The Fixer

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘But it’s just for a quick chat,’ Harriet blurts out, desperate to talk to him.

  ‘Oh bugger, bugger, bugger,’ he says croakily. ‘You mean you want me to work? I don’t work in the afternoons. Ever.’

  ‘But it’s barely even midday,’ Harriet tries to say, thinking, can this really be the de Courcey family solicitor? For real?

  ‘Interferes with my digestion no end,’ the elderly gentleman splutters back at her. ‘So if you want to come back at a more suitable time . . .’

  ‘I really am so sorry to disturb you,’ Harriet says, ‘but I’ve come a very long way to see you and I faithfully promise, it’s just a few questions and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘Hmm. Will you make me a cup of tea while you’re here? You seem like a nice enough girl and unfortunately my cataracts are at me, so I can’t even see where the switch is on the dratted kettle, you understand.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ Harriet smiles. This, she is used to. Dealing with the elderly and looking after them was something she did every day of the week, back in Dead Old Lady Dresses. ‘If I say so myself, I make a grand cup of tea,’ she adds brightly.

  ‘Right then,’ he says. ‘You’d better come inside, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you one of the firm’s partners?’ Harriet asks, as she crosses the threshold and steps into the gloomy, dark hallway, which, as Freddie had forewarned her, did indeed stink of boiled cabbage.

  ‘Harold Markby, at your service,’ he replies, leading her down a damp, poky little corridor, with files piled almost to ceiling height and thick dust on every surface. ‘But I’m not a partner, not at all. At least, not yet I’m not.’

  ‘Really?’ says Harriet, following him and dodging boxes of files that are lying about everywhere. But surely he is someone very senior in the firm, she figures, at his age?

  ‘No, indeed I’m quite low in the pecking order here,’ Harold croaks back at her. ‘Just a humble junior, for my sins. It’s my older brother, George, who’s the real boss around here. You’ll find him in his office, if you’ll just step this way . . .’

  Older brother? Harriet thinks she must have misheard.

  Harold flings open a huge, imposing Georgian door, to reveal a musty, dusty study, with mounds of paper files piled to nuisance, fire hazard height. A heavy old mahogany desk dominates the entire room, with a giant bay window backing on to an overgrown courtyard outside.

  And behind the desk? The slumbering form of George Markby, senior partner, now catching up on his forty winks as he dozes away, snoring lightly.

  ‘You see?’ Harold wheezes. ‘I told you. The afternoons are the worst possible time for anyone to call. I did warn you. And you, young lady, did promise me a cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s no problem at all,’ Harriet smiles, knowing exactly how elderly people need to be minded. ‘Sure, I’m glad to be of service.’

  Harold leads her outside and down yet another winding, snaking corridor, till they come to a tiny anteroom, now clearly used as a sort of kitchenette, with a kettle and a tiny fridge, along with a bockety table for two, with a few chipped mugs on it. Harriet immediately takes charge; insisting that Harold take a seat, so she can make a big fuss of him.

  ‘Milk, two sugars, my dear,’ he says, gently easing himself down onto one of the chairs, and looking for all the world like he might drop off into a deep sleep himself. ‘And then you must sit down too, and tell me what all this is about.’

  She places a fresh mug of tea down in front of him, and does as she’s told, sitting down opposite.

  ‘So tell me, what appears to be the problem?’ Harold asks, gratefully taking a sip of the tea.

  She has prepared for this, and launches into the little speech she’s rehearsed in her head on the bus here. She thinks of Meg. Clearly in way over her head with debts. And it isn’t like she’s looking for special favours here, is it? All Harriet wants is to see if she can glean some advice and a few guidelines that might, just might, help Meg when the time comes. That’s all.

  ‘I only came here in the first place,’ she says, ‘because my friend Freddie, that’s Freddie de Courcey, says you’ve represented his family for decades, and so I thought you might be able to help me.’

