Ruby had been running the florist shop she’d taken over from her parents for well over twenty years, but with the rent going up and up, it had got to a silly stage and she wasn’t prepared to work herself into the ground and not see any money coming into her own pocket. Chatting to her when she came for an interview, and reading between the lines, I saw how she’d worked to keep the shop flourishing and decided if she lavished even half the same care and attention to detail on my business as she always had on hers, I’d have no cause to regret taking her on.
I’d just hissed another breath onto my plaque and was in mid-rub, when the front door opened and Brenda reached out and pulled me inside. She planted a kiss on my cheek, pulled me to her substantial bosom - she was a good six inches taller than me - and encompassed me in the uniquely comforting Brenda essence of freshly ironed white cotton, which was nothing to do with what she was wearing, but everything to do with what she was. A swift hug then she moved me to one side, looked quickly up and down the road and shut the front door.
“Welcome back and we need a word,” she hustled me the few paces into what we liked to call ‘Reception’, although that was probably aggrandising the small counter with its PBX phone system, a small sofa and a couple of low chairs. This was where visitors were greeted and directed through to the travel agency, up to our offices or seated for a while if things were busy. Martin had not viewed the installation of all this with pleasure.
“Bloody ridiculous,” he’d said, “who knows from reception? If they’ve not got the sense to see which office is which, then more fool them!” Hilary, had drawn herself up to full height - she was a good three inches taller than him and he was no short arse himself – blown a disdainful mouthful of cigarette smoke over his head and laid down the law. ‘If,’ she’d said, ‘Martin was not prepared to add an element of class to their operation, then she personally was not prepared to stand around and watch. Off,’ she said, ‘she would go and find working surroundings which more accurately reflected the superb standard of holiday information she was able to impart.’ Martin was a difficult but not stupid man and knew when to beat a retreat, “Have it your own way then, you usually do, just don’t come crying to me when it all goes wrong.” Quite what dire disaster he expected to result from a small counter and a couple of chairs, was never made clear.
The reception area had originally been staffed by Melanie, straight out of school and beyond thrilled at her first job. She wanted to open her own travel agency one day, although Martin had been heard to mutter if she couldn’t tell her arse from her elbow, she’d not be able to tell Tenerife from Timbuctoo. She was perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but endlessly good-natured and willing to learn, choosing to take Martin’s rants as office banter and refusing to be upset. Unfortunately, it proved impossible to wean her off chewing gum. Hilary sat her down for a little talk, gently pointing out it did not give a professional impression, added to which and perhaps more importantly it made her completely incomprehensible when answering the phone. Melanie, cheerfully saw the point and assured us she’d never chew in front of clients again. Having given her word, she stuck to it and all would have been well had it not been for the strategy of storing the wad of gum in her cheek as soon as somebody walked in the door. Unfortunately, this gave her the appearance of a slightly demented hamster and did nothing for clarity of speech. It was risky too; one day she inadvertently swallowed the gum which only got so far down, then stuck. She was turning purple and panicking when Trudie came back in from lunch and without breaking step or sweat, performed a first-class Heimlich manoeuvre, mopped Melanie’s sweaty face with a tissue, placed her back in her chair, the gum in the bin and continued upstairs.
“My kids were always choking,” she shrugged. In fact Melanie didn’t last long after that, perhaps she’d had more of a trauma than we’d imagined because she dashed in one day, shrieked she’d been offered a bar job in Majorca, was leaving immediately and, pausing only to pick up money due and gum from her desk, was out the door.
I persuaded Martin and Hilary to let me sort a replacement and the local paper ad brought in quite a few candidates, although I had no problem choosing. Joy was early thirties, looked twenty, heart-shaped face, bobbed short, blonde hair. She’d been working in the West End, loathed the Northern Line sardine-in-a-tin commute and on the spur of the moment answered our ad. Her surname was Joyful.
“No, not kidding,” she said ruefully, “I’m Joy Joyful and yes, I had a terrible time in school but Dad always said it’s a name people don’t forget; he wasn’t wrong and it does break the ice. D’you want to test my shorthand and typing?”
