“But I need it.”
“Use the Jag.”
“Thursdays and Fridays only, as well you know.”
“When am I getting the TT back? The Range Rover is too big and the Jag smells of old things.”
“Ha! I’ll give you old things! They’re waiting on the part coming direct from Audi, next week maybe.”
“Take a day off, break your rules, run amok,” she said mockingly as she grabbed the keys.
“Will you be fine on your own after…”
“After last night? Yeah! Think Di might have been right. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. I bet it’s Fuckface that’s behind it.”
“Wish you wouldn’t?”
“Bye!”
Zoe headed to the utility area and the internal door to the garage.
Bob wasn't about to take the Jag out, it wasn't Thursday and it wasn't Friday.
He poured the notes out onto the table and created a pyramid. He knew it was in excess of twenty-two thousand and was slightly reluctant to count it. Once it was counted he would know how much was there and the anticipation would be gone. That made sense to him but it wasn't an idea he would have shared with anyone. Twenty-three thousand four hundred and forty-five pounds. He was pleased with that. This would be his war chest for getting back everything he had lost. If he could get close to eighty thousand he would give up for good. He packaged it up in envelopes of five thousand and put it back in the safe. He lifted out the velvet bag and counted the diamonds. He had been collecting diamonds for over twenty years as an investment and boost to his pension pot. Twelve diamonds in total. There had been another ten but they had become a bargaining tool in the battle with his ex, Michelle; also known as Fuckface. Bob didn't like the name Zoe had given her even though she had run off with her tennis coach and then had the cheek to come back try and bleed him dry. In reality, it was twelve stones rather than diamonds. Ten of them had been temporarily replaced with cubic but would soon be restored to their former glory now that he was back in the game. Zoe had been promised that when he reached sixty he would realise his investment and she could have her pick of a few stones. She wasn't party to his temporary arrangements.
Carpet sorted, money sorted, Zoe’s mobile could wait.
Bob’s phone rang.
“Hi!” said Bob, “How’d it go last night?”
“He’s probably enjoying a large slice of Victoria sponge and glass of port as we speak.”
“Is he really the man? He looked like a tramp.”
“Powerful tramp. He’s going to bring us plenty of business. Let’s not talk on the phone.”
“You can come here, I’m stuck in for now.”
“Is Zoe there?”
“No, she’s away getting her hair done.”
“Ok, I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
Bob checked around the house for any mess. He had forgotten all about the glass in the bathroom and quickly got it back to pristine. Everywhere else was tidy apart from the stains on the carpet. One last place to check was Zoe’s room. No one was going to be in there, he knew, but he had to look and was expecting the worst. He wasn't disappointed; it was a bomb site. He closed the door tightly and headed back downstairs. He poured himself a coffee from the Gaggia Brera, a present from Zoe, as its brushed metal finish went with the kitchen, and sat down at the island waiting on Dario. He smiled to himself about how good the kitchen looked. Diane had done well. She was such a lovely person and a good friend to Zoe he thought. He also loved the idea that the kitchen was almost ‘as new’. He loved Zoe, even though she barely lifted a finger. She was funny and cheeky and with her, every day, he felt a bit younger.
Bob recognised the sound of Dario’s Ducati 996 whirring outside the front door. Dario said it was a future collectable and would soar in value. Bob hated bikes or maybe feared them was more appropriate. In Bob’s mind, the Ducati was, basically, someone sitting on top of a 1000cc engine. At top speed, anyone, unfortunate enough, to come off, would be sliding along something resembling a surface designed by a cheese grating company.
Bob met Dario at the door. “Mind and take those boots off.”
Dario sat at the island. A toenail protruded through a hole in his sock.
“Now I know what to get you for Christmas,” said Bob.
“Give me a pay rise and I’ll get them myself.” Dario was only half joking. “What happened last night?”
“You first. Do you totally trust Smith?”
“I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll come good if we keep him happy.”
“Will he be looking for more?”
“Yeah! But he will bring us a fortune in business.”
“How much?”
“How much more or how much business?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“We just need to see how things go. The more we give him, the more contract work we’ll get. There’s years of work in planning.”
“Ok, but we need to make sure cash flow doesn’t become an issue. I’ll talk to Carla.”
“We might need a bit more soon? I have someone else lined up I hope.”
“Someone else?”
“Same idea, just a different utility: power cables.”
“I think we should take things a bit slower. Get some contracts from Smith before we look for others.”
“No harm in testing the water but I won't agree anything without your say so, obviously.”
“So when do we hear from the tramp.”
“Contract awarded, to us, by the end of next month.”
