Maloney's Law

by Anne Brooke

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  She sips her drink, crystal half-moon earrings sparkling in the gloom, while I take a longed-for swig of my beer. By the time I wipe my mouth, she’s already primed for the kill.

  ‘Pretty boy at the end of the bar’s been giving you the eye.’

  ‘Sure it’s not you? Those earrings would dazzle the angels in heaven.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say.’

  ‘But it’s true. You keep half the jewellers of Stratford in business. It’s obvious I’m paying you too much.’

  ‘Dream on,’ she sighs and takes another sip of her wine. ‘So, what do you want me to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you want me to vanish, I can. There are a million things I could be doing, rather than being a fag-hag for the night.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Jade. Don’t you like the boss taking you out for a well-earned drink to celebrate the fact that we’ve broken the back of Monday?’

  ‘I’ll drink anything as long as it’s free,’ she says. ‘But, seriously, why don’t you take a look? He’s still interested. Even in spite of me. That at least shows determination.’

  Groaning, I put down my beer and turn round. Over the years, I’ve learnt that when Jade has that look in her eye, it’s best to give in with grace. I’ll only have to give in with humiliation later on if I don’t. At once I see the bloke she means. He’s on his own at the left of the bar, one drink in front of him so he’s not waiting for someone. And she’s right, he’s pretty. Young, maybe not even twenty yet, blond hair, willowy, dressed for sex with tight fuck me jeans putting everything on view. If I was a couple of years younger then maybe, but even though he won’t be going home alone tonight, it’s not going to be me having the pleasure. Even if I was up for it, I don’t want a blond; I’ve had my fill of them. As I’m thinking this, pretty boy catches my eye and smiles, the sort of smile that promises everything and as soon as you want it, sir. Hooker, for sure. Not my scene any more. I frown and turn away.

  ‘So?’ Jade asks.

  ‘No, thanks. You’d have to pay for that one, and even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I’m not sure I could afford it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ she shrugs. ‘It was worth a try. So, as it seems I’ve got you all evening after all, and don’t think I’m complaining because I’m not, why don’t you talk me through Mr. Allen’s case? Seeing as you appear to be taking it on.’

  I take a deep breath and tell her everything I know. It isn’t much.

  ‘That surprise you?’ she asks, her scarlet-and-white stripe fingernails tapping at her glass.

  ‘No, not really. Not after that phone call with the Delta Egypt number attached. Maybe I should have waited for whoever was at the end of that line to speak, but something tells me it wouldn’t have been much help.’

  ‘What about the meeting with Mr. Allen? Did you glean anything useful?’

  ‘No. He won’t tell me why he lied about not knowing Blake Kenzie from the past, even though I gave him all the chances to do so. And he won’t tell me anything more about his suspicions.’

  ‘Sounds like the Mr. Allen we know.’ Jade shrugs, then adds, ‘Did you remember to ask him about the woman?’

  ‘Yes, but only just as I was about to go. There wasn’t any reaction, and I don’t think he’s—’ I break off, as something occurs, something I haven’t thought of.

  ‘What? You don’t think he’s...what?’

  ‘There wasn’t any reaction,’ I say again, this time more slowly. ‘But maybe there should have been. He didn’t ask me why I raised the issue. That’s odd. Somehow. Don’t ask me how. Tomorrow, I’ll do some more research, pull in a few favours, if I still have any left. I’ll need your help, too, once I know what we should be looking for. Might be nice to have something to go on when I’m in Cairo. Fourth rule of PI work: Never give up hope.’

  ‘You’re such a dreamer, Paul,’ Jade takes a sip of her wine. ‘Is that rule more important than Maloney’s Law?’

  I haven’t thought about Maloney’s Law for a while. When I’d first taken her on five years ago, she’d been as keen as a rookie on a stakeout to know all about the business and how I dealt with the exaggerations, prevarications, and simple lies that come my way. Not just from suspects, but from clients, too, God help them. How do you know what’s true? she’d asked me. How do you tell which one’s right?

