"You remember me?"
"Of course—Joe, isn't it?"
"Silvermann."
"From the olive stall."
"Well—"
"The private eye, don't worry. I remember."
He often dropped in here for a drink once the working day was done, he told Joe. The pair settled at a table by the window.
"And Tessa, how is she?"
"Oh, I'm not seeing her anymore."
"Tom! No! What happened?"
"Well, nothing. Christ, Joe, it's not the death of romance or anything. We dated for a while and now we're not. Simple as that.” Something in his expression, though, suggested it wasn't that simple.
"But..."
"But what?"
But nothing, Joe had to admit. Nothing he wanted to say out loud. That they had seemed a nice couple, and that nice couples ought to stick together, if only to set an example to everyone else. “Should I—would you like another drink?” When all else failed, offer hospitality. “Should I go to the bar?"
"Joe, they have table service.” Tom raised a hand for the waitress. “Why do it yourself when you can pay someone else to do it? How about you, you want the other half?"
"Perhaps I will."
Tom ordered their drinks, then went on, “Besides, she's unstable. Was right from the start."
"Unstable?"
"I used to get phone calls from her in the middle of the night. Checking up. That I was alone, and where I ought to be."
Joe clucked his tongue, shook his head. “Late-night phone calls. Zoe and I, we had a spate awhile back. They get tired, they give up. You're sure this was Tessa?"
"Sometimes she'd arrive on my doorstep unexpectedly, or be waiting when I left work. You ever been stalked, Joe?"
"Is it stalking, this? Not just..."
"Just what?"
Joe shrugged. “Perhaps she just wants to be with you."
"Feels like stalking to me, mate.” He shook his head. “It's a hell of a world, Joe, I'm telling you. And most of its problems caused by women."
Well, maybe half, Joe conceded. If you ignored war and famine and stuff.
They fell to talking about other things. The next Joe heard about Tessa, Tom was in his office, outlining the damage.
* * * *
He had taken a cigarette from a pocket but didn't light it; just held it between finger and thumb as he spoke. “Those phone calls? They never stopped. Oh, she wouldn't speak, but it was her. Middle of the night, and I'm getting woken up to be given the silent treatment. Or not woken up, if you know what I mean."
"Sometimes you're already awake,” Joe guessed.
"Not alone, either. You can imagine the damper that puts on proceedings."
"She sounds unhappy."
"And I care? She's freaking nuts, Joe. And driving me crazy while she's at it."
"Have you been to the police?"
"What good would that do? Look. I know it was Tessa, you know it was Tessa. Bloody Tessa knows it was Tessa. But knowing isn't proving. We get into an I said/she said situation, the best that'll happen is she'll get told to watch her step by the boys in blue. Meanwhile, I'm still paying the bills on her domestic terrorism, thanks a bunch."
"How did she get in?"
"In?"
"To your house,” Joe explained. “She didn't look, pardon my saying, like a housebreaker."
"Oh, right. No, she didn't need to be. We'd swapped keys, but she never gave it back. Claimed she did, but she didn't."
"And your locks? Have you changed your locks?"
"Well, I have now, Joe. But that's a little late to help."
Joe nodded, as a change from shaking his head. There'd been a crime, and Tom seemed certain he'd identified the culprit. But it wasn't clear what Joe was expected to do about it.
Tom said, “That was my favourite shirt, too. Bought it in Italy. It's not like I can just pop out and buy another."
"It's not ... salvageable? No, sorry, forget I spoke. Of course it's not."
Tom leaned forward. His unlit cigarette jammed meaning into every syllable. “She blocked the sewer pipe with it, Joe. First I knew about it, the toilet's backing up. ‘Course it's not bloody salvageable."
"Would you like coffee? Tea?"
"Neither. Not right now."
"You're upset, yes. Your shirt and all the rest, plus the sense of being invaded. I can see you'd want to talk to somebody about it."
"But why you."
"That's what I was wondering, Tom, yes. Why me?"
So Tom told him.
