by T M Heron
45
On Saturday morning I awake tired but with a sense of purpose.
It was not as easy as I anticipated following Tasha Driver home last night. Unlike teenage girls she didn’t go to sports practice then straight home. Rather, she met up with friends and went drinking. Her choice of watering holes were alternative-style places that looked a lot like someone’s lounge. Places I never knew existed and I had a difficult time fading into the background. In the end I defaulted to waiting outside for her in the cold. It made for a long night.
Tasha finally went home at one in the morning. Home is in Newtown. I’m not visiting her there until Sunday night. I want to minimize the time between when we first become acquainted, and her first opportunity to appear at work, which is Monday. I don’t wish for her to have the chance to plan some kind of resistance or confide in a trusted friend for advice. I want her off-guard and back-pedaling and scrambling to meet my requests without the option of doing anything other than complete capitulation.
◆◆◆
Ingrid and I meet at the basement around midday. We could go to a café, but a record low is sweeping over the city and temperatures are glacial. The basement with its dedicated firm car park and the internal access and thoughtfully designed interior is a no-brainer. It is also more intimate than a café. Who knows what may eventuate?
I wonder if Ingrid is even thinking about this. Last Wednesday we kissed. That kiss was life-changing for me. Despite everything that has been going on I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Has she been thinking about it too? It’s bloody Saturday and I’ve hardly heard from her since Wednesday, let alone seen her. The odd times we’ve talked I’ve waited for her to raise what happened Wednesday night. A normal woman would. They’d have dissected every part of it, analyzed it to death and would now be baying for an in-depth discussion.
“How was the rest of your week?” is what Ingrid says, as she sits down.
“What about the kiss?” I want to say to her. “How can you just ignore something so significant?” But I sit down beside her and try not to look sulky or slighted. “I’ve found Jo’s secret bank,” I say. “It’s the Kilbirnie FCB.”
“You’re kidding me. How did that happen?”
“Jo had two hours between the Day Spa and her massage. The woman can’t go two minutes without eating. The FCB is between her two favorite fast-food outlets.”
“And that’s why you think it might be her bank?”
“No, that’s why I know it’s her bank.” My thoughts divert for a second to Jo’s diary, a monologue of observations about me. “Jo and I knew each other far better than either of us would’ve ever realized.”
“That’s oblique,” says Ingrid.
“I hope to get my hands on the bank statements tomorrow.”
“How?”
Hmmm. How to tell Ingrid that I’ve already selected a teller and followed her home? How to say that on Sunday night I will break into her home and terrify her into doing whatever I want?
“I’ll speak to some people I know tomorrow,” is what I say instead. I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with lying to Ingrid. But this not a lie. I’ll no doubt speak to plenty of people I know in the course of my normal day.
“That’s great news. And hopefully they’ll give us more info on whatever it was Jo had become involved with. But my gut still points to this thing with Anthony.”
I stand up and start making us both a tea. English Breakfast for me, Rosehip with Ginger for her.
“I’m somewhat uneasy at investigating Anthony. It’s the fastest way to get myself thrown out of the partnership.” I haven’t told Ingrid the full truth about just how precarious my situation is at Bakers right now. She knows nothing of my deadline this Friday.
Ingrid protests, as I feared she would. “But she had something over him. You know she did. Why else would he have arranged for Charlotte to go to St Andrews and Jo to work at Bakers? And all around the time of mid to late 2015.”
I sit back down and hand her the tea. It smells like a gift shop.
“We need to look into what was happening with Anthony around June 2015,” she says.
“It’s pointless,” I say. “He was in Waiheke when Jo was killed. I spoke to him when he was flying back. It was a terrible connection. You could tell he was in a plane.”
“I know he didn’t do it personally. I checked his flight path and he was definitely on Waiheke. But he could’ve arranged it. He could’ve paid someone to do it.”
“He’s not like that. He would never put himself in a position where someone had something that damaging over him.”
“He was in that very position,” says Ingrid, her cheeks coloring. “Jo had something over him. Jo had something damaging, and she was exploiting it. I want to look into it.” She puts down her tea and places a hand on my knee. “Let me do what I do best.”
The second her hand touches my knee it becomes difficult to process my thoughts with any degree of coherency. The prominent thought in my head is that we may be at the lead-in to another kiss. Then I feel a tightening in my groin and self-consciously move a file over the area least it becomes conspicuous.
“Please tread carefully,” I say weakly. And I’m not entirely sure what I’m referring to.
“I will. Anthony has house staff. Whenever there are staff there is always someone who has loose lips. Also, there’s this cop who may have information for me, I can guarantee he’s a hundred percent discreet.”
My poor heart jumps with alarm and suspicion. “Guarantee?”
“He likes me. He’d never jeopardize that.”
I want to tell her I don’t want her anywhere near this guy but she’s just taken her hand off my knee and I’m concentrating on getting certain autonomous body functions under control.
