The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  Norma, however, is obviously now having second thoughts about her upcoming nuptials. Hence the reason she’s indulging in one last final fling, before marriage to Raymond effectively puts an end to her gallop.

  ‘Norma, works as a schoolteacher,’ Raymond says. ‘Third year. She teaches English, History and Drama. In a private school, you know, a fee-paying school. Norma’s on an excellent pay grade too, and we’ve already been able to put a sizeable deposit on a house at a surprisingly low interest rate. We’ve been together for six years in total, and engaged for two of those.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, wondering if he was starting to bore Norma stupid, with all his talk about low interest rates and pay grades. ‘Does Norma have a Twitter handle? Or is she on Instagram? Either would be of huge use to me here.’

  ‘Neither, I’m afraid,’ says Raymond, as I look sharply back up at him in shock. ‘Nor does she have a Facebook thingy . . . page, or whatever you call it.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. Because this is a first. This is uncharted waters for me. Everyone I’ve ever worked on under the age of forty was on some kind of social media, every single one of them. It’s very strange for her not to be.

  Shit. This is just going to make my job so much harder. Not insurmountable, but still. A right pain in the arse, no matter what way you look at it.

  ‘It’s because of her position in the school, you see,’ says Raymond. ‘Norma always says she’s terrified one of her friends might post a less than judicious photo of her, when they’re all out for the night and intoxicated on those revolting cocktail concoctions that seem to be all the fashion these days. She says she’d never live it down if one of her students were to see such an image on social media, so she’s steered well clear of any of that old nonsense. A good, sensible decision, I must say, that I always applauded her for. But then, Norma used to be such a good, sensible girl.’ He pauses. ‘You’ll notice I’m using the past tense here.’

  ‘I’m guessing something happened recently that made you look at Norma in a whole new light?’ I prompt. Although I really mean to say, ‘I’m guessing Norma met someone much more exciting, who blindsided her and who she’s now seeing on the sly?’

  The coffee table we’re sitting at is in bright, direct sunlight and, with much faffing and fussing, Raymond takes a handkerchief out of his side pocket and begins to dab at a few perspiration beads glistening on his forehead.

  ‘He’s an actor, can you believe that?’ Raymond says. ‘An actor, who appears to spend more time out of work than in it. Norma is a great enthusiast for the theatre and I have to say, that was always something I admired about her – her great love of culture and the arts. She goes to all the fringe theatre shows and often takes her students too. And that’s where she met him,’ he adds sadly.

  ‘Never mind about how she met him,’ I interrupt crisply, but then clients feeling sorry for themselves get you nowhere. ‘What I need to know is this, Raymond. Are you sure Norma’s been seeing this actor guy behind your back? Absolutely rock-solid certain? You appreciate that I’m not a private detective. I need to know these aren’t just suspicions on your part, before I knuckle down to work.’

  ‘These are not suspicions on my part,’ he replies flatly. ‘I only wish they were. Our wedding is already well into the advanced planning stages . . .’

  ‘Booked for when, exactly?’ I interrupt, noting everything down with particular care.

  ‘August,’ says Raymond, dabbing at his temples with the handkerchief again.

  ‘This coming August?’

  ‘No, not at all, nothing so close as that,’ he replies nervously. ‘August of next year.’

  ‘Next year?’ I say incredulously. Is that really how far in advance you have to plan these days? Astonishing, I think. People in love are so weird. It never fails to amaze me.

  ‘To get the right venue,’ Raymond stammers, ‘that’s the kind of advance booking you need to make. We’ve paid a full deposit and everything. Non-refundable. Norma insisted on having the whole works: the chocolate fountain, the champagne, oh nothing was too much for her. But then . . .’ He stops.

  ‘Go on,’ I say.

  ‘Well, she’s completely lost all interest in the whole thing. Now she spends all night, every night at the theatre, and I know she’s spending time with him. The whole bedrock of our relationship was trust and now, I have to say, I feel very strongly that trust has been eroded.’

