‘Och,’ Wilma spluttered, ‘Maggie Laird, ye’re such a…a…country mouse.
‘I’m pragmatic, that’s all.’
‘What does that mean?’
Maggie yawned. ‘Never mind. It’s not important.’
‘Are you no the one said we wis tae divvy up? Dae whit we wis best at?’ Oot an aboot on the divorce cases, if ah mind right.’
‘Well, yes.’ Maggie had the grace to look abashed.
‘An are we no strapped for cash? What d’ye think’s the quickest way to get a result?’
Maggie lowered her head. ‘So…did you?’
‘Yes and no. I managed to establish that Cowie frequents the locus.’
‘Oh,’ she brightened. ‘Good for you! Got evidence?’
‘Not yet. Lassie I spoke to isn’t willing to put her name to it.’
Maggie’s shoulders sagged. ‘So that’s another case for the bin.’
‘Not a bit. I’ll put in another hour or two on Thursday.’
‘You most certainly will not.’
‘Oh, come on, I’m nearly there. It’s just a matter of persevering.’
‘Dressed like that?’
Wilma drew herself up. ‘Don’t be such a fuckin prude.’
‘I am not. Well, not since I met you, Wilma Harcus.’
For some moments the two cast filthy looks at one another.
Wilma broke the silence. ‘I see what you’re saying, Maggie. But we’re no gonna get results sittin on our arses.’
Grudging. ‘No-o-o.’
‘I was just tryin to be….what’s the word? Proactive. An if ye’re going to hang out down the docks, ye have to look the part. On a cheerier note… Before I went out, I managed to run some of those background checks you gave me.’
‘Wow, that was quick. Don’t know how you found the time.’ Suspicious look. ‘You didn’t rope Ian in, did you?’
‘You have to be joking. He’s only just getting used to the idea.’
‘Come on, then, open up. We’ll need to share know-how. Otherwise, how are we going to learn?’
‘Well…’ Smug look. ‘The first lesson I’ve learned is do your homework.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
Wilma pouted. ‘All right, Miss Pupil Support. But seriously, I’ve learned the hard way that the more research you put in beforehand, the quicker you get the case wrapped up when you go out in the field.’
‘Yes, but how…?’
‘Social media,’ Wilma gave Maggie a triumphant grin. ‘Facebook’s my number-one friend these days, closely followed by Twitter and LinkedIn. You’ve no idea the amount of useful stuff I’ve found on that lot.’
‘Like what, for example?’
‘You know that employment tribunal case – guy claimed he was unfit for work?’
‘Yes.’
‘He posted pictures of himself playing footie,’ Wilma beamed. ‘Daft bugger.’
‘I’d never have thought of that. Don’t suppose you turned up anything on Jimmy Craigmyle while you were at it?’
‘Sorry,’ the smile vanished from Wilma’s face. ‘Facebook account’s been disabled. Didn’t you have any joy with that phone number you got from your pal Brian?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind. Between the three of us, we’re bound to find him.’
Maggie’s mouth turned down. ‘I hope so.’
‘I’ve managed a few trace enquiries an all this week,’ Wilma rattled on. ‘Passed them back to the letting agents. Helps that I know the area. Plus I’ve progressed some of the divorce cases. Including our pal Cowie,’ she proffered a sly smile. ‘So, yes, I reckon I’m getting on pretty well. How about you?’
‘I’m working my way through George’s client list,’ Maggie eyed the bundle of folders in front of her. ‘Cases look pretty straightforward now I’ve had time to get my teeth into them.’ She toyed with a pencil. ‘All except one.’
‘Which one’s that?’
‘Client goes by the name of Argo.’
‘Argo?’ Wilma queried. ‘That rings a bell.’
‘Woman reckons her husband is trying to kill her.’
‘Och, her? She’s a bloody head banger, that one.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Come across her at the hospital.’
‘So what do we do?’
Wilma snorted. ‘I know what I’d do.’
