by Penny Grubb
Feeling a surge of relief, Annie lifted her case once more. In the wake of her lumbering new boss, it was a slow journey across the apartment’s small inner lobby and into the living area where a huge LCD screen played speckled fog into the room. A picture window framed a ribbon of lights in the far distance beyond a dark stretch of water, the scene disjointed by the multiple reflections of moonlight on the river and that the view was from a lighted room out into darkness.
Once she’d slumped herself into the settee, Pat Thompson looked up at Annie with a shake of her head. ‘I suppose it might make some kind of sense,’ she said. ‘Spare bedroom’s that way. You’ll find bedding in the cupboard. Dump your stuff, then we’ll talk.’
Annie shoved her case into the tiny bedroom, and returned to the living room. She’d counted on some conventional hospitality; an offer of something to eat or drink, but then she’d counted on Pat Thompson expecting her.
Pat clicked the TV remote and the screen blanked. She shifted her bulk on the sagging cushions of the settee, sat upright and turned to face her new employee.
‘Let’s be clear on one thing; if you’re here to work, you’re here to work for me. Not Vince Sleeman. You report to me. How well do you know him?’
‘Not at all. I met him when he interviewed me, that’s all. Why hadn’t he told you I was coming?’
‘Hadn’t got round to it … he said.’ There was a pause, and then Pat looked her in the eye and began to rattle out all the questions she’d expected a week ago. Gathering up her wits, Annie batted back the answers as efficiently as she could, squirming inwardly as her lack of experience was laid bare.
‘I’ve done self-defence and I did the conflict management course in Birmingham.’ She passed across her meagre stack of certificates and watched Pat Thompson’s left eyebrow rise higher as she scrutinized them. ‘So what will I be doing exactly?’
‘Not sure what I can give you to match this lot.’ Pat gave the paperwork a hard stare. ‘Where did you say Vince picked you up?’
Annie drew herself tall in her chair. ‘Through a recruitment agency,’ she snapped, pulling out the crumpled advert.
Pat blew out her cheeks and shrugged. ‘Why London, for pity’s sake? Oh well, nothing ventured … It’ll be on his head. There’s only the one case I was working on when this happened.’ She gave a nod towards the giant cast. ‘Some bother on an estate in the city. I can give you the gen tomorrow. Have a look through the notes if you want.’
Annie reached for the folder as a rush of anticipation grabbed her. Despite her flaky CV, Pat was going to let her have a go at the real job. Her tiredness vanished as excitement mingled with anxiety. She swallowed to moisten her suddenly dry throat and ducked her head over the papers as she pulled them out and scanned them.
‘Just the one case?’ She asked the question at random. It wasn’t what she wanted to know. What she wanted to know was who would be out there with her? Who would show her what to do?
‘Uh … yeah. That’s right.’
Annie looked up at the hesitation in Pat’s reply. Pat met her eye impassively. Annie turned back to the papers in her hand. There was precious little to read, a few scrawled notes, a name and address and an unsigned contract. As Pat yawned and began to gather together a mass of scattered tissues that she shoved in her bag, Annie couldn’t stop questions tumbling out. What was it about? Who was Mrs Earle? Why was the contract unsigned?
‘She lives in a tower block and some kids have taken over her landing. Dealing drugs by the sound of it. She wants them cleared out.’
‘Why doesn’t she go to the police?’
‘Small time drugs dealing is way down the list. You’re used to London ways, I suppose. Humberside Police don’t have London resources. So unless we hit a drugs crackdown initiative, Mrs E isn’t going to get more than a crime number from her local nick and that only if she gets her door kicked in.’
‘So what are we supposed to do?’
Pat shrugged. ‘I hadn’t got that far.’ She indicated her leg with a glance. ‘Find out who they are, then get a handle to move them on.’
Annie’s tongue hovered over a question about the giant plaster cast, but she held it back.
‘People learn to live with it,’ Pat added. ‘If you want a drug deal round there, just throw a brick. This Earle woman’s got some particular reason for calling us in but I hadn’t got round to finding out what it was. Anyway, we’ll talk in the morning.’
