You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  ‘Hmmm,’ she muttered, seemingly unconvinced. ‘And why did you plant a - what did you call it? - a flash bomb, in my bathroom? I’m going to have to redecorate now. It seemed a bit pointless, like a teenager raising a rigid finger and sticking it to the man. Are you really a teenager in disguise, Mr Foxx?’

  ‘It was a message. Storrington knew or would pretty quickly have found out that I’d been in the flat, so I left him a message.’

  ‘And what was that message?’

  ‘I could have killed you, but I didn’t, because I’m not that type of guy.’

  ‘A bit subtle if you ask me. You could have written a note.’

  The conversation died, and dried into a period of lull, before she turned her mind to the next step of his plan. She thought back about the gathering police and military presence outside her flat.

  ‘Why was Storrington there?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but let’s say for a minute that it is Storrington we’re after, why send the heavies after us, when he knows we didn’t do it?’

  She gave no reply. It had become apparent that he was talking to himself.

  ‘To silence us,’ he continued. ‘With us silenced, he’s clear to carry on with the other assassination plans. He won’t stop until he kills the PM and that means he won’t stop until he finds us. I’ve also worked out why the hit on the PM didn’t go ahead today,’ he continued.

  ‘Because you weren’t there?’ she retorted sharply.

  ‘No, because Storrington’s a gunsmith, not a poisoner. Hence, going for the first attempt – a sniper attack - but not the second, because he’s not a chemist. But he’ll definitely go for the third, because it gives him the choice of shooting or strangling. We have to be there to stop him.’

  ‘So what is the third attempt?’

  ‘Too simple to fail.’ Foxx explained the intricate background and the exacting context. She was impressed by his insight.

  ‘How could you know that? You’re very well informed.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s my job to know more than other people.’ Then he explained how the assassination would take place. She was shocked at its simplicity. ‘It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel,’ he said. ‘For a man like Storrington, it’s a gift.’

  ‘So, Storrington,’ asked Julie, thinking about their destination, ‘how do you know where he lives?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a flaw in your plan, isn’t it, Mr It’s my job to know more than other people?’

  ‘I thought you knew. You were researching him.’

  ‘No address on the internet. All I know is his wife died of cancer seven years ago, so I hope that means he lives alone, but I don’t know where.’ She paused in thought. ‘D’you think Mrs Charlie ‘loose-lipped’ Tenby might know? Because I know where she lives.’ He looked at her visibly impressed; not because she was clever, but because she thought of it first.

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Let’s go there now.’

  ‘You know she lives with Mr Tenby, right? It’s a Sunday evening, so he’ll be home getting ready for work in the morning. And he is Second-in-Command in the country’s top Security Service.’

  ‘It’s Sunday evening, SSS is on Red Alert. There will be a Security briefing this evening. He’ll have to attend; he has no choice. If we’re quick we can make it before he’s home.’

  He set the satnav. Next stop: Tenby Mansions.

  14

  The Rose Garden

  Nickolas Tenby lay with his mistress and talked. He talked too much for a Security Head, but only to his wife, who feigned interest, and to his lover, who fawned with interest.

  ‘But why does it matter?’ she asked, more interested in him than the answer.

  ‘Because I have £15 million invested in it, that’s why it matters! That’s what my shares in the company are worth. But this Brexit deal is going to finish me. The company is in a very niche Defence market and we exclusively supply the European Community. That will go in an instant. Not only that, the UK Defence Budget will be rationalised to provide funds to boost the economy and pay the EU the £100 billion divorce settlement. The Ministry of Defence will want mega discounts and they’ll go for the big companies. We won’t even get a look in. It will go from £15 million to 15 pence overnight. And it’s a terrible Brexit deal anyway. I’ve talked to the DPM about it and he agrees, but his hands are tied. He’s not running the negotiations.’

  ‘So, sell the shares now.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea, and get put away for fifteen years for insider trading. I can’t do that, and even if I did sell that many shares, alarm bells would ring in the market and the shares would drop anyway.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’ve talked about it with Charlie . . .’

