Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Then he was telling you porkies. The rent’s in arrears. And if he wants to quit, he’s obliged to give four weeks’ notice.’

  Maggie felt her knees give way. She sat down again. ‘How can a man give notice when he’s dead?’

  ‘That’s the way it works. Your husband signed a contract.’ The blond man reached into his inside pocket. Drew out a piece of paper. Held it out to her.

  She snatched it from him. Took in the heading – ‘GDEVCO’ – before she thrust it aside. Maggie let her head drop onto her chest. Her mind churned. All she wanted at that moment was to get these guys out of her house.

  She looked up. ‘How much?’

  ‘Nine hundred.’ The short man’s face was devoid of expression.

  Her eyes bulged. ‘How on earth did you arrive at that sort of figure?’

  ‘Arrears of rent, four weeks’ notice and incidentals.’

  ‘I haven’t got £900.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage to find it,’ the man smiled his mirthless smile once more.

  ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  Maggie crossed her legs, uncrossed them again. She supposed she could borrow from her parents. Just as quickly, she dismissed the idea. She could go back to the solicitor, but that would incur more legal fees. She could go to the police. She was convinced it couldn’t be legal, these men barging in on her like that. Except she hadn’t actually refused them entry. And they hadn’t threatened her, not in so many words.

  She drew a breath. ‘You’ll need to give me some time.’

  ‘Time?’ Tim Robbins spread his hands. ‘No problem. How about next Wednesday?’

  ‘But…’ Maggie stuttered, ‘that’s less than a week.’

  ‘Missus,’ the man hissed, ‘I’m being generous here. Week’s a long time in our business.’

  She jumped to her feet. ‘And what if I don’t pay?’

  Tim Robbins took a step towards her. ‘What’s the lad called?’ He jerked his head towards his companion.

  ‘Colin.’

  ‘Your boy’s still at school, isn’t he? Gordon’s, is it?’

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Your choice.’

  Her mind churned. ‘This boss of yours, whoever he is, will you set up a meeting with him?’

  The blond man shrugged. ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘That’s for him to decide, surely.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know…’

  She jutted her chin. ‘Just do as I ask.’

  ‘OK. But I wouldn’t hold your hopes up.’

  ‘We’re going now.’ The short man again. ‘But believe me, we’ll be back.’

  Somewhere Quiet

  ‘There you go,’ Brian deposited the tray on the table. His heart had flipped when Maggie rang, asked if they could meet. Somewhere quiet. His thoughts raced away: a glass or two of wine in some dark corner of a pub, dinner even, across a candlelit table…

  Brian had fancied Maggie from the moment they first met, way back when he and George were rookies together. Not that she’d been such a looker. Not one of your dolly birds, as they called them then: big hair, false eyelashes, enough greasepaint to wax a car. No, Maggie McBain – as she was then – had been a different type altogether: petite, small-boned, delicate. Feminine, but not fragile, for there was steel behind that douce exterior. She’d been pretty enough though, with her soft red curls, that heart-shaped face. And those intriguing green eyes – one that looked right into you, while the other drifted dreamily away. Yes, Brian mused, Maggie McBain had been a pretty girl, right enough. Maggie Laird was a bonny woman, that’s for sure.

  A café, she said. Up your end of town. Don’t want to take up too much of your time. The Art Gallery café seemed to fit the bill.

  ‘Would you like me to pour?’ He placed a teapot, cup and saucer in front of her.

  ‘No,’ Maggie smiled up at him. ‘Let it brew for a minute or two.’ She’d known for a long time that he found her attractive. And Brian Burnett was a fine-looking man, she had to admit, with his fair hair and slim figure. Maggie took note of the long lashes that framed his bright blue eyes. She’d never noticed until then what long eyelashes he had. Probably because she’d never fancied him. Had never fancied anybody much. Well, nobody except George. That was going to make it even more difficult when it came to asking Brian the favour she’d been framing in her mind. Difficult, that is, unless she turned Brian’s fondness to advantage, the thought occurred to her now. Don’t you dare! That would be a dreadful thing to do, for, in all the years she’d known him, Brian had never once stepped out of line. Plus he’d been a stalwart friend to them both. Still, if you really want to clear George’s name…

  Brian gave his cappuccino a stir. He looked up. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie gave a small shrug, ‘so-so.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Not unless you win the Lottery. George has cashed in his life insurance.’

  Brian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Never.’

  ‘I didn’t find out until Kirsty and I went to see the solicitor. At first I thought there had been a mistake. But when he showed me the paperwork, Brian, the breath went out of me, I have to tell you.’

  ‘But why would George do a thing like that? I mean, it’s not as if he was ill-informed. He’d be well aware of the implications of cashing in a policy prematurely.’

  ‘I know. He always read the small print. It just goes to show how…’ Maggie’s voice wavered, ‘desperate he must have been.’

  ‘How did he end up working as a PI?’

  She grimaced. ‘Don’t even go there. You’ve no idea how many jobs he applied for – store detective, security guard, bouncer – before he went out on his own.’