I shook my head, “I’m sure they’re fine but I think you’d fit in well with everyone here and that’s far more important.”
“You mean I’ve got it?” she bounced in the chair; she was going to rush around the desk and hug me but stopped herself with a mental slap and a reminder to act sensibly. I don’t, as I think I’ve mentioned before, habitually delve but in a job interview a quick scan’s not unreasonable, and I was satisfied Joy Joyful was straightforward, uncomplicated, well-intentioned with a strong sense of humour and a pink candy-floss scent. Yes, she’d do nicely.
She slipped into place behind the desk downstairs, as if it had been made for her, even wringing the odd smile from miserable Martin, teasing him gently about his eccentric and colourful wardrobe choices, which were as far from his downbeat personality as it was possible to be, and therefore a mystery to everyone. She and Hilary also unexpectedly bonded over a shared love of knitting, and lunchtime would often see both sat at the small table in the kitchen behind the shop, needles going nineteen to the dozen and a wreath of smoke from Hilary’s inevitable cigarette hovering, halo-like above.
At this minute though, Brenda was ushering me firmly through the still dark travel agency and past the kitchen where Hilary was waiting. I opened my mouth to greet her but apparently there wasn’t time, Brenda relieved me of briefcase and handbag and pushed me into the toilet, she and Hilary crowding in after me. It was, luckily, a reasonably sized space, although not where I’d normally choose for a chat, but genuine waves of worry were coming off both women, so I shut up. Hilary put the toilet lid down, sat and produced a cigarette from her pocket; Brenda immediately took it away.
“Not now woman, we’ll suffocate,” then to me “it’s Joy.”
“What’s Joy?”
“There’s something wrong,” said Brenda,
Hilary nodded, “We didn’t want her coming in and hearing, that’s why...”
“What if she wants a wee when she comes in?” I asked. They frowned; this obviously hadn’t been taken into account.
“We’ll be quick,” said Brenda.
“I wish you would. What’s happened, has she made off with the takings?”
“We think it’s Trevor.”
“What’s Trevor?”
“He’s taken to picking her up every night.”
“So?”
“And he comes early, so he’s sitting there for a good half hour before we close.” Hilary put in.
“And?” I prompted, “what’s he doing?”
They looked at each other, “That’s just it, we don’t know,” Brenda said, “he’s absolutely charming, couldn’t be nicer but there’s something wrong.”
“What sort of wrong?” They looked at each other, they couldn’t really say; but these were two bright women, neither of them given to flights of fancy, if they thought something was wrong, something was wrong.
Joy had proved I’d made the perfect choice by living up to her name; she was a pleasure to have around. For a start she was delighted with where she’d landed, losing the commute was, she said, the best decision she’d ever made. She lived in a ground floor flat in Burnt Oak with its own small garden - her pride and joy, and because she wasn’t hauling herself in and out of the West End day in and day out, she had so much more time to devote to what she loved doing. She’d started growing her own vegetab
les and herbs which were obviously flourishing because she often brought in batches for all of us. She was single, but the previous summer had met someone at a friend’s party, he’d asked for her number and although she was convinced he wouldn’t ring he did, and after a while they’d started seeing each other regularly. She was clearly smitten. She’d always bubbled, but now she glowed, and we were all pleased for her.
Trevor was a solicitor with his own practice, “Really, really clever, really shrewd,” she reported, “terribly well thought of apparently.” He was taking her to the most wonderful places, lovely restaurants, the theatre twice and on her birthday when they’d only been going out a couple of months, he sent a bouquet of such gigantic proportions it not only filled our reception area, but caused quite a Hilary, Martin rift as every time she passed his desk she muttered,
“Never so much as a daisy, Martin, never so much as a flaming daisy!”