  At that, Harold sits bolt upright, clattering down the mug of tea in front of him. ‘De Courcey, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Oh, well, you should have said so before! That’s young Freddie you’re referring to, I take it? Red-headed chap, always in the papers, not the brightest bulb on the tree, according to his grandmother? Went to my old school, you know, and failed every single exam he ever sat. Except for Home Economics, for some reason. I have a distinct memory of his grandmother telling me that young Freddie made a delightfully moist hot cross bun. Not a soggy bottom in sight.’

  ‘Emm . . . well,’ Harriet dithers, torn between wanting information and not wanting to come across as being disloyal.

  But Harold is like a completely different person now, springing to his feet with the aid of his walking stick, and coming around to shake her hand warmly. ‘Well, may I say, any friend of the de Courcey family is a friend of ours, my dear,’ he cackles. ‘My brother and I were at school with his grandfather, Frederick Senior, did you know that? Oh, long before your time. Awfully good cricketer, if I remember. And so terribly generous in the bar afterwards.’

  ‘It’s great you have such fond memories,’ says Harriet, anxious to get this back on track. ‘But I really did just want to ask you about debt resolution, and what can be done to help another friend of mine who’s in a bit of trouble, money-wise. She’s living in The Towers, which is this incredibly high-end apartment complex in the swishest part of town, she’s got the penthouse flat and I know she’s under huge stress at the moment and it can only be related to money and . . .’

  But Harold doesn’t appear to be listening. ‘And are you acquainted with Frederick’s good lady wife?’ he asks.

  ‘Ellen de Courcey?’ Harriet says. ‘You know her too?’

  ‘Do I know her? I was a guest at her wedding, when she married Frederick Senior!’ says Harold. ‘A most daunting lady to deal with, let me tell you. Terrifying is the adjective I’d use, actually.’

  Just then, Harriet hears the sound of footsteps shuffling right behind her. She turns around to see the older brother, George, hobbling in on a Zimmer frame, yawning and coughing and spluttering, but still, very definitely alive and kicking.

  ‘I heard voices,’ George says in a voice that is as weak as water and more like a whisper, really. ‘And is that tea I see? I should very much like a strong, fresh cup, please.’

  Harriet immediately gets to her feet and offers him her chair, as Harold makes the introductions.

  ‘Let me ask my brother if he can help you any further,’ he says, before raising his voice several decibels so he is almost shouting. ‘GEORGE, THIS YOUNG LADY IS A FRIEND OF THE DE COURCEY FAMILY. SHE’S ASKING ABOUT DEBT RESOLUTION FOR A CHUM OF HERS WHO LIVES AT THE TOWERS, IN THE PENTHOUSE FLAT, NO LESS . . . isn’t that what you mentioned, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, The Towers,’ Harriet answers.

  ‘THE TOWERS,’ Harold shouts at George.

  ‘The penthouse at The Towers?’ George says, sounding surprisingly sharp and fully compos mentis now. ‘Do you mean number 27A?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In that case, you’re the second person to mention that wretched property in the last twenty-four hours, as it happens.’

  ‘I am?’ says Harriet, bewildered.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ says George, gratefully easing himself down into the chair she has helpfully pulled out for him. ‘I had another young lady on the telephone only just yesterday, making all sorts of claims and counterclaims about her lease agreement on a property there. So I don’t mind telling you, I gave it to her straight. I’d drawn up that lease myself, not so long ago. “Ellen de Courcey is your landlady,” I told this particular young l
ady, “and you should be grateful to her, instead of calling me up demanding I double-check the exact terms of your lease. You live at that flat rent-free,” I told her in the clearest possible terms. “And have done so for the past year. Should Mrs de Courcey now wish to revisit the terms of your arrangement, then that’s her prerogative. If you have any problems with whatever terms you agreed with her,” I said, “then you’d better be warned, Mrs de Courcey will gladly terminate the contract.”’

  Harriet says nothing. Just stands there, mug of tea frozen in her hand, trying to process what she’s just heard.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she finds voice enough to ask. ‘Did you just say that Ellen de Courcey is the landlady of the penthouse flat at The Towers?’

  ‘And a most generous one too,’ says George.

