The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  Virginia turned the ignition. “I’ll drop you home.”

  The usual stop-start journey though London became slightly smoother once on Green Lanes. Beatrice picked up the handset, announced the end of the evening’s activities, wished the team a good weekend and switched the radio to its usual frequency. Virginia drove without a word. As the BMW approached Newington Green, Beatrice chose to speak.

  “Virginia, I believe our earlier conversation was one-sided. I’m sorry if I offended you and I didn’t mean to interfere in your private life.”

  “Yes, you did. But it’s all right. I often think we’re hard-wired to winkle out the truth. We’re trained detectives, but much more significantly, women. Look, I was doing exactly the same thing, asking you if your relationship had worked well ‘so far’. Your interview technique was better, that’s all.”

  “Thank you. And you were right, in fact. I’ve always been wholly truthful with Matthew, about everything, good and bad. Now, for the first time in years, I find myself tempted to ... how can I put it?”

  “Stray?” Virginia’s focus remained on the street.

  “No. Not to stray. To exclude him. I want to do something, chase something, and I should tell him about it. It could be a risk, but that is precisely why I want to keep it to myself. And, well, I suppose a small part of me wants to show him that I’m not quite past it yet.” The truth had a habit of sneaking up on her recently.

  “I get that. A small part of me wants to prove the same thing. Although I know I’d rather be with Stu than anyone else.”

  Beatrice took a deep breath. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn. Let’s ignore the fact that you’re Ty’s boss, that no police romance ever stays hidden, that you’re married, that any encounter would cover him in laddish glory while seriously jeopardising your career. None of that is relevant. However, listening to you talk about your husband, I’d say you’ve been lucky enough to marry your best friend. The risk of losing that could never be worth a mess of porridge.”

  Virginia remained silent.

  Along Balls Pond Road, the atmosphere relaxed. Beatrice looked out at shuttered shops, bright kebab joints, cabbies yelling and the usual flow of humanity kissing, cursing, laughing, pissing, crying, swearing, hugging and fighting. A wave of dismay crashed over her.

  That’s all any of us have: each other. And what a shifting, unreliable, inconstant place to bury the treasure of your hopes. Of your love. You’ll probably never find it again. Some bugger will dig it up and nick it.

  Virginia’s voice shook her from her spiral. “And you? Chucking away twenty years of bliss for some self-determined goal? I suppose you’ll go all gnomic on me if I ask you what it is. What dragon you’re trying to slay, all on your own?”

  Beatrice sat up. “Where are we?”

  “Kingsland Road. Why, is it a long story?”

  “No. But it should keep you entertained till we hit Old Street.”

  “Right then. I’m sitting comfortably. You may begin.”

  Chapter 21

  Adrian met Matthew at Paddington Station with nothing more than eager anticipation and a perfectly packed Tod’s holdall. It was only one day, after all. London could manage without him. Armed with Beatrice’s email, they were following up a concrete lead.

  Well done on the registration. You were only one letter out. DVLA confirmed it’s a car hire company in Cardiff. Details below. So looks like the SUV might be a dead-end. Thanks anyway. B x

  No such thing as dead ends. On the phone to Williams Car Hire, Matthew did an excellent impression of Beatrice’s boss. And the rest was like taking candy from a baby. Williams Car Hire provided the name Marie Fisher as the renter of the Jeep Grand Cherokee with those plates over the Bank Holiday weekend. Fifteen minutes of research on the Internet gave them Ms Fisher’s address, phone number and employer – Bevan and Gough Property Management, 56 City Road. Adrian and detective work really did seem to be a match made in Heaven.

  Both men had agreed. The train was by far the most relaxing option. Matthew loathed driving anywhere more crowded than Much-Middling-in-the-Marsh, or wherever it was he lived. And Adrian, blissfully, had no licence. Not forgetting the lack of stress, the buffet car and the opportunity to discuss interrogation techniques. Matthew had treated them to First Class tickets and Adrian found himself whistling the Poirot theme tune as they located their seats. He stopped as soon as he realised. Apart from the lack of subtlety, whistling was second only to smoking for causing wrinkles on the upper lip. First Class proved to be an excellent choice. They enjoyed a table to themselves and the carriage was practically empty, apart from two businessy sorts absorbed in the Financial Times. Both wore suits and ties and frowns.