  At the time I’d invented the Law on the basis that I’d better impress her with some kind of professional expertise and moral standing, but since then it had stuck and assumed an importance all of its own. And even though — after Dominic, to be honest — it’s more or less faded away, I still like the idea of it.

  ‘Hmm, Maloney’s Law. Can’t remember that one, but, hey, good name. You’d better remind me.’

  Her answer is a quick and thankfully not too hard punch on the arm across the table. ‘Don’t be stupid. You know. It’s...’

  ‘Sometimes you just have to trust that someone is telling the truth,’ we chorus in unison and drain our drinks home.

  Time for another round. And I’m happy to pay again. With the money from Dominic, we could probably afford the pub. Just about. Waiting my turn at the bar, I see pretty boy has gone and think, yes, Maloney’s Law is fine as far as it goes, as long as there’s no evidence to the contrary. That, as always, is the crucial question.

  Right now, of course, evidence or at least some kind of connection between facts is what I need. And I’m not going to find it here.

  Neither, it seems, am I going to find it by ringing ’round the six business and three press contacts I have and performing unhelpful Google searches in the office. Tuesday afternoon finds me, feet on the desk, folding sheets of paper to impossible smallness and arranging them in colour-coordinated piles.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Jade sashays her way in from the kitchen, deposits her camomile tea on her desk and gives me a shrewd glance. Her earrings seem larger today. Fierce-looking diamond shapes that almost reach her neck. She must be worried about something. Probably me.

  ‘Fantastic. I can tell you how effective the Delta Egypt marketing department is, as well as show you a record of their last three years’ annual reports. I can also give you a full and detailed account of the personality, lifestyle, and future plans of Mr. Blake Kenzie. He’s a man born to an Egyptian mother and an American father, and he seems to have worked his way up from a poor rural Nile background to the dazzling halls of Cairo society purely by dint of his own saintliness. He’s earned a fortune from business deals but makes regular and generous donations to local causes, including, of course, political parties destined to win. That explains his popularity.’

  ‘So he’s a manipulator and a cheat with something to hide?’

  ‘As always, your gift for summary gets right to the point.’

  ‘Thank you. He seems much like our client then. Apart from the background.’

  ‘That’s unfair. And you know it. By the way, are those new earrings?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she hesitates. ‘And don’t change the subject. Do you want to hear how I’ve got on?’

  ‘If it’s going to be any help.’

  I lean back, but not so far that I fall over, and prepare to listen to what snippets of gold Jade may have been able to dig up. She’s one of the best computer hackers I know, and I like to think I provide a legal outlet for her skills that otherwise, bearing in mind her moral code, would go to waste.

  Nine minutes later, I’m flipping through her comprehensive report. It tells me that, although Blake Kenzie has no known police record, there are periods of time in his business and personal life, sometimes stretching to weeks, that are unaccounted for. Not that he has much of an obvious personal life, with no wife or apparent partner — of either sex — and no known children. Not many friends either, or none who will admit to it. He stands alone. What is Dominic doing with him? All this is good stuff. However, the information that earns Jade the
salary I pay her is the sheet of paper at the end of her report. Blake Kenzie’s business schedule. He’s in the Cairo office on Thursday. Two days’ time. A press call to Delta Egypt in Jade’s best journalist voice confirms it, and by the time she puts down the phone I’m ringing the airline to book the flight.

  When I’ve finished, I give her a thumbs up. ‘I have no idea how you do it, but thanks. You’re a genius.’

  ‘I know. And you’re a PI. Who are you going as?’

  In answer, I unlock my desk drawer and bring out my business cards folder. Not other people’s, but mine. Whenever I need to pretend to be someone else for a client, I always have several business cards made up, as you never know when they’ll be useful again. The one I choose today is one I used for the first corporate case I ever had, and I’m rather proud of it: matte black background with gold scales logo and lettering, Paul Maloney, Special Investigations, International Monopolies & Markets.

  ‘I never thought we’d see that one again,’ Jade says. ‘We must be going posh. Does the patch-through number still work?’