  I sit back, fold my arms and look at him.

  ‘If you feel you can’t rebuild your relationship,’ I tell him, ‘then you need to be honest about it. Pointless me getting rid of this actor guy for you, unless you and Norma intend to stick together. Otherwise, you’re just wasting your money and my time.’

  ‘Oh, but I very much do intend to move forward with Norma,’ Raymond rushes to reassure me, taking his handkerchief and folding it up into nice, neat squares. ‘We were happy together before this idiot came along, you see, and I desperately want us to be happy together again. And I know we can be, once he’s banished from the picture. Gone for good, I fervently hope.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, already busily thinking ahead.

  ‘Besides, we’ve already put down a forty per cent deposit for the wedding. Did I mention that it was non-refundable?’

  ‘In that case, you’d better tell me more about your rival,’ I say, sidestepping all this talk about deposits. ‘Give me everything you’ve got. A jobbing actor, you said?’

  ‘His name is Jonny Featherstone-Jones,’ Raymond sniffs. ‘Ridiculous name, isn’t it? I suspect it’s some class of a stage name. And we’re hardly dealing with Laurence Olivier here. Strictly spear-carrier material and nothing more. I saw him onstage once, in the world’s most boring play, in a revolting little makeshift theatre above a dingy old pub. He had about ten lines in total and still managed to fluff most of them. But, oh no, as far as Norma is concerned, he’s the next Daniel Day-Lewis.’

  Jonny Featherstone-Jones. Good, I think, already ahead of him and googling away on my phone. But then I hit a solid brick wall. Believe it or not, there’s several Jonny Featherstone-Joneses out there. I narrow the search down to ‘actor’, which leaves me with one who seems to work in or around the theatre world.

  ‘Can you identify him from this photo?’ I ask Raymond, holding up an image on my phone and passing it over to him to look at.

  Raymond takes out a neat little pair of reading specs and puts them on, before taking the phone from me and peering down at the screen.

  ‘Yes, there he is,’ he says, pointing to the standard-looking black and white CV photo, which I instantly begin to scrutinise when he hands the phone back.

  Jonny Featherstone-Jones looks late twenties tops, with a thick head of dark hair, all carefully combed forward onto his forehead and with a doleful, miserable expression on his face, which doubtless is meant to make him look mad, bad and dangerous to know, but which in actual fact only makes him look constipated.

  There’s the name of an actor’s agency printed above it, along with all the relevant contact details. So tracking this Jonny Featherstone-Jones down shouldn’t present any major roadblocks, I think, already plotting and scheming a long-term strategy here.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ I say to Raymond, briskly getting up to leave. ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Raymond says, looking bewildered.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, looking back at him in surprise. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Well, don’t you need to know more about Norma? And more details about him? Surely you need more to go on than what I’ve just given you?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I tell him, with a small smile. ‘I’ve got everything I need right here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘And you’re really confident you can help?’ Raymond asks worriedly.

  On cue, my phone rings. Katherine Sisk’s private number. Yet again.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ I say smugly, waving the phone under his
nose as some of the old confidence begins to surge back to me. ‘Well, here’s a satisfied client calling. Why don’t you ask her for yourself?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Harriet

  Later the same morning, Harriet wakes up on Meg’s sofa, in Meg’s apartment, bursting to talk to her friend. To talk about this very apartment, to chat about her plan to help her stay on there and yes, even to talk about Freddie too, she thinks, with a smile, as she springs up off the sofa and pulls a sweatshirt over her nightie.

  ‘Meg? You there, hon?’ she calls out, padding over to the bedroom door and knocking. No answer, so Harriet lets herself in, to see that the bed is empty. It is immaculately made up of course, but then that’s Meg for you. Everything in this entire flat is spotless and pristine.

  ‘Meg?’ Harriet calls, checking the bathroom, and kitchen, where she finds a note waiting for her, propped up against a bottle of water on the kitchen island.

