by Angela Dyson
“Oh right,” I said. “Because living off the immoral earnings of human trafficking goes down so well amongst the very best circles.”
Her eyes sharpened. “I was completely unaware of my father’s business arrangements until a few days ago.”
And what about your husband I thought.
“Really?” My scepticism was evident.
“Thankfully, the police recognise the truth when they hear it and so your opinion is a matter of complete indifference to me.”
“Then why am I here?” I’d had enough of this. I just wanted to go home.
“Because I wanted to meet you,” she replied.
“You went to a lot of trouble to do so.”
“Less than you’d think. But I was curious. Curious to meet the person… the girl that…”
There was such derision in her tone that I felt a flare of temper.
“The girl that what? That brought down your father’s disgusting evil trade? Yes, I did that. Me. This girl right here that you are so enjoying sneering at.”
She re-crossed her legs, took a sip of her champagne, and then put her glass down.
“You do get yourself rather worked up, don’t you?”
“Yes of course I do! Over things that really matter. But that means nothing to you, does it? Sitting there in your swanky dress and with your designer shoes and… frankly appalling handbag… you don’t give a fuck about what happened to those poor people do you?”
“You don’t like the bag?” She picked it up and stroked it. “It’s one of my favourites.”
I stared at her. I couldn’t come up with a single word in response.
“Your interference has been untimely,” she said at length. “It has caused me some slight inconvenience but,” she shrugged, “I’m over it now. I’m moving on.”
“Moving on… right. Do you think those girls are over it? Do you think they can easily move on?”
Her expression was bland and it absolutely infuriated me.
“Well do you?” I demanded.
Again, she didn’t respond to my question but finally offered, “I plan to settle in the US but I may travel a while. Italy is lovely at this time of the year. And there’s always the South of France. Cannes, Monte Carlo… the best casino in the world is in Monaco.”
“Lovely for you,” I said, sickened by her.
“Yes, isn’t it? A change is always a stimulant.”
“What about your hairdressers?” She wasn’t the only one allowed to be curious. “I understand that you have opened some new salons?”
“They are easily disposed of.”
“And your husband? Will he be enjoying the delights of St Tropez with you?”
“As I say, time for a change. Besides he may be in…”
“Prison?” I suggested.
“Highly unlikely.” Her smugness not only repelled me but was beginning to give me the creeps.
“He may be investing in a new line of business I was going to say.” She stroked her fan-shaped bag again. Perhaps it’s some kind of fetish? I thought, and she takes it to bed with her?
“Something criminal no doubt?”
She didn’t reply, but asked instead, “I expect he came on to you?”
“Who?”
“Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are. My husband of course,” she snapped.
“You could have meant your poor pathetic perverted old dad for all I knew.”
She flinched at that but I didn’t let up.
“As a matter of fact, he did come on to me.” Well the woman had asked the question, so why not answer it? “But that heavy-handed machismo leaves me cold and so I didn’t take him up on it.”
“He’d have tired of you soon anyway.”
“He didn’t get the opportunity to,” I retorted. “And I would have thought with your preference for being on top, his swaggering attempts to dominate must have meant a pretty lousy time in the bedroom for all concerned. I mean your husband didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d take it lying down.”
I was pleased with that. It was time for a little smugness of my own. “I suppose that’s why you need Don….Denny or whatever your thug with the goatee is called.”
Her eyes flashed and for the first time I thought that her control might falter. But it didn’t.
“I was led to believe that you were quite pretty,” she said after a beat as she examined me dispassionately. “But with your face all red like that I really can’t see it.”
I got to my feet. “Your curiosity has been well and truly satisfied then. So, if there’s nothing else?”
“Actually, there is.” She got up to face me.
Here it comes I thought. “Well?”
She didn’t answer for a long moment and the silence between us seemed to vibrate. This scene had to be played out I thought and so I waited.
“I want to give you a piece of advice,” she said and her bland doll-like face was devoid of expression.
“I’m listening.”
“It doesn’t take much for a life to be taken apart. To be…” she searched for the word “… disassembled piece by piece.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it how you like. I’m just suggesting that you remember that the next time you interfere in matters that don’t concern you.”
“Noted,” I said reaching for my bag. “I assume that this will be the last time we meet? That you won’t be sending your… people… after me again?”
She didn’t reply but continued to regard me.
“I’ll take that as a yes then.”
I crossed to the door but turned back to her. “Well goodbye. It’s been fun. I won’t shake hands though, because I make it a rule never to go skin to skin with a sociopath.”
There are times when you simply have to get in the last word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was early, barely eight o’clock when I ran along the track leading down towards Beverley Brook, the lazy trickling stream that threads its way along the A3 side of the Common before joining the Thames at Putney Bridge. It had rained in the night and the air smelt sweet and fresh, the ground still spongy underfoot. Leaping over puddles I could feel splatters of mud splashing up the back of my legs. It felt good to sweat. Good to shake off the ugly memories of the night before, and of the days and nights before that.
