Peace of Mind

‘We met through the internet,’ the woman seated across the table from Maggie confided. ‘Ralph…’ Coy smile. ‘He was my fourth match.’

‘Mmm,’ Maggie murmured, non-committal. They’d agreed to meet in a hotel lounge on Great Western Road. It wasn’t far from Maggie to walk and, besides, she’d had a bellyful of Patisserie Valerie.

The case – a prenuptial background vetting check – had come to Harcus & Laird by way of Sheena Struthers. The client was an acquaintance of Sheena’s, one of a coterie of middle-class ladies who lunched and played bridge together. Maggie had accepted Helen Cruickshank’s business with alacrity. Verification in these sorts of cases was a growing, and lucrative, field. And easy money, an internet search often all that was required to achieve a satisfactory outcome. More important, Maggie hoped the extra income would go some way towards thawing her strained relations with her friend and colleague.

By rights, the case had fallen to Wilma, who had already run a background check. But this particular evening, big-hearted Wilma was doing emergency sickness cover at her Torry pub and had asked Maggie to present the agency’s report.

I’ve done all the work. You only have to wind things up, Wilma insisted. Piece of cake!

Maggie had been reluctant, but in the circumstances felt she could hardly refuse. Still, she said a silent prayer that Helen Cruickshank wasn’t going to turn out to be another Sheena Struthers.

‘I’d been a bit depressed,’ the client volunteered. ‘After Christmas, when the family went home and the decorations came down…’ She leaned forward. ‘You know how it is.’

Maggie knew only too well. Bad enough she’d to go on living without George, day by day, week by week. But the holiday period had hammered home that not only was she without a husband, her parents had become strangers, her children increasingly out of reach.

‘I was drinking too much,’ Mrs Cruickshank went on. ‘A gin and tonic on the dot of six – gave me an instant lift – then I’d tipple away till bedtime. If I’d still had company…’ Apologetic look. ‘I’d have stuck to wine. Good wine at that. Tony prided himself on his cellar. But there’s no point in opening a bottle, is there, to drink on my own?’

Doesn’t stop Wilma, Maggie thought wryly. Me neither, not these days. Since she’d teamed up with Wilma Harcus, Maggie’s tastes – in all manner of things – had undergone a rapid re-jig.

‘Quite so,’ she murmured. She took a squint at the woman sitting opposite. Dissolute or not, Helen Cruickshank looked like a forties movie star, all smokey eyes and serious lipstick. Maggie made a mental note to ask Kirsty for make-up advice next time she was home.

‘And besides,’ her companion ran on, ‘spirits are cleaner, sharper. Don’t dehydrate you. I told myself once the cold weather eased I’d cut down, but then…’

‘You were going to tell me about Ralph.’ Gently, Maggie interrupted the torrent of words. She’d come across this many times: a client happy to talk about anything but the reason for their meeting.

‘Oh.’ Mrs Cruickshank twisted an embroidered hankie between her hands. ‘So I was. My first match…’

Dammit! Maggie wished she hadn’t put the question. She already knew the answer, so there was no need to pick through the sordid details. All the same, the knowledge she gained she could put to good use in future cases.

Cynical bitch! You’re getting as bad as Wilma.

‘Bit touchy-feely.’ Sideways look. ‘If you know what I mean.’

Maggie gave a small nod.

‘Number two was in sales. I couldn’t get a word in.’

Nor me! Maggie kept her counsel.

‘Match number three was an academic. Decent enough, but on the nervy side. Problem was, I couldn’t help but compare those men with Tony. He’s been dead three years now.’ There was a wobble in her voice. ‘And they didn’t measure up.’

‘What about Ralph?’ Maggie steered the conversation back.

‘Took me by storm. Like my late husband, he’s a public schoolboy. And dishy with it. Presented himself for our first dinner date impeccably groomed. And bearing a nosegay of snowdrops, would you believe? I’ve no idea how he knew I love snowdrops.’

Classic, Maggie thought. From her research, she’d learned that sociopaths tend to target lonely women, use the information they post online to tell them what they want to hear.

‘I was charmed, my dear,’ Mrs Cruickshank rattled on. ‘My Tony, for all his virtues, was a sloppy dresser, happiest in old cords and a shapeless sweater,’ she grimaced. ‘Invariably with a trail of spills down the front.’

‘And Ralph? What happened next?’

‘Took me home. Said his farewells at the front door. Then…’

Maggie sneaked a quick peek at her phone. When she’d posed the question, she’d meant how had the relationship developed. She prayed she wasn’t in for a blow-by-blow account of heavy sex.

‘I’ve had such a lovely time these past few weeks,’ her companion offered. ‘Dinner, theatre, country drives…’ She broke off.

Maggie waited for the ‘but’. There was always a ‘but’. It never came.

‘You must be very happy then,’ she prompted.

‘Oh, yes.’ Fond smile. ‘But, as I told you on the telephone, the children aren’t. At least, not since Ralph asked me to marry him.’

‘Why is that?’ Maggie dissembled.

‘They’re worried about my well-being. That and…’ Strained smile. ‘…their inheritance. We were well set up, you see, before Tony’s sudden death. The sale of the business, well, it brought the fruits of thirty years of hard work, something we’d been looking to enjoy before…’ Her voice hitched. ‘I was left on my own. And there are other investments. If I were to marry…’ She battled to regain her composure. ‘Anyhow, they tell me it’s standard practice, these days, to run a check like I asked you to.’

‘Yes,’ Maggie concurred. ‘The internet is a minefield these days. Better,’ she hesitated, ‘to have peace of mind.’

Peace of mind! She felt like a snake-oil salesman as she uttered the words. She was about to ruin this lonely woman’s day. Plus, she’d long since accepted that it would be years yet – if ever – before she herself achieved a state of mental equilibrium.

She composed herself. It was high time she broke the news.

‘My report,’ she slid a slim folder across the table.

Helen Cruickshank brightened. ‘So soon? Your firm is very efficient, Mrs Laird.’

And thorough!

Wilma’s internet trawl had thrown up the subject’s registration on multiple dating sites. Ralph’s real name was Mark Rowland. Maggie hadn’t had the nerve to ask Wilma how she’d found out. Nor had he attended public school. He’d claimed to be a widower, his wife having died of ovarian cancer. Not only was the wife very much alive, but ‘Ralph’ was still married with four dependent children.

Bastard!

Maggie watched as Helen Cruickshank opened the folder and started to read, as the colour drained from her face.