She brightened. ‘I’ll check it out.’
‘No you will not.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because for one, it belongs to our friend James Gilruth, and…’
‘I went to see him.’ It was out before she could stop herself. ‘About that rent bill.’
‘Gilruth? I thought I told you…’
‘I don’t dance to your tune, Brian Burnett.’
‘No.’ So much for thinking he might have a future with Maggie Laird. ‘How did you get on?’
She looked away. ‘Didn’t.’
Brian stifled the urge to say I told you so. ‘So the rent, have you paid it?’ he asked instead.
‘No, but Wilma…’
‘Ah, yes,’ he chuckled. ‘Wilma. The answer to a woman’s prayers.’
‘It’s not a laughing matter,’ Maggie glowered. ‘I’ll have you know she cleared the rent arrears. And she sorted out the notice period.’
‘They let you off?’
‘Not exactly. Wilma told them we’d be out of there by noon the next day. I’d already had the phone transferred, you see, and there was nothing of value in the place.’
‘But waiving a month’s notice? Doesn’t sound like Gilruth.’
‘No,’ Maggie gave a rueful smile. ‘Fact of the matter is, Wilma told them they could sing for it.’
‘Well,’ Brian brought his hands together, ‘that settles whatever lingering doubts you might have had in connection with George’s death.’
‘Does it?’
‘Well, I mean, you haven’t been able to turn up anything on Gilruth.’ He grimaced. ‘Not that you’re alone there. Aberdeen’s finest have been trying to nail the guy for I don’t know how long.’
‘What for?’
‘Drugs. Who knows what else? Gilruth’s into big property deals these days. From what we can gather, the other businesses are just a front now for laundering the money. But for all the time we’ve been on his tail, we’ve never pinned a thing on him, not so much as a parking ticket. Clever bastard. But back to George. The damaged door was easily enough explained. That only leaves the question of the filing cabinet.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie’s pale face suffused with colour. ‘I should have rung you, Brian. I’m really sorry. That filing cabinet – I did a bit of detective work.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Those burglaries in King Street, remember? Police took several statements from an old guy runs a jewellery workshop on the first floor. I went to see him. Slipped my mind, I’ve been that hard pressed. Apparently the keys were a bit iffy. George locked the cabinet, broke the key in the lock. He nipped downstairs and asked the jeweller to have a look.’
‘Classic.’
‘Anyhow, the old guy managed to get the thing unlocked and the key out, but by that time the lock was useless.’
‘Well, Maggie Laird,’ Brian grinned, ‘aren’t you the private eye?’
She glowed with satisfaction. Her visit to the jeweller had boosted her confidence.
‘So…’ The detective in Brian resurfaced. ‘Now it’s been established that there was nothing suspicious about George’s death, all our focus should be on clearing his name.’
‘Agreed. You were telling me about Jimmy Craigmyle.’
‘Right. Apart from the fact that Gilruth owns that club, if – and it’s a big if – Craigmyle is working there, he won’t finish till three in the morning.’
‘So?’
‘I’d have thought it was obvious, Maggie. That part of town’s no place for a woman.’
She sat upright. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘You can, can you? How is the PI business anyhow?’
‘Coming away,’ she smiled. ‘Thanks for asking. Some aspects have been surprisingly easy to master, actually. Others…well, that’s the reason I wanted to see you. I need some more information.’ She turned her face up to his. ‘That OK with you?’
‘Depends.’
‘You know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that would compromise your position.’
‘No? Just PNC a few people and God knows what else.’ He leaned in close. That tiny frisson again. ‘Do you want to see me locked up?’
‘Course not.’
There was a silence, then, ‘Tell me what it is. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Brian. What I want is for you to keep on digging: Jimmy Craigmyle, first and foremost, plus anything you can find on Gilruth.’
‘I thought that was settled.’
‘It is. It’s just…if you could float the name past a few more folk. Run it through the computer, see what comes up.’ You couldn’t have too much information, she’d decided, if you were going to be a proper PI.