  ‘Still and all, cashing in his moneyspinner, it doesn’t make sense. I mean, George was always so careful.’

  ‘George was lots of things before our world came crashing down around our ears.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Brian’s mind ran ahead. He’d offer to help, but things had been tight, one way and another, since Bev walked out.

  ‘I’ve decided to take on the business.’

  He drew back. ‘I don’t want to offend you, but a private investigation business – do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘It’s necessary. My Seaton job doesn’t bring in enough to feed us.’

  ‘But, Maggie, you don’t know the first thing about investigative work.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t I? George tried not to bring his work home with him, I admit, but some of it must have rubbed off on me, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m not trying to criticise. It’s just…’

  ‘I’ve got bills to pay, Brian. And I’ve picked up more about detective work than you give me credit for. I’ve already boned up on the files from his office. George was such a good copper. You know that, even if the rest of Aberdeen doesn’t. And he kept scrupulous records. Once my SIA licence comes through, there are one or two cases I can wrap up with just a couple of phone calls.’

  ‘Investigative work is about more than a few phone calls.’

  ‘Don’t you dare patronise me.’

  Brian coloured. ‘If it sounded like that, I apologise.’

  ‘I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I know perfectly well a private investigator does a lot more than just sit on the phone. But it’s not rocket science either, is it?’ Maggie looked into Brian’s eyes. Saw that they were full of doubt. ‘I’ve been on the internet,’ she rushed on. ‘You can get a lot of data off that: electoral rolls, company accounts, credit scores, court judgements. Plus I’ve spoken to the Association of British Investigators. The people in the office there were really helpful.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but
it’s a big, bad world out there.’

  ‘As if I don’t know it.’ There was bitterness in Maggie’s voice. ‘All the same, there are questions I need answers to.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There were a couple of bruisers at my door the other day, chasing rent owing for George’s office. Sent by some chap Gilruth.’ She paused. ‘Name ring any bells?’

  ‘I’ll say. Fella’s got fingers in more pies than you’ll find at Pittodrie. Story goes he started out with an ice-cream van. Built that up into a fleet. Then it was taxis, tanning salons, student flats, you name it. Didn’t George ever mention him?’

  Maggie frowned. ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Well,’ Brian’s voice was weary now, ‘James Gilruth’s a big wheel. You don’t want to mess with him.’

  ‘But those guys might have paid a visit to George first, don’t you see? Tried to put the squeeze on him. Couldn’t something like that have brought on his heart attack?’

  ‘It could, but that’s pure speculation.’

  ‘Plus there was the damaged filing cabinet.’

  ‘Was there anything missing?’

  She eyed him bleakly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maggie, I know how distressing these past few weeks must have been for you…’

  ‘I’m not inventing a conspiracy, Brian, if that’s what you’re getting at. I just need some questions answered, to put my mind at rest.’

  ‘But you’re surely never going to take on George’s business single-handed?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve arranged some…’ She struggled for the right word, ‘back-up.’

  ‘That was fast work. How did you manage that?’

  ‘It’s my next-door neighbour, if you must know.’

  ‘Wilma Benzie?’ He burst out laughing.

  ‘You know Wilma?’

  ‘Know of her. Let’s just say her extended family are known to the police.’

  Maggie glowered at him across the table. ‘Well, for your information, she’s not Wilma Benzie any more. She’s Wilma Harcus now.’

  ‘Leopard doesn’t change its spots. Anyhow, what would the recently respectable Wilma Harcus know about private investigation agencies?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Wilma knows loads of things.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Brian gave her a steady look. ‘And all from the wrong side of the law. Still, let’s not fall out over this. I only want to help, you know that. And maybe your friend Wilma will be able to bring something to the table after all.’

  ‘She’s not my friend. She’s my neighbour. And she’s only going to help with the admin and…’ Maggie’s voice tailed off, ‘stuff.’

  ‘Well,’ his tone was conciliatory, ‘I’m sure she could be a big help with, you know, stuff.’

  ‘That apart, I’m determined to clear George’s name. For his sake, for my children’s, and for my own peace of mind.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  ‘Go back to the trial. Talk to people. I’ve mulled things over in my mind. Formulated a plan of action. Once I know the ropes, I’ll have a better idea how to execute it.’

  Grave face. ‘I have to caution you against sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. These are dangerous people you’re talking about.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Brian. That’s why I asked you to meet me today. I’m going to need your help.’

  ‘Ask away.’ He prayed that Maggie wasn’t going to ask him for a loan.

  ‘I have to find Jimmy Craigmyle.’

  ‘George would have had his number, surely?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s no longer in service. Have you seen Jimmy about?’

  ‘No. He seems to have dropped off the radar. I heard his marriage had broken up and he’d moved.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘That’s why I need someone on the inside, don’t you see?’

  ‘Inside?’ Brian’s face blanched. ‘You mean inside the police force.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You can’t be seriously suggesting…’

  ‘Course not.’ That’s a lie, Maggie Laird.