‘What’s that, then? No,’ Maggie hesitated, ‘on second thoughts, Wilma, I don’t want to know. Anyhow,’ she yawned again, ‘it’s time we were both in our beds. You’ve had a long night and I’ve to be up for Colin in the morning.’
‘Before I go,’ Wilma ventured, ‘you were saying about me looking the part…’ She tugged at the PVC skirt, trying in vain to cover her modesty. ‘And it set me thinking.’
Maggie cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘What bright idea did you come up with this time?’
‘Well, you know how you’re the lead player? In the business, I mean.’
‘Am I? Seems to me it’s you that’s been taking most of the initiative so far.’
‘It’s mebbe me that’s been doing most of the talking,’ Wilma offered a sly grin. ‘But it’s you that took the plunge, picked up the pieces, moved the agency forward.’
‘It’s not as if I had much choice.’
‘Just because you were a bit low to begin with doesn’t mean you’re not the mainstay, the face of the business.’
‘We-ell…’
‘Oh, come on. You’re the real deal, Maggie Laird. The one who’s out there: talking to legal firms, prospective clients, doing presentations. And I’m the back-room assistant – doing undercover work, running checks, helping you with the billing.’
‘With the notable exception of tonight’s little outing.’
Wilma ignored this. ‘If we’re going to make a go of George’s business, a real go, isn’t it high time you had a makeover?’
‘If you mean improve my appearance…’ Loud sniff. ‘I can’t afford to be buying new clothes. And, anyhow, George likes… Liked the way I look.’
‘Mebbe so. But George wasn’t exactly hip, was he?’
Maggie winced. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, I was thinking,’ Wilma continued unabashed, ‘you know how you’ve been trying to find out stuff about that James Gilruth?’
‘Ye-es.’ Guarded voice.
‘Did you know he owns a hair salon in Thistle Street?’
‘He does?’ Wilma had Maggie’s full attention now.
‘You could have a restyle. Check him out at the same time.’
Maggie clapped a hand to her curls. ‘But my hair’s always been like this.’
‘My point exactly. A decent cut would take years off you. I’ve made you an appointment, as a matter of fact.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘10.30 on Thursday.’
‘But…’
‘By way of cunning detective work,’ Wilma countered with a smug grin, ‘I managed to establish that the Gilruths are booked in Thursday morning – him and her. Sharon, the wife’s called. She’s a Torry quine, like me.’
‘You know her, then?’
‘Only by sight. Comes from a family of fish processors. Big bucks in that, so we’ve never exactly socialised,’ Wilma sniffed. ‘Plus she was one of Gilruth’s hairdressers, and you know what they’re like: only interested in two things – money and men. In that order.’
This was news to Maggie. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a generalisation?’ She wondered if some unfortunate stylist had crossed Wilma in the past.
Wilma struggled to her feet. ‘Anyhow, Thistle Street. 10.30 Thursday. My treat. It’ll cheer you up, and…’
Maggie wondered what was coming.
‘You can do some digging whi
le you’re there.’
IV
X Marks the Spot
The body lay spread-eagled on the slab. X marks the spot – the phrase leapt into Brian’s mind. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. Still, the scene that faced him looked too contrived. Too tidy. Brian pictured the last corpse he’d come across: a teenage prostitute down the docks with her jeans round her ankles and her throat slit. In his experience, death wasn’t tidy at all.
A veil of haar had drifted in off the North Sea, making the air smell raw. Threads of mist blurred the harsh, halogen edges of the arc lights which illuminated the scene. In the background a generator hummed. The SOCOs were already in place, bent silently on the process of collecting trace evidence. Inside the police tent, others were at work, garnering what intelligence they could. A flashbulb popped. And another. And another still, as a photographer recorded graphic images of the scene.
‘Where’s the CSM?’
‘Here, sir,’ a dark figure clutching a clipboard appeared out of the gloom.
