by M. A. Hunter
My head is spinning as I continue to read the screen and the range of different services and costs. ‘What’s this about packages?’
He glances at the screen, before nodding. ‘I offer complete packages for clients who hire me to catch their spouse cheating. The silver package includes sixty hours of surveillance, photographs, and a record of the target’s movements over a month. The gold package includes an additional thirty hours of surveillance, and a digital copy of the images of illicit activity. And the platinum package includes unlimited surveillance for two months, video as well as photographs, and statements from corroborative witnesses. Basically, the platinum package is all but guaranteed to achieve a client-friendly divorce settlement. Unfortunately, I don’t offer packages for what you require. As I said, every situation is different.’
There is something quite sick about a human profiteering from the misery of others.
He must sense my reticence, as he adds, ‘I am very good at what I do. Nobody expects me to be a private investigator, and that allows me to get closer to targets.’
‘What does your wife think about all this cloak and dagger stuff?’ I ask out of curiosity.
His stare hardens. ‘My husband is fully supportive. If you have had second thoughts, or don’t want to accept my terms, that’s fine, I can just—’
‘Don’t go,’ Angus pipes up. ‘We need your help. Please?’
Lawrence looks to me for confirmation, and I nod, even though I’ve no idea how we can afford the figures quoted on the tablet.
‘Very well then,’ he says, taking the tablet back. ‘I’ve done some preliminary work on your case based on what Angus and I discussed over the phone. I have managed to locate home and business addresses for the man you mentioned, as well as a full criminal history check. If you decide not to continue with my services, there will be a two-hundred-pound charge for this information. However, if you wish me to undertake further surveillance and report back to you, I will waive the preliminary fee.’ He pauses so we can consider the proposal. ‘Tell me what you need, and then maybe we can agree a finance plan to help you achieve your end goal.’
Angus is about to speak, when Lawrence cuts him off with a hand. ‘I should just add that if any of the information I provide to you results in police intervention, I am obliged to hand over details of any discoveries to the authorities, and that includes details of any conversations we’ve had.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say.
Lawrence looks like he is trying to choose his words carefully. ‘Let me phrase it like this – and please do not be offended, as I am not suggesting that this would actually happen, but – in the event that the man you’ve asked me to trace winds up dead, for example, and you are in the frame for his death, I will have no choice but to notify the police that you hired me to find him, and the information you have provided. It’s not a threat, but you need to appreciate that I am a professionally qualified investigator, and as such there are rules I am obliged to follow in order to retain my licence to practise.’
‘We don’t want him dead,’ Angus chirps, though I’m not sure I can agree with that sentiment.
‘You’d be surprised what drastic measures some people will take under intense stress,’ Lawrence says, and it’s as if he’s reading my inner thoughts. Our eyes meet, and I’m forced to look away, feeling self-conscious.
‘Do we look like killers?’ Angus challenges.
Lawrence considers us both, and I’m not sure if he’s genuinely trying to assess our threat level. He finally sighs and rests both hands on his knees. ‘To be honest, you never really know anyone in this day and age, nor what they might be capable of. So many create a “best version” of themselves, whether online or in person, and in some cases the individual can even begin to believe it themselves. I’m not suggesting either of you want this person dead, I’m just hedging my bets.’
‘We just want to know where he is, whether he’s still looking for us, and more importantly… whether he already knows where we are.’
This last statement from Angus sends a shiver the length of my spine. I still recall the fire at the cottage, how we lost everything because of him: photographs, heirlooms, memories. All gone with the strike of a match, and all an act of bitter revenge. Nobody realises how hard it is to start from scratch with only the clothes on your back, wafting ghost-like through life, unable to let go of the past, but unable to return.
It’s tempting to ask Lawrence to run one of his standard background checks on Jess.
Angus fills Lawrence in on our background and our previous addresses so that Lawrence can undertake the necessary enquiries on our behalf. He promises he will get to work on our case immediately, and I can’t tell if that’s because he doesn’t currently have much work on, or whether he senses our desperation. Peace of mind will come at a cost, but if it allows us time to get Daisy settled once again, then it will be worth it. I just hope Lawrence is as good as he says he is, and that Angus’s desire to be pro-active won’t result in trouble finding us sooner.
Chapter Twenty
Now
Mike didn’t appreciate being summoned, least of all by the Chief Super demanding an update he simply couldn’t provide. Straightening his tie in the mirrored wall of the elevator, he checked no stray food was trapped between his teeth before exiting and making his way along the corridor, stopping when he arrived at the closed office door. A glow of light beneath the door confirmed the boss was still there.
Mike knocked twice, and waited to be invited in, closing the door behind him when called to do so. The Chief Super was standing by the window, framed by the dark sky and the array of lights coming from the town’s skyline.
‘Well?’ she demanded without turning around.
