…you know how I’m wanting to help Maggie out?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well, we were talking about it today. How she could make it work an that, the husband’s wee business…’ She broke off.

  ‘And?’ Patient voice.

  ‘I offered to help. With
the computer stuff, like, an mebbe other wee bitties o’ things.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Aye. But now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It was you.’

  ‘Me?’ Ian reached for the bedside light, switched it on. ‘How?’ He wondered what he’d done this time.

  ‘What you said: the size of me and the size of her…’

  ‘It was a joke, Wilma.’

  ‘So you say. But…it’s just, that Maggie Laird, she’s such a neat wee thing. So…trim, I suppose is the word I’m looking for.’

  Ian speculated as to what was coming, but kept his counsel.

  ‘She makes me feel like a fuckin elephant.’

  He burst out laughing.

  ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’ Wilma’s voice wobbled.

  He adjusted his face into an expression of benign concern. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘I dunno.’ She wiped a tear from one cheek. ‘It’s just the more I look at her, the more I realise I don’t fit in.’

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘Here. Mannofield.’ She threw up her hands. ‘It’s a whole other world for me.’

  ‘Come off it. Didn’t you think Maggie Laird was like that – a bit snooty –when you first moved in? And now look at the two of you. You’ve been in and out of her house ever since…’

  ‘Well, somebody has to. Woman doesn’t seem to have anybody else.’

  ‘All I’m saying is you seem to get on well, the pair of you. And if you’re serious about going into business together…’

  She turned on him. ‘Thought you were dead against it.’

  ‘I was.’ He yawned. ‘Am. If somebody as solid as George Laird couldn’t make a go of it…’

  ‘What can two middle-aged wifies…’ She finished the sentence for him.

  ‘Forty isn’t middle-aged.’ He landed a kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘And that’s not what I was going to say. But knowing you, Wilma, if you’ve set your mind to it, you’ll do it regardless.’