Paparazzi

by Jo Fenton

  I stare at her. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. I swear to you on my life, and the life of my son, that I didn’t have an affair, or a fling, or anything remotely inappropriate, with your husband. It’s just this weird thing – a kind of work situation – that I’m not allowed to talk about.”

  “But why would seeing you cause Matt to have a heart attack?” I shake my head, totally confused by what she’s said.

  “Well, there was a bit of a mess, and it was my fault, and maybe Matt thought it had caught up with us, and that I was coming to warn him. But neither of us knew anything about the other’s home life or anything. We were virtually strangers except for this… project thing. Please, Becky, believe me. You and I were best friends for over two years. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “But you won’t tell me the whole truth.”

  “I’ve already told you more than I should, and as much as I dare to.” Her earnest expression finally convinces me, even if it doesn’t solve the mystery. Matt’s comment about me being a housewife still rankles, and I feel the need to do something about it. If trusting Joanna will give me that chance, perhaps I can give it a shot.

  “Okay. Let’s put it behind us. Why do you want to start up a detective agency?”

  “I need to earn a living. I think it would be fascinating, and it could be fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah. I’m not talking about taking on murder cases. Those are for the police. If anything like that happens (God forbid), we can liaise with your old pals. I assume you didn’t cut off all contact?”

  “I still have a few phone numbers in a book at home.” And in my head. And a couple on my phone. Just their private numbers though. Finn (my best friend), and Wendy (my friend and mentor from all those years ago when I was a student). My insides lurch a few millimetres at the thought of Finn. I haven’t spoken to him in over six months.

  Joanna’s speaking again, so I force myself to concentrate.

  “Great. I think we should advertise discreetly. I’ve drawn up a few ideas.” She fishes a folded piece of A4 paper out of her bag, and spreads it out in front of me. In the bottom right is a text box that catches my eye.

  WHITE KNIGHT DETECTIVE AGENCY

  Do you have a problem?

  Do you need a white knight to come to your rescue?

  Phone xxxxxx for details.

  I point at it. “That looks quite good. Advertising isn’t cheap though. Where were you thinking of putting it?”

  “I think we can set up a Facebook page and Twitter account for free, and start growing those. And we can advertise cheaply in the local press.” She writes down some figures for the advertising. They look affordable, even on my budget.

  “Okay. We need to get something clear, though.”

  “What?” Joanna looks at me cautiously. “Obviously we split any proceeds fifty-fifty.”

  “I guess there are a couple of things. First, I’m going to be more of an indoor detective. I’m happy to do any amount of research on a computer. You’ll meet the client initially, but I’ll watch on CCTV. If I think it’s safe for me to meet them, then I’ll join you part-way through. If I don’t appear, it’s because I have a good reason.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “Please stay away from Matt.” I hold up my hand as she protests. “Look, I know you’re innocent from your perspective. But for whatever reason, you increase his stress levels, and he needs to stay calm. So, please give him some space to recover.”

  “Sure. Both things are fine. We can use my mobile number for the time being, and I’ll filter all the calls. Then I guess we’ll see them when I get a house. I’m going to work part-time at Asda. They’ve agreed I can do twenty-five hours a week on the checkouts. It’ll pay the rent until the clients flood in.”

  “That’s sensible. I could do with finding something to do as well. But it would have to be something where I don’t need to leave the house.”

  “Do students still need dissertations typing up these days?”

  “I think they mostly write them straight on to the computer. They couldn’t afford me anyway.” I give a tired smile. Suddenly, I feel exhausted. “I need to get home. I’ll find something to bring in a few pennies while we wait for those clients. Are you going to put the ad in the paper?”

  “Yeah, I’ll sort it this afternoon. Leave it to me.”

  She grins. White Knight is open for business.

  Chapter Seven

  Back at home, Matt’s upstairs having a nap. I make myself a coffee and sit in the kitchen thinking. How am I going to tell him about White Knight? Joanna’s name hasn’t been mentioned since he came out of hospital. How will he react? Common sense tries to assert itself. He’s had a stent put in and he’s taking medication to prevent another heart attack. He should be safe now, regardless of any stressful news. But then I recall the image of him clutching his chest, his face as grey as stone, as he looked at Joanna. The memory brings a wave of nausea. Maybe I’ll see how he is later.

  My phone pings. A text from Joanna.

  ‘The ad’s in. Going live tomorrow.’

  ‘Wow. That was quick. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks. The Knight owes me £30.’

  ‘Sure. Make sure you log it. How’re your accountancy skills?’

  ‘So-so. Yours?’

  ‘Rubbish. Sorry!’

  Joanna sends me a couple of emojis in reply, showing she’s okay with that and it’s funny. We’ll have to muddle through. Matt’s great with money, but I’m sure as hell not going to ask him.

  I flick idly through the News channels on my phone, looking for anything that might be suitable fodder for us to investigate. There are a few missing persons, but the police are best placed to deal with those, unless anyone approaches us directly.

  Popping upstairs to check on Matt, I see he’s still asleep – snoring softly. I creep downstairs again and go into the lounge where he was sitting earlier. I’m about to turn on the TV, but there’s a ping. Temptation is too strong for me, and I pick up his phone from the coffee table. A text is showing on the home screen.

