by Karen Botha
I guess catching murderers can taint a person's view of humanity but it was my gut that had me in the top echelon of my peers. I was the one called on when other detectives were failing and was drafted into work the cases that were eluding others. And that was my gut. My gut caught the un-catchables, and so I’ve learnt to trust it.
I shift my position in bed, getting comfortable, letting these idle thoughts run through my mind, only half awake. My heart slams in my chest dumping adrenalin into my veins as my phone vibrates on my bedside cabinet.
Lucy, lights up the screen, she's betting I'll wake early. I swipe left to accept her call.
‘Hey, when do you want to go and collect your abandoned car?’ Never one for small talk.
‘I’m almost up. Give me an hour and I’ll be ready,’ then rethinking, ‘actually, shall we leave it until later and we’ll grab lunch in that pub on the green?’
‘Sounds perfect. How about I pick you up at 12?’
‘Done!’
She radiates her good mood when I curl myself into her small car. You know when burgeoning love is evident in every mannerism? Well, today, that's Lucy and I'm shamed to the pit of my stomach at not being delighted for her, in fact being unhappy for no explicable reason.
She waits a full thirty seconds before she asks, ‘what did you think to Giles? We had fun yesterday didn’t we?’
It’s one of those moments when your honest response of ‘he’s a creep,’ is not acceptable. You need to respond somehow, but you’re not sure how until it leaves your mouth.
‘Yeah it was an entertaining afternoon, he seems a nice guy.’ I’m surprised at myself. I’m not lying – he does seem a nice guy. I’m just not sure he is.
‘He called me this morning…’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, asked me out - to a pub quiz tonight.’
‘Oh, but you’re hopeless at general knowledge, hope you said no.’ I feign amusement to avoid showing how unsupportive I am. A welcome breeze floats in through a crack in the window.
‘Bloody cheek! As a matter of fact, I said yes.’
‘But he’s a client!’ I discourage, throwing her own rules back at her.
‘True, but sometimes, there’s this thing you can’t put your finger on that makes someone different. I will always kick myself if I don’t give it a go.’
‘Too right,’ I brood, but I’m beaten.
If I’m honest lunch was flat.
The sun hides behind a cloud, no more than a cataract in the sky. And, I don’t reckon the pub was expecting any customers on this particular Bank Holiday Monday. I'm at a loss as to why, but the waitress had flour over her black outfit. Even more bizarrely, her fly zipper kept coming down on her drain pipe trousers - it’s off-putting when you’re trying to browse the bar menu.
‘I’d love a ham sandwich please,’ Lucy orders, and it suddenly sounds delicious.
I’m about to copy when the waitress informs us, ‘I’ll go and check with the kitchen.’
‘OK,’ customers nearby have overheard and whisper, shaking their heads. We join in, shrugging our shoulders.
‘Wonder if they’ve had a rush on the ham or something?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah perhaps?’
The waitress is back, ‘sorry we can’t do any sandwiches today.’
With no further explanation, we’re left to browse for a second choice. We both end up with fish and chips. Lucy being from Yorkshire considers herself the connoisseur of this particular dish, so I’m surprised at her choice.
‘Wow, so are Southern fish and chips good enough for you today?’
‘Haha, yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve been home, so I’ll give them a try in lieu of sandwiches.’
I don’t think the chef heated the oil enough though because Lucy's opinion of Southern fish and chips was not improved; they’re as disappointing as a drunken first date. Pale batter that hasn’t had the time, nor the heat to crisp, encasing unknown white fish used in place of cod to keep the costs down and reserves up. The thought still makes me heave.
On top of poor service and worse food, we exclusively talked about Giles. Re-running yesterday; whether she was right to break her rule of mixing business and pleasure; what a coincidence it was to see him there yesterday; what to wear tonight; re-running yesterday again; how to wear her hair tonight; need I say more?
