‘There you go. Everyone’s tellin’ you not to worry.’
She shook her proud head. ‘They were very polite. Too polite. Really made me shiver, love.’ She stepped over to the table and put her hand on mine. Her eyes blinked away tears. ‘I was scared. Not for me, but you. Please tell me what’s going on?’
I felt a stinging pain attack my Achilles’ heel. I’d have to give a little. I hated to see her cry. She’d had enough of that when Dad died.
‘That case I’ve taken on – my lady client – well, she kinda died on me. The police are looking into it.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s what they do.’
She looked up sharply. ‘Died?’
I nodded.
‘Do they think you’re involved?’
‘Come on, Mum, you knew enough about Dad’s work to know the answer to that. I’m the only lead they’ve got. They’re making enquiries, trying to eliminate me as a suspect. That’s all.’
‘You’re not involved, are you.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I’d only just met the lady. Honest. There’s not much I can tell them.’
She offered a half smile, but it was only a staging post, disappearing as she went on. ‘What about the other men and this Mr Cartwright? Do I know that name?’
‘You may do. I know Dad knew him. He’s a businessman from Weighton, and he’s on the city council.’
Mum zeroed in a stare. ‘And he sends three heavies to see you because …?’
‘That’s a bit more difficult. I’m guessing here, but I think he’s connected to the lady who died. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it.’
‘You won’t, Edward. I forbid it. You hear me?’
‘Yeah, in big decibels.’
Everyone seemed keen to tell me what to do all of a sudden. Mum was the only one I was ever likely to take notice of, though. Not that I would. I’d never not solved a case, and I didn’t intend to start with my first.
‘You are off this case,’ continued Mum, clasping her hands tight. ‘I’ll give the police a note.’
‘Nice one, but it won’t be necessary. I was never on the case.’
‘Good.’ She tried another smile. ‘I want you to go and see Bob. See if he can help.’
‘There’s no point dragging him into it.’
‘He’s sharp on this type of thing.’
‘Mum, I’ve seen side-partings that are sharper than Bob. Let’s just leave it, okay?’
She paused and nodded to herself. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘I’m uncanny, I know.’
‘Those policemen,’ she said, her chin wobbling slightly. ‘They didn’t know your father, did they?’
‘Nah. I tell you what, though, Mum. Since Dad left, it’s like the Keystone Cops down there.’
She didn’t reply at first, she was obviously thinking back to the hazy, crazy days of Z Cars. Then she caught up. ‘Why don’t you apply to join the police? Like your Dad wanted. Forget the private detective stuff. You know he’d be so proud.’
‘It’s not for me, Mum, but I’ll get there. In a different way, maybe. I promise.’ I hoped she believed me, and I hoped I wasn’t mis-selling myself, either.
Mum knew not to dwell on the subject. She shuffled on. ‘Is Debbie coming round tonight?’
‘I’m going over to her place.’
She wagged a non-permissive finger. ‘Make sure you wear a condom.’
‘Ma, give me a break!’
Mum narrowed her eyes, knowing she didn’t have to say anything else. With a move they could never teach you in Tae Kwon Do, she scooped up my empty mug and plunged it in the soapy suds already overflowing the kitchen sink.
I’d almost forgotten about the lovely Debbie, which could have been fatal, since I’d agreed to go to her flat for a big romantic night in. Or “sex,” as I wasn’t allowed to call it. But having been reminded of Debbie, all I could think about was Kate. I wondered if she was still sitting all lonesome at the Blue Café, a barely touched blueberry muffin pushed to the other side of the table. More likely she’d put out a contract on me, right behind Jimmy in the queue. Oh well, something else to put right.
~
With the thumb of my right hand hooked under her bra cup, I gently stroked Debbie’s breast. Her nipple began to respond, growing until it stood out like Weighton’s only skyscraper.
‘Cut it out, Ed. It’s all you think about!’