Gingerly, Brian stepped along the metal walkway laid by the IB team to preserve evidence. Behind him, the twin towers of the ancient St Machar cathedral pierced the sky. On either side, weathered gravestones cast weirdly shaped shadows. There were tombs, too: great slabs of stone manoeuvred by unknown hands into this, their final resting place. Some were level with the ground, bordered by a simple low kerb or a line of fancy rope edging, some raised on plinths, an unyielding replica of the soft, warm bed their occupant had long left behind. Below the hovering haar, he could make out small tributes: an open book fashioned from white marble, a heart-shaped granite stone, a curly-haired alabaster cherub, chin resting on one cupped palm. Those touching memorials would have been placed there for infants, he supposed: the countless wee mites who’d succumbed to the infections and the fevers of Victorian times. Brian Burnett wondered, as he picked his way through the mist, whose bairn he’d be looking at tonight.
He scribbled his signature. ‘Who called it in?’
‘Phone box. Wouldn’t give a name.’
‘Responding officers?’
‘Souter and Elrick. Oh, and some community bobby from Tillydrone.’
‘Where are Souter and Elrick now?’
‘I sent them back to HQ. Told them to file a report.’
‘Right,’ Brian rubbed chilled hands together, ‘what stage are we at here?’
‘Death pronounced. Duty Doctor’s not long away.’
‘Any ID on the body?’
‘Not as such.’
Bugger! For some years now, Brian had never come across a female who hadn’t been joined at the hip by a giant handbag.
‘I take it you’ve set up door-to-door?’ He turned to look behind him at the high walls and dense greenery that lined the Chanonry. ‘Though in a place like this, it’s pretty unlikely anybody saw anything.’
‘I have, sir.’
‘Has anyone informed the minister?’ Brian inclined his head towards the small opening in the graveyard wall that gave onto the entrance to the manse.
‘She came looking for us not long after it happened, Sarge. Said she needed into the church – sorry, cathedral – to get some papers.’
‘She?’ The word jarred on Brian. He still hadn’t got used to the idea of women ministers.
‘Lady meenister. New, like. Said she’d stay put in the manse in case she was needed.’
‘Very good. I take it the pathologist has already been called.’
‘Just arrived at your back.’ The CSM yanked his head in the direction of the tent.
‘Fine. Well, I’ll let you crack on.’ He turned away.
Brian turned back to the tent and stuck his head inside. On the ground in front of him, a slight figure was kneeling, his back to him, head bowed as if in prayer.
‘Evenin, Alec.’ He tapped the figure on the shoulder. ‘What have we got here?’
Alec Gourlay raised his head from the level of the huge tombstone. He half-turned.
‘Young lassie.’ There was no emotion in his voice.
‘Age?’ Brian could just make out light-coloured trainers, a pair of jeans, fair hair.
‘Hard to tell.’ The words were muffled. Gourlay had turned back to the job in hand.
‘Guess?’
‘Seventeen. Eighteen, maybe.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Come on, Burnett,’ Alec Gourlay turned to face him, ‘you know better than that.’
Brian shrugged his shoulders. ‘Got to give it a try.’ His face broke into a sheepish grin. ‘Give me something to go on.’
‘Isn’t a lot there.’
‘Must be something,’ the DS persisted. Gourlay could be a thwart bastard if you didn’t catch him the right way.
‘Blunt trauma to the head.’ The police pathologist had already turned back to the body.
‘Caused by?’
‘A blunt object.’
Brian exhaled sharply. He’d as much chance of raising a cadaver as he had of getting information out of Alec Gourlay.
‘Such as?’
‘Can’t tell at this stage.’
‘Well, what can you tell me?’
‘I can tell you,’ the pathologist didn’t look up, ‘that when she was discovered, the lassie’s jeans were pulled down.’
Brian whistled through his teeth. ‘And?’
‘There’s penetration,’ he continued, ‘but not penile.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying,’ Alec Gourlay straightened, but didn’t turn, ‘there is an object lodged at the entrance to the vagina.’ His head ducked forward again. ‘Looks to me like a stick.’ He paused. ‘Correction. Two sticks.’
Pompous little bastard. Brian took a deep breath. No point in getting on the wrong side of the man.