“All right,” I say, “all right. Do what you have to. But have a thought for my feelings.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them. This is exactly what happens when we’re in close proximity and first her hand is on my knee and then it isn’t, and I’m not thinking straight, and my heart is in my mouth as to what is going to happen next. “I do have feelings, you know,” I say belatedly. “First the dean. Now a cop.”
Ingrid’s eyes are fathomless. “Information is a commodity and there are many ways to trade. I don’t sleep with any of these men and I don’t have feelings for them.”
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
“I can’t tonight. I’m having dinner with that cop in exchange for a file.”
“Fine, have breakfast with me tomorrow morning — after we wake up together.”
She laughs.
“So callous,” I say, with more levity than I feel. “Did that kiss not mean anything to you?”
Ingrid smiles again. “It was just a kiss.”
For a moment I could stab her. “It was just a kiss. A kiss that needs to be followed up with dinner. This coming Wednesday.”
“I have reservations about working with people and dating them. No matter what the chemistry.”
Suddenly I want to dance and sing because she has alluded to chemistry. “I don’t think we’re going to be working together much longer,” I say. “I’ll book at table at Verde for eight o’clock Wednesday evening. You will be there, I will be there, and we will have dinner there together.”
An unreadable look passes over her face. “Okay,” she says. “But now I have to go.”
I stand and help her with her coat but don’t attempt to kiss her, although I long to do just that. We have a date Wednesday night and I am fortified.
Once she has left, I snort a line and try not to think too hard about her having dinner with that cop tonight. My thoughts turn to the possibility of me sleeping with Ingrid. What once seemed a hopelessly remote outcome has now become an imaginable possibility. Even through my coke-infused confidence it worries me. I’ve had years and years of not bothering to satisfy women. Now I’m unsure as to how one procures such
knowledge over the course of four days.
46
It’s Sunday evening and I’ve been watching Tasha’s house most of the day. She slept late then went out for brunch and by four-thirty it is cold and already getting dark and I’m tired of hanging around in my car. So I make the executive decision to break in to her house, which is sure to be warmer, and wait there.
I’ve always enjoyed the exercise of picking locks. It’s something I was doing when other ten-year-olds were gaming. My current pick is state of the art, courtesy of Chang. The art-form of picking will of course die out with the advent of electronic keys, and I’m reflecting on this with pre-emptive nostalgia as I pick Tasha Driver’s front door.
To label her apartment block modest would be a euphemism, and I can picture Tasha’s fellow residents being largely indifferent to a strange man playing with the lock next door. Fortunately, my surveillance team, who would take issue, are waiting patiently outside Fernando’s where they believe I’m dining. Unbeknown to them, Fernando’s has a secret exit and the manager is an acquaintance of mine, so until it closes, and they realize they’ve lost me I’m safe as houses.
I pocket my pick set and close the door, the weather howling behind me. Inside, if possible, is colder than outside. I flick on an LED pen torch and scan the room for the fastest way of warming up, short of holding both hands in the fridge. There’s a small fan heater in the corner of her living room which proves inadequate, but further reconnaissance unearths a thermal blanket from the bedroom. Desperate measures.
To amuse myself while I await Tasha’s arrival I sit in the dark with my pen torch and flick through a reference book on insects I found lying on her coffee table. I checked the shelves for something lighter but Tasha as it would happen has an all-consuming interest in entomology. Somewhere into the better part of half an hour I find myself to be strangely cozy as I sit in Tasha’s dark apartment furthering my knowledge on Vespidae.
Shortly after, Tasha ruins the ambience by arriving home. She turns on the light and there I am, snuggled up in front of the heater.
I pull out my gun and point it at her in a low-key, non-threatening manner. The gun is an imitation of a limited-edition Glock pistol and it sits in my hand looking sleek and classy and lethal and all those other things guns are meant to be.
I don’t own a real gun and if I did I’d never have brought it here because the last thing I want to do is accidentally blow Tasha’s head off. It’s a great imitation, though. At least I assume it is, because it was illegally purchased, and I paid a lot of money for it.
“Welcome home,” I say. “How was your day?”
Tasha looks at her handbag. Maybe she thinks this is a home invasion, which is an exasperating thought as I hardly look like a common burglar.
“It’s not an armed robbery,” I say, still managing to force a little congeniality into my tone. “Honestly, what do you have worth taking? Sit down, Tasha. Have a seat, won’t you?”
Tasha draws a chair away from the table and sits facing me. Her hands are linked loosely in her lap and she crosses her legs at the ankle in a manner that appears disarmingly unconcerned, and I have a moment of panic that she is a handgun expert and recognizes the Glock to be a fake, until I remember that her field of expertise is in fact insects.
“Fact or fiction?” I say. “Wasps sleep hanging by their teeth.”
“Fact,” says Tasha, “They can hibernate for months in that fashion.”
She looks pointedly at the gun.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” I say. “But I need you to do me a favor — which is non-optional. Although I’m sweetening the deal with a gratuity.” I pull out a wad of cash and toss it on the table. “It’s to do with the bank,” I say.
