Copyright © 2019 by Seamus Heffernan
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019
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To Chelsey
Acknowledgements
I thank Lesley Breau and Alisa Mappes for their feedback on earlier drafts of this work.
I also thank my publishers, Laurence and Steph Patterson, for their support, patience and kind words as this manuscript came together.
About the Author
Prior to his writing career, Seamus Heffernan worked in education, journalism, marketing and politics. Born in St. John’s, Newfoundland, he has called several places home, including a lengthy stint in London, England. He currently resides in British Columbia, where he splits his time between Abbotsford, Mission and Vancouver.
Ten Grand
“Man is not what he thinks he is,
he is what he hides.”
-André Malraux
1
In my line of work, I usually ask the questions—I don’t have to answer them. It’s one of the perks of this job I like to remind people of. So I wouldn’t normally agree to interviews, but as this had been a favour to a friend, I had found it hard to say no. The young man before me had been inquisitive, that was for sure, scribbling away at everything I said despite his smartphone recording our chat. I couldn’t help but admire such diligence, even as it came across a bit self-serious. He had good posture and a knowing air, which I felt was perhaps unearned. I had answered his wide-ranging questions politely and fully, and he showed little interest in wrapping up anytime soon. He had a bit of moxie, sure, but he was also keen. I could respect that—but I made sure he noticed me taking a glance at my watch.
“How does someone get into this line of work?” he asked.
I shifted in my seat, giving my lapels a quick tug.
“Well, in my case…one thing just kind of followed another.”
His brow knitted together a bit as he made more notes.
“Can you expand on that?” he asked.
“Sure. I used to do other jobs, and now I do this one.”
He looked up, making a small circle in the air with his ballpoint.
“That’s a bit cagey. But I can see it’s personal,” he said.
“It is, thank you. Why do you ask, by the way? Are you interested in working a job like this?”
He considered that.
“Hypothetically, sure.”
“Well, what else do you want to know? About the job, I mean.”
He mulled that over for a moment.
“What are the hours like?”
“Terrible.”
“What’s the money like?”
“Marginally better.”
“Could you make more?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
I paused to think it over.
“I could go work for a private security outfit or an insurance company. I’ve had a few offers, actually. That’s where the majority of my cases come from.”
“Why don’t you?”
I laughed.
“Good question. I don’t know. Guess I like the way my name looks on the front door.”
“What kind of work do you do for those guys?”
“Background checks on potential employees and fraudulent injury claims, mostly. I also do missing persons work for people who have skipped out on their child support or other fiscal obligations.”
“Do you like it?”
“Enough, yeah.”
“Could you do other cases? Investigate other things?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why don’t you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
I laughed again.
“I don’t. So I’ll keep it short: I don’t want to. At least, not anymore.”
He took his time writing something about that down. I couldn’t tell if he was particularly intrigued or just buying some time before coming at me with another curveball.
“What’s the economic outlook overall, for private investigators?” he asked.
“Pretty good. You can always make a few bucks on people’s greed. Or their stupidity.”
He took a breath, digging deep for another question. I politely interjected.
“Last one,” I said.
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Would you recommend people go into this field?” he asked.
“You mean, become a PI?”
“Yeah.”
I considered this before answering, but we were interrupted by a knock on the office door.
“Jeremy, that’s 30 minutes. It’s time to go. Leave Thaddeus alone and thank him for this time. He’s a busy man.”
“Muuuuuum,” young Bob Woodward here groaned. “It’s for school.”
“Yeah, I think that should be good,” I said, nodding thanks to Sarah, the mother in question. “You got enough, right?”
Clearly disappointed, he still nodded.
“You’ll let me know when this is out?”
“Yeah, for sure. It’s a big feature. About half a dozen of us are interviewing people with careers off the beaten path.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I said. “Feel free to make stuff up to fill in the boring bits I gave you.”
I smiled to let him know I was joking around. He didn’t return it. Instead, he packed his bag and stuck out his hand.
“Thank you,” he said, almost solemnly.
I stood, and we shook.
“No problem,” I said.
Still gripping my hand, he asked, “Would you come to my class on career day?”
I began to laugh again and Sarah ushered him out.
“That’s not a no,” he said as she closed the door, facing me.
“Thank you for this,” she said. “I figured since you used to be a teacher, you’d be OK to ask.”
“Yeah, of course.” Sarah had come to me about six months ago, suspecting her husband was stepping out. I referred her to someone I knew in town, someone good who would get it done fast and clean. She had been right, but more importantly she had been smart—instead of blowing her cool she held onto the photos, got into his phone and e-mails, found a good lawyer, and ate the now ex-hubby alive. When he moved out, she had come back to say thanks. We went out for dinner once, maybe twice.