  “Two hours. What say you to a nice read of the paper, get some breakfast and then knuckle down to making some decisions on technique?” asked Matthew.

  “Very well, my friend. Can’t expect the little grey cells to function on an empty stomach,” Adrian replied. Matthew gave him a baffled look, but unfolded The Times with a nod.

  On arrival at Cardiff Central Station, the two men were ready to stretch their legs, so chose to walk to their destination. Their route took them right through the city centre.

  Cardiff intrigued Adrian. Gorgeous arcades, a proper castle smack in the middle, pedestrianised shopping streets, outdoor cafés and every kind of store you’d find in a half-decent London suburb. But so much more space. Wide streets and lots of sunshine. He might well consider coming back here. Two hours on the train. It was time Jared saw something more of Britain than London’s East End and Old Compton Street.

  Bevan and Gough’s premises looked more like a car showroom than an estate agent. Double windows displaying photographs and hyped descriptions of local property obscured the interior, where presumably welcoming faces waited behind desks. The prices came as a real surprise to Adrian. Directly to his left was a beautiful Docklands flat, with a divine view, kitchen/diner and no less than two bedrooms for something approaching affordable. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he could get a transfer to Wales. Downshifting. Living in a smaller city, he’d buy a bike and even get a dog. Jared could set up his own business in one of those glorious arcades, and on Saturday mornings they could shop for organic Welsh produce with their black schnauzer, called ....

  “Adrian?”

  Matthew gestured for him to go first and they entered the shop.

  A heavily made-up blonde looked up. “Morning, gentlemen. Seen something you like?”

  Adrian gawped at the Max Factor mask in front of them, while Matthew responded with his effortless grey gravitas. “Good morning. Unfortunately, we’re not interested in property. We’re from Williams Car Hire, Head Office. Looking for a Marie Fisher?”

  Adrian caught the head to his right pop up. Dark, medium-length hair, sharp features. She might easily be the woman from the beach.

  The blonde’s interest waned. “Marie? Some blokes to see you from the car hire place.” She returned to her computer screen. Adrian could swear he saw playing cards reflected in her glasses.

  Marie approached them, hand extended, eyes suspicious. Adrian made constant mental notes on body language, hair, shoes and mannerisms. ‘Every detail matters.’ Beatrice had drummed that in more times than she’d cooked him hot dinners. So, Marie Fisher – thirtyish, crows’ feet and hints of a growing-out dye-job. Expensive nails, good shoes, and those earrings weren’t cheap. She put herself together well.

  Matthew shook her hand with a reassuring smile. “Ms Fisher. My name is Michael Bryant, and this is my colleague, Andrew Ramos.”

  Adrian smiled, more at the thrill of hearing his new alias than social convention, and shook her hand. Matthew continued, offering his business card, which Adrian had designed and printed two nights ago.

  “We work for Williams Car Hire, Head Office. Andrew and I investigate any problems resulting from our rentals, the objective being to sort it ourselves. Pembrokeshire police contacted us, regarding an
incident near Porthgain a few weeks back. We generally prefer to make direct enquiries about incidents involving our vehicles and avoid adding to the police burden, if we can. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

  “Oh I see. Right so, follow me. We’ve a staff area out back.”

  She’d swallowed it. He restrained a temptation to nudge Matthew.

  Marie was Irish. No doubt at all. Adrian’s skill with accents was legendary and this woman was watered-down Irish. Very interesting. The back yard contained two cars, half a dozen white plastic chairs and a dirty table with a pockmarked ashtray advertising Brains Bitter. Marie placed coffee cups in front of them. Adrian took one sip and held back a grimace. She dug in her bag for cigarettes, before politely offering the packet. They both refused.

  “So you said this incident happened in Pembrokeshire?” she asked, lighting up.

  Matthew opened his file, keeping it tilted to him. Very smart. Adrian watched Marie’s eyes focus on the back of the folder.

