She took a steadying breath. It had been a good while since she’d done this particular trick

Finally, Wilma fished out an empty plastic milk container, its cap missing, most of its upper half cut away. She eyed it approvingly. When she’d first hooked up with Maggie Laird on this wee venture of theirs, Wilma had gone online, invested in a range of gadgets to speed their investigations. Never mind that she’d had to dip into her nest egg. Or that her meagre savings were meant for emergencies.

Maggie Laird’s situation was desperate, if ever anything was. And it would all pay off in the end, of that Wilma was convinced.

She’d already employed a set of comb picks on the padlock of a lock-up out the back.

But forget your jigglers and plastic cards, for a straightforward Yale Wilma found this cunning adaptation the most effective by far.

Carefully she inserted the cut edge of the plastic bottle into the door jamb, worked it back and forth.

She took a steadying breath. It had been a good while since she’d done this particular trick. Unlike when she was with that deadbeat Darren.

The locks were aye getting changed on their rentals, he was that often falling behind.

Furtive

The Yale slipped with a click. Wilma dug into her coat pocket, drew out a pair of hospital-issue blue Latex gloves.

She eased them on. Baby steps indeed, she muttered under her breath. Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside.

The heat hit her first, closely followed by the smell. Clasping a hand over her nose, Wilma followed the sweet, cloying aroma down the hall.

The first door she opened revealed a grubby living room.

The second, a kitchen so skanky she didn’t linger. Ditto the third: a bathroom where the seat of the toilet pan was up, the bowl encrusted with filth.

In the bedroom next door, the dirty unmade bed and strewn carpet further testified to a single lifestyle.

Wilma eyed the last door in the narrow corridor. Gingerly, she turned the handle, her Latex-clad fingers slipping on a film of moisture.

The door inched open, meeting resistance from what she recognised as a wall of Polythene sheeting.

With her free hand, Wilma hooked it aside and peered into the room.

Behind its pink cotton curtains, the window was sealed with a second Polythene sheet. Against the primly patterned wallpaper, more plastic shrouded the walls.

Two fans stood in opposite corners, their blades whirring softly. The atmosphere was humid, almost tropical, the smell sickly.

Gagging, she reeled back, covering her nose with cupped hands.

The plants stood in rows, their roots swaddled in heavy-duty black bin bags. Wilma eyed the distinctive pointed leaves.

She marvelled – Duthie Park meets Mastrick – for the scene before her was Aberdeen’s Winter Gardens in microcosm.

Her lip curled. Give me a Benson & Hedges any day. It had been a bummer, this case. A fruitless slog trying to find evidence of another sort: the stash of contraband cigarettes she’d heard on the grapevine the guy had been peddling.

She groped for her camera. This little lot might serve the purpose instead. But how to explain? Just as quickly, her spirits sank.

Maggie wouldn’t take kindly to another breach of PI protocol. And there was no question of employing an anonymous tip-off.

In Wilma’s world, you didn’t willingly engage with the police.

Grim-faced, she fired off a few shots. Just for insurance, she told herself, as she stowed the camera away. Carefully, she closed the door, retreated down the hall.

Ah weel… She stood for a moment, checking neighbouring flats for nosey parkers. It’s back to the lock-ups, then.

Hotlips

268 Summer Street was a single-fronted shop. From the blacked-out window, a flashing pink neon mouth formed a perfect moue.

Within its confines, fat lower-case lettering spelled “hotlips”.

Maggie’s heart raced as she pushed through the door.

The interior was womb-like: red painted walls, deep Polyester shag-pile carpet, scarlet velvet chaise that had seen better days.

To one side of the mirrored reception desk, a heavily padded doorway led to who knows what.

“I’m looking for Mr Imlay,” she addressed the black-clad bruiser behind the desk.

“Who?” The shaven head barely stirred from his red top. “Your boss.”

No reaction.

Maggie approached the desk. “Am I correct in saying Mr Imlay does own this operation?” Flicks over a page. “Might do.”

“Well, then…” She leaned over, thrust her face in his. “Let’s just say he does. When am I most likely to catch him?”

Shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Doesn’t he open up?”

“That’s my job.”

“What about closing time?”

“We don’t keep regular hours.” The man lumbered to his feet. “What’s it to you, anyhow?”

Maggie sized him up. He was a hulk, no doubt about it, but she was getting better at this.

She knew that the biggest guys often weren’t the fastest on their feet.

She drew a breath. Keep it vague, remember. “There’s a business matter I need to discuss with him.”

“Well, he’s no here.”

Self-defence

Chip away at it.

“He must come past sometime,” she insisted. “Pick up the takings.

“After all, this place must rake in a fair bit, what with the… range I’ve heard you offer.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Personal services?”

“All we do is what it says on the door,” the man parroted a line she suspected was well-rehearsed.

“Plus, we’ve only got three girls. It’s hard to get staff to work…” He smirked, “unsocial hours.”

Don’t over-elaborate, you silly man. Maggie realised by now it paid to keep your lies simple. “Not unless they’re illegals,” she shot back.

A flicker of recognition. He walked around the desk. Loomed over her.

In her mind Maggie ran through Wilma’s strictures on self-defence: be quick, smart, go for the weak spots, then run.

For the moment she opted to stand her ground. Big as he was, Maggie doubted the fellow would be looking for trouble.

For some moments the two squared up, albeit all Maggie could see was the black expanse of a barrel chest.

More tomorrow.

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