by Sara Forbes
"Look on the bright side," I say after a few more steps. "You'll get more time to flirt with Doc James."
She reddens. "It's not...like that."
"Well." I cock my head to indicate a group of medical staff approaching behind her. "Here he comes now so you can prove me wrong."
Her head jerks around to look. Just as speedily, she dips her gaze.
The doctors and nurses nod at us as we trundle forward with our trolleys, getting closer to the staff station in the Medicine ward. Well, some do. Others are squeamish about acknowledging the cleaning ladies. And others are merely shy.
"How's it going, Dr. James?" I call out to the stocky, ginger-haired doctor standing in a doorway, frowning at clipboard. "Did I hear correctly that Mr. Bedford is off the dialysis?"
Dr. James, a grizzly bear of a man, looks up and grins. "Oh yes, yes he is, Jess." His gaze wanders away from me over to Martha who immediately glances down at the handle of her trolley.
"So, it was acute, not chronic?"
"Mm, luckily. You ladies taking a break anytime soon?"
"Nah, we just have. Catch you next time though?"
"Yes. Yes, sure."
We trundle on.
"Don't say it," Martha mutters, her face bright pink. "Don't even think it."
I chuckle. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Tell me more about Egan Harwood."
I let out a sigh. "He wouldn't tell me what cleaning company he's using. He got pretty cagey about it. All the while, he made it clear he just wanted me off his property. Damn him and his stupid everyone-is-dispensable attitude."
"But who's gonna set the thermostats or re-calibrate the humidifiers or fix the wonky toilets every time they won't flush? And what about negotiating with the Rusky Gang not to go near the place?" she asks. "I mean, the list goes on and on."
I slap the handle of my trolley. "You and I know that, but he doesn't. He's in a bind and he doesn't even know it yet and I'd like to see his face when the building bites back at him like a Gothic horror mansion."
She laughs, but it's muted. "How the hell will we find a replacement job that pays so much?"
"We had it good with Trent Security, didn't we?" I say sadly.
Trent Security the previous occupants of the Platinum Star building paid us a premium because for them, security was crucial, and we proved time and time again to be highly discreet and one hundred percent reliable. A sterling legacy I don't seem to have been able to convey to Harwood.
"They loved us," Martha agrees. "But this guy hates us. So uptight."
"You said it. But we just have to put it behind us. I need to focus on expanding our gig here in the short term and getting more clients. I have to redouble my efforts."
"I want to help," she says.
"No, you've got Charlie and Lily. I got this."
"Well, okay," she says. "But if it gets too much, let me know."
"Sure."
A phone is buzzing. Both of us glance down at our front apron pockets.
"Yours," Martha says.
I pull the phone out. "Larry."
I put him on speaker. "Sorry West Ham got a beating last night," I say. Larry's football obsession is likely to have him nattering on for hours if I let him. "What's the news with you?"
"Was hoping for a better result indeed," he grumbles, "But that's the way it is. It's that new trainer—"
"Yes, Larry, he's terrible. Uh, but listen, Martha and I are on a job in the hospital here, so..."
Luckily, he takes the hint. "Got a little problem here, Jess. The guy that's moved into the Platinum Star? Well. I-I don't know how to say this but he won't renew your contract." I hear his heavy, pained, breaths.
"That's okay, Larry, I already talked to him."
"You did?" Larry groans. "He could have mentioned that."
It occurs to me that if I hadn't gone around to the Platinum Star building myself, this is how I'd have found out we'd lost that job, through poor Larry. Nice.
"He wanted me to reset the alarm and fix the thermostats," he continues. "B-but I couldn't. What do I know about these gadgets or the internet?"
I make sympathetic noises. Larry doesn't have the first clue about anything electronic. Moreover, I've seen signs of cognitive impairment in him, familiar from my own mother's descent into dementia three years ago. The man should really have retired long before this, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. I was hoping he'd survive two more years until official retirement at the age of sixty-six with my help and not have to bear the shame of being declared unfit to work. But now, with Harwood in the picture, we might have to forego that luxury.