  “Correct. On the twenty-seventh of August, a couple of holidaymakers were involved in an early morning bag-snatching incident on the cliffs near Porthgain. They reported the theft to the police and gave them the possible number plate of a utility vehicle they believe was involved. The police traced the vehicle to us and asked us to confirm the identity of the renter. The couple involved were older and not sure they recalled the number plate correctly. We grabbed the chance of running our own investigation. You know, find out if there’s any substance, before handing over the details. We’re not keen on being involved in any criminal proceedings as you can imagine, so if we can prove it was not one of our vehicles, so much the better for all of us.”

  Adrian piped up. “Our files tell us you hired the black Jeep Cherokee with those plates from the twenty-seventh to the thirty-first.”

  Marie’s eyes slid from Matthew to Adrian and back again. “I see. So you want to know where I went that weekend. It was the Bank Holiday, wasn’t it? Looks like I can help you out. I did hire a car that weekend, for a trip to Snowdonia. A group of us met up on Friday and headed to the mountains for some camping, climbing and a bit of off-roading. The weather was grand and I drove us back down on the Monday evening. Returned the Jeep on Tuesday. When exactly was the accident in West Wales?”

  “Saturday morning, very early. Just after sunrise.”

  “When I was still curled up in my sleeping-bag in Dolgellau. There has to be a mistake, Mr Bryant. Could the elderly couple have misremembered the car at all?”

  Matthew nodded and turned to Adrian with a smile. “That’s what we were hoping to hear. It’s bad for business, our cars being used in illicit activities. So if this Jeep wasn’t involved, that’s good news for all of us. Do you have a name of the campsite, or anyone who can confirm that you were there, Ms Fisher?”

  “Now there’s a question. I can’t recall the name of the site, but several people will tell you I was there. Would you like me to email you their names and contact details?”

  “You couldn’t just write them down for us now?” asked Adrian.

  Her frown twitched. “I’ve already taken ten minutes away from my desk to answer your questions. Now I’ll need a while to check my diary. I’m keen to help, but as you can see, I’m at work. I’ll send you anything relevant, but it might be tomorrow.”

  Adrian squinted at her, quite deliberately. Her behaviour seemed very defensive for a person with nothing to hide. She returned his look with an enquiring twist of her head. Matthew’s voice was soothing.

  “That’s kind of you, Ms Fisher. It would help us a great deal if you could. Now, we shall keep you no longer. Thank you for your time and the coffee. We’ll make our own way out. Have a pleasant day and thank you.”

  As they exited the shop onto City Road, Adrian let rip.

  “What crap! ‘Time to check my friends’ details?’ Total bullshit. Time to set up some fake email accounts, more like. Does she think we were born yesterday?”

  Matthew raised a finger for silence. He led the way up the street before shoving open the doors of the first pub they came across. Adrian checked over both shoulders before following him inside. You could never be too careful. While Matthew ordered two glasses of wine, Adrian sat at a quiet table by the window, disgusted by how a person could tell such a blatant lie without shame.

  Matthew placed the glasses on the wobbly table. “Adrian, I agree with you. But we’re powerless in this situation. We can’t challenge her and she knows that. However, we can rattle her a little.” He checked his watch and the blackboard above the bar. “Let’s drink these and have some lunch here. After that, we’ll give her a call. Now for a toast. For our first interview, we did rather well, I think. Cheers!”

  Adrian lifted his glass. “Cheers. You did rather well. Very smooth, the way you tossed off our pseudonyms. I almost believed you. All I was good for was staring.”

  “Taking in all the little things, you mean. Your observations will be invaluable, I have no doubt. As Beatrice always says, the devil is in the detail. Tell me what you saw.”

  Adrian clasped his hands and crossed his legs, rewinding his impressions.

  “Marie Fisher is Irish, in her early thirties and very well-groomed. The shoes looked Lanvin to me. The suit was Phillip Lim. No question. Jewellery, hard to pin down. Her watch, did you see? Omega, rose gold. But those earrings ... I can’t be sure. Her handbag was Hermès. She takes excellent care of her nails, has quite good skin for a smoker and I’ll bet she’s got a hair appointment booked in the next week. Her roots need attention. She also wears a touch too much Angel by Thierry Mugler.”

