You Can't Make Old Friends

by Tom Trott

  ‘Morning, Lenny, how are you doing?’ I asked as I moved past him.

  ‘Alright, you know, boss. Alright.’

  He was smiling, I took that as an omen that today might, after all, get better not worse.

  ‘How has this morning been?’ I realised I needed to have a conversation that wasn’t about a dead friend.

  ‘Damp.’

  ‘What do you do if it’s damp?’

  ‘Move around. Nothing much more you can do.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  By this point I was squatting down next to him, leaning on the wall, getting some strange looks from the tourists and shoppers walking past who were wondering why I had broken the rules and actually spoken to someone on the street.

  ‘Job Centre.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘They made me wait around for ages. But they always do that.’

  ‘No hope of actually getting a job then?’

  ‘No fixed address, chief. No one wants to know.’

  ‘That’s tough. No luck getting a place?’

  ‘In this city?’

  ‘Good point.’ I couldn’t argue with that, I was practically on the sharp end of it myself. ‘What made you come to Brighton?’

  ‘I spent two days living in Gatwick. I had enough for a coach, the first coach I saw was coming here.’

  ‘Why were you living in the airport?’

  ‘I was in America.’

  ‘America? You never told me that.’

  ‘Yeah. Twenty-five years. New York and San Francisco.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Construction, you know. Manual stuff.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a bad place to be out of work.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just what it sounds like. Did you know, in New York the bars are just for Italians, Irish, black fellas, etc.?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  I liked it when he told me stories. I guess because they were honest. No bullshit, just what he had seen.

  ‘I knew some black fellas, and you see they all hated me because they thought I was Irish. Irish-American. People would say, “no, he’s English” and they would go “Oh, England, we like it there.” One fella said “I went to London, and there were black folks and white folks in the same bars.” I said, “What do you mean?”, he said, “Here, we have to look in through the windows, and if there’s no black folks inside we can’t go in.” Terrible.’

  ‘That is terrible.’

  He had successfully diverted my attention, I was having thoughts about something else for the first time today.

  ‘Brighton is the best place to be homeless,’ he continued.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Have you ever been anywhere else, London, Liverpool, Manchester, and seen someone walking down the street, singing to themselves?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. Why?’ I wasn’t sure what this had to do with homelessness.

  ‘People look at them, point at them and stuff. Shout things at them. In Brighton, that doesn’t happen because people can just be who they want to be. It’s like two men or two women kissing, everywhere else people take a second look, they tut or something. But here they don’t. And it goes the same for us folks, I get my share of looks but as long as it’s looks and not people shouting I’m alright.’

  ‘I guess I take it for granted,’ I said, ‘not having lived anywhere else.’

  ‘You shouldn’t.’

  I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Nice chatting with you, Lenny.’ I stood up. ‘What you up to the rest of the day?’

  ‘Go to the library. Spend most of the day in there when it’s cold.’

  ‘What do you do to pass the time, do you read?’

  ‘Watch movies on my phone. Free Wi-Fi in there.’

  I still found it funny that these days even guys without somewhere to live have a smartphone. That says a lot, doesn’t it? Which problems we fix. Rather than give people homes, we’ve given them a power socket and Wi-Fi, and the best they can do is escape to a world of pirated films.

  ‘There’s some nice pair of shoes waiting for you up there.’ This was Lenny’s way of saying someone had gone in the street door to my office and not come out.

  ‘Heels or brogues?’

  ‘Slip-ons. But a man.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I stood up to more strange looks and took the few short steps down Meeting House Lane.

  I left the street door unlocked during the day, that way people could let themselves in and wait on the landing. So far this had not been abused, even by Lenny, who could just sit inside the door to get away from the cold, but didn’t. I was pretty sure that in his position I wouldn’t be so honourable.

  I made it up the stairs to the tiny landing outside my office, the boards creaking beneath my feet. Someone was indeed waiting on one of the beaten-up wooden chairs outside my beaten-up wooden door. From behind I could see them reading the words etched on the rippled glass window: “J. GRABARZ” and underneath, “No.1 Private Detective”. A client, at last. I needed a paying job. I rounded the corner and took a look at him.

  He was too smart. Thirty-odd with a tailored three-piece suit and slip-on leather shoes with silly tassels. The hair on the top of his head was a shiny slicked black liquorice and the bottom half was designer stubble. I got the distinct feeling that he went to the gym, and had a skincare routine. Not a client.

  I got out my key and slipped it into the lock.

  ‘Mr Grabarz?’ he intoned. Anyone who intones my name normally wants a piece of me.

  ‘I’m his cleaner.’

  ‘Rufus Grimace.’

  He said it like it should mean something to me. I suppose it did, but I resented that.

  ‘Lawyer.’ I spat the word at him like an insult, which it was, and left my key hanging in the door.

  ‘You hate lawyers, I’m sure.’

  ‘I love lawyers.’ I smiled as genuinely as I could pretend, ‘Estate Agents. Politicians. Anyone who makes me feel like I have scruples.’

