Runaway Read online

  Praise for Burnout

  LONGLISTED FOR THE HEARST BIG BOOK AWARDS CRIME NOVEL OF THE YEAR 2018

  “Gripping.” GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

  “A terrific writer.” KIRSTY GUNN, SCOTSMAN

  “Absorbing. This is a thoroughly entertaining series that could run and run.” SHIRLEY WHITESIDE, SUNDAY HERALD

  “Warm, witty, thoughtful, and thrilling.” ALISTAIR BRAIDWOOD, SCOTS WHAY HAE

  “An utterly riveting and often unexpected read, absolutely brilliantly done.” LIZ LOVES BOOKS BLOG

  “You should make time to get to know Maggie and Wilma.” LOUISE FAIRBAIRN, SCOTSMAN

  “Strong advocacy of and for women … that’s what makes this such an engrossing read.” LIVE AND DEADLY

  “Incredibly gritty and compelling … absolutely superb writing.” THE QUIET KNITTER

  Praise for Cross Purpose

  LONGLISTED FOR THE MCILVANNEY PRIZE FOR SCOTTISH CRIME BOOK OF THE YEAR 2017

  “A brilliant new talent for the lover of crime…a vibrant crime partnership and sound forensic expertise.” SUE BLACK, DBE, FORENSIC ANTHROPOLOGIST

  “A refreshingly different approach to the private investigator genre… a fast-paced tale.” – SHIRLEY WHITESIDE, HERALD

  “[A] fantastic new crime novel…a gritty book with a surprisingly warm theme of female friendship.” THE LIST

  “MacLeary’s prose is assured and engaging, bursting with the liveliness of the Aberdonian vernacular… an impressive debut.” RAVEN CRIME READS

  RUNAWAY

  Claire MacLeary

  Contents

  Title Page

  I

  Emergency

  The Beginning and End of It

  Belvidere Street

  Trifle for Afters

  Brian

  Too Little Too Late

  Justice for George

  Kirsty

  II

  Mad Mike

  A Surprise

  Chisolm

  Seaton School

  Tell Me Something New

  In Our Prime

  Whatever

  Val

  A Coincidence

  A Cocktail Waitress

  III

  Life and Death

  Loosen Up

  A First Time for Everything

  There’s a Thing

  A Bad Penny

  Deep Shit

  Somewhere to Sleep

  Interview Room

  Big Mistake

  Be My Guest

  A Plan

  Shaz

  IV

  Black Ops

  A Receipt

  Sam

  Humour Me

  An Item

  A Development

  Anyone I Know

  The Illicit Still

  A Verbal Warning

  ARI

  A Connection

  A Bad Lot

  V

  Refuge

  Back to the Drawing Board

  What’s the Story?

  Bongo

  A House Guest

  Ferryhill

  Catch You Later

  In for a Penny

  Another Sighting

  In Too Deep

  VI

  West Bell Street

  That Would Be Telling

  Quiet Coach

  The Hollywood Cafe

  Colin

  Some Book

  A Spot of Bother

  Union Terrace

  A Gap in the Hedge

  Man Trouble

  VII

  Dossers

  Back to Square One

  Mika

  Ian

  More Questions Than Answers

  Ellie

  A Direct Approach

  High and Dry

  This and That

  Ardoe House

  Ambushed

  VIII

  South College Street

  A Positive ID

  A Matter of Time

  A Sour Taste

  A Snap Decision

  All Too Much

  No More Excuses

  A Study Plan

  Foxy

  This Isn’t Working

  IX

  Poldino’s

  Joined at the Hip

  Chalk and Cheese

  Netherley

  One Thing

  A Bit of Fun

  Moving On

  Full House

  X

  Mika

  Their Problem

  Debbie

  Here’s Looking at You

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  I

  Emergency

  ‘Emergency. Which service do you require: police, fire or ambulance?’

  On the other end of the line there was nothing but ragged breathing.

  ‘Which service, caller?’

  ‘Police.’

