by Carol Wyer
1
Robyn Carter sat in her five-year-old silver Polo watching and waiting for the front door to open – she couldn’t pass the time by reading or doing a crossword because she had to be ready to act. Her video camera lay on the passenger seat next to a discarded fruit-and-nut-bar wrapper.
Her quarry, Terence Smith, was inside number 52 Rosewood Avenue and she needed to catch him soon. Terence had made an insurance claim for a bad back, allegedly injured while lifting barrels at a pub. Something about his claim had raised suspicions at the insurance company and they had hired R&J Associates to investigate its validity.
She had been in her car since seven o’clock simply staring at the door. Much of her work involved hanging around outside houses or workplaces and could be mind-numbingly dull at times but Robyn did not mind it. She had time on her side and she had plenty of patience; her skills had been honed in the police force.
She checked her watch – a sixteenth birthday present from her parents who, at the time, had despaired at their daughter’s terrible timekeeping. Simple in style with a white face and delicate golden pointers, the watch kept accurate time. It had never let her down. Thanks to it, Robyn had known exactly what time her parents had been struck and killed by a drunken lorry driver while out walking their retriever, Rufus. She had known what time Dr Mahmoud had given her the news she was expecting a child. She had even known what time she had returned to their hotel room in Marrakesh, bursting to tell her fiancé Davies who worked for Military Intelligence about the baby. He was not back from a meeting with an informant who knew the location of several militant cells, and she had waited eagerly, anticipating the look that would appear on his face when she told him. She also had known what time the phone rang when a subdued voice told her Davies had been killed in an ambush just outside the city. And she had known what time she miscarried the tiny life form inside her. All of which seemed a lifetime ago. She had changed a lot since those days. She rubbed the leather strap absent-mindedly and checked the time. It was exactly nine-thirty when the man emerged from his home.
Robyn was parked thirty yards down the road. Ross, her associate, was parked facing the opposite direction so they had the man covered should he turn right or left out of the driveway.
Robyn snatched the video camera from the seat and pressed the record button. Terence Smith was in his fifties, stocky and balding. He whistled as he headed with a confident swagger towards the driver’s door of his Ford Mondeo. As he reached it, the car keys slipped from his grip, tumbling to the floor with a clatter. He bent down to collect them in one swoop before swinging open the door to the car and jumping in. ‘Gotcha,’ she murmured as she captured footage of him getting into the vehicle with no evidence of any back pain or restricted movement.
Robyn had been trailing the man all week and had already filmed him going to the supermarket where he had emerged with two large carrier bags of goods that he had hurled into the back of his car with little effort.
She put aside the camera. It was time to pursue Terence. She guessed he would be heading to the Mucky Duck, a down-and-out pub in the nearby village where he had a part-time job as a barman. She might even catch him out, declaring he needed to change a barrel. Sure enough, Terence’s car passed hers and she started the Polo’s motor, ready to follow at a safe distance.
Unlike surveillance of unfaithful husbands, gathering evidence for an insurance claim could take weeks if not months of watching the claimant for hours on end. Robyn accepted the tedium that accompanied such a case, focusing only on getting results. She was a results woman. She would catch this guy no matter how long it took to collect the evidence. She overtook a Toyota Prius driven at a snail’s pace and eased in behind the Ford Mondeo. She was not concerned about being spotted. She had perfected the art of being a chameleon. Neither she nor her bland car attracted attention of any kind. Her dashboard lit up as a telephone call came through.
‘Hey, Ross.’
A voice, roughened by decades of smoking growled, ‘Looks like you win again. I’m going back to the office and let you deal with this.’
‘No problems. I’ll catch up with you later.’
‘No can do. I’m going to check out Robert Brannigan tonight. His wife phoned the office earlier and said he was going out with friends but she thinks he’s going to see the new mistress. Said something about telltale signs of new jeans and aftershave. It’s happened before. She’s highly suspicious.’