"He took your number to call you," Larry says. "Can you come and help?"
"He took my number?" I ask sharply.
"Uh, yes, I...gave it to him. That's okay, Jess girl, innit?"
He sounds so lost and helpless that I find myself saying, "Yes, Larry. Of course it's all right."
I'd do anything to help Larry. But go near that place again? With that condescending capitalist in his perfect suit glaring down at me with those icy blue eyes like I'm not fit to lick his shoes?
Hell yeah. Bring it on.
"Okay. Okay. When my shift here's over at five, I'll mosey on over. Will you meet me in the car park at five with your van?"
"Thanks, Jess. You're one in a million."
"I know." I shove the phone back in my pocket and start wheeling my trolley again.
"Did I hear that right?" Martha asks. "You're going over to help Harwood?"
We've reached the point in the corridor where we have to separate and trundle our trolleys in different directions. "Yeah. This war ain't over yet."
Her face breaks into a grin. "From where I'm standing, Mr. Business needs you. You've got him by the balls. Do something with that."
"Oh, don't worry, I fully intend to."
6
EGAN
NATASHA HAS FINALLY EATEN SOMETHING. The evidence is a half-eaten plate of crackers. There were eight different varieties of caviar at the Harrods deli counter and I got them all, along with five sorts of crackers.
She nods disdainfully at the half-eaten food. "It was okay."
"Well, I won't tell the caviar specialist at Harrods your verdict. It would break his heart," I say.
"Next time can you bring me a chocolate croissant?"
"You got it. Did you sleep okay?" I ask. "The mattress okay?"
"The mattress is fine. But it's too warm now. Even you're sweating." She lifts her eyebrows a notch. "Can't you turn off those fucking machines? They never stop."
"Language, language," I scold. "If you want to swear, do it in Russian so I can learn some new expressions. And no, I can't turn off the fucking machines."
It gets a weary grin from her, but her face is so thin her cheeks stretch in a macabre fashion over her teeth, making her look ten years older than she is. I'm tempted to run out and get that chocolate croissant right now.
"But you're right," I say. "It's stuffy as hell in here. I'll fix the thermostat today. I hope you like the TV?"
"I'd prefer Wi-Fi."
I shake my head. "Not 'til the safe house. Within a couple of days, who knows, maybe even hours, you'll be there. You'll be well shot of me then. You don't even have to stay in contact. In fact, it'll be safer for you if you don't, so you'll have an excellent excuse not to."
It doesn't get the smile I was hoping for. Not even a glimmer. Of course, why the hell should she be happy about a TV, or a safe house for that matter? She needs her people. Connection to the outside world. But that's impossible right now. And I'm all out of platitudes. My eyes travel to my watch: ten to five. That cleaner will be here soon.
I rise and walk to the window. Down at street level, there's movement. The cleaner has come early. She doesn't have the crappy red Honda Civic today but rather a white van— the same one as Larry Peters used yesterday. Ah, they've arrived together as a team. Sure enough, Peters clambers out of the driving seat and joins her.
&n
bsp; I watch her as they walk to the back entrance. With her head held high, she's got the same steady stride that I remember—purposeful, and naturally sensuous. Her hand resting lightly on Larry Peters' forearm shows their level of ease with each other—no doubt a long-term partnership. I guess she's been covering up for his incompetence for years. I don't know why this makes me curious about her, but it does.
I whirl around to Natasha. "Gotta lock you up now."
She nods resignedly.
I hear a faint click. What? They've already let themselves in?
"Quickly!" I urge Natasha, pointing at the door of the storeroom. "And don't make a sound."
She scrambles into the storeroom. I lock the door behind her.
God damn these people! I flatten down my hair, straighten my tie and take the stairwell down to the ground floor to intercept the new arrivals. They're standing in the middle of the hall, eyeing the walls.