“He’s a good kid. Smart. Excellent attention to detail. He might be a good cop someday.”
“Not a PI?” she asked, smiling coquettishly.
“Not glam enough,” I said. “I could tell he was getting a bit disillusioned.”
“I doubt that. You’re a good storyteller.”
“Well, then he will definitely be disappointed if you tell him that, ’cause most of my answers veered towards the monosyllabic.”
“I doubt that too,” she said. “In my experience, you’re pretty verbose.”
I sat back down.
“It’s been good to see you,” I said. I moved some paper around on my desk, trying to find a file.
“How have you been?” she asked.
I paused, to give the illusion that the answer would be the a
ctual, thought-out truth.
“Not bad. Keeping busy. Work is OK.”
“Good to hear,” she said, pressing freshly lacquered lips together. “Well, I should get going”—she flicked her head towards the door—“before he figures out how to get into your hard drives or something.”
“We’ll be OK,” I said, flipping open the laptop on my desk. There was an e-mail from an old friend, but it could wait. “Everything is right here, anyways. The one out in reception has long been wiped.”
“Pretty quiet out there, lot of space,” she said. “You going to get someone working out here, answer the phones or greet the clientele?”
I opened another file folder, looking for the casework on some brainless surveillance job whose paperwork I had let slip and needed to catch up on.
“I’m doing all right on my own,” I replied. “I don’t mind flying solo right now.”
She dawdled for a moment.
“Jeremy’s with his dad this weekend,” she said.
“Mmhmm,” I said, peeking under another stack. Success—there it was, tucked away.
I looked up. She was waiting. I hadn’t twigged it.
“I’m working,” I said. “Sorry.”
It sounded a bit brusquer than I had intended. She nodded, a slight flush touching her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said, a bit more gently. I stood up again. “Really. I’m just trying to keep a lot of balls in the air here. My social life, such as it is, is a distant second.”
“I get it.” She tucked her clutch under her arm. “Say no more.”
Like her son, she extended her hand. I took it, more gently than I had taken his.
“It was good to see you,” she said. “Do take care, Thad.”
“Someone once told me I would never be very good at that,” I said as she stepped out. “But I’m trying.”
2
I wasn’t actually feeding Sarah a line—my weekend was well shot before she had even walked in. Friday night I had a tail job: A dad worried about his teenage daughter, who had been keeping some late hours and running with what he assumed was a bad crowd. A few hours looping around an admittedly dodgy pub in Brixton that was less than thorough about all its ID checking should put his mind at ease. Far as I could see, she was into playing board games, sitting too close to some black-jeaned, scruffy young guy and having a few sneaky shandies, but nothing too scandalous.
Satisfied, I had found another pub nearby, the kind without a jukebox or board games, seeing as the assortment of harmless elderly alcoholics huddled over their pork scratchings and racing forms would put up with neither. The bartender didn’t even blink when all I asked for was a club soda, bless him.
My phone buzzed as I settled into my stool, taking in a Six Nations promo poster over the bar and a calendar, brittle and yellow, from 1986. They had still turned the month to February. A cartoon Cupid hovered over a silhouette of a couple.
“Grayle,” I said.
“Hey. You free?”
Oh, that voice. Girly, but with just a hint of a long-ago whiskey rasp.
“For you? Most of the time,” I said.
“You need some new material. We’ve only worked together a few months and I’ve heard that before.”
“Get used to it,” I said. “I only have about six good anecdotes, too, and you’ve heard four of ‘em already.”
“Let’s make some more. Where are ya?”
I gave her my location. She wasn’t too far from here—ten minutes or less, she said.
Those few months had gone by pretty quickly, truth be told. I had met Ayesha Gill, combat vet-turned-security consultant, when doing a big background check job for a corporate client. There had been a push on hirings, and they needed it done quickly and discreetly. Fortunately I was well placed for both. She was working a contract gig at the same time, some bodyguard work for visiting executives. She was amenable to taking on some more freelance work, and following the changes in my own business model, I needed someone with her skill set—and contacts.
Emboldened by my previous order, I had taken the liberty of ordering her a black coffee, gratefully accepted as she slid onto the stool next to me, even as she side-eyed my packet of salt and vinegar.
“So,” I said. “What’s the crack?”
“Could be a doozy.” She tested the java. Still a bit hot. “This one’s got all sorts of intrigue.”
“Stop it. The suspense. You’re killing me.”