* * * *
A homeless man made his pitch by an entrance to the Covered Market: tea towel in front of him for contributions to his well-being, he sat crosslegged, back to the wall, face obscured by a hood. A young Alsatian lay next to him, its head on his knee. Lots of homeless people—and there were lots; they seemed to multiply faster than any housing shortage could account for—lots of them had dogs, Joe had noticed, which was a detail which, if not a silver lining, at least provided a little insulation, he liked to think. There was comfort in knowing that no matter how hard you'd fallen, love was still available. He'd said as much to Zoe once, and she'd looked at him as if he were mad, which wasn't an unusual expression for Zoe.
"They don't keep dogs for something to love, Joe. They keep dogs so they've something to shout at. Something they can get angry with, which just has to sit and take it."
Which might or might not have been true, but one thing was certain: Having heard it said, Joe would never look at a homeless man and his dog in quite the same way again.
"The glass is always half empty, isn't it, Zoe?” he'd said sadly.
"No, the glass is cracked,” she'd told him. “And there's no way I'm drinking from a cracked glass."
Anyway, the dog he was looking at was the same he'd seen yesterday, because this was the homeless guy's regular hangout, and this particular entrance to Oxford's Covered Market was right by the doorway to Tessa Greenlaw's gym. Or the gym Tessa Greenlaw was a member of. Joe had spent long enough watching it to make such pointless clarifications to himself, as if somewhere inside his own head was a not entirely bright third party, in constant need of updating. Tessa Greenlaw came here once her workday was done, or had done so both days Joe had been following her. Surveilling, he amended. “Following” had a stalkerish air. And yesterday, after leaving, she'd done nothing more complicated than head straight home, giving Joe a tricky moment when he'd found himself boarding the same bus—but it had been crowded, and he'd sat where she couldn't see his face, and besides, they'd only encountered each other once, months ago. Chances were, all she'd have would be one of those vague city moments at the sight of a face from a forgotten context. And if that had happened, she hadn't let on.
Tonight, though, there was no rush for the bus. Instead, on leaving the gym Tessa Greenlaw headed south, down St. Aldate's. Giving her time to get ahead, Joe peeled himself from his hiding place, thought for a moment about popping over the road to slip a quid to the boy with the dog, decided he didn't have time, and set off in Tessa's wake.
* * * *
It was hardly a surprise. How many places could she have been headed? Well, okay, she could have been going anywhere—but a short distance down St. Aldate's, then a left turn off the main road, and what you reached was the building that housed Tom Parker's language school.
This wasn't a busy thoroughfare. Joe couldn't have followed Tessa along it without being spotted. But opposite the lane's entrance, on St. Aldate's itself, was a bench for the weary, from which Joe had a clear view of Tessa Greenlaw coming to a halt by the language school; of Tessa checking her watch, then leaning against the wall of the building opposite, looking up at the second-floor window where Tom had his office.
Joe spread his newspaper over his knees, in case Tessa noticed him.
He timed it at eleven minutes. Eleven minutes before Tom Parker came out. During this time, Tessa grew restless; checked her watch a number of times; fiddled through her b
ag for something she didn't find. She was wearing the same glasses Joe had admired the first time he'd met her—only time, he amended; you couldn't call this “meeting"—and her hair was shorter, but what he mostly noticed was that she seemed, what might the word be—frazzled? Yes: She seemed frazzled. As if things were not going her way lately, and the directions they had chosen instead were stretching her thin.... Zoe would probably point out that Tessa had just been to the gym, which might account for it. But still: She looked frazzled.
Joe was staring straight at her when she looked his way. He dropped his eyes to the newspaper, made a bit of a thing about turning a page. When he risked another glance, Tom was in the lane, too.
* * * *
"You saw?"
"I saw, yes."
"That's the fourth time. No, fifth. She's mad, Joe. Complete mentalist."
"Mentalist.” Joe wasn't sure he'd encountered the term. “Certainly, she does not give the impression of being, ah, stable."