"Hello, Mr. Harwood," Ms. Wilkes says as soon as she sees me. She steps forward. Her defiant eyes meet mine, as startlingly mossy green as before. She doesn't offer her hand to shake and I don't offer mine.
"I see you let yourselves in," I say with utmost cool.
"Oh, I'm sorry, shouldn't we have?" she says. "Old habits die hard."
I give her a curt nod. "Well, you're here now. I trust Mr. Peters has filled you in on the nature of the request?"
"Yes." She cocks her head to the other side. "I can give you the passwords for the alarms so you can change them to whatever you want. I can teach you how to use the thermostats, at least in theory. Getting them to work on a day-to-day basis is a black art and takes experimentation especially as the climate in here—" she fans herself to underline her point, "—seems to have gotten warmer. A lot warmer. What have you got in the basement anyway? Brimstone?"
I smother a grin. If this woman wants me to play devil then I can play devil. "Not far off. Servers."
"Servers?" Her nose wrinkles.
"Yes, computers. Doing hard work."
"I see. Well, I can set the humidifiers and thermostats on each level to take care of the heat. But they'll revert back to default if there's a power cut and we do tend to get those a lot around here. Something to do with a faulty resistor that nobody's been able to identify, let alone fix."
"I'll get an uninterrupted power supply," I say. "Blackouts won't be an issue. Set it once and we're done. Unless there are other endearing quirks of this building you'd like to mention?"
"Oh, you'll find it's full of quirks." She lets a pause drag out which I find unnecessary. I have noticed the way her cheeks bunch up when she's smiling to reveal an attractive array of teeth. Why is it that the more I look at her, the more interesting she gets? Possibly because the starting impression was so poor. I'd better speed up this meeting.
"Care to be more specific?" I ask, "On these quirks."
"Well, how much time have you got?"
I give her my coldest once-over. "Five minutes."
"Do you always section off your day in five-minute slots?"
"It works for me."
"You do realize you're asking me to give away my company's intellectual property? For free?"
I bark out a laugh. "Well, if that's what you want to call it."
"That is what I want to call it." Her voice is firm.
"Okay, what do you want? How much should I compensate you for your...intellectual property."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Harwood, I want the cleaning job. The regular cleaning job my company has upheld to the highest of standards with the previous occupants."
"No."
Her face tightens around her eyes. "That's it? A flat no?"
"Correct."
We're standing close to each other so I take a step back. She's fishing for an explanation. Any reasonable person would. In her mind, the obvious solution is to hire her. And if I wasn't hiding an anorexic Russian dissident three floors up, yes, I probably would hire Ms. Wilkes. But I am, so I won't.
She sighs. "Well, I suppose I could give you the executive summary."
I eye her warily. She's backed down far too easily. "If you would be so kind I would truly appreciate that."
She flicks back a stray hair. "Where do I start? Okay, the first issue is that you'll have the dust build-up in the stairwell of the second floor. It gathers fast no matter what you do—it's to do with the convection currents from the air-vents in the first and third floor. That needs a regular clean. The pipes in the bathrooms are a bit wonky and emit a bit of a stench. Not all the time. Just sometimes. But remember to flush all toilets once a week at the least or the place will really start to stink. Speaking of toilets, they tend to break down. There's a trick to getting them to work again when that happens. If you lift the lid of the cistern—"
I throw up my hands. "Ms. Wilkes, this is a lot of details. Is it really this complex?"
"Yes, and then some."
Her words ring with the truth but there's a glint of something else in those eyes of hers.
"Would it be possible, do you think, to write it all down?"
"It would," she says. "But the thermostats I really need to show you how to do in person."
"Right. No time like the present. Where are they?"
She jerks her thumb behind her. "Here on the ground floor by the other control boxes."
"All right. Anything else?"
"Well, um." She and Larry exchange a grim glance. "It's just...yeah, in the basement."
"What?"
"There's a tendency for spiders to like to um, get cozy there and build well, nests? We saw a new colony starting up just as Trent Security moved out. We were hoping to deal with it but then all hell broke loose. They could be what, third or fourth generation by now."