  Good morning! Early start for me. See you later. Will cook dinner for us. Much to catch up on! Save it all for later, love Meg xxxx

  She must have left at the crack of dawn, Harriet thinks, padding back out of the kitchen and over to Meg’s desk off the main living area, where that weird noticeboard is covered with all those Post-its and columns about various people’s movements. After such a terrible day yesterday, when she came home so early and stayed holed up in her room? She couldn’t possibly have gone back into work after all that, could she? That waste management place Meg had described to Harriet, Pest Be Gone? The one that Harriet can find no earthly trace of? Even if it does exist, it sounds vile, and the people Meg works for seem horrible. Harriet has high hopes that Meg walked out of the job the previous day, told them where to shove it and that she wouldn’t be back at all. She also hopes that Meg will confide in her, maybe open up about her lavish lifestyle and how she must be up to her neck in debt to finance it all.

  So where has Meg gone to now? Harriet tries calling and texting her, but Meg isn’t answering – which means she’s up to her tonsils, doing . . . well, doing what, exactly?

  Then, idly, Harriet picks up the yellow Post-it note with Senator Katherine Sisk’s contact details written on it.

  And she wonders.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Meg

  ‘Meg? Katherine Sisk here. Look, you and I need to speak privately, as soon as possible. Can you come and see me, at your earliest convenience? I’m at Government Buildings today. I’ve left out a lanyard pass for you at security. See you shortly, I hope.’

  Well, now this just got interesting, I think, listening to the message. Getting Jess out of the picture needs my urgent attention, and then of course, there’s the question of Philip. What to do with him now, and how best to deliver the Almighty Comeuppance? I’m certainly not short of suggestions for Katherine; the thought has preoccupied me day and night. I’ll scare him into monogamy, wait till you see. I’ll make sure Philip Sisk thinks twice before he as much as looks at another woman again.

  Yet another exciting challenge I’ve got on my hands, as the day ahead suddenly becomes a whole lot busier. Just the way I like it.

  I jump into the back of a cab, bark my destination at the driver, then do one of my routine quick costume changes in the back seat. In one practised move, I produce a neat black Givenchy shift dress out of my giant Michael Kors bag, pull the dress over my head, and shimmy out of the T-shirt and jeans I’ve been wearing. The taxi driver, thankfully, is far too engrossed in navigating his way through a labyrinth of roadworks to pay the slightest bit of attention.

  If they were all like you, I think, looking gratefully at the back of his baldie head, I’d have no bother.

  *

  Then I slick my hair back into a neat chignon and apply just a dab of clear lip gloss. Perfect, I think, double-checking myself in the compact mirror that goes everywhere with me. If a jeans and T-shirt combo makes me look like a woman who’d trawl through the streets to help out someone like Raymond, then this elegant black 60s-style shift dress might as well have ‘Government Buildings’ written all over it.

  The traffic is horrendous, and roadworks seem to have sprouted up across the entire city centre, so, with time to spare, I whip out both my phones and start work getting a handle on this Jonny Featherstone-Jones, actor at large.

  I begin with the agency who represent him.

  ‘Hi there,’ I say brightly, as soon as the phone is answered. ‘I’m trying to track down an actor on your books called Jonny Featherstone-Jones . . .’

  ‘Can I ask, in connection with what?’ says a warm, interested woman’s voice on the other end of the phone.

  Saying ‘for a movie I’m working on’ would arouse too much suspicion. Same with a commercial I’m supposedly casting – another lie I could get caught out in so easily. ‘I’m a playwright,’ I say, literally improvising on the spot. ‘And I’ve written a new work, which I think Jonny would be perfect for. I’d love to meet with him to discuss it, if possible. And, of course, if he were interested, that is.’

  ‘Oh, well done you!’ she says happily. ‘Good on you. You know, I always think there aren’t nearly enough female playwrights out there – not by half.’

  ‘So if you had a mobile number for Jonny, or maybe his address, that would be so useful?’ I ask out straight. ‘It is the leading role, I should stress.’