He hadn't been able to hear everything, but that she'd been shouting was clear enough. Bastard had floated Joe's way. And all the while Tom had been making soothing gestures in the air; smiling softly but never quite touching her, as if Tessa were a cornered animal in spitting mood, unclear of its own best choices. When he'd reached at last for her sleeve she'd pulled her arm away angrily and stormed down the lane, away from Joe. Slowly, he'd folded his newspaper and stood. When Tom reached him, he led the way to the bar without a word.
Now he said, “And has there been any pattern, any particular sequence to the way in which she comes and, ah, lurks outside your workplace?"
"I'm not sure. Would it make a difference?"
"Probably not,” Joe admitted.
"You're thinking some kind of PMT thing?"
Uncomfortable with this direction, Joe shook his head. “Not really.” Truth was, he had no idea what questions to ask, or what answers would help. Insights into the female psyche weren't his specialty. And if he'd ever claimed them to be, it wasn't like the notion would withstand five minutes of Zoe's scrutiny. “Did you confront her about her invasion of your property?"
"Did she give the impression of being up for a discussion?"
"I couldn't hear,” Joe explained. “Traffic. Distance. Plus, she was shouting and you were speaking softly. Neither was an ideal volume."
"Well, trust me, she was in no mood for answering questions. More than likely, she'd find a way of blaming it on me, anyway. You had much to do with madwomen, Joe?"
Loyally, Joe denied it.
"Lucky you."
She'd looked frazzled, he remembered. It wasn't such a stretch to colour her mad. “What was she saying?"
Tom Palmer ran a hand through his hair: a boyish gesture, not without charm. “That we belong together. That I was just being stupid, and should come to my senses. That I should come to my senses.” He shook his head in wonderment. “A bloody baby. We're not even in a relationship, for God's sake."
"Does she have parents? Someone who could perhaps talk to her—"
"Well, I don't know, do I? We weren't playing happy families, Joe. We were only together for a couple of weeks."
"An official complaint, perhaps? Now that I've paid witness to this stalking, this harassment, perhaps you want me to ... accompany you to the police station?"
Tom barked a sudden laugh. “You've never actually been a copper, have you, Joe?"
"Never. Not ever."
"But you talk the talk. No, I don't want you to accompany me to the station, thanks anyway. I want something more direct than that. I want you to put a stop to it. To all her crap."
Joe had been afraid that's where this was leading. “You think she'll listen to me?” He was older than Tessa, true—could easily be her father—and perhaps a little elder wisdom was what she needed: But still, he was afraid. Not of confronting a madwoman; more of being mortally embarrassed. “There is a law,” he suggested. “The Protection from Harassment Act?"
"I know,” Tom said. “You think that's going to carry weight? Quote section thirteen, paragraph six at her, and watch enlightenment dawn?” He leaned forward. “She's barking, Joe. You've seen what she's like, waiting round my office to harangue me when I leave. Not to mention she seriously messed me about, wiped my computer. I like things ordered, Joe. This was out of order. So. Are you going to help or not? I mean, that's what you do, right? You're a private eye. You take on clients."
"Yes,” Joe sighed. “It's what I do. I take on clients."
"Good.” Tom passed a key across the table. “I want you to mess her place up, Joe. Same way she messed mine. Fair's fair, right?"
"I suppose it is,” Joe agreed. “Fair's fair. Yes."
Tessa left home for work at nine-fifteen. It was all right for some, Joe noted, a judgment tempered by the knowledge that if he himself didn't reach the office before eleven, it wasn't like anyone would notice. As it was, this morning he'd been up at seven; by half-past, had been slumped twenty yards down the road from Tessa's front door, his trusty newspaper on the car seat next to him, in case a disguise was called for. Was it really necessary for him to observe, first-hand, Tessa's departure? Yes, it was. If he was going to let himself into her place with the key Tom had given him, he wanted proof positive she was off the premises. He figured that was the way Philip Marlowe would have played it, “What would Marlowe do?” being Joe's regular mantra. Marlowe wouldn't take unnecessary risks. Well, that wasn't true. But it was the answer Joe wanted, which was substantially more important.
