by Devon De'Ath
Christopher carried his coffee to the head of the table, exchanging a few whispered words with Wendy.
Jayne sidled up to Vicky. “Don’t worry about Christopher. That’s his way. If he tries it on, though, please tell me. I’ll not have you subjected to any unwanted attention or advances.”
Vicky caught Jayne’s gaze for a moment. “Thank you, Jayne.”
Jayne downed the last of her OJ and deposited the glass on a ‘dirties’ tray. “Most of his sleaze is restricted to words and saucy glances.”
“Like Frank Trimble?”
Jayne blinked. “Has Frank been giving you a hard time?”
Vicky snorted. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Well, I’d say Christopher isn’t as harmless as Frank. Rumour has it he’s playing house with Wendy these days. It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s not the first PA he’s taken an extracurricular interest in.”
More attendees filtered into the room. Jayne and Vicky moved away from the refreshments to take their places along one side of the square table arrangement.
Ten minutes later, Christopher Warwick called the meeting to order.
Vicky sat with her hands clasped, listening to a representative of Kent Highways deliver endless PowerPoint slides about potholes. A boring, balding man of slight build, Barry Waterman had tried a little too hard to brighten up the driest presentation Vicky had ever been party to. Every slide animated with different wipes and dissolves. Colours clashed, and the fonts changed a dozen times. His charts were so crammed full of data, their legends were impossible to read, even on such an expansive screen. His monotone excuse of, “I know you can’t read the detail at that distance, but I thought I’d include them for you to see,” prompted a uniform mental response among the attendees of ‘what was the point of that, then?’ Once he reached slide fifty-three, Vicky’s eyes wandered back to the coffee and pastries. A longing stare suggested she now understood that caffeine and a sugar fix were the only way to make it through one of these quarterly torture sessions without falling asleep.
At last, Barry concluded his presentation with the obligatory question mark clip-art symbol, to invite a response. The room remained silent, like nervous patients in a dental surgery, worried that any outburst might lead to further root canal work.
Christopher Warwick put a balled fist to his mouth and coughed. “Thank you, Barry. That was a most comprehensive input.” He shuffled some papers on his desk as Barry took his seat at the table. “While we will consider your bid for additional funding in rural areas, the current fiscal climate presents tough choices. What I have to ask myself, is: How can I justify a budgetary increase for low-volume traffic thoroughfares, when we have so many other pressing monetary requests?” He folded his arms. “I realise it sounds harsh. Not what you wanted to hear. Sometimes we must confine even the things we cherish most to the dustbin.”
Vicky caught Christopher eyeing her while he rolled out this final, dismissive statement. Clenching stomach muscles forced her to lean forward. Images of Chuckles’ lifeless face staring up at her from the kitchen pedal bin, flashed through her mind's eye in more vivid colour than Barry Waterman’s slides.
Jayne Robinson touched her wrist. “Are you okay?”
“Stomach cramp.” Vicky grunted under her breath.
“Gosh. That time of the month?”
Vicky didn’t reply.
“Why don’t you excuse yourself and visit the ladies room? I’m up next on the presentation agenda. It’ll take me a few minutes to login at the dais, before I’m ready to start.”
“Thanks, Jayne.” Vicky rose.
Christopher’s trunk-like neck lifted his round head to arrest her exit. Every face at the table turned, flushing Vicky’s cheeks. “I see our next presentation is from Social Services. Are you delivering it, Miss Lambert?”
Jayne shot up beside her, causing waves of relief to ease the pain in Vicky’s stomach. “She’ll be back in a jiff, Christopher. I’m afraid you’ve got me instead.”
Christopher waved towards the dais. “I’m sure it will be concise and professional as always, Jayne. Please set yourself up.” His cocky stare followed Vicky to the door. She wanted to slap that lop-sided grin off his smarmy face. But such an outburst would end her career. That might yet happen, as Bill had suggested after they’d buried her beloved cat. But for now she had to be smart and resist any urge to act on impulse.
When Vicky returned from the loo, Jayne appeared almost ready to start. Vicky sensed she’d been set for several minutes. But her sweet boss cared too much to cause her embarrassment by making the other attendees focus on Vicky’s return.
Vicky took her seat and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ towards the dais.
Jayne launched her first slide and commenced the presentation.
When she got home that night, Vicky collapsed onto the sofa and buried her head in a cushion. Muffled sobs of grief and frustration carried across her living room. Throughout the meeting, Christopher Warwick had made veiled comments relating to her cat. Not only the animal, but her other activities. When the subject of Data Protection legislation arose, he evidenced great pleasure in warning about the consequences of probing into matters beyond their purview. Subtle references to the price of such actions also found him focusing on her. Most of all, Vicky missed Chuckles. He was always there for a cuddle when she came home. Ever on hand to relieve the stresses of working life with his honest affection.
Vicky’s mobile phone vibrated. She pulled her head out of the cushion to study the screen. Bill Rutherford’s name lifted the down-turned corners of her mouth a fraction. She connected the call. “Hey, Bill.”
There was a pause before the reply. “Are you okay?”