‘Good luck with that. Not my favourite job.’ She hated having to tell the client they were right all along and email them photographs of their loved one in compromising situations, all the while knowing it would rip them apart.
‘A job’s a job. You become hardened to it after a while, although looking at Robert Brannigan, I’d be very surprised if he’s having an affair. He’s got to be one of the ugliest guys on the planet. Who’d want to shag him?’
‘Women are attracted to power. Maybe that’s the reason. Think of all those ugly pop stars and politicians with stunning girlfriends. Robert’s a local councillor. Bet someone got all heated up at the prospect of him making important decisions about speed bumps and rubbish recycling and couldn’t wait to jump into bed with him.’
Ross picked up on the tone in her voice and scoffed in agreement. ‘That’ll be it. Or some old dear wants him to get her a disabled badge so she can park closer to the shops.’ He laughed at the thought. ‘Okay, I’ll catch you tomorrow. Hope you have a barrel of laughs at the pub.’
Ross disconnected, leaving Robyn shaking her head at the terrible pun. Ross was never one for long conversations. He was her cousin and a decade older than her at almost fifty. His face was friendly at times with heavy brows over green eyes that waggled in amusement, but generally it was unremarkable. His dark hair, flecked with the odd grey, had a life of its own, sticking up regardless of how often he combed it, making him look unkempt and vague; a look that was deceptive, disguising, as it did, a sharp brain and a keen eye.
Robyn had a great deal of respect for her cousin. He had been there for her when she returned to the UK from Morocco, a shadow of her former self. Her lover and unborn child had both been stolen from her so quickly that her mind and spirit were shattered. She needed time to heal. She took a leave of absence from the police force – a job that until then she had loved. Ross and his wife, Jeanette, had looked after her, coaxed her back to life and, ever practical, Ross had suggested she join him at his private investigation agency for a while, until she could face a future with the force again. It had been the lifeline she needed. She had begun working with Ross. The work was varied but not too tasking, the hours were dreadful, allowing her no social life whatsoever, and most of the time she didn’t need to talk to anyone. In short, it was perfect for her.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror. The Prius had disappeared from sight and was undoubtedly holding up a stream of traffic. They were approaching the Mucky Duck pub, so she dropped back, waited for Terence Smith to signal and turn into the car park, then she drove past and parked further down the road. Robyn checked her mobile, ensuring it was on record mode, waited five minutes, then grabbed her notepad and pen and headed into the pub.
Behind the bar Terence was chatting to a girl in her early twenties, heavily made-up and wearing what Robyn’s mother would have described as a belt for a skirt. For one moment her thoughts drifted to her parents and her mother’s effervescent laugh. Both of her parents had enjoyed life, their house filled with laughter. Her childhood had been a happy one. But she couldn’t dwell on that now. She shook her head to clear it and slid up to the bar where Terence threw her a cursory glance.
‘What can I get you, love?’ he asked.
‘Orange juice,’ she replied. He nodded and turned away. She had barely flickered on his radar. He was more engrossed in the conversation about a customer who had come on to his young colleague.
‘Dirty little sod. I bet he was married ’n’ all,’ Terence commented as he poured the orange juice.
He plonked the glass on a mat in front of Robyn. ‘Two pounds fifty, love, ta,’ he said, collecting the coins she had pushed forward and turning his attention to two new customers, now greeting him in loud voices.
‘All right, Smithy? You still on for the match on Saturday?’
‘Yeah, reckon,’ replied Terence. ‘It’s gonna be a right ol’ game. Those boys from Sandtown are reckless bastards. Reckon they’ll try and mince us good ’n’ proper. More likely want to give us a good kicking than play friendly footie. I’ve been in training though.’ He shot a grin and flexed his biceps. ‘Lifted thirty kilos today. I’ll be ready to punch the livin’ daylights out of that clever twat of a midfielder. I’ll smack him on the nose if he tries anything this week. He sliced through Gazza deliberately last time and it’s about time we evened with him.’