Larry nods in confirmation.
The hairs on my neck stand on end as I sense the horrible tickle of spider legs all over my body. All my hairs stand on end. I'm cold all over.
"Are you okay, Mr. Harwood?" she asks. Both of them are watching me.
I force myself to look at her, barely able to see her though the nightmarish mirage of dark, hairy arachnids clouding my vision. I loosen my tie-knot so I can better breathe. I should probably sit down but I don't want to show weakness.
"Do you happen to have the contact of an exterminator?" I ask, my voice coming out more as a croak.
"Exterminator?" She chuckles. "Well, usually that's me. I always stay on top of the problems by transporting them out with my bare hands, so to speak."
My hands flinch. I thrust them into my trousers pockets.
"I mean, I could get you the number of an exterminator," she continues in this faux-cooperative voice. "But they cost a fortune and they'll have to keep coming back because there's nothing you can do to put spiders off a nice toasty basement once they got their minds set on it. And I wouldn't like you to have to pay for all that unnecessarily."
She's sucking the power out of me and she knows it. "Anything else I should know?" I ask.
Jess Wilkes gives me a long, hard look. "Yes, but it would literally take me all day."
"Seriously? How much else can there be?"
Her smug smile is still intact as she uses her fingers to enumerate the problems. "There's the faulty wiring in the second-floor kitchenette you absolutely have to know about before I leave here today. There's only one brand of carpet shampoo that doesn't react with the chemicals in the new third-floor carpets, so if you don't want to stink out the place, I'll write that down for you. Oh, and garbage disposal is complicated. We have a deal with Lawn Delight down the road to combine bins because—well, as I say, it's complicated. Due to recent environmental regulations..."
I'm simply watching her fingers and lips move as she speaks on and on because by this stage it's clear she's won. She's got what she came for. I fully expect the walls to crack and pipes to burst at any second and the ground to swallow me up, not to mention the generations of spiders spewing out of every hole.
Meanwhile, she's looking at
her watch and saying, "I'll explain the rest in a written report. I think my five minutes are up."
That was supposed to be my line.
I feel like I've been run over by a bus. Not a feeling I'm accustomed to when talking to women.
She flashes me that disingenuous smile again. "Well, I'm sure that within a few weeks your future cleaners will be on top of it all."
"It seems, Ms. Wilkes, that I've bought a somewhat problematic building."
She and Peters nod in solemn unison.
"It's too late for me to fix that, so I want to deal with this in the most efficient manner available, which," I say with a heavy sigh, "would seem to mean, hiring you as the resident expert in its...quirks."
I glance over at her to see how this news is going down with her. She deflects my gaze with total cool as if this isn't what she's been begging for since she stepped in the door. Larry Peters is rubbing his hands, grinning widely, alternating his gaze between the two of us.
"So," I continue. "I propose a six-month contract which can be renewed if it suits both parties. I'll offer you double whatever Trent Security were paying.
She gives a start but begins speaking as if to cover her reaction. "Sounds good," she says, her eyes darting to-and-fro, no doubt performing some mental calculations.
"Certain conditions will apply though," I add, straightening my spine. "What's the minimum amount of time per week you need to keep this place from falling apart?"
Her gaze comes to rest on me again. "Nine or ten hours."
For some reason, I believe her. "Fine. We'll say nine. They'll be divided into three separate shifts in the mornings, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Specific work times must be strictly adhered to. Outside of those hours, I'll set a different entry code for the doors so you won't be able to get in even if you leave your car keys behind or whatever. You'll have to call me."
She nods and I continue. "I expect absolute discretion with regard to anything you happen to hear in the building. And you, and you alone, are to be the only person to come here and clean, not any other representative of your company."
"Whoa. Those are strict conditions, Mr. Harwood," she says, a frown forming. "I mean, I take turns normally with my colleague, Martha. I'm not sure I can guarantee to be there absolutely every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday."