  There was silence, then, ‘Police Scotland,’ their control picked up. ‘What is your emergency?’

  ‘It’s my wife.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘She’s gone missing.’

  ‘Can I have your name, please?’

  ‘Scott.’

  ‘And your last name?’

  ‘Milne.’

  ‘Have you any reason, Scott, to suspect your wife has come to harm?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Yet another call that should have been directed to 101. Patiently, the operative responded. ‘Try to stay calm. I’m going to put you through to our service centre who can take this forward.’

  ‘Hurry up, will you? I’m…’ He swallowed his words as he was put on hold.

  ‘Hello, Scott.’ A female voice this time. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It’s my wife, she’s gone missing.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s missing?’ The young call handler smothered a yawn. If she had a penny for every missing from home that was called in and turned up safe she’d be a millionaire by now.

  ‘She wasn’t at home when the kids got in from school. She didn’t turn up to make their tea.’

  ‘Has this happened before?’

  ‘No. Well, she’s run a bit late, sometimes, if she’s been shopping and that.’

  ‘Let me take down some details. Your wife’s full name?’

  ‘Debbie, I mean Deborah Anne Milne.’

  ‘Maiden name?’

  ‘Esslemont.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘12th April 1986.’

  ‘Place of birth?’

  ‘Aberdeen.’

  ‘Home address?’

  ‘66 Belvidere Street.’

  ‘Do you have the postcode?’

  ‘AB25 2… Christ, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Not to worry. What district is that?’

  ‘Rosemount.’

  ‘Can you tell me where Deborah…?’

  Scott cut her short. ‘She answers to Debbie.’

  ‘Can you tell me where and when Debbie was last seen?’ She launched into her routine.

  ‘Today, in the kitchen at home. It would be the back of eight, I’d say, when I left for my work.’

  ‘And her physical description?’

  ‘Tall. Five foot eight.’

  ‘Build?’

  ‘Not thin.’ He paused. ‘Not fat either. Curvy, I suppose you would say. Brown eyes. Dark hair.’

  ‘Can you tell me what Debbie was wearing when you saw her last?’

  On the line there was silence, then, ‘I dunno. Some sort of housecoat thing.’

  ‘Did your wife have any plans for the day?’

  Another baffled silence. ‘Who knows what Debbie gets up to when the kids aren’t around? Women’s stuff, I suppose.’

  ‘And what f
rame of mind was she in, would you say?’

  ‘Look, do you really need all this?’ he demanded. ‘Can you not just send someone out to look for her? I’m at my wits’ end.’

  ‘What I’m going to do, Scott,’ the call handler said calmly, ‘is send a police unit out to your home address. Is someone there now?’

  ‘Me.’ His voice dropped an octave. ‘I came straight from work when the kids phoned to say Debbie wasn’t there.’

  ‘Good. But first,’ she repeated, ‘I need you to tell me what frame of mind Debbie was in when you saw her last?’

  Scott sighed. ‘Bit quiet. But that’s not unusual, what with seeing the kids are up and dressed, getting the breakfast, packed lunches, all that.’

  ‘Just say she was planning to go out somewhere,’ the handler persisted. ‘What would Debbie wear do you think?’

  ‘Jeans? Boots? Jacket? Or a coat, maybe.’

  ‘Does your wife have her own transport?’ she asked, one eye on her crib sheet.

  ‘Yes, but her car’s still sitting in the drive.’

  ‘Does she own a mobile?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Has she been answering it?’

  ‘No. That’s another thing. Phone’s switched off, and that’s not like Debbie. Usually, it’s never far from her hand.’

  ‘Well, you stay put. I’ll circulate your wife’s details to all police units over the radio so they’re alerted. A uniformed response team will be with you as soon as they can.’

  The Beginning and End of It

  ‘’Scuse the mess.’ Wilma ducked into the foot-well of her red Fiesta, grabbed a clutch of empty Coke cans and crisp packets, and chucked them into the back.

