by J Battle
Chapter 3 Then, a little confusion
I stood at the door and took a deep breath, and then I put on a friendly but professional smile on my face, and I opened the door.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s you,’ I said, ‘I was expecting…’
‘Hi big bro. How are things in the world of espionage?’ She breezed right passed me and dropped her two shopping bags onto a desk.
‘What…? It’s not espionage; I’m a private detective, not a spy.’
‘So, have you got a badge, or a license, or something?’
‘You don’t get a badge, and I just need to change the name on the license. I’m thinking of using my middle name, or what about Bogart? Bogart Investigations? It has a nice ring to it.’
‘It has a very black and white ring to it, and I don’t think you should change the name of an established business, not when it might cost you the goodwill that has been earned over many years.’
I said nothing; I just stared at her. Now, I know my sister is very clever, as my mother always reminds me, but it is so rare for her to come out with something that sounds at all clever.
‘Have you got any staff?’ she asked, as she walked through into the back room.
‘No, it’s just me, for now.’
‘You need staff; a secretary at least,‘ she said, as she ran one finger along the top of my desk, ‘and a cleaner.’
‘Well,’ I said, shaking my head in wise, big brotherly sort of way, ’I don’t know about that.’
‘Hey, I know,’ she said, with a full 1000-watt smile (I don’t like it when she smiles at me; I pretty well don’t like it if anyone smiles at me), ‘you can hire me. That’s a great idea! I can’t think why I didn’t think of it before. You and me, catching all the bad guys; righting wrongs; making the world a safer place for all the little old women.’
‘I don’t expect to be catching bad guys, or making the world safer for our mother. It’ll be mostly lost pets, I should think.’
‘No, it’s going to be much better than that. What do you think? You and me against the world. With my brains and your … brawn?’
Now, obviously there was no justification for taking her on as my secretary/cleaner, given that we had no clients and therefore no income, but I said yes. And not just to shut her up. It was just the vision of the look on my mother’s face when she’d heard about it. Petty; I know, but that’s just me.
‘I’ll have a nice cup of coffee, please,’ I said, as I walked into my office.
I closed the door on a laugh and some words that sounded very much like ’in your dreams, bro.’
For three days, I went to the office every morning and sat at my desk until as late as 4pm (once anyway) and didn’t receive a single call or email (apart from those offering to solve any issues I might have regarding my development in the genital region).
I’ll admit that, by the third day, it was barely morning when I got in, and not quite 3pm when I left. I would say that I beat Julie into the office every day, and I managed to outlast her as well.
On day number four, I got there at just after 12, and there was someone waiting for me, at the door.
He was of average height and weight, but he excelled in the ugliness department. With his misaligned eyes, low brow, receding chin and bulbous nose, he had a face that would make even his mother wince.
‘Hi,’ he said, in a gruff, unpleasant voice, ’you Chandler?’
I nodded and said ‘Good morning,’ as I reached past him to open my door.
‘Afternoon,' he replied, with a frown; it could have been a smile; it was hard to tell.
‘Please come this way,’ I said, leading him into my office, ’take a seat.’
When we were appropriately seated; him in the hard chair and me in the comfy one, I started the proceedings. Now, I wanted to appear knowledgeable and professional, though I’ll admit I was neither, so I went with, ‘tell me what I can do for you.’
He sat in the chair for a full minute, with no response. He just stared at me, with one eye at least.
When the minute was up, I coughed and decided to try again.
‘Can you…?’
‘You know.’
That was a big help, I thought.
‘I know what?’ I knew that things were not going the way I expected, but not much else.
‘Have you got ‘em? It’s been three weeks now.’
I smiled, in a professional ‘I know what’s happened here’ sort of way.
‘I think you must have been speaking to my uncle, Uncle Ray Chandler. I’m Philip Chandler; his nephew.’ I knew that I didn’t have to say the last bit, but, well sometimes you do.
‘His nephew?’ See, I told you.
‘Yes, he’s left, and I’m in charge now.’
‘When’s he back?’ His expression had turned a little darker and, if it was at all possible, uglier.
‘Oh, he’s not coming back. Something of a career change, I think. So, Mr…?’
He glanced at the half-open door and then at the closed bathroom door. Then he sat a little forward in his seat.
‘Grimm,’ he said, in such a quiet voice, ‘I’ll be on your computer, there.’
I shook my head. I’d had three days with nothing to do, and I’d spent maybe two or three minutes discovering that there wasn’t a single file on its hard drive.
‘Best if we start from the beginning, ' I said, feeling very professional.
‘What about the money I’ve paid you; him?’
‘What?’
‘I paid a retainer and a month’s daily charges plus expected expenses, upfront like.’ He was beginning to get agitated.
‘Whatever you’ve already paid will naturally be deducted from your final bill.’ That, you’ve got to admit, was a good catch.
‘So, you haven’t found ‘em?’
‘As I say, Mr. Grimm, we are starting from scratch here, so can you provide me with the full details of your requirement?’ I was born for this.
‘I…well, I’ve made a bit of money over the years, and I haven’t got a family.’
Not even a mother to wince at his face?