  He ignored the joke, ‘You haven’t replied to any of our letters.’

  I had been getting two a week from his firm for the last month, but lots of people have tried to demand money from me, and they never get it.

  ‘Your client didn’t like what I found,’ I said, ‘so he refused to pay. I can live with that, it’s part of the job. But threatening to sue me, just to get their retainer back? That’s low.’

  ‘No one is threatening to sue you.’ Now it was his turn to grin, ‘They are suing you.’

  He pushed an envelope into my chest so that I had no choice but to take it. A court summons, no doubt. I saw a flash of silver from his inside pocket as he did it.

  I took a longer look at his tailored suit, pampered face, and oily hair before I spoke. The suit had a not-too-subtle plaid pattern, and with it a flashy melton, second right pocket, and contrast stitching. Every extra option a tailor gives you. When people with no taste get their first bespoke suit, they always go too far. This specimen had obviously ascended into high-end people-milking and transferred the money from his first payslip straight to Gresham Blake.

  ‘Your retainer clearly costs more than mine, what exactly do they expect to get out of me?’ I asked.

  He chuckled, ‘Well, not money.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘There are other private detectives in this city.’

  ‘Yeah: two. Who was it, Alderney or Clyde?’

  ‘We know exactly how many pounds are in your bank balance, Mr Grabarz. And it’s not even enough to cover this month’s rent, is it. Let alone last month’s too.’

  I wanted to punch him, but I resisted the urge and reserved my anger for Clarence Alderney. Clarence was the respectable private dick in this town. The one the rich went to. He was second-generation Sri Lankan Tamil and counter-programmed this by dressing like a Ra
j colonialist. He always wore a cream suit and carried an ivory-topped cane, despite being hardly older than me. He was a good detective for those kinds of small cases. The no-danger kind. I was surprised he was willing to work against another private eye though. It felt to me like he was breaking some kind of code. But as I knew too well, everyone has to pay rent.

  I acted like it was nothing, ‘So it’s Alderney then. Clyde can’t count.’

  I’d like to think he bought it, but he was smarter than that. He just turned to leave. Perhaps he was embarrassed for me. How dare he be embarrassed for me?

  ‘Wait,’ I said.

  He turned back, trying to keep the pity out of his face.

  I stepped forward and reached a hand underneath his jacket, into his inside pocket, he barely flinched. Pulling out his silver business card holder, I popped it open, slid a card into my hand, clipped it back shut, and gently put it back in his pocket.

  ‘How else will I get in touch?’ I explained, uncomfortably close to him.

  He turned to leave again, but after a few steps he stopped.

  ‘My client doesn’t want your money, Mr Grabarz,’ he said with a smirk on the back of his head, ‘Just your reputation.’

  He started down the stairs.

  ‘Is that all?’ I called.

  ‘That or you can do the job you were hired to do: investigate ABC Construction.’

  And with that, he was gone.

  I remembered that. Investigate ABC Construction, it was all I had been told. It had been a phone call, a week after the police blacklisted me. I was feeling miserable and probably in a stupor. The rain lashing against my office window, and I could hear two cats screaming at each other over the last dry spot in the alley. I was drinking beer again. The problem with me and beer is that I can drink it like water.

  The phone rang and a male voice told me that they would pay five-thousand pounds for me to ‘investigate ABC Construction’.

  ‘That’s all you want to tell me?’ I had asked.

  ‘Your client is very cautious, Mr Grabarz.’

  ‘Really, well if you’re not my client, who is?’

  ‘Your client is the person who’s paying you.’

  ‘Listen, mate, I’m very cautious too.’

  There was the sound of some thinking from the other end of the line.

  ‘I might be working for a criminal,’ I added.

  ‘Would that be a problem?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But I’d rather know before I did the job than find out afterwards when the police break down my door.’ At least if they told me no I could say they told me no.

  ‘There’s no need to worry, Mr Grabarz. It’s nothing like that.’

  The client was Todman Concrete, he said. It wasn’t a front as far as I knew. Looking back now, the voice could have been Grimace, the lawyer. I insisted on a fifteen-percent retainer. I used to get thirty.

  I figured Todman had more money than sense and wanted to do due diligence on ABC before they gave them any contracts, or something like that. Maybe I saw it as a way of making a good amount of money for very little work. Maybe.

  I read in the Argus that ABC Construction and Todman Concrete had had a ruckus, and that it was slowing the building of the new development down in the marina. I doorstepped their press agent one wet morning.

  ‘Mr Singh?’

  ‘Yes, who are you?’

  To tell him, I had to chase the silver-haired man as he hurried to his BMW: ‘Dan Harman, from The Argus,’ I handed him a business card that said just that.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m writing a story about this ruckus with Todman Concrete. Care to comment?’

  He sighed, ‘Sadly they did not meet the high standards we expected from their firm.’

  He went to open his car door but I stood where it would open so that he had to deal with me first.

  ‘What does that mean? That could mean almost anything.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I want to get out of this rain. Make an appointment at our office.’