When Joy felt secure enough and stopped thinking every date was their last, she brought him into the office to introduce us, and even under my cynical gaze and some pretty sharp questioning from the serried and suspicious ranks of Brenda, Hilary and Kitty, he didn’t put a foot wrong, and was as charming as she’d said. Not that tall, he had a pleasant, open face, fine dark hair and was beautifully spoken with impeccable manners. He appeared as besotted with Joy as she was with him. As they left, Kitty gave her seal of approval - “What’s not to love?”
Joy certainly thought so because last January, about five months after they met, she took a week off and returned sporting a wedding ring and a dazzling if dazed smile. She had no family, neither did Trevor and as he’d pointed out, this was such an important time for them, that no one else mattered. So, they’d skipped an engagement, tied the knot in a register office without telling anyone, and then jetted off for an idyllic few days in France. He’d put her flat on the market for her and already received a satisfactory offer, so when they returned from the brief honeymoon, it was to his house in Golders Green.
“All a bit sudden,” commented Brenda at the time, “but she knows her own mind, thinks the sun shines out his bottom, so they’ve as good a chance as anyone.” Brenda’s cynicism wasn’t unjustified; having been comfortably married for twenty-five years with never a cross word, her husband had unexpectedly upped and offed with the local vicar’s wife, although not before he’d re-mortgaged the house, sold the car, and cleared their joint bank account.
Now Hilary, from her central position on the toilet said, “Stella, you must have noticed she’s changed?” Well yes, of course she’d changed, she was quieter, more settled and whereas previously she’d bounced around the office like the Duracell Bunny on speed, she was calmer, more measured and a little less chatty. I knew the kitchen knit-ins had ceased when she decided she’d work through lunch, so she could leave a little earlier in the evenings but I’d asked her a few times over the months how married life was suiting, and she said she’d never been happier, felt safer or been more cherished. Slipping absent-mindedly into her head, sometimes that can happen, I saw she was telling nothing but the truth. Maybe I’d missed something? Last year had been a busy one in the office, there’d been a run-in with a couple of serial killers – that was a bit of a surprise. Then I’d started working with the police, got engaged, kidnapped, stabbed and watched Auntie Kitty nearly meet her maker. Nevertheless, that was no excuse to let things drop on the personnel front.
“She is quieter,” I agreed, “but why’s that worrying? She said anything to either of you?” I had a sudden and shockingly vivid memory flash-back to a woman on the floor, turning her head to expel, with the last of her strength, a tooth knocked out by a fist. In that instance, I hadn’t done anything until it was nearly too late. “Do you think he’s hurting her,? Have you seen anything? Marks, bruises?” both women shook their heads quickly.
“Don’t be daft, nothing like that,” Brenda drew herself up, “and if I had, d’you think I’d have stood by and done nothing? Told you, it’s not anything we can put a finger on.”
Hilary nodded and sighed, “Maybe it’s nothing. For God’s sake don’t say anything to her, she’d be mortified we’ve been talking about her, just thought we ought to say…” she jumped as there was a sudden knocking on the door. I stifled a laugh, as they exchanged panicked looks, I knew it was a tail not a knuckle and sure enough Brenda, unlocking the door was knocked backwards by a surge of cream and brown joining us in what was rapidly becoming a dangerously overcrowded toilet.
CHAPTER NINE
Katerina, the cream and brown blur, was an elegantly elongated bolshie Borzoi I’d sort of inherited. She’d been staying with Brenda while I was away, accompanying her daily into the office and had become bored with waiting on her own upstairs, when she knew very well there were people talking downstairs. She was more elegant than any animal has a right to be, rich, heavy cream with extravagantly lush chocolatey markings although, it has to be said, she leaned heavily towards the neurotic. She’d belonged to and been loved by one of our clients, Doreen who was elderly, eccentric, equally highly strung and now deceased. Doreen’s only living relative was a nephew, who lost no time in making it clear his only interest in an aunt he hadn’t seen since he was a child, was whether there was anything of value in it for him. I didn’t think a tall, slim and nervy canine qualified, and neither did he.