‘And, well I don’t want the government to get it when I’m gone, so I want to give it to some people I knew when I was much younger.’
‘But, surely you are still in your thirties? Seems a bit early to be worried about who you are leaving your money to.’ He could have been in his forties, or his fifties; with a face like that, but, when you don’t know, always go low.
‘I’m 42, and I have a…, well I have a terminal illness.’
Was it horrible of me to really, really want to ask him what he was dying from?
‘And you need to find these people soon?’
‘Yes; very soon.’
‘And, forgive me for asking, but what sort of timescale are we talking about here?’ I know; I’ve just asked a complete stranger, suffering from a mortal illness, when he was going to die. But at least I did it delicately.
‘I just need it done quickly; very quickly. I was hoping Mr. Chandler would have found the first by now. He said he was confident.’
Confident? That was my Uncle Ray.
‘OK,’ I said, with a pretty fair imitation of confidence, ’give me all the details you have.’
When he left, I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk (without taking off my shoes!) and, you know, I felt like a proper Private Eye.
Chapter 4 Then, I’m born to this
Arnold Watt.
He was the first guy on the list, and I found him in about an hour.
I’d like to say that it took a great deal of skill on my part to find him; that it was a task that no-one else could have done without my matchless expertise.
But, he wasn't hiding, and it was just so easy. I put his name up into Buddyup, the new social media hub that links everyone from PrettyMe to I’maStar, and even old school sites like Epals and BlogMe. And there he was; large as life, with his selfies and his fascinatingly detailed po
sts on the minutiae of his daily life.
Of course, you won't find me on any of these sites; not because my life isn't as exciting as those you see plastered in exhaustive and exhausting detail wherever there is a chance that they might be seen. Not at all. It's simply photos; I don't like them. I never look the way I think I look. When I look in a mirror, I look OK. Not the sort to turn heads, maybe, but also not the sort to turn stomachs. In photos, I look wrong, as if I'm just about to pick my nose, or I've broken wind and I'm looking around for someone to take the blame.
So, that's why I don't post my every thought or action.
But, getting back on track, here comes the clever bit. Of course BuddyUp doesn’t give home addresses, for obvious reasons. No-one wants people they used to know, but never really liked, turning up on their doorsteps.
So, no addresses; but plenty of pictures of Arnie and his friends having just so much fun in local bars about Manchester. It was simple enough to identify those bars; I’d been in most of them myself. Now, the one that got him for me was the Hairy Hound. It’s not a terrible pub, but no-one would voluntarily travel to be subjected to its somewhat basic facilities, and Arnie was there nearly every week, according to his posts. Which meant that he lived in Didsbury; a part of Manchester that was once thriving and the place to be, but is now…not. So, I took a quick look at the electoral register for Didsbury and there he was; 46 Grove Grove.
With a certain amount of satisfaction, I noted down all of his details and then, I went and got myself a coffee. Now, you’re not going to like me for this, but I live in the real world, and it’s a world where my company, or to be precise, yours truly, owed Mr. Grimm a month’s work for the money he’s already paid to dear Uncle Ray, and if it only took me a day to finish the job, he’s going to want some of his money back, so he can give it to Arnie and his pals.
And I didn't have any money.
So, I decided that I was going to wait a couple of days before I came up with Arnie’s address, and then, maybe two weeks for the next, and oh, I don’t know, three weeks for the final address?
You don’t think less of me, do you?
With the feeling of a job well done, and it being a Wednesday, I thought I'd take the short walk to The Hairy Follicle and have a well-deserved pint of something cold, golden and wonderful.
It's always quiet in The Hairy Follicle on a Wednesday, and you never get any women customers; not unless it's 70's night. Why people still want to dress up in bad clothes and listen to bad music from nearly 80 years ago, I'll never know.
Now, you know me; I like women. They're great, and I spend a great deal of my waking hours, and my sleeping hours if I'm being honest, thinking about them. On a Saturday night, when I'm all dressed up, I go to bars that have women, and will still let me in.
On a Wednesday, when I just want to relax and not feel threatened; when I don't want to risk getting slapped because I looked when I should have listened; when I don't want to have to come up with witty conversation and smiles; when all I want is a quiet pint or two with no stress, then it's a women-less pub for me.
Bob was behind the bar as usual, and he spotted me right off; he's good that way. But he won't come over unless I ask, and I won't ask, because he knows what I drink, and I shouldn't have to ask. So I stood there, watching him out of the corner of my eye, and he remained in the corner, polishing a glass that didn't need polishing, watching me the same way.
It could have been a long dry night, and I was beginning to weaken, when Sam walked in.
'Hi Phil,' he said; all sort of quiet, the way he usually speaks, 'been served yet?'
I shrugged; I'm very good with shrugs.
'Not yet.'
'Hi Bob, a pint of whatever for me, and the usual for Phil.'
Bob nodded in a triumphant sort of way, without any justification, in my opinion, and came over to our end of the bar. I made a point of not making eye contact.
When we had our drinks, we settled ourselves down at a side table, well away from YougotadrinkMate? Naturally we turned our chairs slightly so he would not be in our eye-lines. He's not a pleasant sight to have in your eye-line.