  ‘Well, that was a waste of breath!’ said the slightly jealous, very naked lady a little too abruptly and a lot too quickly. He rolled her over and gave her a quick slap on her behind.

  ‘Don’t be uncharitable. She’s a good listener and has more common sense than you give her credit for. She runs the house, runs her own business, runs our domestic finances, runs the village charity committee . . .’

  ‘And puts me through to you on the phone.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in her defence, ‘she did, but she could see I was stressed, knew it was about work, so she thoughtfully phoned you and handed me the phone. We were in the study, but she set me up in the conservatory, because she knows I don’t discuss work secrets with her. She brought me coffee and left us to it. It was a good thing to do.’

  ‘Yes, except it was me! She called me . . . and I’m your mistress!’

  ‘But she doesn’t know that.’

  ‘I know she doesn’t, but she put us together. Now that, from a woman’s perspective is pretty dumb.’

  ‘She’s not dumb, she’s just alternatively gifted. If you say she is again, I’ll have to punish you.’

  ‘She’s dumb, she’s dumb, she’s dumb!’ she said screaming like a defiant teenager, as he made a grab for her and the little leather whip that lay next to them.

  ‘Hello, is Mr Morgan-Tenby in? I’m from his office.’ Julie ‘Serafina’ Connor spoke clearly and formally into the electronic entry system as she stared at the initials N-M-T woven into the wrought iron gate.

  Foxx had briefed her on the plan. They would get Storrington’s address, Julie would keep the wife talking, while Foxx snooped around the house. That’s why he had insisted on stopping at a DIY store on the way.

  ‘I’m sorry but Nickolas is out at the moment. Can I help?’ The electronically sweet voice was the loose-lipped lady known as Mrs Tenby.

  ‘Yes, maybe you can. May we come in?’

  The gates opened.

  ‘Mr Hoy,’ said the female voice on the phone. ‘This is Mrs Hoy. I’m your wife. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m the person you cuddled up to after I went to sleep and left before I woke up this morning. We need to talk.’

  ‘We are talking.’

  ‘No, I mean, we need to talk. We had a plan. Remember? In Iran before you started with the Special Security Service? It was the reason you joined. We talked it through and we decided what you had to do. And now you must do it. We didn’t spend four months putting plans in place for them to get away from us now. You’re so close. Get it done.’

  Mrs Hoy was a thoughtful, intelligent, ambitious woman, but also formidable when the mood took her. Her husband was besotted by her. She was the driver behind the plan. She had the aspiration and the inspiration then expected her husband to make it work.

  Her respect for a man was in equal proportion to the strength of that man – and right now, her husband was wavering.

  ‘It’s probably a good thing your husband’s not here,’ bluffed Foxx. ‘We’ve come to do a security sweep of the house. He said we were fussing and shouldn’t come, but we only want to keep him safe.’ He proved it by waving a meter that mea
sured dampness in walls, complete with coloured lights and flicking dial that he’d just picked up in the DIY store.

  ‘Let’s not tell him, then! Our little secret,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Julie,’ said Julie forgetting to use a false name. Foxx threw her a look of lightly contemptuous despair.

  ‘I’m Charlie, Nicki’s wife. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Julie, as they crossed the capacious hall and were shown into the immaculate modern drawing room. ‘It’s a lovely house. I love the decor. Is that you or Mr Ten . . . Nicki’s design?’

  ‘Me, mostly, except that picture. That’s his.’ Julie ignored its vulgarity.

  ‘You got interior designers in?’ Julie asked.

  ‘No. I did it myself.’

  ‘You have a real eye for style, if I may say so.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s a far cry from where I grew up.’ Julie’s look asked the question. ‘Lancaster,’ continued Charlie. ‘And not the nice part; a real rundown council estate - knife fights every night, alcoholics on every corner. Nothing like this.’

  ‘Is that where your parents are from?’

  ‘It’s where my mum was from. My dad was from the Merchant Navy. I don’t think she even knew his name. Just a meal ticket probably.’