  ‘We are talking about the same flat here? Number 27A?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my dear, one and the same. It was a cashless transaction with her tenant, I distinctly recall. Who wouldn’t want that, eh? A penthouse flat, entirely rent-free. I did enquire as to why, as it seemed such an usual arrangement. But all Mrs de Courcey would tell me is that the tenant had done her a particular service and that the lease on the flat was in part payment for it.’

  ‘And do you remember . . . what exactly this “particular service” was?’ Harriet asks, in a very quiet little voice.

  George thinks for a moment.

  ‘A personal matter, you understand. Although I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if it involved your chum, my dear. Young Freddie de Courcey. He’s forever getting himself into all manner of scrapes, with all manner of undesirable young ladies. It’s happened before, many times, you know. I can only hope since then that he’s changed his ways somewhat.’

  ‘By any chance . . . do you remember who contacted you about all this yesterday?’ Harriet says, as her brain frantically tries to make sense of what she is hearing.

  ‘Emm . . .’ George shuffles about on his seat and stares off into space.

  ‘I don’t suppose the name was Meg Monroe, was it?’ Even as she speaks the words, she half dreads the answer.

  ‘Bingo, that’s her!’ says George. ‘You’re a step ahead of me, my dear. That’s definitely her. Very brisk and business-like on the phone yesterday. Quite a bossy sort of person. A bit like a young Lady Thatcher,’ he nods over to Harold. ‘She was the very same when she came in here a year ago, to sign the lease in the first place. Like a whirlwind, I recall. Had more than one of those dratted mobile telephones on the go. Wouldn’t even sit down, just paced around the place. Quite rude, I thought at the time, but that’s just me. Certainly didn’t put the kettle on and make a nice cup of tea for us, as you did.’

  Harriet wants to thank him. She wants to say a whole lot of things. But instead, she just stands rooted to the spot, mute, silenced and utterly lost for words.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Meg

  An usher from Government Buildings had just escorted me up a narrow back staircase and through to a tiny anteroom on the third floor, with the name SENATOR KATHERINE SISK printed neatly in copperplate writing on the door. Jess is at a desk over by the window, deep into a phone conversation, but she does at least glance up to acknowledge me when I come in.

  Can’t get off this call, she mouths at me.

  No problem, I smile back pleasantly.

  I need to talk to you, she indicates, trying to wind up her call, but not succeeding.

  Lots to talk about, I mouth back.

  Jeez, I think, lip-reading really is a highly prized skill around here.

  Jess is being fairly polite though, as opposed to her usual passive-aggressive self, so I’m hopeful that the little carrot I dangled in front of her late the other night might actually have hit home.

  Billy, on the other hand, sits at the only other desk, on his phone, but he hangs up the minute I come in and seems genuinely relieved to see me.

  ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he smiles.

  He looks tired though and probably a bit on the skinny side, given that the election is just four days away, but still. Attractive, I suppose. If that’s your thing.

  ‘Katherine asked to see me,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re here to work too, I hope?’ he says, leaning back and folding his arms, as he puts his glasses back on and eyes me up and down. ‘If it doesn’t interfere with what no doubt is a hectic social life?’

  ‘Social life?’ I repeat. ‘What’s a social life?’

  Nor am I being facetious either.

  ‘Well, say, for instance,’ he begins, getting up from behind the desk and coming over to perch on the edge of it, long legs stretching out in front of him. ‘Oooh, just a random example from the top of my head . . . if you were asked out for a drink? That, right there, that’s your first clue as to what a social life is, Meg Monroe.’

  ‘Ah,’ I nod, reading the subtext.

  I study him for a moment, as you would an insect down a microscope. Is this guy actually flirting with me? For real? Is this how people behave in the real world? Should I politely inform him he’s wasting his time here?

  ‘Only you bolted the other night, didn’t you?’ Billy says, his tone gently mocking. ‘And left me all alone at a TV studio in an industrial estate in the back arse of nowhere. Dying for a pint, and with no one to play with. Ahh well, poor old me.’