Last night after leaving Maria I’d walked through the midnight blue and gold leaf hallway of the club and had stood looking up at the chandelier as the concierge had hailed me a cab.
“Had a good evening Miss?” He’d asked.
“Oh just the best,” I’d replied as he handed me into the taxi.
Arriving home, I’d stumbled up the stairs, stepped out of my clothes, and crawled straight into bed where I slept heavily and dreamlessly. When I blinked into consciousness somewhere around seven this morning, I’d felt not just refreshed but light-hearted. This was a new day and if I was going to get on with my life then the strain, depression, and sense of guilt I’d been experiencing about Paula and her baby had to be packaged up and put at a distance. The blue-black bruises on my arms and legs from where Perry had gripped me was reminder enough as was the ragged tear on my fingernail.
Striking out, I headed for Fishpond Wood, a small, protected reserve, hoping that the bluebells would now be out. They were… in their thousands. Their stems straight and firm, the delicate bells of a blue so intense that they seemed to shimmer amidst the shade of the oak trees that lined the timber-decked path. The sight of them refreshed my jaded eyes.
I slowed my pace down to a walk as I came to the stagnant pond where colonies of toads, frogs, and dragonflies make their residence. The surface, a vivid green that bubbled and belched like a vast caldron of primordial soup looked, in contrast to the carpet of bluebells that surrounded i
t, distinctly uninviting.
With a smile, I remembered earlier in the year looking on in amusement as a dog walker bellowed at her retriever, which, studiously ignoring her increasingly frantic commands had bounded straight into the pond’s murky depths. Moments later it had reappeared, one boisterous happy heap of drenched and woefully stinking fur with great ribbons of slime trailing from around its neck. Its mistress had not been at all impressed.
I picked up speed feeling increasingly energised with every step. That look on Maria’s face at my parting shot last night had been priceless. The memory of it made me laugh out loud. And from a trill and a warbling in the trees that broke out around me it would seem that the birds thought it funny as well. It felt like they were on my side somehow, as if they were rooting for me. Ridiculous I knew, but comforting nevertheless.
My mind felt clearer. I was more myself. The bruises on my arms and legs would fade and my nail would grow back. Just being outside in the clean, cool air had revived my body and my spirits. Who needs designer gear and glamorous casinos to experience happiness? Jogging along by the brook didn’t cost a penny and so perhaps, after all, that old adage about the best things in life being free, might actually be true. Blimey I thought as I trotted on, I’ll have to watch myself. I’ll be sitting crossed-legged on a yoga mat and chanting next.
And tomorrow night I had a date with Tim to look forward to. Melanie’s Ted, their landlord Barney, and a couple of other musicians were putting on a short set at the Bulls Head in Barnes and a bunch of us were going. It would be fun, uncomplicated fun. Right now that was all I needed. And Tim and I long term? I wondered picking up speed again as I followed the track uphill through an avenue of Silver Birches. No somehow, I couldn’t see it. The man for me was out there somewhere I was pretty sure, and it wasn’t Tim. So that meant I’d have to keep on looking... in a casual way. There was no hurry. Maybe men are like the baby bear’s porridge in that old nursery story? I thought. You have to taste test a few to find one that is just right. And so that’s what I’d do. Meantime Tim was a playful, energetic, and damn sexy stop-gap. Flan had been absolutely right about him. It is good to have a hobby.
“I’m so sorry babe for not being in contact sooner,” said Laura down the phone some two hours later.
“That’s alright. Don’t worry about it. And I should have phoned you to see how your date went. It’s just as much my fault as yours.”
So, she had been avoiding me as I had been avoiding her. It wasn’t the row we’d had, of that I was sure, the dust had settled on that. Perhaps just as I hadn’t wanted her bright hopeful enthusiasm about the possibility of a new man in her life to distract me from the cruel reality of what I’d witnessed, she hadn’t wanted my newly opened eyes and depressed outlook to tarnish her happiness. And who could blame her? No one likes a wet blanket.
“So how did it go? Tell me all about it.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she sighed. “He is just Bliss in a Bucket. Oh Clarry, it’s been so great. We’ve…”
And she told me everything. I listened, asked a few questions, and then she told me all over again.
“I knew I had a good feeling about him. About the two of you,” I said. “I am so pleased for you.”
And I really was.
“Oh, by the way,” she said some time later. “Mr. Garstein is very impressed with you.”
“He is?”
“Absolutely. He wants to meet you and says that he might have further projects for you.”
“But I’m just an amateur,” I protested.
“I didn’t tell him that this was your first time or anything. I just said that you were a friend of mine who carries out private investigations. Obviously I had to improvise, so I told him that whilst you cover all areas of detection, you usually specialise in affairs of the heart.”