  ‘Rough start in life then?’

  ‘I guess so. But life is what you make it. She had her own problems, hooked on what she called Mummy’s gin, which was anything she could smoke, snort or inject, so she lived pretty much in her own world. But I got through.’

  ‘Sounds like she didn’t help much.’

  ‘Well, she gave me a good name. Charlotte Penelope Clarke. She said if she gave me a posh name, I would end up in a posh place – and look, it worked!’ She smiled.

  ‘It certainly did,’ said Julie, smiling back at a woman of her own age, who looked much younger. She might be physically and mentally lightweight, but Julie admired her positivity.

  Foxx pulled a small book from his pocket.

  ‘I heard from someone in the office,’ he said, ‘that you like doing puzzles, so I got you this.’ He gave her a puzzle book that he’d picked up en route. Charlie looked at it, puzzled. She took it and flicked through the pages, a trace of confusion crossed her face. Foxx tried to allay her fears. ‘It’s intermediate, they didn’t have basic, I hope it’s OK.’

  Julie’s foot connected with Foxx’s shin and her eyes tried to drill a hole in his head.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ said Charlie graciously and vacuously. ‘Let me get you your tea,’ and she left.

  ‘What?’ said Foxx, almost silently.

  ‘You’re an arse! Never tell a stupid person they’re stupid, they don’t like it!’

  ‘But I only said . . .’

  ‘You said she was stupid. We need to get her on side. Do try not to be . . .’ she searched for the word. ‘Well, just try not to be you!’

  Foxx smiled. He liked watching his protégé grow in confidence.

  ‘I like her,’ said Julie. ‘I think she and I could click. She seems happy to talk openly.’

  ‘Yes. If a thought comes into her head, it comes out of her mouth.’

  ‘Which is good for us,’ whispered Julie, hearing Charlie returning. ‘You go round the house waving your damp do-dah meter and I’ll see what she knows.’

  The door opened and Charlie entered holding a tray on one hand. She set it down on the hand-crafted coffee table and poured the tea.

  ‘So you were glad to leave Lancaster then?’

  ‘You could say that! I ran away.’

  ‘Really? How old were you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘That’s very young to be on your own.’

  ‘Oh I wasn’t on my own. I was with a man; he was twice my age, he took me to live with him.’ Julie tried very hard not to raise an eyebrow. ‘In Guildford,’ Charlie continued. ‘It was really nice. I loved it.’

  ‘And you carried on your schooling there?’

  ‘Nah, I was done with school. But I did go to the university - the University of Surrey. It’s in Guildford.’ Foxx spluttered in his tea, but tried to conceal it as a cough. Julie looked at him as though he were an errant child.

  ‘And what did you do at university?’ she asked, turning back to Charlie.

  ‘Waitressing.’

  ‘I never knew there was a course in that,’ said Foxx.

  ‘No. I did waitressing. In the Reflectory. Breakfasts and lunches mostly. I was only fifteen.’

  ‘Sounds like hard work,’ said Julie, as Foxx mopped up the dribbles of tea.

  Charlie stalled for a moment, maybe even thinking if she should say the next thing. ‘It was very hard, because I used to work nights as well.’

  ‘Waitressing?’

  ‘No, not really. It was a club, called SOAPS.’

  ‘And was there soap involved?’ asked Foxx, determined to be crass.

  ‘Yes, I suppose there was. I used to shower my clients before . . .’ She paused again.

  ‘Taking them to bed?’ filled in Foxx.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Julie fought hard to hide her shock. ‘I used to have up to four clients a night; and I usually spent the whole night with the last one, then up in the morning and off to the Reflectory.’ She lost none of her sweetness, as she spoke in a very honest, conversational manner. No wonder Nickolas Tenby kept her hidden away. She certainly had no filter between brain and mouth.

  ‘Does Nicki know you did that?’ asked Julie.

  ‘No, I don’t think he does. It’s not a secret, it’s just never come up in conversation.’ Tess of the D’Urbervilles shot across Julie’s mind: always tell your man . . . before you get married!