‘Have you been listening to me, Maggie?’ Brian’s voice was heavy with exasperation. ‘It’s time to move on,’ he reached for her hand. ‘Put this Gilruth nonsense behind you.’
She resisted the temptation to pull away. If she was honest, she rather enjoyed the feeling. Except…she felt a twinge of remorse. Wasn’t using Brian’s attraction to her doing her dead husband a disservice? No. Maggie left her hand in place. She’d have to keep Brian Burnett onside if she were to clear George’s name. And if the business took off, she’d no doubt have to call on Brian’s services plenty more times.
‘I know. All the same, will you do that?’
‘I can’t promise. To tell the truth, I…’
‘You know I wouldn’t ask unless…’
Brian looked down at the small fingers clasped in his. He sighed. ‘I know.’
‘Thanks, Brian,’ she flashed a smile. ‘I really appreciate…’
‘Oh,’ he let go of her hand, reached into an inside pocket, ‘I almost forgot.’ He drew out a scrap of paper. ‘I’ve got a phone number.’
Maggie’s heart beat faster. ‘For Craigmyle?’
‘Yup.’ He handed her the paper. ‘Might not be in service, but it’s worth a try.’
The Porn King
Kym sat comatose on the settee, the kids lolling at her feet. She’d had a fair old bevvy while she was out, and that on top of the pills she’d swallowed first thing. Her eyelids drooped. The doorbell jolted her back to reality. She looked at Fatboy. ‘That’ll be someone for Kyle.’
‘Well,’ he didn’t budge, ‘don’t look at me.’
‘Aw, come on. I’ve only just got in.’
‘Your call, anything to do with these kids.’
Kym hauled herself upright. ‘My call?’ She engaged Fatboy through bloodshot eyes. ‘Aye, it’s my call right enough. But only when it suits you, pal. The rest of the time, Christ knows what you’re doing up here with them.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Fatboy assumed an expression of supreme innocence. ‘We’ve only been watching telly.’
‘Telly, is it?’ With that she staggered to her feet and lurched down the hall. There was the sound of the chain being slid off its housing, the front door opening and banging shut again.
‘Cheers, big fella.’ Willie swaggered in, Lewis at his heels.
Fatboy’s face darkened. ‘Who the fuck’s this?’
Willie waved a hand. ‘Fatboy, meet Lewis. Lewis,’ he turned, ‘say hello to Fatboy.’
Lewis looked at his feet. ‘Hello.’
‘What the hell’s he doing here?’
‘He wis jist…’
Lewis raised his head. ‘Ah’m chummin Wullie the day.’
Fatboy threw Willie an evil look. ‘Better not be getting in the way of business.’
‘Naw,’ Willie rushed to answer. ‘Ah’ve hud a crackin day,’ he grinned. ‘Near ran oot o’ gear. Nipped back here fur mair supplies. Ah bumped inta Lewis on ma way ower. We’re in the same class,’ he added by way of explanation.
Fatboy eyed the newcomer. He was big for his age. Limpid brown eyes under a dark buzz
cut. Large hands and feet. A solid roll of fat where his waist should have been.
‘What’s your claim to fame, then?’ he addressed Lewis.
The lad lowered his chin.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Fatboy started forward. ‘I asked you a question.’
‘Loon’s a ha’penny short o’ a shilling.’
‘You shut your mouth,’ he barked at Willie. Fatboy swivelled back to Lewis. ‘Well?’
Lewis kept his head down. He shuffled his feet. Finally, ‘Naethin,’ he muttered.
‘Nothing?’ Fatboy jeered. ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that.’
Willie jabbed an elbow in the boy’s ribs. ‘Lewis is the porn king, are ye no, pal?’
Lewis looked up, his face scarlet.
‘Porn?’ Fatboy grinned. ‘You a fan, then?’
‘Aye,’ Lewis offered a vacant smile.
‘Anything special?’
‘Well…’ Sideways look. ‘There wis this video…’
‘Dinna listen tae him,’ Willie interjected. ‘Fuck-wit’s feal. Sits aw nicht watchin Goth movies.’