‘Can you elaborate on that?’ he persisted, trying to keep his voice even.
‘No. Not till I get back to the lab.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Brian decided there was little to be gained in asking the pathologist for a timeframe for lab results. He’d pushed his luck with Alec Gourlay as it was. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
‘Do that.’
Brian cringed inwardly at the heavy sarcasm in Gourlay’s voice. He turned to go.
‘One last thing.’
‘Yes?’ Brian threw a glance back over his shoulder.
The SOCOs were still moving around the tent, the pathologist still kneeling by the tombstone.
‘The sticks…’ Alec Gourlay’s voice still carried no inflection, ‘appear to have been fashioned in the shape of a cross.’
Maggie Gets a Makeover
‘Morning.’ A pretty, dark-haired girl in a white tunic appeared at Maggie’s side. ‘Mrs Laird, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘My name’s Michelle.’
Their eyes locked. At least, Maggie’s eyes locked onto Michelle’s. The dark-haired girl looked right, left, right again, then swiftly averted her gaze.
‘You’re having a restyle today, is that right?’
Maggie nodded, uncertain. She’d been ill with nerves all the way to the salon. Managed to calm herself somewhat whilst sitting at the backwash basin. Now she studied her reflection in the mirror. God, she looked a fright. And that left eye was way out of order. No wonder the girl didn’t know where to look.
‘How about the colour? Wouldn’t you like a change? A wee semi-permanent, maybe?’
Maggie had always hated her hair. Wished she’d been blonde, brunette, any darn colour but red. But change? That was one thing she’d always shrunk from. She’d been raised in the set patterns of farming life, married into gentle domesticity. She eyed Michelle’s own barnet. It was a vibrant shade of aubergine. Not exactly subtle. She shook her head.
Michelle fingere
d one of Maggie’s curls. ‘How much are we taking off today?’
‘Oh…’ Maggie vacillated, ‘I don’t know.’ Nor did it matter, she thought with some rancour. Colin would never notice. Kirsty wouldn’t be home for ages. And George? George wasn’t coming back. Not ever. She rallied. ‘Do whatever you think.’
Cut to the chase. She plunged straight in. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Just a few months.’
Quite new, then. Maggie tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Another opportunity gone up in smoke. Still…a few months. You could pick up a lot in that length of time. ‘Good place to work, is it?’
‘Not bad. Would you mind keeping your head down?’ Michelle clamped her hand to the back of Maggie’s head and shoved it forward until her chin was embedded in her chest. Snip. Snip. She could feel the hair falling away.
‘Mr Gilruth.’
Maggie’s head shot up to see James Gilruth stride towards her. She panicked. Oh, hell, what if he recognises me? ‘Sorry,’ she addressed Michelle, ‘think I’m going to sneeze.’ She ducked into her handbag, extracted a tissue, spread it over her face.
Michelle turned from her side. ‘You’re early today, Mr Gilruth. But you might like to say hello to your wife. Mrs Gilruth is just over there,’ she indicated a gowned figure. Then,’ she flashed Gilruth a hundred watt smile, ‘if you’d like to go through, I’ll be with you shortly.’
Sod it. Covertly, Maggie observed James Gilruth and his wife conduct a brief exchange. She strained to catch their conversation, but all she could establish was that the body language was less than cordial. Then, with a turn of the heel, Gilruth vanished through to some hidden back room. Relieved as she was not to have been spotted, Maggie was stricken to have her hopes of gleaning information dashed.
She perked up when she saw that Sharon Gilruth was being escorted to a chair two down from her. Maggie gave the woman the once-over. Sharon was dark, her hair so black it had a bluish tinge to it. Black Tulip, the name sprang into Maggie’s mind from some long-discarded magazine. She ventured another look. Sharon’s makeup was heavy, her lips scarlet. Below the gown, Maggie could make out good legs, killer heels. On the floor by Sharon’s side sat a handbag the size of a small car. Maggie sighed. Sharon Gilruth cut a striking figure, even with wet hair.
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