  ‘If it does come up, maybe it would be better not to mention it to him,’ advised Julie, already feeling slightly protective of a girl who was so simple Julie feared she might have brain damage.

  ‘No, I couldn’t do that. If he asked, I would tell him. I believe in total honesty. With everyone. I’ve never told a lie in the whole of my life.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Foxx.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I may not be the smartest person in the world, but that doesn’t stop me from being the most honest.’

  ‘Well, if I am going to be honest,’ said Julie, seeing an opportunity to get back on track, ‘there is a way you can help me. After checking round this house, we’ve to go to Commander Storrington’s house but, and this is all my fault, I’ve lost his address. I’m going to be in such trouble. I don’t suppose you have it, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I do. We don’t see much of him. He and Nicki don’t really see eye to eye. Nicki thinks he’s a bit stuffy and old-fashioned and he thinks Nicki is . . .’ she was lost for words. ‘. . . is too lovely probably.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s what it is,’ confirmed Julie.

  ‘I’ll just get it for you.’ She stood up. Her clothes hung perfectly as she floated to the door, looking every inch a princess and in no way a retired prostitute. Foxx and Julie stared at each other.

  ‘Did she just admit to being a hooker?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ confirmed Foxx.

  ‘And her husband doesn’t know!’

  ‘Well, that’s the kind of scandal you keep to yourself.’

  ‘Oh my god, the SNGS would go wild for that.’

  ‘Yes, the Press would too,’ added Foxx, as he lost himself in a world of imagination with a teenage Mrs Tenby.

  Julie picked up her phone and googled SOAPS club in Guildford, Surrey.

  ‘And,’ continued Foxx, ‘she was underage! My god, three or four punters a night? She must have slept with half of Surrey!’

  ‘Here it is,’ said Julie, reading the entry on her phone.

  ‘She’s a wicked lady with a shady past,’ said Foxx, almost in perverse admiration.

  ‘You reckon, Sherlock?’ said Julie, as she started to read about SOAPS club.
‘It’s an acronym, SOAPS, it stands for - are you ready? . . . Surrey Old Age Pensioner’s Support club. She was a volunteer; she spent her evenings cooking and cleaning for old people and then helping the disabled ones to bed. She’s not a sinner, she’s a saint. You mustn’t be too quick to judge.’

  The saint returned.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she said and handed Julie a slip of paper, with a beautifully handwritten address on it.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘So, you never tell a lie?’ asked Foxx, with a gentle menace in his voice.

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘How many men have you slept with?’

  ‘Eduard!’ exclaimed Julie in outraged and heartfelt disbelief. She turned to Charlie. ‘I am so sorry, I don’t know what’s the matter with my colleague today. Really, I am so sorry. Please just ignore him.’

  But she didn’t. She looked at him gently and asked, ‘How many men have I slept with? Hmm . . . do you want me to include my stepfather, who raped me repeatedly from the age of twelve?’ A momentarily nonplussed Eduard had no reply. ‘Including him, it totals . . . yes . . . a total of three. Not many for thirty-two years.’

  ‘Eduard,’ said Julie sternly, ‘I think it’s time you did a security sweep of the house.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, please, help yourself, Eduard,’ Eduard was looking at Julie wondering what had happened to their agreed false names gambit. ‘It’s kind you give up your Sunday to keep Nicki safe,’ she said to Julie and turned to Eduard, ‘I owe you a million thanks.’

  ‘Yes. My pleasure,’ said Foxx.

  ‘You know the young man that was shot?’ continued Charlie. ‘I knew him. He came to a party here once. So sad. It was so unfair.’

  ‘Yes. We should have kept him safer. We never expected it,’ replied Foxx, getting up and fiddling with the pseudo-security meter.

  ‘I was shocked,’ she continued. ‘That sort of thing should not be allowed to happen.’

  ‘Well, we’re working hard to make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ reassured Mr Foxx as he waved his hydrometer at each corner of the room and checked the dial.