With every day that passed, she’d grown in confidence. And the future? It wasn’t so bleak

Wilma burped. “It stands for unique something-or-other. What it is that you’re tryin to sell.” “But we’re not trying to sell anything.” “Yes, we are. Only it’s a service, not a product. And the name we got off George…” Hurriedly, Wilma crossed herself. “God rest his soul. It isn’t that great, to be honest.”

“I know.” Maggie threw her friend a rueful smile. “I mean Prestige? In a dump like that? Bless him! But I have to agree with you. It is a bit clunky.” “Cack-handed you mean? Like me?”

“No, Wilma, quite the opposite. If you hadn’t talked me into this whole thing, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. With our own business. The friendship we’ve developed.”

“Works two ways.” “How come?” “You’ve turned my life around, Maggie Laird – an ignorant Torry quine like me.”

“You’re not.”

Opportunity

“Not any more,” Wilma beamed. “But I’d have done nothin’ but low-paid jobs for the rest of my days if I hadn’t had this opportunity. And look at the weight I’ve lost. The fun I’ve had at the gym. Plus I feel I fit in now among these folk in Mannofield.”

“That right?”

“Aye,” Wilma hiccuped.

“But back to the name… You’re right. It’s too long, too…”

“Awkward,” Wilma snorted. “Prest-ige Pri-vate In-vesh-ti-ga-shuns. Pretty useless when you’re drunk.”

Maggie giggled. “And talk about being drunk, have you come up with any names, then, if you’ve been thinking about all this?”

“Nope.” Wilma shrugged. “Wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I suppose the USP, as you call it, would be a good enough place to start.”

“Right enough, except…we don’t have one.” “We must have one.” Maggie knitted her brow. “We just have to put our heads together.”

“Have a top-up, then, that’ll get the brain cells going.” She held up her hands. “No more.”

“Aw, come on. We might as well finish the bottle.” “We’ve polished off a whole bottle already. And anyhow, I thought alcohol shrank your brain cells.”

Wilma glugged wine into both their glasses. “Whatever.” Maggie sat in contemplation for a few moments, then, “You could say we give a very personal service.” Wilma snorted. “Sounds like a massage parlour.”

“Don’t remind me.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “Except what else do we have to offer? We can’t say we’re bigger. Better. More professional. We don’t want to say we’re smaller. Cheaper…” She broke off.

“We could say we’re two feal quines,” Wilma chortled, “like thon adverts on the telly. Sheila’s Wheels.”

“Why don’t we use our own names, then: Laird and Harcus?”

“Naw,” Wilma slurred. “Disna rhyme.” “Well, of course it doesn’t rhyme,” Maggie asserted. “I mean, Laird has one syllable, Harcus has two. Laird has a hard ‘a’, Harcus has…”

“There you go again, Miss Know-it-all.” Maggie leaned forward in her seat. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Wilma. You’re right, you know. Laird and Harcus does sound wrong.”

“Pity,” Wilma hiccupped. “They sound posh, like, our names.”

“I’ve got it!” Wilma leapt to her feet. She stood, tumbler in hand, swaying alarmingly. “What?” Maggie opened one eye. “Turn the names back to front: Harcus and Laird.” “Sounds pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Wilma hiccuped once more. “It’s amazin’.” She bent. Drained the last of the bottle. “How’sh about we drink to that?”

Maggie hauled herself to her feet. She stood, unsteady, gripping her glass. “Harcus and Laird,” she slurred. Wilma threw her a wolfish grin. “Harcus and Laird,” she raised a toast.

Immaculate

Maggie sat, knees drawn up, in George’s chair. She cast a critical eye over her front room. Compared to Wilma’s immaculate home, hers was this side of shabby. Still, it would have to do a while yet.

Kirsty had a year of her university course still to complete, four if she took Honours. Then if she opted to remain in law, there would be the diploma in legal practice to obtain before she could get a job. Since the cutting incident, she’d been studying hard.

As for Colin, if he settled down… applied himself… there’s no reason why he couldn’t follow his sister to uni. He might even get a bursary. Maggie closed her eyes. She was mortified now that she’d ever suspected her sweet-natured son of involvement in that poor girl’s death.

But she’d been at her wits’ end, what with losing George so suddenly, the mounting debts, her children’s manifestations of distress. And then that guy Gilruth in the middle of it all: the way he’d sent those men after her. No wonder she’d been stretched to breaking point, had imagined so many irrational things.

Kirsty still made the occasional jibe about Wilma. But that was born out of grief. Maggie could hear her daughter’s shrill voice still.

Then, later: Nobody asked you to take on my dad’s business. You say you’re doing it for the best. Best for you, maybe. You’re trying to be Dad. And you can’t be. You never could be.

George had been the family’s rock, there was no two ways about it, and Maggie had been devastated by his death. In the space of a few months, her life had changed radically. Talk about a reversal of fortune!

Meaningful

Not only was she a single parent now, but her role as a mother had dwindled. She’d have to accept that her son and daughter didn’t need her in any meaningful way. Still – she gave herself a little shake – she should be thankful for her blessings.

Didn’t she have two healthy children and a solid roof over her head? Plus she’d made a good friend in Wilma. The thought of her comforting presence through the party wall was enough to bring a smile to Maggie’s lips. They’d negotiated a winding path, and there would be pitfalls ahead. But with every day that passed, she’d grown in confidence.

And what of the future? Well, it wasn’t so bleak. With the reopening of the case, she’d made significant progress in her quest for justice for George. She’d managed to hang on to her post at Seaton. The agency was now on a sound footing: the workload shared, the admin well-organised.

Maggie’s sorties into the field had taught her to draw on her inner resources. She’d had a string of minor successes and, if Allan Chisolm were to be believed, had made a significant contribution to solving a major police case. Plus she’d learned to trust her instincts. Grit, though, that’s what her experiences as a private investigator had really brought to the fore. George would be proud of her.

Maggie opened her eyes. Straightened her spine. A country mouse – wasn’t that what Wilma had called her? Well, Maggie Laird wasn’t a mouse any more.

Cross Purpose (£8.99) is the first in Claire Macleary’s Harcus & Laird crime trilogy, featuring an unlikely pair of middle aged female private investigators. The second, Burn Out, and the third, Runaway, are available now. All published by Saraband Publishing https:// saraband.net

ENDS

Our exciting new serial – Bone Deep by Sandra Ireland – begins tomorrow. It’s a contemporary story of love, betrayal, female rivalry, and murder – themes that echo across time.