Sadly, she wasn’t playing hard to get. Her blue eyes were bitter cold. She sat forward, shook her head, then grabbed her long, straight blonde hair and tied it back. The resulting ponytail flounced around her shoulders. With Debbie, “no” didn’t just mean no, it meant “get lost before I cut your dick off”. To be honest, it didn’t much matter. As my lack of libido would confirm, all I could really think about was the case. Well, that and my new favourite solicitor. Although I swear I made every reasonable effort to desist, especially when I’d been attempting my “love” moves on Deb. In fact, the attempt at foreplay had been for her benefit. Women, eh? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t use ‘em as surf boards.
I leaned back on the sofa in Debbie’s tiny front room and placed my hands in my now-neutered lap. ‘Sorry, I was just looking for the DAB dial. See how Weighton Wanderers got on.’
‘Very funny.’ She pulled a face that indicated otherwise. ‘You used to make me laugh, remember? You’re not funny anymore.’ She looked away. ‘You’re not anything anymore. It’s like I don’t exist. What is the point, Ed? Where are we going?’
‘I think you’re confusing me with a travel agent.’
She looked away and swore under her breath. I had been going out with Debbie for nearly a year but the “future” thing had – until now – never been raised.
‘Just go,’ she said. ‘You’ve been an arsehole all night.’
‘You’re getting funnier by the day, too, you know.’
She crossed her arms and fixed her look on a far-off horizon, the tell-tale sign of a lecture about to begin. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and unemotional.
‘Your mum told me what happened today. All night I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. Not a thing. The dead woman’s even been mentioned on the local news, and what have you got to say? Sorry, Debs, the police almost charged me with murder today, but I didn’t think it worth bothering your pretty head.’
She stood up and smoothed down her top. But the break in sound was only the intermission. Once comfortably adjusted, she seated herself on the arm of the sofa and raised the curtain on Act II.
‘What am I to you? Just a body to fiddle with? Is that it? I’m telling you, Ed, I’ve just about had enough. I preferred it when you didn’t have a job. At least then we talked.’ She pushed a finger into my shoulder blade. ‘Your mum’s right. You need to stop wasting your time on this private investigation nonsense.’ She stared at me for a whole minute, and then looked away. ‘What’s it to be?’
As tirades went it was pretty tiring. But she did have a point.
~
I couldn’t sleep. My mind was full, bulging with big, unhappy thoughts; like logs barging into each other on a congested river.
For some reason I felt sad. If Dad were alive he’d know what to do. He’d put me right. We’d solve the case together. I missed him badly. And Mum missed him a far sight more. She hadn’t been the same since it happened. Deep down, I wanted her to be proud of me, like she was of him. A distance had grown between us, and I wasn’t sure how to put things right.
Debbie felt far away, too. She was already standing on the platform, waiting for that midnight train to Single town. It’s what I deserved.
Trouble is, I don’t do the emotion thing too well. It’s not like I don’t try. If there was a course, I would put my name down for it.
I was on a journey, and I couldn’t go back. In truth it had started in the weeks and months after Dad died. Back then it had been more of a holding pattern. Now a path was stretching out, illuminated by flares. Where it was bound the
re was no telling. And there was no guarantee I’d come back the same. Was that what I was afraid of?
And then there was Kate.
Relationships, eh? Who needed them?
I did. Ain’t that the truth.
It was time for sleep. Tomorrow, like most days, would be announcing itself soon. The Friday type in this case. The weekend was in sight. But first I’d have to wait for the darkness to rescue me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday – 10:00
I was in the groove and back on the case, an appointment with the Right Worshipful Mayor Clegg beckoned. Not that he knew I was coming, of course.
It was early Friday morning and once again I’d switched buses more often than a fare dodger to throw those Cartwright hounds off my trail. Or any persons unknown, for that matter. It was a list that kept on listing. But for the time being at least, my Cherokee sensors were stood down to DEF-CON 3.
After a soothing text to Bob Jones, a few web clicks on the iPhone, and a quick call to the delightful receptionist at Moss & Clarke, Kate’s work number was mine, safely listed under “x” for exalted. It was going to be a good, good day.
