Paparazzi

by Jo Fenton

  “Since we parted, I’ve kept an eye on your activities. You’ve got a finger in a lot of pies right now, haven’t you?”

  “There are a couple of things going on. Have you been hiding in bushes near my house? Or if not you, maybe one of your underlings?”

  “That’s a lovely word – underlings.” He savours it for a long pause. “No. We’ve got more comfortable ways to observe people of interest.”

  “Like sitting behind newspapers in foodie pubs?”

  “I wanted to speak to you. I thought you’d notice me eventually.” He folds up his paper and folds his arms. “Can you go to London? We have a proposition for you, but it involves one of my colleagues who’s unable to travel just now. She wants to interview you in her flat tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What sort of interview?” I rub my nose. “I’ve not had an interview for about five years. I’m out of practice.”

  “No need to worry. It’s not the sort of interview you can prepare for. Sylvia just wants to meet you. She’ll know if you’re the right person for the task.”

  “Okay. Will she also tell me what this is all about?”

  “If it’s appropriate.” He reaches into his wallet and hands me an envelope containing a rail ticket for tomorrow at 10:15 – Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston. Standard class. Off-peak. There’s also a slip of paper with a printed address in Kensington, a travel card for the Underground, and two twenty-pound notes. “That’s to cover expenses: lunch, a taxi from the tube station if the weather’s awful, that sort of thing.”

  “What time am I expected?”

  “Half past two. Your ticket is flexible, so you can do some shopping afterwards if you like. Theoretically, you could stay down there if you have friends or family, but we would prefer you to return the same day.”

  “That’s fine. I have friends in London, but they would be happy meeting me for dinner. Then they’ll see me on to the train. If I park at Piccadilly, in the proximity car park, could I claim back the cost?”

  “Of course. Particularly as it appears that someone has been lurking in bushes watching you. Perhaps one of your old enemies. You must have made a few in your line of your work.”

  “Thank you. Do I need to take anything?”

  “Just whatever paraphernalia you’d normally take on a day trip to London. It would be sensible for you to find a good reason to visit the capital. We don’t want to publicise this more than needed.”

  “I could visit Troy’s record company. That could be useful.”

  “Absolutely. Excellent idea. Would you like us to make the arrangements? I could ensure an appointment with his producer if that would help?”

  I thank him and get my thoughts together, while he taps messages into his phone. These people seem capable of everything. A moment later…

  “Perfect. That’s all sorted. You’ll be meeting Troy’s producer at half past four. I’ll text you his name and address. That will give you time for some shopping and lunch when you arrive in London, then you can meet your friends for dinner afterwards. A very productive day.”

  I tuck the envelope into my bag and thank him. I’m about to leave when a thought occurs to me.

  “Am I allowed to tell Matt?”

  “Yes. As he’s one of us, you’re welcome to share information with him. However, be careful in case anyone is listening. All such discussions must take place indoors with the windows closed, and out of earshot of visitors or your offspring.”

  By the time I get back to my house, Will’s outside in the car waiting for me.

  “Are you okay, Becky? I left Mum at home – she’s got a bit of a stomach-ache.”

  “In that case, I’ll just come and pick up my car. Maybe we can catch up later this afternoon, after I’ve heard back from Finn.”

  He agrees, and twenty minutes later, I’m in my house, with my car on the drive, ready to ask Matt what the hell I’ve got myself involved with.

  ***

  Matt is out when I get indoors. There’s a message on the kitchen table. Gone for a walk. Back soon. A bit frustrating, but at least he’s finally taking doctor’s orders. I make myself a coffee and turn on my laptop to check out the details of tomorrow’s journey. When I’m sure it’s practical, I search the contacts on my phone and make a call.

  “Dan?”

  “Oh my God! Becks! How are you doing, love?”

  As always, he’s very free with his ‘loves’. His husband is American, and he’s picked up a few questionable phrases, but it’s easier these days for me to suppress the pangs of my first love. I’m just delighted to see him so happy.

  We exchange pleasantries for a few moments, then I explain that I’m coming to London the next day and ask him if he’s free to meet up for dinner.

  “Sure. It’ll be adorable to see you again, love. We’ve not seen you since the wedding. Are you inviting Gray along too, or just me?”

  “Whichever. I don’t mind. Obviously I want to see you most, but he’s a lovely guy; I’m always happy to see him.”

  “What day is it? I lose track of time. I’ve been writing a paper, so working from home this week. So much easier to concentrate.”

  “It’ll be Wednesday tomorrow.” I smile into the phone. I know he can’t see me, but it’s so lovely just to hear his voice again.

  “Perfect. It’s Gray’s bridge night. He tried so hard to get me into bridge, but I just don’t get it. This is my reward. I get you all to myself for a few hours. What time do you have to head back?”

  “I should probably aim to get the train back at eight or thereabouts. I don’t want to be getting into Piccadilly much after ten.”

  “Of course not, love. Very dodgy. I’ll book us a decent restaurant near Euston, so we can get you on that train in time. I’ll text you the details. What time are you available?”

  I explain that I have a meeting at the record company at half past four, and we arrange that Dan will meet me in the Starbucks next door at four o’clock. We can have a quick coffee first, then he’ll work on his laptop until I’m finished.

