by Jo Fenton
“Okay.” Penny’s voice is still so quiet that I have to lean forward to hear her properly.
“Can you speak up a bit please? I think my ears are a bit blocked.” I know they’re not, but I feel the need to make an excuse.
“Sure.” There’s an increase of about half a decibel. “I go to this nightclub for work. Well, it’s a kind of club. You might have heard of it; Band On The Wall. It’s in Manchester, near Ancoats.”
“I know it. I used to go there when I was younger than you. Probably before you were born. In the days when people could smoke in clubs and bars, and the air was thick with smoke – usually a mixture of tobacco and weed. I’ve not been there for a few years though.” I know some of my ex-colleagues have been for work reasons, and a few of them socially. They said it’s changed.
“It’s not like that now. It’s nice. Anyway, I’m a photographer for a local press agency, and I go to take photos of the bands. A bit like the paparazzi.” She chuckles, and I warm to her by half a degree. “There’s this one band that’s on quite a lot, but whenever I’m at their gigs, I feel like someone’s watching me. It freaks me out, and I wondered if you’d be able to help.”
“How many times has this happened?” I ask.
“At least three, going back over the last three months. They play there about once a month.”
“Can you tell me about the first time?” Joanna chips in.
“It would have been about the middle of November, on the Friday night. They like Fridays.”
“Sorry,” I interrupt. “What’s the band’s name?”
“Troy’s Tigers.”
Joanna raises an eyebrow, and I have to stifle a grin. I guess she agrees with me that it sounds like a group of primary school kids.
“Sorry for interrupting. Carry on.”
“Yeah okay. As I said, it was November. I’d taken a good lot of photos and was walking home when I heard footsteps. I turned around, but couldn’t see anyone. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end though.”
She seems to need a prod to carry on.
“So what happened?”
“When?”
I take a slow deep breath; patience is clearly going to be needed for this case.
“That night. Did you get home safely? Did you see who was following you?”
“No, I didn’t. I got a taxi home, just in case. My moped is in and out of the garage for repairs. There’s an intermittent fault, and it keeps breaking down. I wondered if someone has tampered with it.”
“That was sensible to get a taxi,” says Joanna, apparently having controlled her own impatience. “We can check out the moped with the garage if you give us the details. For now, though, when was the next time you were followed?”
I try to pay attention as Penny describes the subsequent events in her soft tones, but I find myself watching her instead. There’s a soft sheen of sweat on her forehead, not warranted by Joanna’s central heating. As she talks, her eyes dart between the two of us. There are lots of reasons she might be nervous. Few people have cause to visit a private detective, and she seems very young. This appears to be a simple case of a stalker; probably an ex-boyfriend, or some admirer she’s picked up at the gig. She’s pretty and slim, both factors that are likely to provide wide appeal.
I suppress a surge of envy. My middle-aged spread no longer attracts such attention, having gone beyond that description – I’m now bordering on chubby. A lack of exercise combined with comfort eating since the events last summer have been bad for my health in far too many areas.
Joanna and I had rehearsed the questions yesterday after she made the appointment, so I let her follow the plan, and focus my observations on Penny’s body language. My business partner is surprisingly good at this, and is gradually putting the client at ease. Using a technique I learned from a valued colleague, I separate out the different senses, and work out what each one is telling me.
Penny’s eyes are doing less darting now, focussing mostly on Joanna with the occasional glance at me. Her voice has become stronger too; she’s now talking in almost normal tones – still a bit softer than most people, but definitely more audible. Whilst her eyes are on Joanna, I take a discreet sniff. There’s a hint of perfume. Perhaps she was expecting someone more romantic than us. Maybe ‘White Knight’ conjured up the idea of more masculine assistance. The perfume itself is one I recognise – a brand preferred by my own elder daughter. Touch is always harder, as I’m not about to make contact, but I already have done once, and recall clearly that limp, nervous handshake. Taste will have to wait, and is far less important. I don’t care whether she prefers tea or coffee, or is vegetarian or carnivore.
I turn my attention to Joanna for a moment. She’s doing a superb job at interviewing the client and taking notes at the same time. Note-taking was never one of my strong points. I always relied on recordings for the details, and on my senses to fill in those gaps where gut instinct is required. My police training focussed on the facts, but years of experience taught me to follow my instincts until the facts turned up. My instincts only betrayed me once. Trust hasn’t yet returned.
Joanna ties up the end of the interview neatly, explaining the fees and the next steps, before seeing Penny out into the pouring rain. I glance out of the window, and watch as she extracts a black umbrella from her handbag, and opens it up. She walks hurriedly in the direction of the bus stop, but only in the manner of someone wanting to escape the foul weather. She doesn’t appear to think her stalker may be in the vicinity.
Chapter Twelve
I stand entranced as the music flows around me. The audience is intent, focussed on the band playing so brilliantly.
But I have eyes for just one: a person I am desperate to know better, to know intimately, and to possess. Only when this occurs can I become fulfilled.
