by Linda Coles
“He’s working late. I’m taking the boys out for burgers as soon as I get home.”
Her mother curled her nose up. “Burgers are not particularly nutritious. Can’t you go out for sushi instead?”
Chrissy kept quiet and let the barbed comment flow over her head as they both sat down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her mother offered her a glass of wine, and Chrissy declined, stating it was a flying visit.
“Did you want something specific, then?”
Chrissy was tempted to say yes but stifled the urge. If the diaries had been dumped in the black bag, she thought, they’d be back down the shed waiting for the incinerator and the gardener. That’s what she would have done, and she was banking on her mother having done the same.
“I think I left something in the shed when I was here last. I just need to pop down to see if it’s there.”
“Oh?”
Damn—why is she wanting to dig? Of all the things to dig into.
“Do you mind if I just pop down? I’ll only be a moment,” she said, and, not waiting for a response, made a move towards the back door, handbag draped over her shoulder. Even at her age, Chrissy still felt she needed to ask permission, and since she was at her mother’s house… There was a pause in the conversation and Chrissy assumed that her mother was thinking about what to answer. Manners had never been Chrissy’s strong point, so she opened the door in anticipation anyway.
“But it’s jam packed with bags for the charity shop,” her mother protested. “Your father’s old clothes and the like. And I didn’t see anything when I was last in there.”
Was she trying to stall Chrissy? Not waiting to find out, she headed out the back door and down the path to the bottom.
She was going into that garden shed, permission or not.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chrissy almost felt bad about dominating her mother, but it was important that she get inside the shed and, more importantly, into the bags that were stored there. She’d sensed her mother’s hesitation in letting her enter, but since she’d stood with the back door open, Chrissy had simply made her own way and ignored her mother’s protests. She’d get over it.
The door was unlocked as usual, and Chrissy slipped inside the dusty old wooden building, and then stood aghast. Her mother had been right about one thing: it was filled with bags. It was going to take an age to find the bag she needed. Well, there was nothing for it. Chrissy got to work quickly, feeling the outside of each one to see whether it contained the hard edges of books or the soft edges of her father’s clothing. There were probably about fifteen bags stuffed into the small space, and Chrissy moved things around to create a system of which bags she’d felt and which bags she still needed to investigate.
Finally, she hit pay dirt—or so she hoped. She carefully untied the knot at the top of the bag even though it would have been quicker to rip through the plastic. Since she wasn’t supposed to be looking in the bags at all, she needed to leave them just as she’d found them so as not to raise any further suspicion. Carefully folding the top back, she pulled a diary out. The year on the cover was 1985; not what she was looking for. She pulled another out: 1984. She pulled out another, and another, adding each one to the growing pile beside her.
When the last diary was out of the bag, she sat back on her heels in thought. The diary she wanted was missing. And so were two others, from the years on either side of 1987. Now that was odd. Where were they? There wasn’t time to go through the other bags, and she peered through the small shed window to check her mother wasn’t on her way down the path. That would leave some explaining to do.
“Damn!” she muttered, and began placing them all back into the same bin liner they’d come from. As she worked, her mind sifted through various explanations for why the three diaries she was interested in were missing. As an afterthought, she plucked a random year from the bin liner and slipped it into her own bag.
Quickly she retied the bag, figuring she was about out of time, and lifted some of the other bags on top of the one she been rummaging in. If her mother was about to instruct the gardener to burn them, they’d be back where she had originally left them. She felt like a thief, taking something that wasn’t exactly hers, though she reconciled it in her own head as further research. She checked round the small shed and when she was satisfied it was roughly how she’d found it, she walked back up to the house.
She was not surprised to see her mother stood in the doorway again, with her arms crossed and looking annoyed. Chrissy ignored her mood and said, “I knew I’d left my other glasses somewhere. I just didn’t know where.”
“I never noticed them when I was in there last, but at least you’ve found them now.” Her mother’s lips were pursed, the words tight as they left her mouth. Or was Chrissy imagining it?
Not wanting to hang around for her mother’s inquisitive questions and not wanting to lie to her any further, she quickly air-kissed her mother’s cheek and explained she’d better get back for the boys, didn’t want to keep them waiting. With a breezy goodbye, Chrissy once again left her mother in the front doorway as she set off back to Englefield Green and burgers with her boys.
The house was empty when she got home, though there was a note on the side in the kitchen that simply read “Having dinner at Gary’s place. His mum has made sushi.” Chrissy read the note out loud and laughed to herself. She must be a terrible mother to force burgers on her children. Her own mother had inadvertently got her own way: the more nutritious sushi had won out after all.
She dropped her bag on the work surface next to the note, grabbed a wine glass from the drawer and headed to the fridge, where she knew there was a bottle of white wine chilling. She pulled out a bottle of Pinot Gris, unscrewed the top, poured a large glass and took two long mouthfuls before topping the glass back up. The coolness felt good on her throat; it always did. She retrieved the diary from her bag along with her reading glasses and took a seat in the soft old chair in the corner of the room. With Adam and the boys out doing other things, she made herself comfortable, took another sip of her wine and opened the book. The random one she’d taken was dated 2014.