We’ve all had our nearest and dearest meeting the love of their life. Then we've all had to live through the one-way process of analysing every detail whilst they hobby-horse between excitement and self-doubt. But, all the while I sense she wishes she was with Giles at this moment. She’s consumed.
‘You’re keen on him then?’
‘Hate to admit it, but yeah, I can’t get him out of my head.’
This is hard to stomach because something about our relationship has already changed. All because of this handsome stranger who a few days ago meant nothing to her. Lucy is no longer happy with my company. That’s a place we’ve never been. It hurts.
‘Just be careful, as my Mum says, if something seems too good to be true, it probably is, I keep my tone light.
‘Oh Paula, chill, I’m only going to a quiz night with him.’
But my dislike for Giles is fundamental, although it’s not one I’m able to quantify yet, so I proceed with caution. I’m filled with a racetrack of emotions as I peer through the fragile window of pending disaster.
‘OK, OK!’ I hold my palms up in surrender, but inside I resolve to find a justifiable reason not to like Giles Harrington.
I don’t hang around. I planned my next move whilst Lucy droned on over lunch. As soon as I’m back within the privacy of my pastel living room, I’m on my phone. I fuss Boob with my free hand as I scroll my contacts with the other. Lucy may have a point about becoming a private detective, I have a lot of connections I could call on to get started.
There he is, Mohammad or Mo to his friends too lazy to get through all three syllables of his given name. We worked together when I was in the police. He wasn’t my partner, but he’s bright and we bounced well off each other, challenging thoughts to precipitate new perspectives that generally led to convictions.
I’ve called on him on too many occasions to count, but this time my thumb shakes as I press ‘dial’. I’ve not spoken to him for a while now, but this isn’t why. My heart beats a nervous drum as I take the first step to finding out something about Giles Harrington that concurs with my instinct. I open a window to let air into the stuffy room. Mo is the best chap to find answers.
‘Say his name again,’ Mo instructs after brief hi’s and how are you's.
‘Giles Harrington…’ silence.
His brain is working, I can hear thoughts weaving through the visceral barriers of his memory.
He takes his time before he replies, ‘I knew it sounded familiar… charming fellow, tall about 6’2,’ dark hair and well-built. Well-spoken too, bit of a twang to his accent?’
‘Yeah, that sounds familiar. If you’re right, how do you know him?’ My heart hammers.
‘Well, assuming it’s the same Giles Harrington, he came home from work one day a few years ago now to find his wife, from memory she was called Steph, dead in bed.’
‘What?’ I’m thinking this is bad, there’s no way Mo would remember this guy if he hadn’t been questioned. Whilst this is common in these cases, something must have stood out.
‘Yeah. I didn’t work the case, but I was drafted into view the interviews. There were suspicions, but he wasn’t cracking. When we questioned him, he had an airtight alibi, he’d been at work all day. But there was something off about the guy. I didn’t like him. You've met them; way too calm. His wife had suddenly died yet he was so composed.’
‘Did anything come of it?’ I dare to ask, preparing for the worst.
‘Nah, they never charged him. I always thought, he was one that got away. She was found in bed as if she had peacefully drifted off. But when we checked her phone records, she’d made an
unanswered call just before her time of death. That might not mean a thing, it was only instinct, there was no proof.’
‘Who was the call to?’
‘Burner, untraceable. I’m speaking from memory here so don’t hold me to it.’
‘No of course not,’ I shuffle towards the front of my sofa, ‘it does sound suspicious though.’
‘Yeah, the Doc thought so too. Wouldn’t sign off her death certificate. She had a post-mortem.’
‘Oh..? So she’d been to the doctors within two weeks and he still wouldn’t approve it?’ I clarify the points Mo assumes I’ve filled in from experience.
‘Indeed…’
‘What did the PM show up?’ My voice sounds an octave higher than normal as I hold my breath.
‘I can’t remember one hundred percent, but she’d had a crack on her head...’
‘Whoa?’ I lean back in the seat, thudding my head against the firm cushion.