No one gave Robyn a second glance. Her phone rested on the bar and she scribbled a few lines in her book that referred to ‘presentation’ and ‘blue sky thinking’. If anyone glanced at it they would assume she was preparing for a meeting. Although she was tall at five foot ten inches, her flat-heeled boots, worn under dark jeans and teamed with a grey hooded top, did nothing to attract attention. Her mousy-brown hair tumbled forward, hiding her face that was free of make-up, and her large dark-framed glasses hid the deep blue, searching eyes behind them. When Robyn wanted to, she could shake off any attention. It was a skill she had perfected over the years and it had served her well. Even after meeting her, no one could ever describe her appearance. She was ‘average’, and as far as she was concerned that was the best cover possible for a private investigator or, at times, for a detective inspector in the Staffordshire Police.
The men continued to bandy insults and talk about football while Terence Smith went out the back. Along with the photographs, Robyn had sufficient evidence from his earlier conversation along with the photographs to leave him be for now. She had already built up a pretty damning case against him. The match at the weekend should prove to be the final piece she required and once she had photographic evidence of him playing in the match, she would hand it all over to the insurance company to take the necessary measures. She downed her juice and left the bar without anyone noticing her.
Once back in the Polo, she checked the recording. Smith’s voice was clear. This was useful evidence. She looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled without humour at her reflection. The plain woman with the large aquiline nose and pale face who stared back could be any age from thirty to fifty. Within seconds she had discarded the glasses, yanked off the wig and twisted her long chestnut hair into a ponytail. She put the car into first gear and puttered away. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she had not eaten all day. Robyn rarely listened to her stomach’s complaints. She was not interested in food or drink. What she needed now was a serious endorphin rush.
* * *
The gym was empty apart from the usual gym rats always there at this time of day. Robyn wondered if they actually ever left the place. It didn’t seem to matter when she arrived, whether that was six o’clock in the morning or nine at night, the same three people would be found pumping iron or racing on one of the treadmills, heads down, lost in a world of music piped into their ears. Robyn needed her fix but at least she could still drag herself away and hold down a job. These guys looked like they’d break down and cry if you told them they couldn’t work out.
She dropped her towel over the front of the treadmill and performed some stretches to limber up. She’d been cooped up in the Polo too long and her neck crunched as she gently stretched it to one side and then the other.
Climbing onto the treadmill, she set off at a gentle pace. Robyn didn’t hold with starting too quickly. Like everything in her life, her training was measured, slow and steady. She would increase the speed when her body was ready. She fell into a rhythmical stride, ignoring her reflection in the mirror as her ponytail bounced up and down. Although it was useful to check positions when working with weights or equipment, she didn’t like watching herself run. Instead, she lazily regarded the reflections of the other people in the gym. In one corner, a woman in her forties was performing crunches while lying on a large blue stability ball. Tricia was divorced and hell-bent on attracting as much male attention as possible. She had spent a considerable amount of the divorce settlement on liposuction and breast augmentation and had been coming to the gym every day for the last six months. She took delight in wearing the skimpiest of tops and figure-hugging Lycra shorts. She nodded at Robyn. She only ever spoke to the male members of the gym.
Robyn upped the speed on the treadmill. Unlike others, she didn’t use headphones when she exercised. She preferred her senses to always be on alert.
Tricia finished her crunches and admired her reflection before heading towards the exit where she stood chatting to one of the trainers – Dean. He taught the kick-boxing classes and some of the high-impact aerobics. Robyn preferred spinning classes during which she would work out on a stationary bike to improve her stamina. It did not encourage chatter or conviviality – certainly not the way Robyn approached it, ratcheting the resistance up as high as she could on her bicycle and racing at full speed, motivated by the pumping beat of the music and the shouts of encouragement from the fitness instructor.