  “I’ve got a meeting with a client at half past two, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I’m not sure how long my meeting will be, but I’ll message you if I’m going to be late.”

  With my day in London completely arranged, I get my handbag ready. Train ticket, purse (with Roger’s forty pounds, twenty of my own, a couple of credit cards, and some coins), Sylvia’s address, hairbrush, lipstick, ibuprofen and Rennies. I put a note on the fridge for me to remember my phone and keys, but it’s unnecessary really. I would never go anywhere these days without my phone, and I need my keys to drive to the station.

  I’m just attaching the note with a fridge magnet, amongst the mess of information about school concerts, reminders to take the cat to the vet, and hospital appointments for Matt, when he arrives home.

  “Becky, are you back?”

  “I hope so. Both the cars are outside.”

  “Hilarious. I was just checking. Are you okay? How was Cheryl this morning?”

  I dig back through my memories. It’s been a hectic day, and it’s only just gone three o’clock.

  “Fine.” I put the kettle on and tell him about Lesley and the plan for revolution within the school student hierarchy. He seems impressed, but I really want to talk about my trip for tomorrow. I make us both a cup of tea first and persuade him to settle in the lounge with me.

  “Do you know someone called Sylvia? One of Roger’s connections?”

  Matt’s eyes widen. “Wow. How did she come up in the conversation?”

  “I met Roger today. He was watching me while I was having lunch at the Village.” I don’t bother explaining who I was having lunch with. It’s too complicated, and I don’t want to derail the current discussion.

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Waiting to speak to me, apparently. Although I saw him and made the first approach.”

  “He does that a lot. It’s his MO. He hangs around somewhere vi
sible but inconspicuous and somehow indicates that he wants you to make contact with him. I’m used to it now, but the first few times I wasn’t sure whether I should go up to him.”

  “Useful to know, thanks.”

  “So where did Sylvia come in? I heard she’s a bit incapacitated right now. Just between us of course.”

  “I believe so. I have to go to London tomorrow. Apparently she wants to interview me about something.”

  “Very interesting.” Matt has a swig of his drink, then puts his mug decisively on the coffee table. “She’s Roger’s boss. I’ve not actually met her, but we’ve been in contact via video call. All highly encrypted of course.”

  “What’s she like? And why do you think she wants to meet me?”

  “She’s highly efficient. A great people-manager. She seems very sweet, but there’s an iron core in there. People put themselves into highly dangerous positions just to please her. It’s crazy, but she’s reached a fairly high-up position I believe. I think you’ll like her. As to why she wants to meet you, she vets most of the operatives. And Roger called me on Sunday and asked me a few questions about your school record and abilities.”

  “Do you know anything about my time at school?”

  “I knew where your school report was. I hope you don’t mind, but I photographed a couple of bits and sent them over.”

  “Okay. I’m quite intrigued. I guess they don’t want me for cooking or sewing skills then.”

  “You were a girly swot, weren’t you? Good at all the academic stuff.”

  “Yeah, mostly. Better at languages than science, but I could hold my own there too.”

  “I don’t think we ever discussed it. What O-Levels did you do?”

  “English Language, English Lit, French, German, Spanish, Maths, Biology, History, and General Studies in Lower Sixth. Then English, French and History at A-Level. What about you?”

  “Science all the way. As you know, I’m rubbish at languages. Maths, English – Language only; my teacher chickened out of putting me in for Literature – Physics, Chemistry, Biology and Music. I failed French, but got a Grade 2 CSE in it. It would probably have counted a couple of years later, as a GCSE.”

  “And your A-Levels?”

  “Three sciences. Chemistry was always a must, and then to get in to do Pharmacy, it was two out of Maths, Physics and Biology. I ditched the maths. It’s a shame really. Stats would have been useful. I get by though.”

  “So back to the point: did Roger give any clues about why he wanted to know?”

  “He just said… I can’t remember exactly… something about wanting to know where your latent talents might lie. He knows about your career with the police, but there are many things you can do for them.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea for me to get involved? I still have a lot of nightmares and freak out about certain things.”

  “This might be a good way for you to get back out there, but in a less conspicuous environment. And you’ve got your work with Joanna as a legitimate cover for any questions.”

  “Why don’t they want her to go down to London?”

  “I reckon Roger’s keeping her in reserve for now. She… I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she messed up a bit on our last assignment. That’s why I freaked out so much when she turned up here that first day. I thought the shit had finally hit the fan. But I reckon they know, and they’re a bit reluctant to use her just now.”

  “The poor woman’s been struggling with cancer, and lots of crap at home.”

  “I never said it was her fault.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I didn’t mean to. She’s great, and very competent, and loyal, and she’ll always have your back. I’m delighted that the two of you are in business together. I think Roger will put some legitimate work your way too, but yes, she had a lot going on at that point. Someone got injured because of some information going in the wrong direction. It was an accident, but I knew that it had to have been her mistake. Anyway, I reckon Roger suspects, and that’s why you’re going to London, and she’s not to know about it, except that you’ve been summoned to go to meet Troy’s record producer.”