“That makes me sound like an agony aunt or a therapist,” I objected. “And God knows that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“That’s for sure,” she said. “Because let’s face it you’ve got enough issues of your own to work out.”
I had? But there was no time to go into this now.
“I know you’ve had all that stuff about the trafficking and those poor girls,” continued Laura. “But I didn’t really want to go into all that, too morbid, so I described you as someone who probes into romantic matters, entanglements, intrigues, that kind of thing,” she was giggling now. “You’re like Cupid’s secret little snooper. You’re a sex spy. No hang on. I know. A Love Detective.”
She was enjoying this way too much.
“I think I got it. Thanks very much,” I returned dryly.
“Actually,” she said. “I think he likes the idea of you being a woman. I know that the firm does use someone on occasion for divorce cases and things but Mr. Garstein seem to think that a woman might be more effective. So you never know this could be the start of something for you. The Love Detective could be in business.”
I digested this. I wouldn’t have thought the idea appealing but oddly it was.
“And,” she added seamlessly. “He said send him an invoice and he’ll settle it straightaway.”
“An invoice,” I squeaked. “Really? You mean he actually wants to pay me?”
“Sure why not? You’ve done a job of work so why shouldn’t you be paid?”
“But I’ve already had that cheque from James.”
“So? And besides if my firm pays you then I feel that I don’t have to.”
“Laura, you do know that I would never have accepted money from you?”
“And now you don’t have to.”
“Well when you put it like that,” I said.
“Now,” Laura said crisply sounding every inch the solicitor. “I’ll check out what the usual rate is and get back to you.”
Not bad, I thought. I could get to quite like this line of work, if it wasn’t for the human trafficking, being assaulted, nearly auctioned off, and finding a dead body.
I picked up the phone again.
“Flan… great you’re in. I’ve just got a couple of stops to make and I’ll be with you by twelve.”
When Flan opened the door and spotted the huge bunch of pale pink roses I proffered, her face lit up. “Darling!” she said. “How lovely… and roses as you know are my absolute favourite. Thank you dear. Come inside and let’s get them in water.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “The woman in the shop told me that pink roses apparently signify elegance and gentility.”
“Did she now?” Flan laughed as she crossed to the sink to unwrap the flowers. “How clever of her, and we haven’t even met.”
“Oh,” I added. “And there’s something else.” I pulled two bottles of champagne out of a carrier bag.
“One is for now. It’s cold and you get the lion’s share as I’m due at the restaurant later, but the other is for you and Mr. H. It’s a thank you present for the other night, and for last week, and well for everything really.”
She stopped arranging the roses and came over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. Anytime. You know that champagne is just the thing to get George powered up. So, that’s another treat for me!”
For a moment, the thought of Mr. H.’s seventy-two-year-old body getting into full sexual gear flickered across my mind, but I hastily blinked it away. Don’t go there I told myself. There are some mental images best left in a box clearly labelled do not open.
“Where shall we sit?” Flan asked. “I think it’s warm enough to be in the garden, don’t you? You open the bottle and I’ll get the glasses.”
Outside, Flan scattered a heap of faded candy-striped cotton cushions on to her old wicker chairs and once seated comfortably, I proceeded to fill her in on everything that had happened since our last conversation.
“It doesn’t sound quite real somehow,” s
he said gravely. “More like something one would watch on the television.”
She reached for the bottle and topped us up. “But you’re safe and well and that is something to be grateful for.”
“And I’ll be richer, slightly richer,” I corrected myself and told her about Mr. Garstein and the invoice I was to submit. “I’m still not sure if I deserve it. What do you think?”
“I think it’s marvellous. You’ve worked very hard and put a lot of time and effort into this.” She broke off and looked over the rim of her glass at me.
“What?” I said. “You’ve got that look on your face. The one you get when you are just about to say something rather crushing, which often turns out, very irritatingly I may add, to be true.”
“I was merely going to observe,” she remarked coolly placing her glass down. “That I think this experience has been good for you.”
I didn’t answer immediately and then offered hesitatingly, “In spite of everything; I have enjoyed it. And I’ve met some people that I would never have got to know in the normal scheme of things. Melanie and Ted who I feel sure I will stay in contact with. And although I’ll never get to meet the three Syrian girls again or even Dan, Sheena, and Maggie, I am glad that I got even just a glimpse into their lives. So I do feel different somehow. Like I’ve been on a…”
Flan suddenly looked very stern. “If you say that you’ve been on a journey, I may be tempted to waste a few drops of this heavenly champagne and throw it at you.”
“OK, OK,” I protested. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
“An appalling one and much overused.”
“But it’s not all a success you know. There is something I can’t do anything about.”
She regarded me keenly registering the seriousness of my tone.
“If you mean that you could have stopped Laura getting emotionally wrung out to dry by that wretched young man…”