Until that moment, I will need to satisfy my craving with images. I raise my camera and focus the lens, but a rush of longing defeats me. After only two shots, I lower the expensive equipment, and gaze with naked eyes at the object of my desire.
It won’t be long now. I’ve begun my quest.
Chapter Thirteen
The morning after our first client meeting, I pull up outside Joanna’s house in the car. I’m about to turn the engine off, but I sense that something is wrong. I release the handbrake and drive off, do one lap around the block, and then ease the car into a space outside the next-door house but one. I sit in my car for a moment, surveying the street through the heavy rain. It’s nearly 11am, and most people will be out at work by now. There are a few cars dotted around, parked on the edge of the road. My gaze rests on each and I locate my first source of unease. There’s a spotless black Audi, parked just a bit further down the road. It’s not totally out of place on this street, but it’s newer and more expensive than most of the other cars. It wasn’t here yesterday, or the day before.
Obviously there could be many innocent reasons for its presence, but my body is telling me otherwise. Goosebumps, shivers and nausea have always been signs for me – even before the warehouse, although if I’d paid them more attention that day, it could have all turned out differently. Here and now, it’s important that I don’t make the same mistake, but I’m now a private individual with no reason to get attacked. So why don’t I get out of the car?
I take some deep breaths. Who’s likely to visit Joanna? As far as I know, the only person who knows her whereabouts is her son. But then, any investigator worth his salt would have tracked down her location by now. I know from my years as a police detective that it’s quite difficult to hide from the authorities. I’m hiding, but from criminals, not from the police. Joanna has no chance against whichever secret service she was working for. It’s almost certain that her visitor is from that source. So I have nothing to hide. I do another quick survey of the surrounding area, to make sure I’ve not missed anything, but nothing else seems awry.
Feeling a bit more rational, but still with a frantically thumping h
eartbeat, I force myself to get out of the car. The rain has let up a bit, so if anyone was to ask, I could use that as an excuse for not getting out immediately. I walk with steady dignity up to the front door and ring the bell.
A full minute elapses, during which raised voices reach me, but too muffled to make out exact words. Then Joanna answers the door. She looks white and strained. A man is standing behind her, a couple of feet back. He’s of medium height, medium build, maybe in his forties. He’s clean-shaven and has no significant features. An ideal candidate for secret service work.
“Mrs Wiseman?” His voice is also unremarkable, but the tone is sharp and formal.
“Mrs White now, but yes, I was Mrs Wiseman.”
“Come in and shut the door behind you.” I obey, and follow him and Joanna into the lounge. He sits on the armchair that Joanna occupied yesterday. She sits on the sofa, and I take the other chair.
“Matthew told us you changed your name to protect your identity after you left the police force last summer.”
“Yes.” There’s no point in asking how he knows Matt.
“So how do you know Joanna?”
“Surely your research of Matt and Joanna must have found me as a mutual connection – even if neither of them were aware of it?”
“The operative who found your husband and your friend missed the connection. So perhaps you could answer my question. How do you know Joanna?”
“We met whilst I was at university, through a mutual friend. We stayed in touch afterwards but drifted after a couple of years. It was before the days of Facebook, where it obviously became much easier to stay in touch with old friends.”
“Such a strange coincidence.” He stares at each of us. If he’s hoping to evoke further information with this strategy, he’s dealing with the wrong women. We both remain silent and impassive for a few moments.
Joanna is the first to break, but only to ask if anyone would like a cup of tea. To my surprise, the visitor nods.
“Thanks. Milk and no sugar for me.”
I smile reassuringly at her. “In that case, please can I have a coffee?”
“Sure,” she says, giving me a weak grin. She shuts the kitchen door behind her, and a second later, I hear the faintest whir starting up. I hide it with a cough.
“Sorry – tickly throat. It’s this awful weather.”
“It is grim. Your friend was wise to absent herself for a few minutes. I need to ask you something else.”
“Go ahead. I have a few questions of my own too.”
“I’m sure you do, Mrs White. First, though, can you tell me how you found out about my existence, and what you know about me?”
“Matt told me briefly that he’d got involved in some government project, and that was how he met Joanna. He said it was top secret, and he couldn’t tell me any more. But he was under extreme pressure to tell me even that. When he first saw Joanna in my company, he had a heart attack. I’m sure you can imagine how that looks to a wife. In order to save our marriage, he needed to reveal something of the truth. I was in the police force. I’m no stranger to secrecy.”
“Of course. And what about Joanna? What did she tell you?”
“When I told her what Matt had said, she corroborated his story, and then revealed that she was running away from her ex-husband’s messes, and that she’d forgotten to advise you of the fact. I suggested she rectify that as soon as possible, so I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“Interesting.” He resumes his staring tactic.
“Do you have a name? Perhaps not your own, but something by which we can address you?”
“Very funny.” He doesn’t even smile. “I usually go by the name Roger Taylor. I’m a big Queen fan.”
“Me too.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it grudgingly. “Nice to meet you, Roger. I’m Becky.”
“I know, but thank you for permission to use that name.”