Mike took in the rest of the office, the desk larger than necessary and with barely enough room for a normal-sized person to squeeze around; the laptop open and at a forty-five-degree angle, with a separate keyboard connected via USB; no sign of a mouse, but two plastic trays – one marked ‘In’ and the other ‘Out’; nothing was out of place, and it was all in stark contrast to Mike’s own desk, where it was never obvious if he was coming or going. He envied her organisation, but not her frosty demeanour. A framed photograph of her daughter stood adjacent to the laptop’s screen.
‘I’ve got a victim, the weapon that killed him, and possibly one of two suspects responsible for his death.’
He could see the reflection of her eyes boring into him, and suddenly wished he’d ignored the ringing phone as he’d been packing up to leave for the night. Not that it would have made much difference. Given what had unfolded, he probably wouldn’t have made it out of the car park before being called back in.
‘Still no victim’s name?’
‘We’re checking DNA profiles, but nothing has been located yet. The situation isn’t being helped by the system outages we’ve been experiencing across the borough. The team are doing their best.’
She made a show of pushing up her sleeve to check her watch. ‘Clock is ticking, Mike.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, biting his tongue to ensure he didn’t stray from the party line.
She suddenly turned, and he saw now just how tired she looked. Any make-up she’d put on first thing had worn thin, and he hadn’t realised just how dry and wrinkled the skin around her eyes was.
‘We need a result,’ she said plainly. ‘Whatever it takes, we need this case completed with full sign-off from the CPS to charge. Am I making myself clear? I’ve taken a major risk putting you in charge, and I don’t want it to blow up in my face. You were lucky to escape without getting your fingers burned. Other members of your unit weren’t so fortunate.’
They shouldn’t have had their hands in the fire then, he wanted to retort, but kept his lips buttoned.
‘I have Professional Standards breathing down my neck,’ she continued, gripping the back of her desk chair tightly, ‘and they’d just love it if we screwed up again, and had me out of a
job. Running this station my way has not made me popular amongst my peers.’ She paused. ‘What can you tell me about the woman you brought in?’
Mike noticed how white her knuckles were as she continued to squeeze the back of the chair. ‘Jess Donoghue: married mother of one, and we’ve now had it confirmed that she is wheelchair-bound. She was discovered at the scene along with the victim, and his blood was found all over her clothes.’
‘I read the forensics report. Two sets of her prints were found on the murder weapon too. What’s stopping you from charging?’
Evidence, for one thing, Mike thought.
‘It’s complicated by her mental health. She hasn’t been passed fit enough to make a statement yet. Seems she may have been off her prescribed medication for several days, which is making her frenzied and incoherent. We’re currently waiting for her counsellor – one Dr Wanda Savage – to arrive and confirm the assessment. We may have to wait until morning to speak to her.’
‘And in the meantime?’ she asked, not missing a beat.
‘We are collating security camera footage from around the area, interviewing neighbours, and trying to figure out who the victim is. Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t think this is as straightforward as you are suggesting.’
She glared at him, and he physically shrank beneath the weight of her expectation. ‘Her prints are on the weapon, her clothes smeared in his blood, and we can place her at the scene; don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be. There’s no budget for overtime, Mike, and at best I might be able to give you a couple of experienced uniforms to support your team, but that’s it. You need to work efficiently and get this over the line. The longer it takes, the more likely that Professional Standards will come sniffing our way.’
She nodded at her door, their meeting now concluded.
He turned and headed for it.
‘Oh, and Mike? Don’t fuck it up,’ she added as he showed himself out.
Chapter Twenty-One
Before – Jess
Charlie wheels me to the head of the table, a space between the guests large enough for three normal seats. Geordie Maggie is to my left, and immediately starts talking at me, telling me how wonderful I look, how it’s been far too long since we’ve spoken, and how pleased she was to receive Charlie’s call last week.
Her husband Trevor is busy buttering a bread roll, nodding occasionally when his wife mentions his name in some context. Beside them are Katie and Anthony. A large bulge beneath a blanket over Katie’s chest suggests she is breastfeeding their new arrival. This is precisely why I haven’t made any effort to see or even speak to them. I don’t resent their good fortune at having a new child to care for, and I genuinely wish them the best of luck in all the challenges that will follow, but I don’t feel able to fully share in their unbridled joy. It should be me discreetly breastfeeding my child at the table.
Further round, I spot Tracy and a vacant chair; presumably her husband Jack is at the bar. She wiggles her fingers at me in a childish wave, and I force myself to nod back. Geordie Maggie is still babbling beside me, though I’m not entirely sure what she’s saying now. Hailing from Newcastle, her accent is still as broad as the first time we met, and I fail to interpret every fourth word she utters.
A tall man I don’t recognise leans down and kisses Tracy on the cheek, before sitting in the vacant chair next to her. I watch them in confusion; where is Jack? He wraps his arm around Tracy’s shoulder, and she snuggles into his embrace, pressing her lips against his, and it is all I can do to contain my shock. I look away as Tracy’s eyes turn on mine, and my cheeks are flushing with something between anger and embarrassment.