‘That right?’
‘Aye.’ The boy’s expression didn’t alter.
‘Shame,’ Fatboy retorted. ‘I know some cracking porn sites.’
‘Ye dae?’ Lewis regarded him with awe.
‘Don’t I just?’ Fatboy made an expansive gesture. ‘Something for every taste.’ He grinned. ‘You could swing past my place sometime, if you want. Take a look.’
‘Ye kiddin me?’ the boy’s eyes popped.
‘No.’ The grin vanished from Fatboy’s face. ‘Here,’ he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket. ‘I’ll write down the address.’
Divvy up
‘Maggie?’ Wilma answered the door. ‘You’re a surprise. I thought you were in town today.’
‘I was. But the meeting was off.’
‘How come?’
Maggie hung her head. ‘Got the wrong day.’
‘Maggie Laird,’ Wilma wagged a stubby finger.
She held up her hands in surrender. ‘Don’t know how I managed it. But I’ve been spread that thin lately, trying to beef up the business, keeping a weather eye on Colin. And now I’m back at work…’
‘They weren’t leaning on you, were they?’
‘No, but it’s early days yet. I need a fallback position. Especially after…’
‘Your wee outing to Rubislaw Den. You should have told me, Maggie. That was a daft thing to do.’
‘Don’t I know it. And it’s not as if I wasn’t warned. It’s just… I had it all worked out in my head, Wilma, and once I make my mind up to something…’ It was her biggest failing, Maggie knew – the way she ran at things head-on. And hadn’t that been responsible for the morass she found herself in now?
‘At least your appointment wasn’t yesterday.’
Maggie made a face. ‘No. But I felt such a fool.’
‘Never mind. In you come. I’ll brew you a pot of tea.’
‘Thanks.’ She followed her friend through to the conservatory at the house and flopped into a capacious rattan chair.
Wilma puttered through to the kitchen. Maggie could hear the tap running, the clatter of crockery. She let her eyes droop shut. She could remember quite clearly the very first time she’d been invited round to her neighbour’s house. Wilma had shown her into the sitting room. The space should have been the mirror of Maggie’s own. Would have been, were it not for the heavily patterned silver wallpaper, the over-sized leather sofas, the glitzy black glass chandelier. And the smell! Scented candles on every surface. Way over the top for a bungalow in Mannofield, she’d thought at the time. Maggie could hardly believe now what a judgmental bitch she’d been.
With a clatter, Wilma set down a tray on the coffee table.
Maggie’s eyes shot open. ‘Tell you what, though…’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘Since we’ve been working together, one thing’s become abundantly clear: if we’re going to make this thing work – build up the agency and still hold our jobs down – we’ll have to put it on a proper footing.’
Wilma poured tea into two mugs. ‘Wotcha mean?’
‘It’s all been too…’ Maggie struggled for the word. Settled for one of Kirsty’s. ‘Random up till now: the way we’ve been setting about George’s caseload, jumping at every prospective new client. Now that business is beginning to pick up, we really should adopt a more systematic approach.’
‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, pal.’
‘Well, it seems to me that a lot of the work that’s coming in is routine: credit checks, traces, that sort of thing. Demands application, more than anything. Some of it, on the other hand, needs legal know-how, or computer savvy, or interpersonal skills. Instead of sitting down together like we’ve been doing, wouldn’t it be more productive if we divided our workload, each worked on what we were best at?’
‘How will we do that?”
‘Make a list of our strengths and weaknesses: like me being careful – nit-picking, as you keep telling me. Having familiarity with legal jargon. Being able to frame a business letter, write a report, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh,’ a wave of recognition washed over Wilma, ‘you mean a skill set?’
‘Wil-ma!’ Maggie burst out laughing. ‘Where did you get that? Not from your pub in Torry.’
‘I got it off The Apprentice, if you must know.’
‘Oh, Wilma,’ Maggie’s voice was contrite, ‘I’m not making fun of you.’
‘Yes, you are. You and your legal knowledge, your command of English…’ Wilma bit her bottom lip. ‘Where does that leave me?’