'Nice hat,' I said, by way of starting a conversation.
'Thanks, ' he said, giving it a little tug, 'my other one was getting too well known.'
'Oh, ay?' I said. I made it a question, but it could just as well been a statement, or an exclamation.
'Yeah; can't be too careful. Did you hear the latest?'
I didn't know if I’d heard the latest or not, but I hadn't heard much lately, so I went with a 'No.'
'It's the new Law & Order AI. It comes on stream tomorrow. Can you believe it?'
Of course I believed it; Sam's not usually wrong about this sort of thing, though he is about so much else.
'That's the end, Phil; I tell you. The end of freedom; the end of liberty; the end of our right to do as we please.'
I gave a sympathetic nod, and didn't mention that all three ends were the same.
'Is that why you've got yourself a new hat?' I asked, just to carry the conversation along to its usual train-wreck conclusion.
'Yes, of course. With my distinctive red hair, I'm too easy to spot.' He nodded, as if every word he'd said made perfect sense, and took a good drink.
'You have red hair?' I asked. Although I've known him for years, it was a surprise to me.
'Yes.'
'But…your eyebrows…and beard aren't ginger?'
'Not now, they aren't. I dye them.'
'Oh. So why don't you die your…'
'That's just what they expect me to do. I survive by doing the unexpected.'
He leapt from his seat and dashed to the bathroom, which was quite unexpected.
Not at all phased by his sudden disappearance, I sat back a little and considered my pint. I was past half way so, if I didn't want to interact with Bob, I'd have to nurse it a little whilst waiting for Sam. Or I could man up and just call over to him from my seat, but then YougotadrinkMate? might take that as an invitation to butt into my life, which I could really do without. Once was one time too many for me.
I was distracted in this manner when a hand fell on my shoulder.
Calm as anything, I looked along the arm to which it was attached, and met the face of its owner.
'Hello, Mr. Grimm,' I said; ever the traditionalist.
'You alone?' he grunted, as his eyes scanned the room. I noticed that even he made a point of avoiding eye contact with YougotadrinkMate?
'Well, I am, for the moment.'
'Good,' he said, slipping on to Sam's chair, 'good.'
I nodded to show that I was in total agreement about the goodness of the situation; though I wasn't really.
'What you got?'
'Lager,' I said, hopefully.
'No. What you got for me? Have you got the addresses yet?' He did a bit more furtive scanning of the room by way of punctuation.
'It's only been a day,' I protested; trying my best not to whine.
'Still; what you got? I need to know now; there's been developments.'
'Oh, I see, ' I said, thought I didn't. 'Well, perhaps I'll be able to give you an address by the end of …'
'That pint.'
What? I thought. I was planning to go with end of the week, but there was something about the way his misaligned eyes were both focused on me, and the way he was gripping the table, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, that made me relent. Perhaps his terminal illness was reaching its terminus?
'OK,' I said, picking up my drink, 'get me another pint, and I'll have the first address for you by the time you get back.' With a little swagger, I knocked back my pint.
I was a little put out to see that he hadn't moved.
He simply sat there, in Sam's chair, and gave his head a little shake.
'Arnold Watt: 46 Grove Grove,' I said. I'm not very good at confrontation; the world would be a better place without it; in my humble opinion.
He nodded, which I f
elt was a good sign, so I nodded towards my empty glass.
'I need the others,' he said, and it didn't sound at all like 'that's good; I'll get you that drink now.'
'These things take time,' I said, in a professional, man of the world sort of way.
'I'll need them by first thing tomorrow morning.' Was his response, without any indication that he was about to go to the bar.
'But I…' I was going to say that I don't get in to work until late morning, and then I’d have to start looking for them from scratch, and that, maybe a couple more weeks was a more reasonable timeline. I ran the words through my head and they made perfect sense to me, but, one glance at that hard, ugly face was enough.
'OK,' I said instead. It seemed to work better.
'Good,' he said. Then he stood up and walked away, not going anywhere near the bar.
Fortunately, Sam was back to rescue the situation.
'Who was he?' he said, as he collected our glasses.
'Oh, just a client,' I said, nonchalantly. I can do nonchalant; when there's no chance of confrontation.
He returned from the bar and planted my full pint in front of me.
'That wasn't my round,' he said.
I smiled back at him. I'm a firm believer in cherishing every victory; no matter how petty.
Chapter 5 Then, oh no, was that me?
Next morning, I was in work by 8:15.
I was hoping that first thing for Grimm was just before lunch, and not 8:20.
As I waited for the coffee machine to ramp up, I switched on my computer. It felt like a good way to start. I have a news banner running across the bottom of the screen, to keep me up to date with what's going on in the world, the way a mature professional sort of man should. To be honest, I rarely look at it.
However, that morning, as I was tapping my fingers and waiting for the coffee machine to come up with its cup of dark brown richness, I did. And I saw a familiar name.
A certain Mr. Arnold Watt had been found dead, in his house, at 46 Grove Grove, Didsbury.
Oh bother, I thought.
Stabbed to death; apparently.
Oh dear, I thought.
The police were considering the death suspicious, it seemed.