  ‘Some other time,’ I say crisply, putting a quick end to this nonsense. ‘So where can I find Katherine?’

  ‘Ehh . . . there’s a pile of work to be done here first. Remember work? The inconvenience of a general election?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but first of all, Katherine and I just need to have a very quick private conversation . . .’

  ‘The Good Lady Senator is in session in the House,’ Billy says. ‘Tell you what, though. Till she gets back, you could start by helping me with this.’ He ambles back around his desk to sit down again and taps a biro off a computer screen.

  I look coolly back at him. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘The Registrar of Electors,’ he says. ‘Jess and I have been working on it since late last night. Here, I’ll show you.’

  I come around to his side of the desk and peer over his shoulder.

  ‘You see?’ he says. ‘You do realise that this is gold dust for us? It’s all heavily classified stuff though, you understand. There’s a ton of legal restrictions around how we get to use it, but the bottom line is, this doesn’t leave the office. Ever. We’re legally permitted to use it for canvassing in the run-up to an election and absolutely nothing more. I warned Jess and now I’m warning you. That’s important.’

  ‘So . . . what exactly is it that I’m looking at here?’ I ask. For God’s sake, all I can see are row after row of hundreds and thousands of names and home addresses. So far, so boring.

  It takes a nanosecond for the penny to drop, as Billy stares back at me like I’m a bit slow-witted.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he says. ‘Are you kidding me? Are you for real? These are only the names and home addresses of every single person over the age of eighteen, in every single constituency – and that’s nationwide, by the way.’

  ‘I see. So you want me to . . . what? Target each voter personally with glossy fliers with Katherine’s policies outlined for them?’

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ Billy nods approvingly. ‘Not only that, but we’ve got this strictly timed so that every last one of Katherine’s fliers goes into the post right before the weekend, so they’ll arrive first thing on election day.’

  ‘That way, she’s fresh in voters’ minds just as they’re going to the polls,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Got it in one. So if you could take care of this, then I can get back to her media schedule for the rest of the week. Four major radio interviews today alone, I shit you not, and Jess and I need all the help we can get. If you take over here, then I can get back to the grindstone over at the constituency office.’<
br />
  ‘Hmmm,’ I say, staring over his shoulder, utterly absorbed by the electoral database onscreen.

  Just then, Billy’s phone begins to ring and he instantly hops up to answer it.

  ‘Oh and just before I take this call,’ he says, ‘you still haven’t told me how you did it.’

  ‘Did what?’ I say, slipping into his empty seat, bewitched by what I’m seeing on the screen in front of me.

  ‘How you knew all that personal stuff about me, the other night. About my house move, and that I was just back from holidays? You even knew I was somewhere south of the equator – it’s been driving me nuts ever since.’

  ‘When a magician gives away his secrets . . .’ I begin to say, but Billy is having none of it.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just tell me will you?’

  ‘Don’t you need to take that call?’

  ‘Not till you tell me,’ he twinkles back at me. ‘And till then, you’ll have to listen to a ringing phone and there’s nothing on earth more irritating than that.’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ I sigh. ‘You were carrying an iPad the other night, your home screen was lit up and I caught a glimpse of an app for an estate agency on it, and also an app for a mortgage provider, so I just put two and two together. Plus you had a bit of black oil wedged under your fingernails . . . oh. And you still do, I see . . . ever heard of a nail brush, by the way?’

  ‘Ahh, go easy, will you?’ he grins. ‘So you were right about my car giving me trouble – but how am I supposed to afford a new car, with repayments on the new house?’

  ‘And thirdly,’ I say, giving him the most cursory glance, ‘you have a mosquito bite that’s healing up just at the side of your neck, right on the carotid artery. Only the yellow fever mosquito ever goes for that particular blood vessel, and you can only find yellow fever mozzies south of the equator. Latin America, is my guess.’

  He whistles on his way out the door to take the call.

  ‘Rio, actually,’ he tosses back over his shoulder. ‘Jeez, hope this isn’t your not-too-subtle way of telling me that I might end up with malaria.’