I had no intention of taking on a pet, certainly not one that looked down her long aristocratic nose at me most of the time, but I had agreed to take her while more suitable arrangements were made. Against my better judgement, I became far fonder of her than I would have thought possible. I wasn’t sure it was reciprocated, but she seemed to view me as a constant in a scarily changing world and had proved herself astonishingly willing to leap to my defence at difficult times; I owed her.
Right now, she was being uncharacteristically enthusiastic and briefly leant her full weight against my legs, which was the emotional equivalent of being licked to death by a more demonstrative character. Satisfied she was now no longer alone, she allowed us out of the toilet and stalked ahead, sashaying with her usual style up the stairs, confident I’d follow. I turned briefly back to Hilary and Brenda.
“Look, I’ll have a chat with Joy, if there’s anything to worry about, I’ll know.” They nodded, both of them had at different times commented I was a great judge of character, both were relieved they’d now shared concerns, and both were pleased there were now three of us on watch.
* * * *
They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, although to be honest, I felt going missing for eight days, a couple of years ago, with my face plastered over every front page and the Metropolitan Police searching high and low for me, didn’t show me in a great light. More praiseworthy perhaps was the fact I’d eventually turned up, not-dead, unlike as it transpired a great many other victims who’d spent time in the Hampstead House of Horrors, as the press gleefully labelled it. With a slight re-angling, and because it provided better copy, the papers reporting the story had made my agency seem rather less Practical Solutions and rather more Private Investigations. This had led to an influx of somewhat dubious new clients, most of whom never made it past Brenda, who was frequently to be heard snapping “No, we certainly don’t do that!” and hanging up sharply.
My original focus when I set up the business had been on collecting, accompanying and safely returning children, the elderly, or pets to dentist, doctor or vet as relevant, as well as organising moves - house or office and supplying secretarial and other office services. But nothing stands still, and we’d gently evolved and expanded into a ‘the answer’s yes - what’s the question?’ sort of operation. We knew where, when and how to lay hands on useful people ranging through piano tuners to tree surgeons to theatrical prop suppliers. Along the way we’d also acquired an extraordinary team of redoubtable older ladies, dab hands at anything that could be achieved with a needle and thread. They could design and make a fully appliquéd wedding dress without turning
a hair but didn’t ever curl their lip at the more mundane - hem turning-up, seam letting-out or zip-putting in and had earned the undying gratitude of many a desperate mother by sewing numerous nametags on school clothes the night before term started.
I arrived upstairs as Katerina was settling herself in her basket in the corner of my office. My desk showed evidence of Brenda; mail neatly placed in ‘do now’, ‘look at later’ and ‘don’t forget!’ folders plus a Grodzinski’s box of mini Danish to sustain me whilst I went through everything. Slipping into my chair, I reached one hand for the first folder, the other for the pastries and could hear Brenda greeting Kitty, who’d obviously decided today was going to be one of her days and then two pairs of kitten heels tip-tapping up the stairs, heralded the arrival of my Mother and Aunt Edna.
I’d grown the business satisfactorily and liked to think I was responsible for sorting out a lot of problems for a lot of people. What I still hadn’t cracked was the all too regular appearances of family members who treated my office as a convenient stop-off or meeting point whenever they felt like it, and they felt like it quite a lot. Whilst this gave us a decidedly convivial ambience, it did nothing to enhance the serious professional attitude I aimed to project. A foot really had to be put down firmly and I appeared at the door of my office ready to do just that, although any pronouncement was immediately swamped by the enthusiasm of people delighted I was back.
Aunt Kitty was in the process of boiling the kettle to make tea for the visitors; Ruby had an open Yellow Pages and was looking something up for them. Auntie Edna was in a chair while Trudie stood behind and gently massaged her temples – Aunt Edna always brought her headaches to Trudie; said she had magic hands. Trudie as usual looked as if she’d drifted into work straight from a Flower Power convention, the polar opposite of Ruby who was invariably as impeccably presented as her floral arrangements would have been when she ran her shop.
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