‘Yeah, but again, it can amount to nothing. She was feeble, could have fallen.’
This is not good. What to do, what to do…
Mo fills the silence I’ve created whilst I take in the information. ‘You say he’s getting into a relationship with your friend?’
‘Yeah.’
I’m not big on words right now. This isn’t what you want to hear. You want to be wrong about people. You want to have your friend safe. But what can I tell her? Her new boyfriend in waiting suffered a terrible trauma. His wife died. Tragic. And how can I tell her I’ve been checking up on him?
‘How did his wife die?’ I shift my position under the weight of Boob now sleeping and chasing dreamy squirrels.
‘Ah well, this is the weird thing, she had a pre-existing heart condition. She’d had it all her life, but her diagnosis only came in her twenties. She was in the Fire Brigade and I seem to remember that she failed her standard fitness test which raised questions.’ I hear him move his phone to his other ear. ‘From what I can gather, she was in and out of the hospital for a while, having tests and operations. One was to fit a stent, so she was in a serious state. The other, I think was for an arterial graft, or something, to redirect the blood flow and lighten the load on her heart. Anyway, nothing worked, she had infections, then drugs to fix the infections, but she wasn’t right. Until that point, she’d been a star at the Brigade. She’d won some award for bravery or something so it was an eye opener for a few guys on her watch aswell.’
This was rough for someone who had been an adrenalin junkie. I've met a lot of firefighters and am friends with some. When I was on the job, we’d often work the same cases. It’s the same in the police, you’ve got to totally want to be on the team to get through the basic training. You can’t be passive about risking your life. That takes someone who gets off on stress.
‘Did she have to do light duties?’ I ask checking whether the LFB considered her too much of a liability to be in the thick of things.
‘Yeah, when she was able to work at all,’ he pauses and I can tell he’s mulling something over. ‘Giving up what you love to go fitting smoke alarms for old ladies must be rough.’
I agree it must have been an adjustment. No danger of needing to stop, drop and roll sticking smoke alarms to the ceiling with double-sided sticky tape.
It sounds as if that applied to the rest of her life too. As Mo carries on, he explains how her health condition had also changed her hobbies. Guess if you have to calm down, then that’s across all areas of your life. The strange thing is though; I think she did it. She stopped activities that would cut her lifespan short.
‘She used to rock climb before her health headed south, this Giles, the husband, kept going on about that in the interview; odd…’ he pauses as he considers this again a few years on from the first time he ran it through his internal computer. ‘It was like he’d already lost his wife, so her actual death was inconsequential somehow.’ He lets out his breath, whistling down the handset, ‘do you know what rings out more than anything else?’.
‘Go on...’
‘When the interview finished he said, all matter of fact, thank you, I feel I have received a fair hearing. It was such a strange thing to say.’
We hang up the call with us both having suspicions this case is cold no more. Mo will call me after he’s sifted through the file in the office. No Copper enjoys having one get away, so when it becomes personal, we’re not going to fail a second time. One way or another, we’ll make sense of this case. We may not have said it to each other yet, but we're both on-board.
LUCY
I am so freaking excited! I can’t help it. Yes, this guy is a client and I should be more professional, but my heart is hammering out of my chest. I don’t even like pub quizzes!
I’ve already tried on every outfit I own and combined every mix and match option. I’m now at the local glass-domed shopping centre desperately trying to find something more suitable than my existing wardrobe full of clothes.
‘They're lovely on you my dear,’ the lady who minds the changing room to fend off the blandness of retirement disturbs my private thoughts.
Hmm, probably dump these then. ‘Ah, thanks!’ I prefer this platitude to anything involving more honesty. ‘I’m still not sure though, the petite jean range is always so limited – the waist is a little high.’ I brush my hand over the centre of my belly.
What time is it? I panic, and struggle to uncover my phone from the bundle of discarded items plonked on the stool in the corner of the small cubicle. Three hours before pickup time and still no outfit!