  ‘No probs.’ Maggie wrestled with her seat belt. ‘I’m grateful for the lift. It’s a lifesaver. Can’t believe I didn’t notice the time, nor put petrol in my car.’

  ‘Too much on your mind.’ Wilma gunned the engine, shot out of the drive.

  ‘Steady on.’

  She turned. ‘Thought you were in a hurry.’

  ‘I am. Only I’d prefer to get to my meeting in one piece.’

  Barely losing momentum, Wilma nosed into a stream of traffic.

  She turned, again.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

  ‘Okay,’ Wilma fixed her eyes straight ahead. ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘Carden Place.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She floored the accelerator and jumped the lights at North Anderson Drive, taking a left onto the ring road.

  ‘Wil-ma.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You just went through a red light.’

  She grinned. ‘So?’

  In the passenger seat Maggie stiffened. ‘Wilma Harcus, it’s not a laughing matter. You’re breaking the law.’

  ‘Look…’ Wilma turned, once more, to face Maggie. ‘Do you want to make that meeting or not?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Maggie answered, chastened. This meeting was important: a new and potentially lucrative corporate client. If she didn’t make her appointment, she might not get another chance. Not that it should figure, not the way she was feeling about the agency right now. She’d been ready to throw in the towel when their last major case – in which a woman, Sheena Struthers, had accused her husband of trying to kill her – had fallen apart. Maggie had gone against Wilma in taking on the client in the first place, and the ensuing furore had caused the two women’s relationship to fracture. Ever since then, Maggie had questioned not only her own judgement but her whole raison d’etre. Still, she’d agreed a temporary stay of execution, so she should show good grace. After all, Wilma was doing this out the goodness of her heart. Just like the day she’d run Maggie to the mortuary to identify her dead husband – the day Maggie’s life had changed forever.

  ‘Now I’ve got your attention,’ Wilma’s voice broke her train of thought. ‘Let me tell you, I’ve hardly slept the whole night.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘The business.’

  ‘Oh, Wilma!’ Maggie let out an exasperated sigh. ‘We’ve already been through all that. I’ve agreed to give the agency another six months, then…’

  ‘Six months?’ Wilma broke in. ‘That’s no time at all,’

  At the Seafield Road roundabout, the small car shot out in front of a massive artic, causing horns to blare.

  Maggie fingers sought purchase on the fake leather seat covers, knuckles white.

  Wilma extended a steadying hand.

  ‘Don’t!’ Maggie shrilled.

  Wilma withdrew, changed down to second, accelerated past a stream of cars.

  ‘Whatever.’ Maggie regained her composure. ‘In the meantime we’ll stick to the routine stuff. At least until…’ We’re back on an even keel. She was loth to acknowledge the damage that could have been done to the agency’s reputation – far less her friendship with Wilma – by a debacle of her own making. Maybe her instincts were true: the damage was irreparable, it was time to call it quits.

  ‘Aye, except,’ Wilma pursed her lips. ‘If we shut up shop, you can pick up more hours at Seaton or go back to being a legal secretary, but what about me?’

  ‘I’d be hard-pressed to achieve either of those things,’ Maggie retorted. ‘Resources are tight enough at school as it is, and we both know I’m not sufficiently up to speed on the IT side to get a secretary’s job. As for you, you’ll do what you’ve always done: make it up on the hoof.’

  Wilma grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. All the same…’ There was a wistful note to her voice. ‘If we keep the agency going, I could really make something of myself after all these years of doing shite jobs.’

  Maggie’s conscience pricked. After Struthers, she owed Wilma one.

  The small car sped up the outside lane of the dual carriageway. The city’s show of spring flowers had withered and gone and the roses studding the central reservation were yet to bloom. But the trees bordering the road were lush with new foliage, albeit they passed in a blur of lime green.

  ‘And,’ Wilma didn’t let up. ‘Are you not the one that’s aye banging on about integrity: doing the decent thing?’