Vicky wiped her nose with one finger. “What makes you say that?”
“It sounds like you’re crying.”
Vicky sat cross-legged on her sofa. “Tough day. I attended a meeting led by Christopher Warwick, assisted by Wendy Stokes.”
“F-u-c-k.”
Bill’s outburst made Vicky laugh, dislodging the last tears clinging to her ducts. “Yeah.” She sniffed.
“Did he know who you are? I mean, do you think he’s aware?”
Vicky toyed with her plait. “Either I’m getting paranoid, or his cat, bin, and ‘mind your own business’ references weren’t a coincidence.”
“That’s horrible. Is everything all right at home?”
Vicky looked around the room. “Nothing seems out of place.”
“No zombie-like teenagers staring at you from across the street?”
Vicky laughed again, flexing on the cushion. “No more zombie-like than Maidstone youth usually are.”
Bill hummed. “That sounds better.”
“What?”
“Your spirits are lifting a fraction.”
Vicky hitched up her legs to lay sideways and rest against the cushion. “How was your day?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I evidenced a sixty percent target success rate, chucking paper darts at my bin across the office.”
Vicky grinned. “That’s something.”
“Not really. My aim was off today. I usually hit seventy-five.”
“Be glad you didn’t have to sit through the presentation from Kent Highways I endured on potholes. Ouch.”
“A presentation on potholes from Kent Highways? You have all the luck. What’s that got to do with Social Services?”
“Nothing. It was a quarterly budget meeting for various departments. That’s why Christopher Warwick was there.”
“Ah yes, the Business Manager. Well, we’re both still breathing for now. No tragic ‘accidents’ so far.” He paused. “Listen to me cheering you up. I’d better sign-off. I promised I’d call.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“No problem.
“Bill?”
“Yeah?”
“Erm, would it be okay if we got something to eat tomorrow night? I want
to stay in for now, but I know it will be lonely without Chuckles again. Three nights in a row and I’ll scream. Sorry.”
“Are you setting your sights on a Michelin starred joint?”
A rising smirk traced Vicky’s lips. “You’re so cheap. How about that pub we had lunch at? They offer evening service, too. Basic but hearty.”
“Yeah okay, I can do that. What time?”
“Pick me up at seven-thirty?”
“Deal. Take it easy, Vicky.”
“You too. Bye.”
* * *
Bill paced up and down his shabby office the following afternoon. With no recent clients on the books, he was burning through cash, despite cheap business rent and a frugal lifestyle. For one fleeting moment he considered performing further surveillance on Christopher and Wendy. But what was the point? During the day they’d be at work, not chanting Latin phrases and occult deity names in spooky robes. The real prize was Hirsig House. Bill couldn’t decide whether breaking in at the medieval manor was more suicidal than illegal. Either way, the faintest whiff of his presence wouldn’t end well for either himself or Vicky. Bill leaned against the wall, peering down through dirty windows into the quiet, unkempt backstreet. Do we ride this thing out and hope they leave us alone? How can either of us carry on with normal life, knowing what we know now?
Bill’s ringing landline cut off his train of thought. He crossed to the public side of the desk, perched on the edge and swiped up the receiver. “Rutherford Private Investigations.”
The line remained quiet.
“Hello?” Bill was about to hang up - predicting a scam call - when a familiar male voice whispered down the other end.
“Bill, it’s DS Tony Quarry.” His voice stammered with an uncharacteristic lack of confidence.
“Hi, Tony. Have you got a development for me on our murder report at Hirsig House?”
“No.” The sound of colleagues walking past caused him to hold back for several seconds.
Bill’s brow creased. “Is everything okay?”
“I need to talk about what you saw.”
“Don’t you mean ‘claim to have seen?’ It appears we could be within spitting distance of a charge for making stuff up.”
Tony’s breathing came harder. “For what it’s worth, Bill, I believe you. Listen, I can’t go into details on the phone, but everything about the investigation got quashed.”
Bill sighed. “No Further Action? Why aren’t I surprised?”
“No, it’s not that. I mean someone's wiped all the files, like your report never took place.”
Bill gripped the phone harder. “I thought you couldn’t do that with police data? Doesn’t it have to stay on record, regardless of the outcome?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. Older data gets archived from live databases after a defined period. Ongoing retention runs under advice from the Information Commissioner.”
Bill stood up from the desk, still clutching the receiver. “Could it be a glitch?”
“There’s a remote possibility of that, but it’s not likely. All our systems include multiple fail-safes. The thing is, my pocket notebook was also taken. The one with everything pertaining to your report. My Chief Inspector had me in her office for a chat this morning. She told me they’re buttoning the whole caboodle down over your allegations, as they include sensitive matters we’re instructed to stay out of.”
Bill’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”
“It’s not my first time being removed from an active investigation. But it’s usually because our unit’s involvement might prejudice or ruin a bigger, overlapping job. Expose a C.H.I.S or defeat months of undercover work by the secret squirrels. I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming, Tony?”
“Because this is nothing like that. Listen, I’d better get off the line. Can we meet up at your office? There’s something I want to give you.”