  “How am I supposed to justify going without her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe say that Finn sorted it out, and…”

  “Hang on. She saw Roger in the Village.”

  “Well, maybe you can say he sorted it out for you to visit the record people.”

  “He did, actually, but it still looks unfair.”

  “He’s trying to cut costs. He only bought one ticket. You stopped to speak to him, and she didn’t.”

  “I guess that works.” I’m interrupted from further comments by the sound of the front door opening, followed by Cheryl coming in.

  “Hi Mum and Dad. Guess what? You’re invited to a meeting on Thursday night at Joel’s house.

  His mum is organising it. Then on Friday, I think all hell is going to break loose at school.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I don’t get much sleep on Tuesday night, and the little I get is filled with strange and frightening dreams; like scenes from a James Bond movie, with guns, car chases and enemies appearing from the roof of intercity trains. Consequently, when my alarm goes off at half past seven on Wednesday morning, I’m bleary-eyed and more anxious than I should be.

  By arrangement, Will arrives at 8:45 to take me to Piccadilly station. Bless him, he’s been via Costa Coffee, and picked up a couple of lattes.

  “Morning, Becky. I figured you’d need coffee. Have you got anything to read on the train?” Will asks as I put my seatbelt on.

  “Damn, no. Have I got time to pop back in for my Kindle?”

  “Sure. You’ve got two minutes.”

  A few minutes later, I’m back in the car with my Kindle, and also my phone charger and power bank I’d forgotten to pack yesterday.

  Will switches on his satnav and sets it to take the traffic in consideration and take us via the quickest route. So we draw up at the station with twenty minutes to spare. I’m marginally more relaxed after the journey. My companion has kept me chatting about literature and movies the entire journey. We’ve avoided any discussion of the day ahead. I told Joanna and Will yesterday that I’d be visiting Troy’s record company and doing some shopping, then seeing Dan. I don’t know convincing I was. I could see that Joanna suspected something, but they refrained from pressuring me for answers. Will still insisted on driving me to and from the station.

  “I reckon you’ll be tired by the time you get back, Becky. You won’t want to bother with driving home, but I don’t think you’ll want to get a taxi either. This is the best solution, and I’m happy to oblige anyway. Making the most of this little beauty.” He’d patted the bonnet as he saw me out to my car yesterday evening.

  The convenience of being driven by someone I like and trust, and being dropped off right outside the station, is a huge relief. I’m on the station concourse by ten, with another coffee, and a paper bag containing a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel and a muffin. I need sustenance for this journey. As I put the ticket into the machine at the barrier to the platform, I notice my hand is trembling. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down. I go to my assigned seat on the train. It’s facing the direction of travel, and I’m pleased to see there’s no reservation on the seat next to me. The carriage is less than a third reserved, according to an electronic display on the platform. I’m in an airline-style seat, which is also good, meaning I don’t have to sit opposite a stranger. I always hate those table seats – there’s a choice between uncomfortable silences and making polite conversation, not to mention the difficulty about where to place feet. This is much better. I glance around the carriage. There are a few businesspeople with laptops already open, and several older people who look as though they’re heading to the capital for a day out. A family with kids of primary-school age occupy the table seats across the aisle from me. They look very ordinary and pleasant. The children
settle down without argument, and immediately start watching films or programmes on their iPads.

  I open my Kindle and settle down to read an old favourite from Georgette Heyer; nice relaxing material to calm me down. It’s working great until a smartly-dressed, strapping guy in his forties boards the train at Stockport, walks past all the empty seats and plonks himself on the seat next to me. He gets out his laptop and spreads out, forcing me to back into my little corner. After fifteen minutes of this, I’m suffering from severe claustrophobia, and my anxiety is getting the better of me. I find enough elbow space to put my Kindle in my handbag, and I gather up my fleeing courage.

  “Excuse me, I need to get out.”

  The man-sprawler looks at me in surprise. “The train doesn’t stop for another quarter of an hour,” he says, looking at his watch. Otherwise, he makes no movement to let me through.

  “I feel sick. I need some air.” If I didn’t feel so rubbish, I could have laughed at the speed he picked up his laptop and stood up. He clearly didn’t fancy someone throwing up over him.

  I move past, muttering thanks, grab my coat from the rack above, and move through the train to the end of the carriage, where there are a couple of seats opposite the toilets. Sitting on one of them, I take some gulps of the fresh air that’s blowing in through the small gap between the coaches. I allow myself to calm down again, before standing up and heading to the next carriage along. It’s a quiet coach, but that suits me fine. I have no intention of phoning anyone or of playing music. There are more empty seats in here, including several doubles. This time, I take the precaution of sitting in the aisle seat and placing my coat and bag on the window seat next to me. I’m not going through that again. There are plenty of spare places for other passengers to sit.

  After a while, I return to my Kindle and eat my brunch, and all remains calm until it’s time to get off the train at Euston. I deliberately get off at the other end of the carriage to avoid the man who’d sat next to me, but he catches up with me on the platform.

  “Are you feeling better now?” he asks. The words are kind, but the tone is sarcastic, and he tops it off with, “I thought you were coming back. I was on edge the whole journey.”