Joanna apparently considers that’s a good point to enter, as the door opens and she emerges with a tray of drinks and biscuits. Putting the tray on the coffee table, she hands Roger his tea, and me the coffee, before taking a mug of pale green liquid.
“I prefer green tea these days,” she says, sitting down. “It’s healthier.” As she takes a handful of chocolate fingers at the same time, I’m mildly sceptical, but Mr Taylor appears to accept the statement at face value. It’s not terribly important, after all.
“Joanna, Becky has just been telling me that you were about to rectify your omission.”
“Yes, it was on my list for this morning, actually. I was just about to look through my papers to identify the best contact, when you turned up. Quite a coincidence, but you’ve saved me a job. Thanks.”
“As I’m sure Becky has told you, you can’t go off and leave us wondering where you are. We’ve spent more time and resources than we can afford in tracking you down. I’m sure that wasn’t your intention; however, there are penalties.”
“What penalties?” She sits up straighter and spills tea on the new sofa. “Damn, I hope that comes out.”
“That won’t stain. It’s the same colour as the fabric.” I smile at her, then turn to Roger. “The circumstances were unusual. Joanna needed to get away from her ex-husband’s contacts. She had more pressing things to think about than you, particularly as you’d been leaving her alone since she left her job.”
“So she told you more about us than your husband had done?”
“I told you, she’d explained that she’s not involved any more.” I glare at him and set my mug down hard on the coffee table. “I have no idea what this is all about, what either of them have been working on, or why the hell you’re involved. And frankly, I’m surprised it was worth you revealing yourself to me. Was it necessary, or was it only because I showed up this morning?”
“It is necessary, and you saved me the job of showing up at your home. Matt had asked me to avoid that if possible. But he did help me to find Joanna. He didn’t realise we’d lost touch with her, and mentioned that he was surprised when she’d showed up at your house. It was easy after that. But now that you’re aware of our existence, it’s imperative to bring you in to some degree.”
“I get that, but I’m still waiting for you to tell me something.”
His brief pause is breached by a mobile phone ring tone; ironically, Skyfall, one of the more recent James Bond theme tunes. He answers it with a brief ‘Yes’. There follows a series of yes and no responses, during which Joanna and I exchange frustrated glances. A moment later, with the call ended, he puts his phone back in his left inside jacket pocket.
“I’m afraid I have to go, as I’m needed elsewhere. Becky, I just need you to sign this. When I get home I’ll scan it and email you a copy.” He extracts a plain white envelope from his right inside jacket pocket and hands it to me. I open it and read. It’s a brief statement confirming that I am bound by the Official Secrets Act and will reveal nothing under any circumstances.
“I don’t know anything to reveal.” I shake my head, frustrated by the lack of information.
“You know enough. You’ll learn more in the days ahead, as I believe your skills and knowledge will be useful to us. Meanwhile, continue with your current case. It has no bearing on our present work, but it should prove a useful exercise for you to renew your skills.”
He hands me a pen, and I sign. My chest tightens. I feel as though he’s backed me into a corner, and I have no choice, but Joanna smiles at me, and nods. I hand back the pen and the signed document, and Roger leaves without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
With Roger gone, we return to the lounge, and settle back into the seats we occupied before. I turn to Joanna.
“Right, so I’ve now signed the Official Secrets Act. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s not for me to say. I think you probably know enough. Anyway, I don’t think Roger cares about the past. I have a feeling he wants you on his team for the future.”
“
Fantastic. I’m just about getting my head around becoming a private detective. I don’t think I can handle the idea of being a spy.” Bile rises in my throat.
“No one’s asking you to be a spy, Becky. But sometimes there are activities a civilian can handle best, and Roger and his team like to have people on the ground to help. I guess in our new roles as White Knights, we might be able to investigate a few things for him.”
“What did he say to you before I arrived?”
“He was having a bit of a go at me for running away without telling him where I was. I’m pleased you turned up when you did. He just kept going on about it before then.”
“So what makes you think he wants us to investigate stuff for him?” I rest back in my chair, curiosity overcoming fear for the moment.
“He handed me this before he left.” She shows me a torn piece of newspaper. It’s got an advert on it – recruitment for a lab technician. It’s obviously at the top of the page, as the name of the newspaper is on it, and yesterday’s date.
“Is he suggesting you apply for it?”
“I reckon so. It’s not far from here, and it’s got to be more interesting than Asda. If the pay is okay, I might be able to buy myself a cheap car. Roger might part with a few hundred quid in advance if I ask nicely.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it. “Shit, is that the time?”
“Why?” Joanna looks at her watch. “I make it just gone twelve-thirty.”
“I should have been meeting someone at half past. I’d better just message to say I’m running late.” I tap a quick apology into my phone and click Send.
Finn will be waiting for me.
***
I park outside the pub, tucking the car as discreetly as possible between two large SUVs and with my rear bumper against a hedge. Opening the sun visor, I check my face in the mirror. I look a wreck. I’m already late, so an extra minute won’t make much difference. A quick attack with a hairbrush and lipstick, and the worst is hidden. Hopefully Finn won’t look too closely. I get out of the car and head inside.