With that, Pat heaved herself to her feet, grasped her stout metal crutch and hobbled out of the room.
The next morning, Annie surfaced from sleep and felt the strangeness of new surroundings. Silence, no hum of traffic, no bustling city waking up with her, and no friend in easy reach. She tasted adventure, but also insecurity; climbing without a rope. The face of the bedside clock emerged from a haze to a neat set of figures, and she pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed.
The early morning light danced on the walls. The bedroom window was small, giving the room a cell-like feel. From this first floor apartment there was a good view of the water and mud flats. This was one aspect of the area she hadn’t needed to research. One of her teachers, an avid naturalist, passionate about the ecology of the north-east coast, infected them all with his enthusiasm. Thanks to him, she could tell a coot from a moorhen, but couldn’t imagine a use for such a skill in Pat Thompson’s world. She stood up, stretched, and peered out across the Humber. A small boat forged its way up the estuary. The water ripped apart and mended as the craft sliced through. The sun’s heat warmed her face. A scorcher of a day in the making.
Neat, but practical, she thought, rummaging through the clothes in her case for jeans and T-shirt. Once dressed, she went through to the living room where the settee, Pat’s territory, still bore the indentation of her new boss’s form from the night before. She listened to the background rasp of snores from the master bedroom, and wondered if she was expected to get things moving on her own initiative. If so, she had no idea where to start, hadn’t even a street map of Hull.
Facing her, the big window gave a broad canvass on to the estuary and far bank. The small craft she’d seen from the bedroom had vanished up river. The treachery of the Humber showed itself only in the snaking patterns on the water’s surface.
Despairing of the snores ever stopping, Annie went to explore the kitchen. The worktops gleamed up at her, the neat layout posed like a showroom. She opened cupboards and found them packed. One held nothing but tins of Campbell’s soups; another contained a stack of cellophane-wrapped French bread. She broke off a large chunk and chewed it hungrily. A shower of crumbs speckled the floor round her feet. Her search eventually turned up a kettle and cups but no coffee, only a packet of Yorkshire Tea. She settled for a drink of water.
Wandering back to the living room, her gaze lighted on a wooden sideboard, one of its two drawers not quite shut on its bulging contents. The stuff trying to escape looked like official paperwork.
She’d got away with snooping in Sleeman’s briefcase. Here was easier prey and her chance to find out about this odd outfit she’d come to work for.
Alert for any break in the rhythmic snores from Pat’s bedroom, she ran her tongue over her lips, eased the whole drawer silently out of its housing and set it on the floor. Keeping her mind focused, she went through it sheet by sheet running a mental commentary.
Sleeman asking for something to be signed … what? Doesn’t say. Pat must have signed it and sent it back to him. Account with a taxi firm. KC … Kingston Communications, bill for broadband services. Bills, bills, bills … Here’s a flyer for the firm … Jed’s Private Investigations … who’s Jed? Remember to ask Pat. Hospital appointment card … must ask about her leg, too. I wonder if it was anything to do with the case…
As she worked her way down the heap, the story became more structured. Jed turned out to be Jed Thompson, who she tentatively categorised as Pat’s father before finding confirmation in a letter to him from Pat that
started ‘Dear Dad’.
There were no case notes. No sign of activity on Pat’s part other than as a payer of bills.
At the bottom of the drawer were copies of legal documents. Certificate of Incorporation of the company, its original Memorandum and Articles. She ran her eye down the list of shareholders: George – presumably Jed – Thompson, Vincent Sleeman, Patricia Thompson and Barbara Caldwell. And tucked at the very bottom, a death certificate for George Thompson dated just over a year previously, cause of death myocardial infarction. He’d been 62. If he were the size of his daughter, premature death from heart disease wasn’t so surprising.
The Mem and Arts listed George Thompson as managing director and Barbara Caldwell as company secretary. According to the Companies House information she’d looked up before her interview, Vince Sleeman held both these positions now.