At the sight of her father’s handwriting, she instinctively moved her fingers over the words as if they were embossed, raised up, and she could feel him through them. She took a moment to remember him before she started to read. If he was watching her now while she looked into his diary, what he would be thinking of her? Would he be cross, anxious even? Or would he be happy that she was taking such an interest after he had left this earth?
She hoped it was the latter, though she knew inside she was prying.
Chapter Thirty-Six
If you’ve ever been to Venice Beach, you’ll know about Muscle Beach, the place where the big guys, with tanned, bulging biceps, like to show off their bodies, and where folks go to watch them lift weights of gargantuan proportions, or swing with ease like monkeys on giant metal frames, or push out press-ups by the dozen in the sand below. Some go for fitness; some go for show. But either way, it’s hard not to stand and stare at hard-worked-on bodies glistening in sweat as you wander by.
The beach itself attracted a certain kind of person to train there. Venice Beach hasn’t always claimed the title of Muscle Beach; the original Muscle Beach was south of Santa Monica Pier, though there are only a few frames and apparatus there now. The new Muscle Beach Venice was where it was at. A raw, outdoor gym, it attracted mainly male gym bucks, though not many bunnies, with an emphasis on minimal clothing. Working out while working on your tan was the preferred form of multi-tasking.
A man with skin the colour of an aged walnut headed towards Philip. He was dressed in nothing but a red Speedo and rollerblades. A greying ponytail hung down his glistening back; deep brown shades, Top Gun–style, covered his eyes. His abs were like granite, his body a hard statue. On wheels. He didn’t stand out particularly; in fact, he fitted right in. Nobody was ever out of place here on Venice Beach.
Philip
looked at his sports watch for the umpteenth time. Alistair would arrive at any moment and wonder why the clandestine meeting. His sweat was drying in the late sun; he’d shower when he got back to his place.
Philip was spooked; he’d never had anyone go through his stuff before, had never been burgled. There’d never been a reason for anyone to intrude in the past; this was all new to him now. And he didn’t like the feeling. Moreover, he didn’t like the fact that someone could be listening, or watching, and he didn’t know which was worse. There was only one reason he could think of for the recent events.
And that was Frank Jamieson and his veiled threat. Jamieson knew too much.
The man had money and power, and, Philip suspected, a mean streak, given their conversation at the pub. Under his breath, Philip muttered “sick greedy bastard.”
In the distance, an arm waved high in the air. It was Alistair. Philip watched him approach and noted his friend’s head turning each time a pretty blonde or brunette passed by. At one point, he raised his shades off his eyes for a better look. The man was too obvious for words, though the woman was oblivious. He waved again, and Philip raised his own arm in reply.
When the two men were finally side by side, Alistair asked, “What’s going on?”
“Let’s walk. I’ll tell you as we go.”
They started walking slowly north through the crowds towards Santa Monica Pier. Alistair, sensing something was adrift, had the good sense to keep quiet and wait for Philip to fill in.
“Someone’s been rifling through my place,” Philip finally said. “Nothing seems to have been taken, so it’s not a burglary, but things have been moved. Things have been shifted slightly.”
Alistair turned to Philip as they carried on walking. “How do you know? What’s been moved?”
“I noticed my alarm clock has been moved slightly, and when I noticed that, I paid a bit more attention to the rest of my surroundings. And you know how tidy and meticulous I am, everything is in its place. Except things aren’t in their place. And that started me looking further. Nothing’s been taken. Things have just been moved.”
Alistair was quick to catch on. “And you now think it’s connected with our latest client.”
“He’s no client of ours,” Philip said, a bit more brusquely than he intended.
“I grant you, it’s not what we would have expected, no, but he could be a client.”
Philip stood stock still now, and Alistair paced past him a step before realising Philip wasn’t moving. He backed up a little.
“Are you serious?” Philip asked incredulously. “We’re divorce lawyers—end of story. I’m not getting mixed up in dodgy dealings. It was bad enough what I went to do in the UK. If anyone ever finds out about me being there, it’s me that’s up to my neck in it, not you.” Even though he’d said the words quietly enough, Philip still checked his immediate vicinity, his eyes switching from side to side to see if anybody had heard his little outburst. When he was satisfied that no one had, he carried on. “Look, I don’t know what we do now, but it’s fair to say Jamieson and his tricks have rattled me. I don’t know if that was his intention, but he’s rattled me nonetheless.”
Alistair tried to calm him. “Take it easy, buddy. It’s only suspicion at this stage. There’s no evidence, and there could be a clear explanation for it that you don’t realise yet.” He put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and they resumed walking, carrying on slowly towards the pier. While Alistair wouldn’t admit it to Philip, he wasn’t surprised at what had happened to Philip’s apartment.
Because he’d decided to stop at home before their meet.