“Sure. Come right over, I’m not busy.”
“I can’t do it now. Any chance you’d open up tonight? I kept some printouts relating to the investigation, before it was scrubbed from our systems. It seems whoever removed my PNB, didn’t realise I had them tucked away in a physical folder.”
“Won’t you get in trouble? Isn’t passing police data outside of an F.O.I Act request illegal?”
Tony sighed. “Yes and yes. But no more illegal than what someone’s been up to around here. I can’t progress this further in my professional capacity. If you’re able to use what I’ve got to find your own answers, you’re welcome to try. Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wave the printouts around and shout my name from the rooftops.”
“I'll treat them with discretion, Tony. You’re taking an enormous risk. Why are you doing this?”
“I joined this job to serve the public with integrity. Something sinister is going on. My hands are tied, but I can’t walk away like this never happened. When you and Miss Lambert came in to relay your story, my colleague didn’t believe a word of it.”
Bill laughed. “The Wicked Witch of the West? Yeah, we caught that vibe coming off her.”
“I’ve been around long enough to realise when someone’s being straight with me. Plus, you and I have bumped into each other before. I know you’re not a time-wasting fantasist. If you say you’ve witnessed a ritual murder, I’ve no reason to doubt your word. Your friend seems level-headed, too.”
“You called it straight. She’s a no-nonsense woman. Are you aware someone broke into her house and killed her cat?”
“PC Blake gave me a heads-up.”
“Was that report expunged too?”
“No. It’s down as a burglary. Her cat gets a mention in the diary. But now there’s no other investigation to link it with. Nor your two break-ins.”
“Oh, you know about those?”
“Mmm. It’s another reason I didn’t want to let things drop, despite a lack of evidence after the house raid in Otterden.”
“Can I tell Vicky about this?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve got to go, Bill. What time can I pop round?”
“I’m having dinner with the lady herself this evening. Nothing fancy. We could both come back here afterwards. How does ten suit you?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks, Tony. Watch your back.” He hung up.
“Going Dutch wasn’t so painful now, was it?” Vicky tucked her purse back into her handbag.
Bill slipped his wallet into an internal jacket pocket. Across the atmospheric lighting of the pub’s evening service, the gentle murmur of subdued conversation hung like audible mist. From the moment he’d collected her, Bill brought Vicky up to speed on his telephone conversation with DS Quarry. She was all up for a post-dinner meeting at Bill’s office. Whatever documents he’d printed and salvaged might offer the only way forward in their quest for answers. Bill checked the time on his phone and nodded to the main door. “We’d best skedaddle. I don’t want to leave Tony hanging around in that street at night. It’s not the nicest neighbourhood. He’s probably arrested half its residents during his career. God knows how many would love to catch him alone there, after dark.”
Ten minutes later, Bill pulled up behind a blue Ford Focus outside the three-storey Victorian slum converted into offices. He leaned forward for a better look across the steering wheel. “Those are his wheels. I remember it from a job we clashed on a while back.”
Vicky squinted. “I can’t see anyone in the car. You don’t think one of the locals ‘made’ him, do you?”
Bill wiped a faint smile away from his mouth with the middle finger of one hand. Her terminology was amusing. “You’re starting to sound like a Private Investigator, yourself. Are you sure you’re not enjoying all this clandestine stuff just a little?”
Vicky scowled. “Ask my cat.”
Bill’s face dropped. “Sorry.” He opened the driver’s door. “We’d best look.
He can’t have gone far.”
They decamped to wander around the Ford and scan the street for any signs of a scuffle. Bill slipped his fingers beneath the Focus driver’s door handle to test it. “The car’s locked. That’s a positive sign. He’s unlikely to have been dragged from it.” Bill pulled out his business keys to let them in through the ground floor entrance.
Vicky cocked her head as she followed him through. “Isn’t there an alarm? I was expecting a warning tone to sound once you opened the door.”
Bill snorted. “Not in this place. If it makes you feel better, I’ll make beeping noises while we climb the two flights of stairs to my office.”
Vicky swiped his upper arm, then followed upstairs.
On the top floor, Bill inserted another key in the entrance to ‘Rutherford Private Investigations.’ He pushed through as he opened up. “Tony can’t have gone far. We’ll sit tight. How good are you at throwi-” His sentence ended with the flicking of the overhead light switch.
A pair of legs stuck out on the floor behind his desk. Bill hurried round the other side. DS Quarry lay in a messy heap. Dark blue and purple bruising spread down from his dimpled chin to encircle a semi-collapsed neck. Bill squatted and tapped two fingers against his wrist in search of a pulse. His sad eyes rose above the top of the desk to connect with Vicky’s, as he shook his head.
Vicky stared off to one side, focusing on the desk. “What’s that, Bill?”
He followed her gaze to a dirty blue holdall he’d never seen before. It lay unzipped next to his business landline. Bulbous clear plastic packages of white powder lay half-in, half-out, with two at haphazard angles atop the desk blotter. Slight puffs of their talcum-like contents dusted the surface. “If I had to guess, I’d say a fortune in Class A drugs.”