  ‘I can’t do that, I’m spending the rest of the day with Todman, they’re very happy to talk.’

  ‘I’m sure they are.’ He sighed again. ‘Look, we needed a higher grade mix of concrete than they supplied. The whole building could have come down. And if you don’t know what that means, go to the library and look it up.’

  I stepped out of the way of his door.

  ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m getting wet.’

  Nothing too unusual in that. So I went to my usual sources, I didn’t have any in the building trade. Lenny hadn’t heard anything fishy through the grapevine and neither had George.

  ‘They’re clean, Joe. I know it.’

  ‘I’m giving you fifty quid so just run them through the system for me.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ he insisted.

  ‘I’m giving you fifty quid.’

  He ran them, and he was right, they came up clean. There was nothing dodgy with ABC as far as the police were concerned.

  With that done, I needed my five grand so I wired them what I had found and waited for the money to turn up in my account. That’s when the letters started.

  I had done a “poor job”, and they demanded their retainer back. This happens a lot in the trade. People hire you to find proof of something, and when it turns out to be untrue they refuse to pay. Textbook denial. They’re convinced you didn’t look hard enough. They threaten you and sometimes harass you, but they eventually leave you alone. Especially if you give them a smack round the head. But Todman Concrete were one of the biggest firms in the South East, they could afford to sue me just out of spite. They wanted my reputation? The police had stripped that from me already.

  Another man passed Grimace on the stairs as he left and jogged up to the landing. He looked around my age, but everything about him said middle class, comfortable living. He was wearing a polo-neck with some kind of symbol over the left breast. What symbol doesn’t matter, just the presence of a logo seems to say “I can afford to buy nice things, unlike you”, although a lot of the time it just says “I have more money than sense.” On top he wore a jacket, also branded, but this time the sort of brand designed to get you to the top of Everest. And jeans, with a satchel at his side. He looked clean shaven and well-rested, two things I have never managed to achieve. Sometimes I get one, but never both.

  I watched him read the words on my door, then he held out a hand for me to shake.

  ‘Joe Grabarz?’

  ‘Yes.’ I didn’t shake it.

  ‘My name’s Jordan Murrows, I’m a reporter.’

  He handed me a card. It just had his name, a phone number, and an email address. No logo.

  ‘From the Argus?’

  ‘Freelance.’

  He got out a recording device and turned it on. It was in my face.

  ‘You must be new, Jordan.’

  ‘I am. I just moved here from London.’

  He had that restless energy about him that good reporters often have. Bad reporters can have it too though.

  ‘Really?’ I said, ‘Wanted to get out of the big smoke?’

  ‘Yeah, get some of the sea air. Brighton’s a much nicer town, I think.’

  I nodded, ‘You’re the reason people born and raised here can’t buy houses.’

  He didn’t really have a reply for that. He’d soon develop one. But he must be tougher than he looked, he had already spent several years being told to fuck off on a daily basis.

  ‘Apparently you’re some kind of detective.’

  Now it was my turn to read the words on my door. What a clever man. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You were on the beach this morning where the body was found.’

  ‘What body?’

  ‘I have photos.’ He smiled. The bastard, he had long-lensed me. He knew how to put a man in a corner. ‘With these kind of grisly details those photos are going to be front page tomorrow. May even make the evening editions today. And o
nline. Care to comment about what you were doing there?’

  ‘On the record?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I leaned into the microphone. ‘I was fisting your sister.’

  He sighed and stopped the recording.

  ‘Now fuck off,’ I added. And he did.

  Once he had finished slamming the downstairs door on his way out, I took the court summons from my pocket. There was something else in there. That photo of Rory and Thalia.

  Thalia. If I could find her that quickly others would be right behind me. The police would definitely want to speak to her. But there might be others, those who Rory was mixed up with, who could think for some foolish reason that she might know something. As though she would be stupid enough to be involved. Still, the thought concerned me, so I slipped the envelope under my door and headed back down the stairs.

  5

  The Little Sister

  i called on the dry-cleaners and found that Thalia had gone home. ‘Personal reasons’, I was disapprovingly told. That meant she already knew, someone had called her. Police, maybe. Seemed unlikely. More likely they had called on Elaine and she had called Thalia. Either way, I extracted her address from the owners and headed on my way.

  It was off The Avenue in Bevendean, the sort of place she could just about afford. A one-bedroom ground-floor flat, apparently, but again being Brighton, “ground floor” could mean a basement or first floor if the ground isn’t flat. The place was round the corner from a commercial strip of takeaways, corner shops, and bookies. No trendy independent coffee shops here. Bevendean has a reputation as the best of the three worst areas of Brighton. It goes Bevendean, Moulsecoomb, Whitehawk. Don’t go there.

  But as I rode up The Avenue, which orbits a large grassy strip that splits lower Bevendean in two, I was struck by quite how much green there was here in this “awful” part of Brighton. I could imagine that in summer, with the sun shining, these green spaces would be filled with children playing football and dogs leaping around madly.