‘Well, there’s your computer skills, for a start. I’d never have been able to run all that background stuff without you. Then there’s your inside knowledge. The information you’ve been able to bring to the table about tenancy problems, the benefits system, fraud, petty crime – stuff you pick up in the pub, even. I wouldn’t have known about any of that. And then divorce procedures, they’ve all changed since I worked in a lawyer’s office.’
‘So? You can get that off the internet.’
‘Accepted. But there’s the know-how you bring from working at the hospital: the folk who come through Accident and Emergency, the battered wives, the kids with suspect injuries, the druggies that have been duffed up. The drugs themselves,’ Maggie paused. ‘I don’t know the first thing about anything like that – recreational drugs, Methadone programmes, even the number of folk that are addicted to prescription medicine.’
‘Doesn’t happen in Methlick,’ Wilma teased.
‘I know,’ Maggie came back at her. ‘I can’t help it if I’m slow when it comes to these kind of things, but it just goes to show how savvy you are. Plus, on top of your practical know-how, you’ve got such a wide circle of contacts. Since we got up and running, you’ve been great at worming information out of folk.’
‘Too much information, sometimes. I see what you’re getting at, though. I suppose I do know a thing or two about life on the pointed end. When I was a kid, hardly a day went past there wasn’t a squad car down our street.’
Maggie’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
‘You don’t know you’re born, Maggie Laird, sittin in that tidy wee bungalow of yours next door. Oh,’ Wilma grimaced, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’
‘That’s alright.’
‘It’s just, till I moved in with Ian, I’d never had a home, not a real home. Lived in nothing but rented stuff – cast-off furniture, outside toilets, electric meters that were forever running out. I was aye hungry, Maggie, when I was a kid, even with free school dinners. Had to leave school the minute I turned sixteen, go out to work at the fish processing. And once that Darren Fowlie got me in the family way…’
‘Darren was
your first husband?’
‘Aye. Bastard. Lay around the house all day. Out half the night. Plus I’d get the back of his hand if I so much as looked at him sideways.’
Maggie stretched out a comforting hand. ‘Oh, Wilma. Your boys – you mentioned you had two – are they around?’
‘Aye. Still in Torry, God help them.’
‘Torry can’t be that bad, not these days.’ Maggie couldn’t remember when she’d last been there.
‘It’s not. I’ll take you sometime, show you around.’
‘Your lads, what are they doing now?’
Wilma tapped a finger to the side of her nose. ‘Don’t ask.’ She changed the subject. ‘I’ve landed lucky with Ian Harcus. And if we make a go of this wee business, you an me, I’ll be luckier still.’
‘There you are, then.’ Maggie rubbed her hands together. ‘Why don’t we agree you’ll do the computer research to start with? I can pick that up as we go along. You can be out and about on the divorce cases, the insurance fraud: working the locations you already know well and where I wouldn’t fit in. I’ll do the legal stuff: witness statements, business letters, reports. Concentrate on the corporate side: going into meetings with law firms, building the client list. How does that sound?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘You can finish off the billing if you’re OK with that, and reconcile the accounts. You’re quicker than I am, plus you’ve got a lot more nerve when it comes to asking for money.’
Wilma beamed with pleasure.
‘Speaking of which, isn’t it time we discussed how to apportion income?’
‘Oh,’ a grin spread across Wilma’s face, ‘divvy up, you mean?’
Maggie laughed. ‘If you want to put it like that. Only, I was thinking…’ Suddenly, she was serious again. ‘It’s time we talked about a salary for you.’
‘I’ll not be needing paid.’
‘You have to be paid, Wilma. Especially if you’re going to sit up half the night running credit checks.’
Wilma shrugged. ‘What else would I be doing? The social life round this place isn’t what I’d call dizzy. No discos. No rave-ups. Hell…’ She jabbed an elbow painfully into Maggie’s ribs. ‘Ye canna even get yersel a quickie up a close. Oh,’ she clocked Maggie’s expression. ‘Sorree.’
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