‘You’re not angry, are you?’ Charlie whispers into my ear, as he leans towards me, his cologne overpowering.
I want to tell him how disappointed I am that I don’t get to spend the next couple of hours alone in his company, like he’d led me to believe. I want to ask him if there’s a reason he doesn’t want to be alone with me. I don’t blame him for losing interest. Being confined to the chair has not aided my figure at all, and although I am generally healthy with what I choose to eat, there are some days when I just eat crap because the frustration is too great to get through the day without an endorphin boost.
‘Oh, look who’s here,’ Charlie declares, before I can respond to his question.
Rosie and her husband James have just appeared at the two doors, and it seems the party is complete as they take the two remaining vacant chairs at the table. Rosie is Charlie’s sister, a police officer no less. Tall, with blonde hair, she spends all her free time at the gym working on her core, or at least that’s the way it seems. Before my confinement she would try and convince me to join her gym at every opportunity. At least that subject has been closed since.
I feel one of Rosie’s muscular arms fall across my collarbone, and she squeezes gently, nearly choking the life out of me. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ she says. ‘We’ll have a proper catch-up later, yeah? Promise?’
I nod, just to alleviate some of the pressure on my windpipe. James is next over, offering me a hand to shake. Despite being in-laws for more than six years, he is still so very formal with me. Rosie is definitely less inhibited.
‘Hi,’ is all he offers, before staring down at his feet. He isn’t one for small talk, and I’m relieved when he takes his leave and sits down between his wife and the strange man with Tracy.
Menus are promptly handed around, and the chatter between guests intensifies.
‘Have whatever you want,’ Charlie whispers in my direction. ‘I hear the carvery is the best option, but if you’d rather some pasta, that’s fine too.’
Geordie Maggie is still nattering away, sometimes in my direction, and other times at her husband or Katie next to him. The napkin has been moved away and the baby is nuzzling on a toy in its travel basket just behind the tired-looking parents.
After the waitress has taken our orders, she returns with a ticket for those who’ve opted for the carvery. Charlie offers to get my food for me, which is just as well as I don’t think I’d be able to reach the hot counter anyway.
‘I’ll get you a selection of the things you like,’ he promises, and as he stands to leave, Rosie jumps into his chair.
‘How are you doing today?’ she asks. Rosie is one of the few people I have seen since returning from the hospital; having no children of her own, she dotes on her niece. She’s also aware that I am taking antidepressants to try and manage the psychological trauma I experienced.
‘I’m doing my best,’ I say, and that may be the most honest statement I’ve ever uttered. Isn’t that what most of us do, grin and bear it on the bad days, and cling to the good ones?
‘You know,’ she says, taking a sip of water, ‘I was talking to one of the civvies we have working at the station – he’s in a wheelchair too – and he was telling me that the civilian support team are crying out for more wheelchair-bound staff. He reckons the role is flexible enough to allow him to attend physiotherapy and medical appointments as required, and he isn’t treated any differently to other more abled staff.’ She raises her eyebrows in my direction like she’s expecting me to be impressed or grateful for her enquiries. ‘It could be an avenue back into work for you. Your closest station is probably Harrow, but Uxbridge has a larger civilian support network if you could get there? I could ask him for some more information if you’d like? Or maybe I could ask him to give you a call and answer any questions you might have.’
This is typical of Rosie. I haven’t expressed any interest in returning to a working life yet, let alone as a civilian support to the police, but suddenly it’s as if I have been begging her for help. I know it isn’t fair to expect Charlie to be the sole breadwinner for ever, and at some point I will need to look at work opportunities, but I’m just not ready yet. It’s been such a steep learning curve in the last six months that taking on more responsibility will only lead to self-destruction.
‘How’s
work?’ I ask, eager to change the subject.
‘Busy, busy, busy, as always,’ she replies. ‘I’ve been seconded to a new unit – plainclothes – for the next year. It’s no extra money, but good experience to add to my CV, and something different to the usual array of domestic violence cases we investigate.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say, reaching for my own water. ‘What will you be doing?’
‘I can’t say too much,’ she begins, which is what she always warns when she’s about to tell me more than she probably should, ‘but the Chief Super has put the team together to focus on reinvestigating the back book of Missing Persons cases. It’s a borough-wide team, working out of Uxbridge and reviewing all outstanding Misper cases, re-interviewing witnesses, and looking for fresh clues about what may have happened. Some of these go back ten years or so. The idea is to see whether we can trace the missing person, or uncover evidence that something more sinister may have occurred. I’ve only been assigned a week, and I’m loving it already.’
A flash of Daisy’s face fizzes through my mind like a firework. ‘Do you have any missing children cases to look at, or is just adults?’
‘A mixture. We have been tasked with reviewing a hundred cases between us by the end of the assignment. Of those probably a third involve children, half adults, and the remainder vulnerable adults – mental patients, you know?’
‘I don’t suppose there are any missing five year-old girls in amongst your caseload?’ I say before I can stop the words tumbling from my mouth.
