So all that effort was for nothing,” she mumbled in a defeated voice. “Not entirely.” Wilma grinned

Maggie hammered on the door to the conservatory. “Wilma?” “Hang on,” Wilma bustled through from the back kitchen. She wiped her hands on an apron that sported what looked like the naked figure of a man. Lordy! Maggie tried her best not to look too closely. Wilma opened the door. “God Almighty, you’re in a right state.”

Maggie squinted at her reflection in the glass. “Am I? That’s because I’ve got the most incredible news.”

Wilma grasped her by the arm. “Hold yer horses. I’ve something to tell you first.” She steered Maggie into the conservatory and lowered her into one of the capacious cane chairs.

“On second thoughts, hang on a mo. I’ll open us a bottle.”

The two sat ensconced in their chairs, a bottle of wine open on the table between them.

“You know how you tried to out Brannigan?” Wilma demanded.

Maggie wrinkled her nose. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“And you know how Brian said the only way we’d nail the guy was to get a plea bargain?”

“Yes…” She threw Wilma a cautious look.

Pressure

“Well, I thought and I thought for I don’t know how long and then I had a wee rush of blood. I decided the way forward was to put a wee bittie pressure on Brannigan.”

“If you mean violence, Wilma, haven’t I told you a hundred times, private investigation isn’t about strong-arm tactics, it’s about…”

“I didn’t say we’d actually do anything.” “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me an’ a couple o’ lads.”

“I don’t believe it. You treat this business like some sort of Raymond Chandler novel.”

“Better that than Miss Marple. Any roads, all we did was follow Brannigan home. Surveillance, as you would call it. And that, by the way, is no more than you’ve been doing in Seaton this past while.” “Point taken.”

“Then we asked him to invite us in.” Wilma paused. “Nicely, like. Then once the fellas got him to open up…”

“How exactly did they manage that?”

Wilma tapped the side of her nose. “Don’t ask. I recorded the b **** r on a wee gadget I got off the net. Then we played him back the tape. Said we were going to take it to the police.” Maggie sat up, suddenly alert. “How did Brannigan react to that?”

“Told us to get lost.”

She slumped back in her seat. “So all that effort was for nothing,” she mumbled in a defeated voice.

“Not entirely.” Wilma grinned. “I had to think on my feet – literally. Brannigan sittin’ there. Me standin’ over him.

“The two fellas holdin’ up the doorposts like a pair o’ spare parts.”

Maggie resisted the urge to laugh. “Anyhow,” Wilma continued, “I threatened Brannigan with taking it to the big boys.”

“And what did he say?”

“Threw it back in my face. Knew I wouldn’t know where to start,” she screwed up her face.

“Fair called my bluff. But then, just when I thought it was game over, didn’t Kevin pipe up?” “Kevin?”

“Aye, useless specimen.”

“As I was saying, Kevin came away with he’d filmed Brannigan on his phone.

“Jist out the boozer he was, standin’ in a shop door takin’ a slash.

“Kev said he’d stick it on YouTube, and Brannigan went white as a sheet. Then Wayne…”

“Wayne?” Maggie queried.

Elation

Wilma ignored her. “Wayne said they’d chum Brannigan to Queen Street, him and Kev.”

“So how did it end up?”

Wilma beamed. “He’s in custody.”

“So…” Maggie could barely contain her elation. “You did it. Brought Bobby Brannigan to heel. I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.”

Wilma blushed. “Wisna’ me,” she mumbled. “More of a joint effort.”

“You and your boys?”

“Naw. You an’ me. We’re a team, remember?” Maggie smiled broadly. “So we are. And we’re almost there, Wilma. A good way down the road towards getting justice for George.”

“I reckon. Now, will you tell me what got you in such a state? It’s not money again, is it?” Wilma fiddled with her glass.

“I know some of those invoices I’ve sent out have been a bit on the slow side settling, but…”

“No, it’s not about money,” Maggie rushed to reassure her friend. “And yet it is, in a roundabout sort of way,” she reflected.

“Do you remember that fraud case we got from Innes Crombie?”

“Don’t I just? Charmer claimed he’d lost the use o’ his hands, an’ him playin’ the guitar at thon gig.”

“Well, apparently they sent our report up to the senior partner.”

“Christ, we didn’t make a mess of it, did we?” Maggie giggled. “That’s exactly what I thought when the woman rang up.”

“Well, if there isn’t a problem, why was she ringing you?”

“Because…” For a moment, she hesitated. Wilma picked up the half-empty wine bottle. Slammed it down on the table. “If you don’t come out with it, Maggie Laird, I’m going to pour the rest of this bottle right over your head.”

“You’ve got a nerve, Wilma Harcus. I come rushing round here to tell you and I can’t get a word in edgeways.

“But, as I was saying, they’ve got a big case coming up. The woman said their senior partner wants me to come in for a meeting because…”

“Maggie.”

“It needs a woman’s touch.”

Clamour

Chuggington was going strong. Six kids – three boys and three girls – sat in a semi-circle on the floor in front of the television.

Fatboy, sitting on the settee behind them, fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown envelope.

“What is it? What is it?” There was a clamour of high-pitched voices.

“Never you mind.”

“Can I see? No, me.” The kids jostled one another. He scowled. “Calm down, the lot of you.” There came a chorus of “Aw-aw-aw-aw-aw.” The children resumed their places, but didn’t settle.

Fatboy fingered the envelope. “You lot fancy a game?”

“Yes, yes.” The girls jumped up. The boys held back. “One of our old games,” he moved to reassure them. “Hands up for Pass the Parcel.”

Five pairs of hands shot in the air. The last of the boys shunted up to Fatboy’s knee.

“That parcel, what’s in it?”

“Not telling.”

A small hand reached out.

“Don’t touch.” He snatched the package away. “Aw…”

“I said…don’t touch.”

“Then gonna tell us what’s in it?”

A huge grin split Fatboy’s face. “It’s a surprise.”

More tomorrow.