When she was training for one of the many triathlons she entered, she would combine spinning classes and weight training with running and would also ride for miles on her racing bike – an Italian model with a carbon frame. She wasn’t going through such a high period of training at the moment and allowed herself some slack.
Robyn appreciated her body. It had seen her through some horrendous situations and in return she looked after it. Her physique was like that of a highly trained athlete – muscular, taut and ready for any eventuality.
A quiet inner voice asked her if this was what she had become, no more than a robotic machine that trained, fuelled up and worked all hours possible. She silenced the voice and pounded along the treadmill at a faster pace, wondering if she had sufficient evidence to convict Terence Smith of fraud. If she had, she would need another case, something new to distract her from the voices in her head and the pain that threatened to overwhelm her. She listened to the comforting swoosh, swoosh noise of the machine as she ran. Endorphins began to build up in her body and produce a feeling of well-being that was addictive. The moment of anxiety passed. She would control the voices and keep the pain caged. Heaven help her if ever they became unleashed.
2
Abigail Thorne wiped her daughter’s face with a damp cloth and admired her handiwork. Izzy gave her a gummy smile, revealing the two bottom incisors that had been troubling her the last few weeks. The puréed apple that had been all over her dimpled cheeks had vanished.
‘That’s better, you little monkey,’ she joked, tickling Izzy’s toes. ‘No more breakfast or snacks for you, young lady. Not until everyone has seen how pretty you look in your new dress.’
Two arms circled her waist and she felt warm breath as her husband Jackson pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. A frisson of pleasure rippled through her for the briefest of seconds. She tried to conjure its return but it had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
‘How’s our little angel today?’
‘She’s great. She doesn’t seem bothered any more by the second tooth and she ate all her breakfast.’
Abigail moved away reluctantly to replace the facecloth on the sink. Izzy let out a coo of excitement at seeing her father and raised her arms.
‘Hello, little splodge,’ he said, making her burble with glee. ‘Do you want to be an aeroplane?’ She gurgled some more and tried to wriggle free from the highchair.
‘Whoa. Wait for Daddy,’ he said, unfastening the restraining strap and releasing the child. Izzy’s eyes opened wide with delight as he hoisted her above his head and spun her around, all the while making a low drone like the noise of an engine.
Abigail cautioned him. ‘Don’t spin her
too much. She’s only just finished eating.’
‘She’ll be fine. Takes after the old man. Constitution of an ox,’ he replied, whooshing Izzy high and low, relishing the hearty chuckles that burst forth from the child’s mouth. Abigail smiled at their antics and for a moment forgot why she had been feeling so low. Jackson stopped at last and held Izzy at arm’s length. ‘That’s enough, Splodge. Don’t want purée surprise in my face.’ He settled the child in her playpen in the corner of the kitchen where she rolled onto her side contentedly and grabbed at a small patchwork dog, stuffing it in her mouth, all the while observing her parents with large blue eyes.
‘How’s my big angel, then?’ Jackson asked, moving towards the coffee maker and putting a cup under the machine.
‘Fine,’ she replied.
‘You sure? You’ve been a bit quiet the last few weeks,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘I know I’ve been getting in at all hours and I expect that doesn’t help.’
‘It’s not that,’ she replied. Her problems weren’t down to Jackson. ‘I’ve been a bit under the weather. Izzy has been grumbling at nights thanks to teething and I’ve not been getting enough sleep. And when she is awake, she’s full on. Never seems to need a nap, unlike her mum. I’m just lacking energy, that’s all.’
She understood the subtext of his concern. The night before, Jackson had come to bed ready for some action but she had pretended to be asleep. He had tried the usual tactics, but she had feigned sleep and lay still until he had given up, and with a sigh, rolled away to the far side of the bed. She had stayed stock-still until she heard his breathing begin to deepen and only then had she dared to move and roll onto her back, where she stared into the dark space and wondered for the umpteenth time what to do about her flagging sex drive.