  ‘RT: How are you doing? Shocked to hear the news. Take care. Don’t worry about the drop. We’ll sort it without you for now. KL is back from leave.’

  Who the hell are RT and KL? I put the phone down. The message has disappeared now. It flashed up only for a few seconds. I try a couple of obvious PIN options, but don’t want to lock it with too many wrong attempts. It doesn’t seem right that I shouldn’t trust my husband, but recent events have eroded trust as well as confidence.

  Feeling guilty, I put the mobile back on the table and turn on the TV, flicking through the channels and eventually locating an old episode of Doctor Who. It’s one I’ve seen before, and I get a bit bored. I collect my phone from the kitchen and start surfing the net again. My eye is caught by a headline:

  “Manchester band, Troy’s Tigers, have just been signed by EMI to do an album.”

  Below the headline: “The band has been playing regularly at Band On The Wall in Swan Street. They were working in London on Saturday night and were unaware of the presence of the EMI scout. Lead singer, Troy Cassidy, says they are ‘over the moon’...”

  I don’t know why this catches my attention. I’m not particularly into music other than classical, and the occasional bit of 80s pop. This article has given me goosebumps. I glance at the photo – taken by a P Ellsworth. Troy Cassidy is a good-looking guy of around thirty years old, with long wavy black hair and a hint of stubble.

  I shiver. This has happened before. On several occasions in the past, I’ve seen something occur – an incident, or a news article, or I’ve heard a comment. The goosebumps and shivers have appeared, and within a few days, the subject of the article has been involved in a case that’s landed on my desk. Not always the victim of a murder, but usually associated with a serious crime.

  On an impulse, I share the article with Joanna, via WhatsApp, with a brief explanation of why
it might be significant.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. I know it’s weird.’

  ‘Not at all. I believe in premonitions and that sort of stuff. It’s strange but credible. I’ll see if I can find out anything more about them.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. I’ll look too. Different angles, different results. Who knows what we might turn up?’

  I spend the next hour searching for anything I can find about Troy and the band. There are lots of musical references, with lists of gigs past and present, and of the songs. They have obscure titles and are mostly in the category of ‘Heavy Rock with a Soul twist’, whatever the hell that means.

  I’m deciding whether to call the paper that published the article to see if there’s any additional information, when I realise I have no idea why I’m searching, and whether I would know a significant clue if I fell over it.

  Cheryl’s arrival home from school puts a lid on my research for the time being, but after asking her about her day, I drop it casually into the conversation while I put the kettle on.

  “Have you ever heard of a band called Troy’s Tigers?”

  “That’s really weird,” she says, getting her favourite mug out of the cupboard and adding a herbal tea bag.

  “What’s weird?”

  “Mia was just mentioning them today. She saw them at Band On The Wall with her boyfriend the other week. She said they were amazing, and apparently they’ve just been signed with some huge record label. It’s weird that you asked about them. You never follow music.”

  We sit down with our hot drinks.

  “I found the article about it on the local news. It just caught my eye. The lead singer looks nice.” I show her the picture.

  “Wow. Yeah, he’s hot. Bit young for you, Mum.”

  “Cheeky mare! I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s nice to have a bit of banter with her, particularly after all the worry of the past week. But even before that, my mood has been too wobbly, and anxiety has been at the forefront of everything.

  It’s very odd. Between the text on Matt’s phone, and worry about how I’m going to tell him I’m going into business with the woman who nearly killed him, I should feel awful. But for some strange reason, introducing Joanna and White Knight into my life has lifted my spirits. I guess I’ve missed being a detective.

  Chapter Eight

  “Alexa – turn up the music.”

  The sound of my favourite band fills the apartment. I open my laptop and load the photos I took last night. So beautiful. Such a vivid setting. The darkness of the club; the lit stage; and the audience. All so important to capture correctly.

  The target is perfect. I get close, but not close enough. I need to meet, to touch, to know. Until then, I cannot be fulfilled.

  The song ends, and another begins. The title, Death is Beauty, is so apt. I shut my eyes and allow the melody to resonate through my body. Rapture fills me, and as the song reaches its peak, so do I.

  Chapter Nine

  Joanna moved into her new house yesterday. I’m going after breakfast to help her unpack. She had a van bring her belongings down from Edinburgh.

  I’ve been battling with the need to tell Matt, but he still seems so tired, it’s hard to bring myself to say something that might upset him.

  Cheryl’s in school, and Matt is sitting at the kitchen table eating a healthy breakfast of poached eggs on wholemeal toast – made by my own fair hands. Yes, I’m trying to get him in a good mood. He’s concentrating on the newspaper with a frown on his face. Not a very auspicious start. I sit down opposite him, with coffee and a banana. I wait a moment until he turns the page.

  “Joanna and I are going into business together,” I blurt out.

  “Okay.”

  Okay? Is that all? It’s taken me over a week to work up to this, and all he can say is ‘Okay’!

