Playing Away

The red Fiesta sped through Banchory Devenick and hurtled past the pillared entrance to Ardoe House Hotel. Wilma sat forward in the driver’s seat, but she wasn’t admiring the scenery. She was a woman on a mission. And she’d been thwarted more than once already.

It was the old story: the client suspected her husband of having an affair. Although, officially, the agency had sworn off matrimonial cases, February had been a slow month, cash flow helped not one bit by the hours Maggie had been putting in on the Struthers case. Having failed to dissuade Maggie from her cause, Wilma had resigned herself to playing a waiting game. In the meantime, she’d resolved to pick up whatever additional business came their way.

Waste of time, had been Wilma’s reaction when she’d rolled up to the house: a whacking great ranch-style bungalow that would put the Ponderosa to shame.

Mark Rowland, devoted father of four children, had started acting completely out of character.

He’s become obsessed with his body, Tina Rowland had told Wilma. Last week I caught him doing press-ups in the bathroom. He hasn’t taken exercise in years.

Wife had done the usual: riffled through his receipts, emptied his pockets, checked his phone. Nothing. Then she’d called Harcus & Laird.

By the sound of things, the husband was having a wee mid-life crisis. Wilma had seen it many a time: a fella suddenly dressing half his age, trying to screw everything in sight. Last one she’d come across had cashed in his pension, bought a red Ferrari, cruised up and down Union Street until he was taken to task.

The wife had let herself go, that much was obvious. Woman would be better off spending the money she was paying the agency on an exotic holiday – Wilma reckoned more middle-aged blokes went ape out of sheer bloody boredom than lack of sex – either that or some judicious Juvederm filler. Still, when it came to marriage, who was she to judge, especially in the light of Ian’s recent moodiness? And it’s not as if the client was short of cash, if appearances were anything to go by.

Mark Rowland worked in the oil industry, had always kept long hours, so no surprises there. For weeks Wilma had tailed him from his place of work to a series of restaurants and bars. He was a good-looking guy: tall, dark, still had all his hair. And trim enough, regardless of what the wife said, not soft in the belly like older men tend to go. Rowland tended to frequent quiet venues, not the trendy bars that were popular with his younger colleagues. But she’d never spotted him with another woman, or at least always in a crowd, never alone.

The breakthrough came when she’d followed him to a flat in Prospect Terrace. Sitting high above the harbour at the back of Crown Street, the Victorian terraced cottages would have had a view, once, out over the old railway terminus at Ferryhill to the harbour. Now the intervening space was largely occupied by office blocks and the Union Square shopping centre, the cottages divided into flats.

Her quarry was only there for a short time. It took Wilma till the following evening to find out why. The flat had been let on a short-term lease. After an elderly upstairs neighbour had repeatedly complained about sounds of sexual activity – like animals, she’d told the landlord – and the tenant had failed to respond, the locks on the interior door had been changed.

Nosy cow, Wilma’s teenage informant snivelled, the way she’s aye at the window. Like living with your granny. Then, the teenager had helpfully supplied her with the details of the caravan park he’d offered to the forlorn Mark Rowland as a stop-gap.

Switching the heater up full blast – there hadn’t been snow, but it was bitterly cold – Wilma shot past the turn-off for Milltimber. Not that she was pushed. The text the GPS had sent confirmed the locus. But the days drew in early at this time of year and Wilma was anxious to get the job done. Besides which, she supposed caravans would have blinds these days: proper, fitted blinds, not scaffy old curtains like in the draughty residential homes she’d shared with Darren. If she landed lucky, she’d get some decent photos.

Must be nearly there. She kept her eyes peeled for the sign. This should be good, she had a quiet chortle to herself. She’d checked out the holiday park online, knew there was a mix of lodges, caravans and camping pods. Pods? That was a new one. Kids were that pampered these days. What was wrong with a bloody tent? She speculated as to how many units would be occupied in the winter months. She could ask at reception, if it was manned, but that would be giving the game away. And, besides, Rowland might have booked under an assumed name. She’d start with a recce for his car, she resolved. Shouldn’t be too hard. There couldn’t be that many 7 Series Beamers on a bloody camping site in January, now could there?

The sign sprang into view. Wilma flicked her indicator and turned off the B9077.

As she’d expected, the accommodation was set out in rows. For a moment she hesitated. If there were only two of them, they’d rent one of the smaller units, wouldn’t they? Plus, although price probably wasn’t a factor, in this icy weather a small unit would be cosier.

She crawled forward, parked the Fiesta behind a toilet block. And then she spotted it. The BMW was slotted neatly between two caravans.

Bingo! Wilma delved for her camera, turned up her collar and slid out of the driving seat, closing the door part-way so as to make no sound. Crouched low, she crept forward until she was level with the suspect’s car.

No lights were showing from either caravan, but there were no blinds drawn either. She was debating which to try first when she heard a noise. Not a loud noise. More of a muffled gasp.

She turned. That caravan couldn’t be rocking, could it? Wilma stifled a giggle. Took her back to those early days of PI work: thon couple in the car at Nigg. She pressed her body against the side of the caravan. Calves aching, she raised herself inch by painful inch till her eyes were level with the underside of the window.

There were two people on the bed, both stark naked. The errant husband was on all fours, pumping away. Beneath him a figure knelt, blonde head half buried in the pillow. That must have been the noise she’d heard, Wilma reckoned: the smothered panting.

She readied her camera. It was only as the subject climaxed and the partner’s head jerked back that she was knocked off her stotter. Boys Own! she marvelled as she rattled off a few shots.

The glare bounced back at her off the window.

Christ! In the waning light Wilma hadn’t dared disable the flash.

The subject’s head swivelled.

From inside the caravan, there was an outraged roar.

Wilma legged it as two burly men tried to hurriedly dress themselves in a confined space.