And what did any of this say about her own role? Last night, she’d felt the excitement of stepping into a real job no matter how lowly the pay or odd the circumstances, but the morning light brought a disturbing clarity with it. A single case? Did those few notes she’d read really constitute six weeks’ full time work? Sleeman had had a contract drawn up that assumed whoever signed it would live in, but she’d seen no sign of six weeks’ worth of work to be covered.
Had Sleeman brought her here to look after Pat? He’d asked as much about her ability to care for others as about her thin CV. But if he’d wanted a carer, he would simply have brought one in from a local agency.
What other role could possibly fit the facts? Part of the puzzle was that Pat herself didn’t seem to know.
A bodyguard to keep Pat from further harm? If so, she was an unlikely choice.
A prison warder to make sure Pat stayed put? Hardly.
To be here as an independent witness? But witness to what?
None of it fitted. As she tried to find a credible answer, she dealt herself a mental slap. Bodyguard? Prison warder? What a drama queen!
She replaced the papers, carefully recreating the chaotic jumble at the top of the heap, and slid the drawer back into place.
What she’d seen was a random snapshot, not official paperwork in any bookkeeping sense. Pat’s father had founded the firm, which presumably was why Pat was still a part of it. The real work of the agency went on in the office in town, at the address on the letterheads, wherever that was. Somewhere else to look up as soon as she got her hands on a map. Maybe Pat was just dead weight. Weight being the operative word. Vince Sleeman was clearly in charge. Pat wasn’t the experienced PI of Annie’s imagination. She was just a hanger-on in her late father’s firm.
It was close to midday before Pat emerged hobbling on her crutch and with a huge bag over her shoulder. She heaved her bulk to the settee and slumped into the cushions. Pat in the flesh, stripped of her glamour as an experienced PI, was simply gross. Annie felt a stab of revulsion as she said, ‘Nice morning,’ and nodded towards the big window.
Pat grunted an indeterminate reply, then said, ‘Get me a coffee and something to eat, will you? You may as well earn your crust while you’re here.’
Annie tensed, annoyed at Pat’s tone, but it was too early to burn bridges, and Pat’s order held the promise of coffee in a secret stash, so she held back a sharp retort. ‘There isn’t any coffee. I looked.’
‘Freezer, top shelf. And put some soup on. Cupboard over the sink.’ As she spoke, Pat fished a remote control from under the cushions.
Annie threw Pat an exasperated look. Coffee in the freezer! The blare of the television turned the flat from sterile and empty to overcrowded and busy. Annie stomped through to the kitchen, made coffee for them both and heated a tin of asparagus soup which she carried through on a tray with one of the French sticks and a giant carton of Anchor Spreadable.
Pat shot her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Thanks.’ She spoke tersely but seemed to make an effort. ‘Look, I don’t do mornings, OK?’
As Pat broke the bread and lavished it with butter, Annie savoured the taste of real coffee and tried to ignore the lipsmacking and crunching from the settee. A crackle of paper made her look across. Pat had taken a packet of chocolate digestives from her bag. Annie’s gaze was riveted as Pat dunked the biscuit in her soup and stuffed it in her mouth. The thought of living in close proximity to this hulk of a woman was impossible.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of locks from the lobby, followed by the slam of the door and locks sliding home again. She twisted round. Whoever had come in had re-locked the outer door. Was that to keep people out, or keep them in? The living room door opened. She found herself staring at the rugged misshapen face she’d last seen in a London office.
‘Ms Raymond,’ Vince Sleeman greeted her. ‘Annie, isn’t it? Settling in?’
‘Mr Sleeman.’ She took in the coldness of his eyes, the unnatural flatness of his tone.
‘Vince, please. I hope you two have got to know each other, sorted things out. You’ll work here with Pat, Annie. I’m sure she’s made that quite clear. There’s no cover needed elsewhere.’
‘You can give me those keys back now,’ Pat mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
Sleeman said nothing as he slipped the keys into his pocket. Annie intercepted a shaft of venom in the glance Pat shot at him. She’d walked into the clutches of two strangers without a clue about either of them, blinded by the chance to get something solid on her CV. And now she sat locked in an upstairs apartment with them.