  It does, though not before several phone calls and some speedy testing. Not that I think it’ll make any difference. I’m assuming Mr. Kenzie knows my name already and won’t be fooled, but there’s no harm in making it look good.

  When we’re done, I smile at my assistant, who coughs and fiddles with something on her desk, something I can’t see.

  ‘Yes?’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re coughing and fiddling with paper. I know the signs by now. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I think. It’s just...’

  ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  She sighs, straightens her shoulders, then stands up. Clutching a few sheets in her hands, she walks over. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a typewritten report that she lays, face down, in front of me.

  ‘I found this,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if you want to look at it, and you don’t have to, but I thought it might be useful.’

  That said, she goes back to her desk, sits down, and carries on with her work. I turn over the report, and the scent of this morning’s roses seems to wash over my face, clinging to my skin. It’s a draft report on the dead woman. Initial findings, assumed cause of death, and preliminary, if so far abortive, police investigations. Her throat has been cut, and there’s some evidence of sexual activity, but it’s not conclusive. Jade hasn’t printed off the pictures with the report, though I know there must be some and I also know I won’t ask for them. There’s no point. The woman here, a slim brunette, is thought to be in her early twenties, so there’s no need for me to check any photographs. The body has no identification. The only items recovered apart from her clothes are a silver necklace with one small star and a torn-off scrap of paper scrawled with the word, “Bluesky”, the latter found neatly folded in her bra. A plea has already gone out for reports of any missing women, with no results as yet. Good luck to them. It isn’t much to go on.

  ‘“Bluesky”?’ I ask.

  Jade looks up and shrugs. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what it means. It’s just business-speak.’

  ‘True. Not much help then.’

  ‘You okay?’

  Snapping the report shut, I place it on the edge of my desk, as far away as possible. ‘Sure. Good work, Jade. Doesn’t seem much there of use to anyone in terms of identification. They’ll have to rely on dental records if no-one comes forward to claim her.’

  She nods but says no more.

  By the end of the day, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I hope.

  ‘You dancing tonight?’ I ask as Jade switches off her computer and reaches for her jacket. Tuesdays are her salsa nights, but sometimes in August she and the other girls from the class don’t bother and just go drinking instead.

  ‘Sure. With these new earrings, why wouldn’t I be? You coming?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Coward. You know you’d love it if you tried.’

  ‘Not my scene, no matter how much you ask me. Besides I need to be my best for tomorrow, assuming your research is right.’

  ‘Of course it’s right,’ she starts before realising I’m joking. ‘Oh, very funny. Are you sure Cairo is ready for you?’

  Cairo may well be ready for me, but I’m not prepared for it. Or the chauffeur.

  The moment I step off the plane, the heat wraps around me like another, stickier layer of skin. By the time the customs men are waving me through, hardly glancing at my passport, my shirt is welded to my back and I’d pay a month’s salary for water. Not having any change makes that impossible. The smallest of my Egyptian pound notes not only seems to have been processed through the digestive system of a camel but will probably be the equivalent of two months’ wages for the average water seller. The best thing to do is get a taxi to the hotel where I can have all the water I want, together with some decent beer. Plus points all round.

  I’m about to head to the taxi rank when a tall man, dressed in a uniform I don’t recognise, steps in front of me. He’s holding a silver rectangle with my name emblazoned on it, and it’s all I can do to avoid the pull of instinct that makes me want to push him down and run. Not the best idea in an airport full of armed officials.

  ‘Pole Melanie?’ the man says, grinning and nodding, and it’s another moment before I recognise he’s saying my name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good, good. I know you from photo, sir. You have car, yes?’

  ‘Not yet, no, I’m just on my way—’

  ‘No, no! You not understand. There is a car booked for you. By Mr. Allen. He has booked a car for you, yes? To Mena House, yes? Please, sir, follow me.’

  He leads me to a dark-blue Mercedes gleaming in the sun. Next to the battered old Peugeots and Renaults I’ve glimpsed steaming for business at the taxi rank, it’s a racehorse amongst donkeys. There’s just one question.