And he’d had the exact same experience.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Alistair knew he’d have to say something, but right now wasn’t the time. The two men walked silently, each deep in thought. When they reached a bar, Alistair suggested they pulled in for a swift one and Philip readily agreed. They chose a seat in the outdoor area and a waitress wandered over, a bright smile plastered on her face. Like many of the wait staff in LA, she’d be hoping to make her fortune, be discovered, and waiting tables would do in the meantime. It would leave her time for attending auditions when they came up. Alistair thought about asking whether she was an actress or a singer, out of common curiosity and for no other reason—not that he could help in any way. He greeted her warmly; maybe he’d get lucky if he played his cards right.
“A couple of Sol beers, please,” he said, smiling a bit too broadly.
The waitress, obviously keen on working her tip, replied “Sure thing, hon.” Then she was gone.
Alistair smiled at Philip and Philip shook his head slowly, not impressed. “You never stop trying, do you, Alistair?” he said.
“Never. I don’t want to, either. And judging by your face, my friend, an orgasm would do you the world of good.”
Philip nodded, though he wasn’t really paying attention, and instead turned to watch the boardwalk. Three older teenage girls, wearing only bikinis and rollerblades, slowly made their way past, making a show of themselves, probably looking for a modelling part. Everyone was looking for something—someone to make their career, someone to show themselves off to.
Their two beers arrived, pulling Philip away from his view and back to their table and the discussion ahead. Alistair carried on in his quest to steer the conversation, first checking over his shoulders to see if anyone was listening. It was early yet by LA standards, and the bar was nearly empty.
“Listen, Philip, don’t let this rattle you. But let me fill you in on something else.” Philip looked at Alistair as if to say ‘Go on.’ “I’ve just been debating whether to mention it to you, but since we’re in this together, it’s only fair.” Alistair checked around again just to be sure. Philip wondered uneasily just what he was about to say.
“Someone’s been in my place too. The same as you, I expect—just something moved, nothing taken—but I was only in a moment or two so I’m not sure. I called at home just before I came out to meet you. I guess if you’ve been rifled through as well, any doubt I had about my place has vanished.” He let it sink in a moment to see what Philip would say, how he’d react. If they’d both been rifled through, this was serious stuff.
“Shit! Who do they think we are? And why didn’t you say something earlier?” Philip asked, in an urgent but hushed voice.
Alistair shrugged. “Well, something a little more than two divorce lawyers trying to earn a crust, I’d say. And to answer your second question, I didn’t want to believe it, I suppose.” He took a long pull from his beer and looked thoughtfully off into the distance again at nothing in particular.
“So, what do you think we should do?” Philip asked. “Leave things as they are and hope we’re not being bugged or watched?”
“I think it’s a bit extreme to think we’ve been bugged. They were more likely just looking for something—not that there’s anything to find. But they don’t know that, so they searched us both. And since they didn’t find anything, that’s probably the end of it, I’d say.”
“I wish I could be so sure,” Philip replied. “It doesn’t feel like that. And that Jamieson has got his fingers in all sorts of pies, not just movies, and I don’t trust him. Any man who wants to get his wife knocked off to avoid a costly divorce is on another level entirely. Which leaves us a problem: he obviously thinks we are up to something; otherwise he wouldn’t risk asking us about it. I can’t think who else would be behind our places being searched.”
Philip had a point, but Alistair didn’t have a ready answer. “And me neither, to be perfectly honest,” he said. “All we can do is be careful, like we’re doing right now. I suggest that, until we get to the bottom of this, we don’t mention his name or the UK at all at the office or on mobile phones or in our apartments. And with regard to his specific request, I suggest we ignore that too, wait for him to come back to us. That will give us a bit of breathing space, and we can decide how to handle it when and if the prob
lem arises again. We’ve said we are not interested. Let’s hope that’s enough for now.” Alistair picked his beer up and examined the label with great curiosity. It was a Mexican brand, and he began to smile.
“What’s funny?”
“If the shit hits the fan, we could always run away to Mexico.”
Philip frowned. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I hate Mexican food.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The men didn’t have to wait too long. It was nearing lunchtime the following day when Frank Jamieson again made contact. He asked for Alistair, but Alistair was away from the office, so he’d then asked for Philip. Carmel asked him if she should put the call through, but Philip told her to put Jamieson off. Unfortunately, the man had been insistent. Philip sat staring at the flashing light on the handset. Jamieson was on hold. If he didn’t pick the call up, he’d only call back, and Philip would spend half his afternoon avoiding him and being distracted by it.
At last, Philip snatched at the receiver and resisted the temptation to bark down it. It would do no good to show his true feelings, so he paused for a moment before saying, “Good morning. Philip Banks here.” He might as well be polite, he figured, even though inside he wanted to tell the man to go to hell.
“Frank Jamieson here, Philip. I hope I’m not interrupting you too much?” The man sounded cordial enough, and Philip carried on being the polite divorce lawyer as if nothing had happened.
Not much, to be fair. Except his belongings moving about.
“Not at all, Mr. Jamieson. What can I do for you?” Philip’s voice was level, even; nothing out of place.