I quickly gather my discarded articles, roughly putting items back on any old hanger. I pass my rejects back to the elderly assistant. Off to the next shop then!
As I enter the white and glass fronted unit, I stand under the air conditioning and frantically scan the shop floor. Jeans are back right, so off I march, quickly scouring the rails as I go, scooping up a top on the way. Lovely, a range of skinny jeans that sit on my hips. I select my size and am on my way to another set of changing rooms.
‘Can I try these on please?’ I catch sight of myself in the mirror as the assistant hands me the tag indicating I have two garments. The afternoon has obviously taken its toll. My hair is hanging limp, framing my round face, which incidentally is pink aswell as blotchy. I feel worse than I did when I started this expedition – who said shopping was fun?
I pull the jeans up over my naked thighs and hey presto, they fit. I give my reflection a high five in the mirror. A private moment of utter glee. I’ve found that shapeliness you get when they hug your figure in all the right places. The top is of equal success as it skims over the pouch of my stomach. I’m not fat, but we all have bits we like to hide don’t we!
I sigh outwardly in relief and then blanch as the next cubicle giggles, ‘you having a similar day to me?’ A disembodied voice rings out.
‘At least we’re all in the same boat.’ It’s funny how an innocuous comment from a complete stranger can instantly lighten my mood.
I glance back towards the mirror again, there's a stab in my mid chest. I run my hand around the neckline of my proposed top – is it too low? I have that problem with being short. Tops tend to be cut for someone with a longer body and so I often show more cleavage than I’d prefer. Hmm, I mull it over and then adopt a fuck-it attitude, time is running out, it’ll do. It is a date after all. With that, I quickly manoeuvre myself out of the tiny changing cubicle and head in the direction of the till before I can change my mind.
Back in the car, the hands free buzzes a muted cry for help.
‘Can I come over?’ I ask when Paula answers.
‘I thought you were going out with Giles?’ I can tell she’s confused, and I sense she’s pleased too, but I’m not sure.
‘Yeah I am, I just want to nip in. I bought a new outfit but now I’m doubting my choice.’
Ten minutes later Boob is showing me how excited she is to see me by jumping way more than is normal considering the frequency of my visits. She’s all
smiles and frantic pawing with a good amount of high pitched whining thrown in for good measure.
‘Whoa, Boob, calm it will you, I’m pleased to see you too.’
I pat her head, but she’s getting in the way as I try to enter the slim hallway. I don’t have time for all this, so sadly her toothy dog smile is relegated to second place behind the all-important contents of my newly acquired ten pence carrier bag. I battle through her wall of furry muscle to gain entry for myself and said carrier bag. It's no easy feat, but I’m not to be deterred today, I push past.
‘The problem with this date is I’m trying to balance two contrasting situations.’ We head upstairs to Paula's plain magnolia bedroom. I shiver. This room is always a degree cooler than the rest of her house.
I continue, ‘I need to fit in with a room full of the more ageing population,’ I joke, highlighting my point by speaking in a posh voice, ‘whilst creating the impression of a sophisticated young lady with sexual undertones,’ I expand my vocal range dropping low at the mention of carnal prospects.
‘They are not necessarily mutually exclusive,’ agrees Paula chuckling, ‘although they should be. Let’s see, then.’
I faff with the tissue paper, catching my fingers in my haste.
‘OK, but honestly, finding the balance from the limited selection available in my size on a short, sharp shopping trip in a local town centre wasn’t easy.’
‘Just get it on, you’re running out of time.’
‘OK, OK.’
Tugging the final piece of my outfit over my head, I slump, waiting for her verdict. Her index finger is to her lips. She's not saying much.
She rummages in her wardrobe. ‘Try this instead.’
She pulls out a black, button up v neck dress, fitted with a wide belt which pulls it in deliciously at the waist. The length sits just above my knee with a frill on the hem of the skirt. It instantly turns severe but sexy, into fun and flirty. It’s perfect.