Mayor Michael Clegg was the first order of business. Most people in Weighton knew all about him. He was an average looking guy in his mid-fifties, his grey-white hair making him craggy rather than handsome. He was tall, and some said intimidating. He’d been Mayor for two years. In contrast to previous chain wallahs, it had been a high profile stay in office. Since becoming a directly-elected post, the role still hadn’t progressed far beyond the ceremonial, the chief requirement still being a face shaped like a rubber stamp. But “Old Cleggy” had thrown himself about a bit. No small-time politico he. The heavyweight issues in Weighton had not been ignored by the new grey-white hope. In a town full of curve balls he’d become a straight hitter.
He spoke out loud to the good folk of Weighton, usually from the front page of the Post, and his unrelenting theme was crime. Or the proliferation of it, more like. In the last decade, Weighton had usurped even Gotham City in crime’s “League of Shame”. But Clegg had become the town’s sharp-suited crusader. Muggers, thieves and drug pushers weren’t exactly on the run, but at least they were keeping their heads down. It was a lone but amped voice that boomed above the broken boulevards of Weighton.
Not everyone was enjoying Clegg’s crusade, though. Some thought it only a matter of time before the infidels opted for an uprising. Because when you run on a ticket like that, you’re bound to cause a reflux, and there’s a belly-full of bile out there. It just needs direction.
And when two tribes go to war, best not be in the middle.
Without looking up, Clegg’s PA asked, ‘Can I help you?’
She was busy scribbling a note from a preceding telephone call. I endured the silence, waiting for her to look up and gaze deeply into my charm-laden eyes. This she did, but I only drew a microwaved smile, rather than the melting type I’d hoped for. Too bad. She was cute.
‘Yes, help you can,’ I said. ‘Help is always helpful. If I could see the Mayor, that would, indeed, be a big help.’
Her eyebrows converged until they resembled a chenille tapestry. ‘You mean … now?’
‘Yes. Now would be good.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Miss – I assume it’s Miss – investigative journalists work in a world where appointments have little place. The people like their news today, not ten thirty the day after. That is why I was so pleased when you mentioned now, just now. If, indeed, now means now. Am I knocking on the door here?’ I gave her the main beam.
Missy didn’t let a smile stray from her bureaucratic face. ‘Can I take your name, please? I’ll ask the Mayor if he’ll see you.’
I took out a crumpled card and passed it to her. It actually belonged to a friend of mine who worked on the Post. It’s all about authenticity in this game.
While she studied the card, I smiled, thinking how it would teach that smug git Mike “Newsround” Wells a lesson for showing-off in The George. I’d heard that his nickname arose from the time he’d had a paper round, rather than him being a closet John Craven fan. But you’d be foolish to rule it out.
She placed the card in front of her and looked up, an unimpressed face in tow.
Before she could speak, I darted in. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but I just want to talk to our crusading Mayor about crime in this city. Especially in view of the dreadful murder that took place yesterday.’
How could our Commander-in-Chief resist that for a hook?
She looked at me sceptically. ‘He gave a quote to the Post yesterday.’
‘I know. A fine one, too. But I’m from features. This is an in-depth, follow-on piece.’ I projected my best smile.
She nodded, then went off to cast a juicy maggot to the big fish in the back office.
~
Clegg sat across the desk from me, looking greyer than normal. The funereal style suit didn’t help. He looked like he’d swallowed not just the bait, but the line, rod, and reel. Clearly, a boatload of bad news had caused the sickness to rise in his gills. One dead mistress and a delicate interview with the Chief Constable of Weighton police could do that to a person. The melancholy of the man was apparent. His face looked like it had been soaked overnight in sadness, though he maintained a dignified façade. Maybe he’d really loved her. If he was acting the part, he had me fooled. And Eddie G was nobody’s fool.
A small voice inside my head told me to “go easy” on him, but it was difficult to hear above the god-awful din. Truth was, I needed a result.