Vince’s head turned to Pat but his stare stayed on Annie right to the point he started on a new speech that didn’t include her. It felt like an order to leave the room and had her on her feet before she could think.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, and slipped through to the inadequate refuge of the tiny bedroom.
Deep breath. Think this through. She was sure Vince Sleeman had brought her here for some purpose of his own. The memory stood before her of the phone call she’d walked in on back at the flat in London. Kara’s gossipy tones. How much had Kara told Sleeman about Annie’s family circumstances? A father she hadn’t met in years, an aunt now in sheltered accommodation. Had Sleeman read it as no one to notice if she disappeared? It was time to bail out. She reached for her phone to let Kara know she was on her way back. It gave her a fall-back, someone who knew, in case her imaginings had substance.
The voice that answered was unfamiliar.
‘Could I speak to Kara?’
‘Sorry, she’s out. Can I take a message? I’m her new lodger.’
Annie knew she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d made no secret about the prestigious new job and maybe she’d exaggerated the wonderful things it would lead to. There’d have been a queue for her old room.
‘It’s OK. It wasn’t important.’
As she ended the call, Annie realized that she’d known all along she was never going back. The bridges behind her were well and truly ablaze. The duo the other side of the closed bedroom door lost their sinister gloss. They became an obese thirty-something woman and an ill-tempered hulk of a man whose agenda Annie neither knew nor cared about. They didn’t give a damn if she stayed, or where she laid her head tonight. It was time to grow up, cut the drama and make something special out of this scrap of a job.
She faced herself in the mirror and flicked her fingers through her hair making it bounce back into shape, then she pulled in a breath, straightened her shoulders and marched back through.
Pat lay back into the cushions, the picture window framing the curve of the river behind her. ‘Oh, there you are. I wondered where you’d got to.’
Annie shot a glance around the room. Sleeman had gone. ‘Should I go down to the office? I know what Mr Slee– uh … Vince said about working from here, but I’ll need paperwork. You’ll have your own templates, affidavits and so on.’
‘Vince won’t want you down at the office.’
‘OK, no problem. As long as you have everything we need, I’ll work from here.’ Annie knew her smile was too bright, her man
ner too chirpy, but she couldn’t tone it down.
‘You think you’re going to stay, do you?’ Pat’s voice mocked her.
‘Yes, of course.’ Annie looked at Pat in alarm. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I? What’s Mr Sleeman said?’
‘Don’t you know? I assumed you’d been listening at the door.’
‘No, of course I wasn’t. What do you take me for?’
‘I thought you wanted to be taken for an investigator. In your place, I’d have listened at the door.’
Annie dropped her gaze, annoyed with herself. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I know Vince Sleeman thinks I’m an airhead. I may not have all the bits of paper, but I can do a good job. This drug dealing …’ – she pointed to the folder – ‘you give me the equipment, camera and so on, and I’ll soon get to the bottom of it.’
Pat laughed. ‘So you came here to do a real job? Well, I think I’d have let you run with the Orchard Park case, but that’s one of the things Vince came to say. He’s called the job off. So though he seemed to think I should keep you on anyway, there’s nothing for you to do any more. You may as well pack up and go.’
‘But he can’t do that.’ Annie felt indignation rise. This was her case, not Sleeman’s. ‘Why?’
‘I can’t say he came out with a very convincing reason,’ Pat conceded. ‘I think someone called in a favour, and Dad’s cronies have their own ways of doing things.’
Dad’s cronies? Was the ghost of Pat’s father still a key figure round here? ‘That doesn’t mean they’re right,’ Annie muttered, half under her breath.
‘You really want this job, don’t you?’ Pat turned away, almost seemed to ask the question to herself. ‘But there’s no need for anyone now. The agency can handle all the work that comes in. It was only because this one came directly to me that we needed anyone.’
Annie’s fingertips drummed on the chair arm. What did she need to say in order to keep this berth for long enough to sort herself out?
‘Why does he want you to keep me on if there’s no work?’