  ‘Who’s paying?’ I ask my driver.

  ‘No problem, sir. Mr. Allen, he pays for everything. Even baksheesh, yes?’ He gives me a knowing look, eases the hold-all from my fingers, and deposits it in the copious boot. The next thing I know I’m sitting on grey leather in the back of pure air-conditioned class and facing a drinks cabinet filled with water bottles and whisky. I take the former and wish for the latter, but I’m not at home, and the heat will kill the happiness of it.

  The drive to the hotel takes an hour and a half. As I gaze out of the window, it’s as if I’ve not only been transported thousands of miles away from London, but also two thousand years into the past, except for the traffic. The men and women I see wear long flowing robes, blue, red, orange. Some of the women wear black scarves to hide their hair or carry impossibly tall packages on their heads. Jade would have loved it. For her, it would be like living in Bible times, taking her back to her Baptist roots.

  Along the roadside are half-finished houses, children all but naked, donkeys — with visible ribs — grazing on scraps of brown grassland, and broken-down abandoned machinery. Through it all, expensive cars and Western tourists flow into the heart of the city. Rich people. People like me.

  I tap on the glass. The driver leans forward, presses an unseen button and the barrier slides across.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he gazes back at me and ignores the stream of battered cars all hooting for supremacy outside us, each one appearing to follow its own set of rules.

  ‘Hey! Watch out.’

  He swerves ’round a straight-backed woman, dressed in blue, pacing calmly down the middle of the road, and almost collides with a lorry coming the other way. Somehow we survive both encounters, and I look out the rear window to see the woman continuing on her path as if nothing has happened.

  ‘God, and I thought London was bad. Is Cairo always like this?’

  Waving one hand in the air, my chauffeur laughs. ‘No, sir, no, no, no! This is good. Sometimes it is far worse, in the rush hours, yes?’

  Arriving at the Mena House Oberoi is like being given the gift of life when you
’re expecting nothing but the bullet. A lot of this is to do with the Pyramids. My ex-lover is right; they’re overwhelming, and Mena House is all but next door to them. Until today a part of me hasn’t believed they really exist, except in films, and certainly not so close to civilisation. Aren’t they supposed to be in the desert? Or has Hollywood managed to fool me over the years? No more, because now I can see. The three great structures dominate the skyline, shimmering in the afternoon heat, and I swear I could almost lean over from where I’m standing and touch them.

  ‘Good, yes, sir?’ the chauffeur hands my bag to the eager doorman. ‘You have not seen them before?’

  ‘Not in real life, no.’ I tip him anyway, a gesture that doesn’t surprise him. My choices aren’t going to be constrained by Dominic.

  Once in the hotel I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to leave. The marble lobby floor reflects the lights of at least five glistening chandeliers, and as I check in I wish I’d shown less business morality — Jade’s doing, as always — and not booked myself into the cheapest room available.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Maloney,’ the man behind the reception desk says. ‘You had a pleasant flight?’

  ‘Sure. No problems.’

  ‘Your room is ready now, sir. And I am pleased to tell you that you have been upgraded. You are in one of our deluxe suites. It is a beautiful room, I trust you will enjoy it.’

  I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Yes, I’m sure I will. But before I do, can I ask who’s paying for this?’

  ‘Mr. Allen, sir. He said you are a very important guest. There is a communication for you.’

  Trying not to think whether all this attention from Dominic is going to make things difficult for me to do the job at all, or whether it might mean something else entirely, I take the letter he hands me and follow my luggage on its journey to my suite. I make no comment as the boy deposits my well-used bag on the bed as if it’s designer and shows me ’round the enormous bedroom with its soothing arches and Arabic décor, wooden and ivory furniture, and green silk tapestry. The living room, bathroom, balcony, and dining area all hold to the themes of green and wood and ivory, but each with an individual twist. As his pièce de résistance, the luggage boy flings open the curtains and gestures at the pyramids. Somehow they seem even closer than before. I’m still silent but when the boy leaves, I tip him double what I’d given my driver.