"You still have this?” he had asked Tom on being given Tessa's door key. “Won't she have changed the lock?"
"Trust me, that'll get you through the door."
"But—"
"Trust me."
So Joe's hand had clamped round the key as if his fist were taking an impression.
Now he straightened in the driving seat as Tessa reached the corner, crossed the road, and headed for her bus stop.
Give her another ten minutes, he thought. It was likely she'd be waiting at least that long; time enough to remember she'd left her purse behind, or her paperback, or any one of a hundred items she never left home without. But his body was in unwilled motion, eager to get this part finished whatever excuses his mind could conjur; his body was excavating itself from its car, brushing the creases from its coat; was pulling its collar up in a completely unsuspicious attempt to obscure its face for the benefit of anyone curtain-twitching, wondering what the guy in the car was up to. Housebreaking in broad daylight was not a game for the nervous. So if he was engaged in it, he couldn't be nervous: QED. Unnervously, then, Joe made his way to Tessa's house; unnervously fished her key from his pocket as he did so; unnervously dropped it as he tripped on the kerb, then had to frantically scrabble before it disappeared down a drain.
Now that, Joseph—he chided himself—could so easily have ended in farce.
He looked around. Weirdly, there was nobody in sight; or maybe it was normal; what did Joe know about this particular street at this particular time of the morning? Key safely in his fist, he released a breath just as a bus passed the end of the road, on its way to collect Tessa Greenlaw and transport her out of the area. There was no more room for hesitation. He had the key in hand, the door in his sights. What he was about to do was illegal, but would only look unusual if he farted about while doing it. Farting about was not something Marlowe would do. Again, QED.
Nobody shouted as he walked directly to Tessa's door; no sirens blared as he slid the key into its lock. It turned. The door opened.
He was in.
* * * *
This was only the second time he'd let himself into another person's house without their knowledge—not without help, either time. But this was different. He was here to do damage: well-deserved damage, he reminded himself, as his conscience threatened to kick in—this wasn't random vandalism; it was a message. That's what it was. A message.
Nothing immediately suggested itself as Joe scouted round the gro
und floor, but once he'd climbed the stairs and discovered what was evidently an office, his next move became clear.
He set to it with a will.
* * * *
"So why did you break into Tessa's place?"
"I wanted to see if the key worked,” Joe explained. He took it from his pocket: a recent copy, shiny and unscratched. “They exchanged keys. He told me that. But when they broke up, he made an extra copy of hers before giving it back. That's why he was so sure she wouldn't have changed the locks. She didn't know he had it."
"It was Tom stalking Tessa, wasn't it?” Zoe said flatly. “Not the other way round."
"It's a creepy thing to do, isn't it? Keep a copy of your ex-girlfriend's key. Except he had me doing the actual stalking,” Joe said. “There's the crux, you might call it. The nub.” He recalled his self-clarification, following Tessa: that this wasn't stalking but surveillance. “Prior to persuading me to, I think the word would be trash her place. Yes, trash.” He recalled for her Tom's words in the bar: “'Why do things yourself when you can pay someone else to do them?’ He was talking about fetching drinks. But..."
"You discerned a principle,” said Zoe.
"You don't seem surprised."
"I didn't much like him."
"Yes, but..."
"But what?"
"You don't much like anyone, Zoe,” Joe explained. “It's not like you were making an exception."
They were in the office, which was the mostly neutral ground of their marriage.
"Point,” Zoe said. “But I thought you were his friend."
"I was, but was he mine? What sort of friend sends you off on a job like that?"
"The kind who's taking revenge."
"On poor Tessa, yes. She dumped him, I'm assuming."
"Guess so,” Zoe said. “And he called her, didn't he? Asked her to meet him after work, once he'd arranged for you to be following her. Then blew her off when he eventually came out. So what you saw was her quite reasonably losing her rag, and you never did hear what he was saying."
"I think so, yes. There are ways someone clever could find out, probably, with phone records and technological trickery, but for myself, yes, I'm sure he faked it."
EQMM, May 2008 Page 13