  ‘I am. And I’m not wrong either,’ Maggie said with an admonitory frown. Her head swam with the numerous other incidences where Wilma had flouted the law.

  ‘Well, that justifies my argument: you shouldn’t rush to jack in the business. You need to give it a bit longer.’

  ‘Listen, Wilma, let’s not fall out again. We’ve only just…’

  Reaching Kepplestone, the Christmas tree air freshener suspended from the rear-view mirror swung wildly, its aroma adding a pungent top-note to Wilma’s scent, as the Fiesta whizzed right into Queens Road.

  Maggie gritted her teeth. She thought she was going to be sick.

  ‘Is it because you’re a bit touchy, still, from the Struthers…’

  Maggie bristled. ‘I am not touchy.’ Though her mind tumbled with images of the day, earlier that year, she’d tailed Gordon Struthers – alleged wife slayer – from his office in this very road to his club at Holburn junction.

  ‘Then tell me,’ Wilma persisted, ‘you’ll give it a bit longer.’

  At Queen’s Cross, they joined the tail end of a queue of traffic.

  By this time Maggie was glued, rigid, to her seat. Her thighs, unaccustomed to being confined in tights, were clammy with sweat.

  Wilma leaned across. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ Maggie’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m tired, Wilma. Tired of juggling two jobs. Tired of keeping erratic hours. Tired of dealing with poor, sad folk I can’t do anything for.’

  The line crept forward.

  When she reached the roundabout, Wilma stepped on the gas.

  The car rocketed ahead, narrowly missing a knot of youngsters who were trying to cross. ‘Move your fuckin’ backsides,’ she muttered as she made Carden Place.

  Maggie checked the time on her phone. ‘Next block on the left,’ she gestured. She’d make it with on
ly minutes to spare.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Wilma acknowledged. ‘Want me to drive up to the door?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie shot back, rather too hurriedly. Bad enough she was in a lather without someone clocking Wilma’s banger. Then, shamed by her snobbery: ‘You crack on,’ she offered, gratefully. ‘Just drop me here.’

  The Fiesta screeched to a stop.

  Maggie opened the passenger door and swung her legs onto the pavement.

  Wilma extended a restraining hand. ‘About the business.’

  ‘Look,’ Maggie lost her rag. ‘If it will shut you up, I’ll give it a year.’

  ‘A year’s not long enough,’ Wilma began.

  ‘A year,’ Maggie repeated, poker-faced. ‘And that’s the beginning and end of it.’

  Belvidere Street

  ‘Does your wife have mental health issues?’ Police Constable Dave Miller looked up from the Missing Persons aide memoire on his knee.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Scott Milne retorted, his face a study in mortification.

  They were in the spacious, bay-windowed front room of Debbie Milne’s home: a five-bedroom Victorian granite mid-terrace in the popular Rosemount district of Aberdeen. An original tiled fireplace in a heavily carved oak surround dominated one wall, which was painted in a modish shade of dove grey, while the looped carpet, deep-buttoned sofas and Roman blinds evidenced serious outlay.

  PC Ian Souter made a mental comparison with his own home. The entire footprint of his chalet bungalow in Bridge of Don wasn’t much bigger than this one room. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was in the wrong job. ‘What my colleague is trying to establish,’ he threw his colleague a black look, ‘is whether there are any medical issues that might make Debbie vulnerable?’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’ Scott shot back, maintaining the affront.

  ‘Diabetes, for example.’ Souter worked to placate the man. ‘Or asthma. Or suicidal thoughts,’ he slipped in at the end.

  ‘None of those,’ Scott retorted. ‘Aside from the occasional hangover, my wife is the picture of health.’

  ‘She’s not alcohol-dependent, then?’ Miller volunteered, in a voice that spoke more of hope than expectation.

  ‘No.’

  Miller ticked the next box on his list. ‘Drug-dependent?’

  Weary voice. ‘That neither.’

  ‘And she doesn’t have dementia?’ His pen hovered, expectant, over the form.