Ayesha smiled, that alabaster hook lighting up the bar’s smooth wooden top and the brown bottles cluttering nearby.
“What?” I said, tired of waiting.
“So eager,” she said, the smile shrinking only a bit. “So ready for adventure.”
I sat back, shrugging.
“It’s Friday night and I’m sitting in this place having a so-so bit of fizzy water and being judged for enjoying a bag of crisps,” I said. “So maybe I’ve earned something exciting to distract me.”
“I don’t think you care what night it is,” she said. “You’ve never said no when I’ve called.”
“Keep calling. Next time I might be washing my hair. You’ll have to find some other boy to spend time with.”
“That’s never been a problem,” she said, and I was never more sure of someone else’s truth.
So-so or not, I wrapped my hands around the ice-packed glass, content to let her have her moment and eventually get to the point.
“Wife, one kid - a son - living in West Brompton,” she began. “Husband has been missing for a few days. Cops are all over it.”
“Not surprising, considering the post code,” I said. “What’s the angle?”
“Money,” she said. “What else?”
“Well, when men disappear it’s usually over two things—money or sex.”
“This one is the former,” she said. “Trust me.”
She slid an envelope across. I tapped my fingers against it, and my face must have looked less than enthralled.
“Thad,” she said. “You’re going to want to take this one.”
I emptied the envelope and quickly scanned the contents.
Yannick Duclos, successful trader in the City. Disappeared three days ago, no warning, no explanation. Preliminary investigation showed he’s squeaky clean with nothing to shade his exit—except for one thing that popped out as I skimmed the background.
“Not a cent?” I asked. “Guy’s been working in the City for years, he pulls a runner and there’s not a dime in any of his accounts?”
Ayesha nodded.
“Well, where is it now?”
“That’s the thing,” she said. “It’s all gone. All of it. And so is he.”
“Did he just clear ‘em all out and just take off?”
“That’s what the cops are trying to confirm, although apparently it’s all legit. No sign of any real unusual activity with his bank. They’re working the financial angle, they figure there has to be a trail somewhere. Wife is playing dumb, though. Working theory is, he’s simply cut and run. The cops figure he’s somehow hid a few bucks away and is likely headed to live a life of passable luxury in Thailand or some other place with nice beaches and a favourable exchange rate.”
“Yeah, and they’re probably right,” I said. “Which is bad news.”
“How’s that?”
“Guy like that is going to be hard to find—’cause he’s smart, has resources and obviously doesn’t want to be found.”
“Well, that’s what I think, too. But the wife would like to broaden the scope of the investigation.”
“If it’s financial, the cops are the best bet.”
“No kidding. I don’t think he’s going to turn up in a place like this. But she wants a second opinion. She thinks it’s something else.”
I returned to the envelope’s contents. Flipped through—some press clippings, nominal stuff about the disappearance, little write up on the family. Some other bits and pieces—e-mails, mobile numbers and addresses. But the
article had a pic of the family, all decked out for some big to-do. Mom and Dad, peacock-proud and sporting wide smiles.
The kid, though. Looked maybe 12, 13. His eyes were sad, sure, but there was more there. Hard to tell, but the son had the look of a kid who had seen a lot. He wasn’t facing the camera, his eyes, little black angry puddles, veering off to the right.
“What does she think it is?” I asked.
“That’s all I got. And even if I did know, I don’t know if I’d tell ya. I think you’re hooked now, but having to find that out from the wife would make it 100 percent, for sure.”
I smiled. She got up.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Two o’clock. She said the kid will be out so you two can talk. House address and nearest tube station is all in there.”
“I have another gig,” I said. “Some denim place down Carnaby Street wanted someone to walk around, stake out the place—they thought someone on staff was ripping them off.”
Her look was as close to pity as I would ever see from her.
“It pays well,” I said, defensively.
“Christ, Thad. Are you serious?”
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes for effect. “OK. I’ll swing by.”
She finished her tea.
“Please be gentle,” she said. “Mrs. Duclos has been through a lot.”
“You should’ve been with me when I worked infidelity cases. I’m used to emotional wives. Husbands, too.”
“This is different,” Ayesha said. “This one actually wants her husband to come back.”
3
Ayesha was right about one thing—I was intrigued. But I had my own family issues to contend with before any business the next day. Calls with my ex-wife weren’t exactly causes of celebration, but that’s not why I was sitting outside my favourite pie and pasty shop near Liverpool Station, about a ten-minute walk from my office, ruefully punching the international dialing code for Switzerland into my cell. I tend to view chores as things deserving of treats upon completion, and a fresh pork and apple seemed sufficient here.
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