Maybe

Maggie stood in the big bay window. Through dirt-smeared glass, the front garden looked more uncared-for than ever. The privet hedge sprouted with new growth, the borders were choked, the lawn a patchwork of moss. She made a mental note to haul the old lawnmower out of the garage and at least cut the grass. As soon as the weather turned, she procrastinated. It was supposed to be spring, but the north-east had been battered for weeks by squalls of rain. She wouldn’t have to address the grass anytime soon.

Her gaze dropped to the big chair. Time was, she’d have found it a comfort, conjuring George sitting there with his newspaper after their evening meal. For over a year, that mental image had lent Maggie strength. Now, it had begun to dissipate, her husband’s burly figure dissolving, somehow, into the fabric. These days, all she felt was guilt: guilt that she’d talked him into resigning from the force, guilt that her children had been left without a father, guilt that, despite her best efforts, she was no nearer to restoring his good name.

The doorbell shattered her reverie. Maggie took one last, lingering look at the chair and walked quickly to the front door.

‘Oh.’ She took a step backward. ‘It’s you.’

‘Seems to be.’ Allan Chisolm was suaveness itself in his smart charcoal suit. ‘Are you going to invite me in?’

‘Yes.’ She beckoned, blushing. There was something about the man that she found unsettling. Something dark, contained, almost dangerous.

She stepped aside, sensing the heft of him as he brushed past her, catching the faintest whiff of aftershave. ‘Have a seat, won’t you?’ She followed him into the sitting room and indicated the settee, but remained standing. Gritting her teeth, she readied herself for what she knew was coming.

‘Your client, Sheena Struthers…’ he began.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she jumped in. ‘I’ve already heard.’ She brushed a weary hand across her brow. ‘I’ve been taken for a complete mug.’

‘That’s not entirely the case. It would appear this whole business emanated from your client’s fragile emotional state. But then it took on a life of its own.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The allegations made by your client are not entirely without foundation, the fall in particular. Added to that, we have evidence of internet searches on Gordon Struthers’ computer for so-called date-rape drugs, an order subsequently placed…’

Stunned, Maggie stuttered, ‘What’s going to happen now?’

‘Precious little, I fear. Too many imponderables. There’s a question mark over who bought those drugs. Added to which…’ He sighed. ‘Even if we manage to bring a case against Gordon Struthers, I think, given the background, your client may not prove a reliable witness.’

Maggie had to agree. She didn’t respond.

‘Plus, there’s always the possibility she’ll refuse to press charges. in cases like these, women rarely do.’

Maggie’s shoulders slumped. ‘All that time and effort for nothing.’ She grimaced. ‘Yours and mine.’

‘I’m used to it. But you mustn’t take it personally.’ The inspector’s voice was full of concern. ‘Nobody could have predicted…’

‘You’re wrong. I told my partner.’

‘Partner?’ His eyes flashed alarm bells.

‘Business partner. I told Wilma – time and again I told her Sheena Struthers was crying for help. But Wilma wouldn’t listen. And I dug my heels in.’ She looked daggers at him. ‘Too damn proud. And look where it’s got me.’

‘Come, now.’ He rose from the settee, made to move towards her.

‘Don’t.’ She held up her hand. ‘I can do without your sympathy, especially after…’

He offered a wry smile. ‘I tore you off a strip? And not just once.’

‘You did,’ she shrugged. ‘And I deserved all I got. I was finding my feet, you have to understand and…’ The tears brimmed over and streamed down her cheeks. ‘We all make mistakes. Even you.’ She met his eyes in mute appeal.

‘I’m not some automaton, you know.’ His voice softened, but he kept his distance. ‘I have feelings. Strong feelings.’ His steel-grey eyes sought hers. ‘But in my position, I have to maintain a distance, remain objective.’

‘I know. And I understand. It was the same with George.’ She cast a sideways glance at the big chair. ‘He internalised so much stuff. It’s just, I’m always s-so tired,’ she hiccupped. ‘I’ve got such a lot on my shoulders – the house, the kids, the agency – and to tell the t-truth I can’t cope.’

‘Mrs Laird.’ He crossed the room to stand beside her.

She raised her face to him, uncomprehending.

Then: ‘Maggie.’ He enfolded her in his arms. ‘There.’ Gently, he kissed her hair. ‘There.’

Involuntarily, she stiffened.

His grip tightened. ‘Don’t cry.’

Despite herself, she yielded to his embrace.

It’s only for a minute, she rebuked herself, then… Then what? Her sobs started anew.

‘Trust me.’ He planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Everything’s going to be alright.’

A rush of happiness engulfed her. She looked up, met his earnest gaze. And for the first time in many months Maggie thought maybe – just maybe – everything really would work out.

Abruptly, he pulled away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘No,’ she replied, confused. ‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not okay.’ Allan Chisolm raised a supplicant hand. ‘I overstepped the mark.’

Maggie had a wild urge to grab hold of his hand. Too late. She watched it stray to the knot of his tie, hover for a moment, then drop to his side.

The inspector backed off and resumed his place on the settee.

Coward! She seethed with frustration. Just when she’d reconciled herself to a possible future with Brian, she’d let someone else sneak into the frame. She’d had it all worked out. A gentle courtship: drinks, pictures, dinner. If they got on, Brian could move in with her. Except… Out of the corner of her eye she could see the chair. Wouldn’t that sort of life set her back to where she’d left off? Brian was a decent guy but, like George, content to settle for the status quo. Maggie wanted more. She’d always wanted more, but the thirst was stronger, now she’d had a taste of independence.

‘Whilst I’m here…’ Chisolm’s voice broke the silence.

Maggie pulled herself together. ‘Brannigan?’ she asked, eager for good news. Shattered as she was by this latest turn of events, she mustn’t lose sight of her quest.

‘No change there, I’m afraid.’ A muscle worked in Chisolm’s jaw. ‘It could be a while yet before they’re able to predict an outcome.’ His face brightened. ‘There is some slight progress, however, on the other matter.’

‘Is that right?’ Dismissive voice. Maggie assumed Chisolm was referring to the Struthers case.

‘Sergeant Craigmyle.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ex-Sergeant Craigmyle… paid us a visit yesterday.’

‘Oh?’ Maggie noted, with a pang of regret, that Allan Chisholm had reverted to police speak. ‘He did?’ Her mind took a leap, a giant leap. ‘In connection with?’ Her heart was thudding so hard, her breaths so short, her mouth so dry… she staggered to the big chair and sat down heavily.

‘James Craigmyle has given a formal statement confirming it was he, not your husband, who switched off the tape recording that contributed to the collapse of a major trial.’