Tasha looks at the cash, then at her blasted handbag again, then at me. Her breathing is slow and even and there’s nothing in her body language revealing alarm or panic. This being the case, the situation is more surreal for me than her. I purse my lips.
“You know,” she says, “when we start at the bank we go on a course about how to deal with situations like this.”
“Good,” I say. “So I’m assuming what you actually get told on these courses is, don’t be a hero. If that’s what you’ve been told it was good advice.”
Tasha sighs and moves closer to the heater. I should probably offer her the blanket, but it’s surprisingly comforting for something that’s sure to be synthetic.
“What is it you want?” she asks. “You know it’s impossible for me to physically steal money for you.”
“I don’t want money. Do I look like someone who needs money? That’s three thousand dollars on the table right there,” I snap, trying hard not to show my offense.
“So, it’s information you’re needing.”
I reward her with a killer smile, which has little effect. She just sits there looking as if I’m gate-crashing the monotonous evening she had planned.
“I need the last six months’ bank statements of every account of Jo Johnson, either in her name or jointly with her husband,” I say. “Or jointly with anyone else,” I add, which is a nice touch and I’m pleased to be sounding so switched on.
I hand Tasha a piece of paper with Jo’s name and address on it. “That’s her middle name, her husband’s full name, their birthdates, everything you’ll need.”
Tasha puts the paper on the table beside the cash. “What if I get caught?”
“You’ll get fired, of course. As rightly you should be.”
“And three thousand dollars is meant to make up for that?”
“No, Tasha, three thousand dollars is a bonus if you’re a clever girl and manage to covertly pull off what is essentially a very simple task. This favor I’m asking you, it’s a one-off. It’s not like I’m requiring any kind of long-term commitment from you.”
Tasha looks at the cash on the table as if she’s still considering.
“I need your mobile number,” I say impatiently.
She writes it down and passes it to me.
“Good. Now I need this information first thing tomorrow morning. What time is your break?”
“Ten-thirty. Normally.”
“Well, that’s exactly what tomorrow is going to be for you. Another normal day. You can meet me outside Emilia’s Book Emporium at ten-thirty with everything, and you never need see me again. How does that sound?”
“Like blackmail.”
“Wrong. Blackmail involves extortion of some kind. This isn’t extortion. It’s, well, it’s a threat. You’re not going to like what I’ll do to you if you don’t do this one easy thing for me. I’m not sure you quite appreciate the threat element.”
Something vaguely resembling fear crosses Tasha’s face. Immediately my mojo kicks in. She’s on board. We’re in it together.
“Go and put that cash somewhere safe,” I tell her.
She stands up, picks up the cash and puts it under The Giant Book of Bugs on her bookshelf.
“Seriously, Tasha? That’s ridiculous. It’s the first place anyone shaking down the place would look.” Why do I get the urge to impress her? “Do you have any ice cream in the freezer?”
“Any—”
“Get it out. Here, I’ll get it.”
I hurry over to her fridge-freezer which is a scrappy looking item of about the same vintage as the heater. To her credit, the ice cream is Haagen-Dazs. The lady knows how to treat herself.
“You dig out most of the ice cream, thus.” I neatly carve out the ice cream and place it on the bench. Despite the heater it’s in no danger of melting. “Then you put the cash — here, give me the cash — at the bottom, and cover it back up with a layer of ice cream.”
I pat some of the ice cream on top of the cash and seal back the lid. “Then back it goes in the freezer. That cash will never be stolen. Not in a million years.”
“Not unless you break in,” says Tasha.
Some people just don’t know how to say thank you.
◆◆◆
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I spend Sunday night with my mother and sister as normal. If I haven’t solved Jo’s murder by Friday this will be the last Sunday we do this. I would be happy never to see my sister again but the thought of not continuing this comforting routine with my mother leaves me maudlin. Unless they let me out on bail.
They won’t let you out on bail, says Helena. Murderers don’t get bail.
47
Ingrid calls me as I’m driving to work on Monday morning. “Do you have time for a quick catch up?”
“How about nine in the basement?”
“See you there.”
My heart races. Nothing is going to happen in the basement but just seeing her excites me beyond belief.
My excitement is somewhat dampened when I see Anthony Hartman sitting at my desk, in front of my computer, when I arrive at the office. Despite everything, I have to observe he really is an incredibly handsome man and looks almost as good as I must look sitting there.
“Ah, there you are. Gentlemen’s hours.”
I glance at the desk clock, which is very similar to Carla’s. “It’s eight o’clock,” I say. I take the anger at him violating my office space and push it way down. If I really do get arrested, he’d better hope I don’t get bail. Might as well be hung for a sheep.
“Eight is gentlemen’s hours for your final week of work.”
I drop my briefcase on a chair. Eliza has appeared outside my window and is looking highly agitated at discovering the status quo in my office. As she should be. I will punish her with indifference.