  Matthew, clearly concentrating hard on Adrian’s words, shook his head.

  “Adrian, whilst competent in Italian and Greek, I cannot speak Fashion. Could you translate?”

  Sitting there in the dusty sunlight, hair overgrown, trousers a few centimetres short, and wearing a jacket rarely seen outside a faculty office, Matthew didn’t need to state his lack of street-style to Adrian. It would be such a treat to take him shopping, but he suspected Matthew would rather visit the dentist.

  Adrian explained. “She’s an estate agent. She earns what, twenty-five, thirty grand a year? Her handbag costs a month’s salary. The watch would be more. She dresses like a woman who earns twice as much.”

  “Good God. You see, I’d never have picked up any of that. All I noticed was she smelt of cake.” Matthew tasted the wine. “And she was a bit prickly when you asked for details right there and then.”

  “That’s what I thought. But of course she was bound to get stroppy, because she can’t prove she was in Estonia.”

  “Snowdonia. It’s in North Wales.”

  Adrian shrugged. There was a limit to his enthusiasm for the provinces. A thought arose. “We could call the car hire people and see if she brought the car back all muddy! If not, she was obviously lying!”

  Matthew replaced his glass with a nod. “For a standard pub, that’s a reasonable Antipodean Chardonnay. Yes, we could try the Williams people again, but two things trouble me about taking that tack. Firstly, do they keep records on exterior conditions of their vehicles on return? Naturally, damage would be noted, but mud? Secondly, this firm have no idea why they keep getting calls from the ‘police’ regarding one of their vehicles. They may decide to be less helpful if constantly pestered.”

  Adrian could not help himself. Despite his annoyance at Matthew’s lack of enthusiasm, he acknowledged the tactful way he rejected the idea and found himself smiling at his diplomatic associate. His wine glass was slippery with condensation as he raised it to his lips.

  “Mmm, actually, you’re right. Heavy on the vanilla, but it’s an acceptable background wine. How exactly do you plan to rattle her?”

  “I thought we might phone her, and ask her if it’s convenient to pop back at five o’clock. Put her under a bit of pressure and see how she reacts. We’re likely to get no real confirmation from her ‘friends’. So we could prod her a little, observe her
response. That might give us some idea of whether she’s worth watching.”

  “Good plan! And I’ll go and stand on the street, but the other side. No one will notice me and I can observe what she does. I’ll be discreet, honestly. I’ll even wear my panama.”

  Matthew sighed. “You’re really rather enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  The other side of City Road was absolutely hopeless. Even without the constant inconvenience of passing traffic, Adrian couldn’t see enough of the interior of Bevan & Gough to differentiate individuals. Removing his jacket and drawing down the brim of his hat, he crossed the street and examined the pictures. His eyes refocused from the details of a two-bedroomed terrace in Splott to his own reflection in the glass. His stylish appearance struck him. The white shirt and panama hinted at a youthful Pierce Brosnan, a look he could grow to like. He concentrated and casually gazed beyond the photographs, deeper into the shop, locating Marie Fisher’s desk. It was empty. He scanned the room. Five other occupants: two men, the blonde, and an older woman talking to a customer. Marie must be on a break.

  The blonde picked up her phone, listened for a second and shook her head. The conversation was brief. She hung up and presumably went back to playing Patience.

  Adrian abandoned his post and strode back towards the pub. Matthew wandered outside, looking vague and tapping his thumb against his chin.

  “She’s not there, is she?”

  Matthew’s eyes locked onto Adrian’s with an intense stare, followed by a smile.

  “No, she’s not. Gone out for lunch. So I announced myself as Williams Car Hire, and the young lady was positively rude and told me to stop pestering Marie. Apparently Ms Fisher has already cancelled the rental she’d booked for next weekend, as she was dissatisfied with our service. She’s already arranged a vehicle from another company.”