  ‘Hmmm, that could be a bit tricky. Thing is, Jonny’s actually left our books, due to . . . well, let’s just say artistic differences.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say, quickly reading the subtext and putting two and two together.

  Doubtless this Jonny thought he was destined for Oscar glory, whereas the reality is that he’s probably more like ‘background extra’ material in some class of daytime soap, where the scenery shakes every time a door bangs. Certainly according to the few – the very few – online reviews of plays he’s appeared in, which I’m using my second phone to scroll down through, Jonny Featherstone-Jones’s various stage performances have more or less all been panned. A good-looking guy, the critics seemed to be unanimous in saying, but don’t give up the day job.

  ‘Do you have any contact details for him at all?’ I ask politely, even as I can hear tap-tapping away at a keyboard.

  ‘Not that we can give out over the phone, I’m afraid,’ she replies, which I suppose is fair enough, really. ‘Although I think he’s on social media – you might try him there?’

  I thank this lady, whoever she is, and am then obliged to honour the big fat lie I told by promising her opening-night tickets to the fictitious play I’m supposedly working on.

  Meanwhile, the taxi driver is still muttering under his breath, as the traffic is now effectively at a complete standstill.

  ‘I mean, sweet Jaysus, roadworks? At this hour of the morning, rush hour? Are they mad in the head, or what?’

  I totally ignore him and sit back, as the taxi finally begins to get moving again, while I give my tried-and-tested social media strategy a go. But he’s nowhere to be found on Twitter and although I’ve already found someone of that name on Facebook, the account has the maximum privacy settings, so all I can do is send him a ‘friend’ request and hope for the best.

  It’s not a temporary setback, it’s a challenge. And challenges are there to be overcome, I remind myself.

  ‘Here you go, Government Buildings,’ says the taxi driver, as we pull up at the kerb outside.

  ‘Keep the change,’ I say, handing over a fifty-euro note as I climb out of the car.

  ‘Very nice of you,’ the driver whistles, pocketing the cash. ‘Hope someone as generous as you ends up with a bit of political influence one day. You’re certainly starting in the right place.’

  Are you kidding? I think, dusting myself down as I make my way towards the security hut outside the giant Palladian mansion house, where both arms of Government are in full session. A politician’s salary would actually be a comedown.

  Chapter Thirty

&nbs
p; Harriet

  Unbeknown to Meg, not much later, Harriet finds herself looking for a very different address, in a very different part of town. She is in the legal district, as it happens, which seems to be dominated by street after street of five-storey Georgian buildings, all within spitting distance of the Four Courts and the Central Criminal Courts of Justice.

  Unlike Meg, however, it takes Harriet all of her phone’s battery life on Google Maps before she eventually finds where she’s looking for. The offices of Digby, Markby and Sellers, a very discreet firm of solicitors – at least, according to Freddie.

  ‘They’re all very old chums of my grandfather’s,’ Freddie had told her. ‘All ancient and all looking very like Dumbledore. Minus the long beards,’ he’d added, in his own clueless way. ‘And the wizard’s hats. Actually, come to think of it, they aren’t a bit like Dumbledore in the least. They’re just all terribly, terribly old.’

  Eventually, Harriet stumbles on a brass plaque on the wall, with the firm’s name neatly written on it, so she buzzes at the intercom and waits. And waits.

  And waits some more. She’s come this far though, she tells herself, and feck it anyway, the bus fare was nearly three euro, so there’s no way she’s leaving without getting her full money’s worth.

  Then, with a great deal of creaking from the other side, the front door is eventually opened, and there stands an elderly man who looks on the wrong side of about one hundred and ten, clinging to a walking stick and wheezing like a train.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, eyeing Harriet up and down warily. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Oh . . . em . . . I’m Harriet Waters and . . . emm . . .’ I tried to make an appointment with you but no one answered the phone seems like a pretty rude thing to say, so instead she trails off with, ‘I was hoping to have a private word, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Really? Well, it’s not very convenient just now, I’m afraid.’