  “She moved into a house yesterday, quite near here. It’s that estate at the back of the shops. I’m going round to help her get sorted out this morning.”

  He doesn’t lift his eyes from the paper. “Good idea. It’ll be helpful for you to get out of the house.”

  “Helpful to who?” That just slips out. I’m trying so hard not to be confrontational, but his lack of interest is infuriating.

  He finally looks up.

  “You need to get out more, Becky. You’re looking tired and stressed. I know you’ve had a bad time of it with nightmares and flashbacks in the last six months, but maybe going into business is a good idea. It will stop you from—”

  “Wallowing?” I’m not sure if he catches the dangerous note in my voice. He’s in trouble if he carries on like this.

  “That wasn’t quite the word I was looking for. I was thinking more ‘brooding’.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it? And don’t you want to know what sort of business?”

  “Some sort of detective agency thing? Cheryl mentioned that Joanna wanted you to start one with her.”

  I gaze at him incredulously.

  “You’ve known about this for how long? And you’ve not bothered to mention it?”

  “You seemed reluctant to mention Joanna to me; I didn’t want to upset you.”

  I take my coffee and manage to refrain from spilling the scalding liquid on his head as I walk past him into the lounge. I grit my teeth and slam the door shut behind me with my foot.

  It’s only as I sip my coffee in front of Breakfast TV that I wonder if there’s another reason he wants me out of the house. I need to keep my comings and goings a bit unpredictable, and see if I can catch him talking to someone about ‘a drop’.

  ***

  Joanna’s house is a pleasant two-bedroom semi, with a lounge at the front, and an eat-in kitchen at the back. There’s even a downstairs loo. She seems excited as she shows me round.

  “I thought we could interview any clients in the front room. I want to set up cameras to focus on the sofa and chairs, with a live feed into a laptop in the kitchen or the office upstairs. You’ll be able to watch the feed and come in if you think it’s appropriate.”

  “Sounds good. Will you inform the clients that they’re being filmed? I think you have to these days.”

  “Yeah – I’ll say it’s saving me taking notes, as it’s better to have things directly available if I need to recall something.”

  “Okay. You mentioned an office upstairs?”

  “When we’ve not got clients in, I thought we could each work in a separate space. One of us in the kitchen, the other in the spare room. The lounge can be for conferences and interviewing.”

  “That’s great. I’m impressed. We just need some furniture now.” I look around the lounge. There’s currently a couple of wooden dining chairs and a small glass nest of tables. The kitchen holds another two dining chairs and a matching pine dining table, big enough for four people. Apart from a double bed in Joanna’s room, that’s the full extent of the furniture. There are a few boxes dotted around the room, presumably containing personal items and ornaments. “Is this it?”

  “Yeah. The bailiffs had a field day with us, thanks to my git of an ex. I had to give them cash to get them to leave what I’ve got here, and then I had to pay storage for it. But all these things were expensive when I first bought them, and I didn’t want to have to replace them with rubbish. I’ve been back on Google, and there are a couple of furniture warehouses in Bury. They seem to sell stuff quite cheap. I did a lot of shifts at Asda in the last week while I was waiting for the keys to here, so I’ve got a bit of money for stuff. If I put it on my credit card, it should be fine.” As she rambles on, she’s fidgeting with the scissors.

  “You’re going to do yourself an injury with those. Put them down.” I wait until she replaces them on top of a box. Diagnosing her anxiety as money-related, I do some quick thinking. “Why don’t we just get the basics for now? A suite for in here, as this is where we’ll be greeting clients; and maybe a desk for upstairs? Then we can go to B&Q and get the CCTV stuff. That can be my contribution,
seeing as it’s down to my paranoia that it’s even needed.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She relaxes visibly. “Let’s get this lot unpacked, then we’ll go shopping.” She finishes with a grin, and I have to repress a shudder, as I don’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. Shopping, particularly in anything resembling a warehouse, brings me out in a panic.

  I take a few deep breaths, trying to quell the anxiety that is rising just at the thought.

  ***

  The reality of shopping is even worse than the thought of it. Just driving into Bury, we have three near-crashes. By the time I park up next to the shop – on a side road half a mile from the town centre – I’m shaking like a jelly. Joanna untangles her fingers from the handle on the door. Her knuckles are almost as white as her face.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.” I give a wry smile and try to control my shaking hands. “I don’t always drive this badly.”

  “We could have got a cab, Becky.” She looks at me. “Are you okay to come into the shop?”

  I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. It calms me a fraction, but my pulse is still doing double time.

  “Sure. Come on. Let’s go.”

  Once inside, I try to view the scene impartially. The area is filled with sofas, chairs, dining sets and other paraphernalia, with a sign at the foot of a staircase stating that beds are upstairs. Compared to the warehouse where it all happened, this is completely different. In fact, apart from the high ceilings and faintly damp air, this could hardly qualify as a warehouse. My heart rate slows to near normality as I re-engage with the scene – a new definition of the place as ‘shop’ helps. It also helps that it’s empty apart from myself, Joanna, and a tall, dark-haired and moustached chap who’s drinking a cup of tea. He approaches us.

  “Can I help you, ladies?”