  ‘Because it isn’t that long since one of our custody officers got done for copying crime files and police reports. He got banged up for a couple of years.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’ Two lies. ‘I only want to ask a tiny favour – just a wee snippet of information now and again.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case…’

  Get in there!

  She drew a deep breath. ‘You could PNC Jimmy Craigmyle, for starters.’

  Brian squirmed in his seat. ‘That’s a chargeable offence, Maggie.’

  Turn up the heat!

  She flashed a winning smile. ‘You’ll do that for me, won’t you?’

  Brian knew he was hooked.

  Knew he’d been hooked long ago.

  ‘Yes, Maggie,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll do that.’

  A Filing Cabinet

  The plastic name plate told her she’d come to the right door. Maggie turned the handle and went in. There was brown Lino on the floor, flock wallpaper on the walls. An old-fashioned shop counter ran the width of the room. Against the far wall stood a workbench, an old boy bent over it.

  ‘Hello?’ Tentative voice.

  The old guy turned. He was in his sixties. Small. Thin. Bald. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a brown cotton coat, the sort Maggie remembered grocers used to wear.

  ‘Can ah help you?’

  Her heart thundered in her chest. She’d have done anything to avoid a return visit to the scene of her husband’s demise. Nonetheless, if she was going to be an investigator she’d have to start somewhere, and this seemed as good a place as any.

  Get on with it! She squared her shoulders. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Is it a repair yer needin?’ The man rose to his feet.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What then?’ The old guy crossed to the counter.

  ‘I need some…’ Maggie scrabbled for an anodyne word, ‘information.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  His face bore a wary expression. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? She could imagine how she’d feel if she had to work in a run-down place like this. In her mind, she re-lived George’s last moments. Her heart plummeted into her shoes.

  He bent forward, his face in hers. ‘Somethin up wi yer eye?’

  ‘Oh,’ her hand jumped defensively to her left temple. ‘No. It’s a bit lazy, that’s all.’

  The old man ignored this. ‘Information, did you say?’

  ‘About the office upstairs.’

  ‘Him that drapped deid?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why d’ye want to know?’

  ‘He’s…’ Slowly, she raised her head. ‘Was my husband.’

  ‘Aaah,’ the old chap exhaled.

  ‘Yes, and…’

  ‘Ah ken you.’ He pointed an accusing finger.

  ‘Yes,’ she moved to reassure him, ‘I’ve been here before. We passed on the stairs.’

  He scowled. ‘Canna be too careful around here.’

  ‘No, that’s why…’

  ‘Polisman, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Ex-police,’ she stressed the first syllable.

  The old man scratched his bald pate. ‘That’s what ah thought.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Private eye, wis he?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that…’

  ‘Kept himself tae himself, onywye. Would nivver have kent he wis there. Except…’

  ‘Yes?’ She strained forward.

  ‘That one time.’

  ‘Was that the time you heard a noise and called the police?’

&nb
sp; Subsequent to her meeting with Alec Gourlay and Brian Burnett, Maggie had grilled George Duffy on the call-out.

  ‘Aye. Bit it wis naethin.’

  ‘Oh,’ she leaned back again.

  ‘Him fallin doon, that’s a.’

  ‘My husband, you mean?’

  ‘Aye. Ah’ve bin that jumpy, see, since thon burglary.’

  ‘Burglary?’ Her senses sprang to full alert. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘In this building, was it?’

  ‘Naw,’ the old man’s lip curled. ‘Ither end o King Street.’

  Dammit! Maggie felt suddenly deflated. That’s what Duffy had said.

  ‘Ah hiv tae get back tae work.’ The wee man made to turn away. ‘Ah’ve a rush job tae feenish, an…’

  ‘Hang on,’ she cut him off. ‘I won’t keep you a moment.’

  ‘We-ell…’

  ‘You couldn’t tell me if George…’ She broke off. ‘If my late husband ever said anything about a filing cabinet?’

  ‘A filing cabinet?’ The old chap eyed her as if she were daft.

  ‘The one upstairs.’

  ‘Oh,’ a wave of realisation came over his face, ‘that filing cabinet?’

  Yes. That bloody filing cabinet! ‘You see, I couldn’t help noticing the lock seems to be broken.’

  ‘Aye, George asked me about that.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Bought it second-hand. Bloody thing gied him naethin bit trouble frae the day he brocht it in here.’

  ‘Oh? How come?’

  ‘That’s whit ye get fur buyin athing aff the Castlegate. Thing wis nivver richt.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Key kept stickin. Ended up George locked the thing an couldna get it open. Came runnin doon tae ask a favour.’ The wee man wrinkled his nose. ‘Nae use haein a filin cabinet if ye canna get onything oot.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured, ‘I quite agree.’

  ‘No that ah minded, like, daein the man a favour.’

  ‘No. Of course.’

  ‘Onywye, ah went back up the stairs wi him an hud a richt look at it.’

  ‘That was good of you.’

  ‘Aye,’ the wee man swelled visibly. ‘Saved him the price o’ a locksmith.’