I took out a notepad and pen from my bag – brought as props for the purpose – and retrieved my phone from my jacket. Making great play of switching it to silent, I tapped the voice recorder app instead. It’s all about preparation in this game.
Clegg turned my borrowed business card up to his line of sight and churned out a bogus smile.
‘Mr Wells, good to see you. My friends at the Post know I’m always available for comment on matters such as these.’
‘Yes, Mayor, and we’re always grateful for that.’
‘Have you interviewed me before?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
“Newsround” Mike was a doozer. They weren’t likely to let him cover a Weighton Weightwatchers meeting, let alone interview the Worshipful One.
‘You’re obviously upset about the murder in Weighton yesterday,’ I opened, ‘but after a day’s reflection, could you comment on the record for us?’
Visibly moved, he couldn’t seem to get his words out at first. He had to take a deep breath to compose himself.
‘I am deeply upset and saddened,’ he intoned, ‘at the senseless taking of a life in our city. Mrs Porson was a fine, upstanding member of the community, someone who I had the pleasure to meet at a charity function last year.’
I shuffled in my seat and applied the pensive look. ‘I understand the police are baffled as to motive?’
‘That is correct. They can establish no reason for the killing. As I said earlier, it seems quite senseless.’
‘I understand from my sources that Mrs Porson had hired the services of a private detective. I’m told it was he, in fact, who found the body, and that he’s been interviewed by police. Can you comment on this development?’
Clegg’s eyebrows wriggled like caterpillars on acid, making it clear that Fuzz Inc. hadn’t mentioned this minor detail.
‘It’s a police matter,’ he said quickly. ‘But I am being kept up to date on all developments which pertain to the case. What is clear is that there are no concrete leads as yet.’
I nodded and then allowed a dramatic pause before putting the next question to him. ‘Are the police investigating the possibility that the matter on which the P.I. was working could also be the cause of her death?’
Impatience leapt to his face, but he didn’t take the bait. ‘You’re getting into the realms of speculation,’ he
replied calmly, ‘something I won’t do. The police are obviously looking at all possibilities and we must leave it to them.’
The time had come to toss in a wrong ‘un.
I cleared my throat. ‘Mayor, this is a rather delicate question, but nevertheless one I must ask. You said you knew Mrs Porson, but is there any truth in the rumour that you had a more personal relationship with her and that–’
Clegg sprang at me from across the desk and grabbed my throat. Not such a politically correct thing to do you’d think? ‘Who told you that?’
I whistled a pitchy noise through my constricted throat, enough to make him let go.
Standing tall behind his desk, shaking with rage, he pushed his hands through neatly trimmed hair. ‘That is a preposterous suggestion,’ he seethed, ‘and I will sue the Post for every penny if they print a word. I play golf with your owner, you know. He’ll have your balls in his golf bag before you type a word. You understand me?’
‘I understand you,’ I said slowly, rubbing my throat. My turn. ‘Now you understand me.’ I leaned over his desk and looked straight at him. ‘The police know you’re involved, but they’ve said diddly. Am I right? They’re snowing you, and what’s more, Jimmy Cartwright’s got his knob-print doin’ tic-tac-toe all over this thing.’ I paused to recover air. ‘Right now, Eddie G is your only playmate.’
Clegg started to spit and spot, then came to an abrupt halt and sat down. A simple realisation crystallised on his wrinkled face. ‘You’re Eddie Greene?’
‘The very same, and at your service. Now why don’t you start downloading on the late Mrs Porson?’
He sat in silence, the lines on his forehead fighting the emotion. The voice, when it came, was quiet. ‘And this is off the record?’
‘Bollocks to the record!’ I spun my notepad off the desk.
‘I don’t know. There’s so much at stake.’
‘Yeah, my hundred per cent success rate to start with.’
He stared at Mike Well’s careworn card. ‘You really are Eddie Greene? The detective Hel– Mrs Porson hired.’
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