“Ok. We have plenty of our own stuff to keep the crews busy for now.”
“Yeah! We might need extra operatives as business picks up. I've put out some feelers to a mate at Roadcraft. We can probably poach a planner and some road crews.”
“Do you think Roadcraft will let them go?”
“Roadcraft think they are getting the contract. Smith says they are fucked.”
“I don't like this side of the business.”
“That’s why you should leave it all to me. Any coffee going?”
Bob sorted coffee for both of them and thought through everything Dario had told him. In about five years time maybe he could retire, like Zoe wanted, but that would need some tidy annual accounts, which Smith and the likes could provide. Pack up in five years and move to wherever Zoe fancied sounded good at that moment for Bob.
“I hate to ask but I need fifteen hundred cash for that furniture,” said Dario.
“The office stuff? It's second hand!”
“Yeah. I thought he would take a cheque but he needs cash. It’s quality and well worth that kind of money.”
Bob thought about his poker war chest. He had just lost fifteen hundred without even seeing a card. He went to the wall unit just above the sink. He removed some plastic tubs full of kitchen junk and opened the false back panel. Four bleeps and the safe was open. He lifted out the envelope and the velvet bag. He felt for the stones. It was a habit he hardly even realised he had. He put everything back and handed Dario the neatly stacked bundle of notes.
“You still collecting diamonds?” asked Dario.
“Eh! Yeah! Got some but not as many as before.”
“So! My turn. What about last night.”
“Zoe got another call.”
“Oh shit! What did he say.”
“He asked if she was enjoying her bath.”
“Did you call the police? They can track calls even if they can’t trace them.”
“They mentioned that the last time. I think they called it triangulation or something like that. Only for serious stuff though.”
“This is serious.”
“Not in the big scheme it isn't, apparently.”
“So what next?”
“Change of phone, try and get Zoe not to answer, hope they get fed up and give up.”
“Hope you’re right.”
“I think she just panicked last night. She doesn't usually get phased by anything.”
“Late afternoon probably, once the work is done.” Bob laughed to himself.
“Coffee starting to take effect, be back in a minute.”
“Watch for glass on the floor.”
“Eh?”
“Zoe smashed a glass on the floor. I tidied up but watch anyway.”
“I wondered what the marks on the carpet were. She ok?”
“Minor cuts on her feet. Didn't stop her going out though.”
Dario was pulling on his bike boots as Bob opened the door to let him out.
“How’s the CCTV going?”
“Good! Couple of tweaks needed. The phone thing is amazing: You get to see what’s going on wherever you are.”
“Does it cover all around.”
“More or less. Houdini couldn't get in or out.”
“We need to talk cash flow at the start of the week. Need Carla’s input,” said Bob. “I’ll diary some time as soon as the new offices are sorted.”
Bob listened as the Ducati roared off.
8
Zoe was stuck in traffic. The temporary lights seemed to have been at red for an age. There were six men ‘working’ on the hole in the road. Two were standing chatting while leaning on shovels. One was sitting on the step of a van texting. One was actually active in a mini digger. The final two were watching him. She thought it looked like a scene from the Sopranos: a ‘no show’ as they called it: getting paid for not working. It didn't bother her in the least. It was this business that gave her the lifestyle she enjoyed.
She parked in the space marked for mother and child. She jumped out and clicked the central locking and strode off towards the centre. She knew that the grumpy looking ‘old git’ in the bashed up fiesta was watching her. He had his mouth hanging open for no apparent reason, something she had noticed about old guys. He rolled down his window as she approached and she intentionally walked towards him expecting a challenge.
“Mother and child!” he hissed and pointed at the space.
“I’m just about to pick her up.”
“Who?”
“My mother,” she said, “And I’m the child.”
She giggled to herself knowing she had annoyed the hell out of him. Anyway, those spaces are always empty and there are far too many of them everywhere you go she reassured herself.
“Jonathan in?” Zoe made a big smiley face.
The receptionist looked at Zoe without emotion. “He is running late.”
“No problem, could you be a doll and get me a coffee, thanks.” Zoe was on a roll and was enjoying herself.
She sipped her coffee and read the latest edition of Cosmo. ‘How to get the best out of an older man’ was the page header. She thought about reading it but then without realising she announced: “ahead of the game,” in an American accent. Everyone stopped and looked round. Zoe just giggled and went back to her coffee and mag. Twenty minutes had gone by when Jonathan appeared from the personal booth.
“Ah, here at last,” he said.
“I've been here for twenty minutes.”
Jonathan looked at the receptionist.
“I thought you were with Mrs Newton,” she said.
“She didn't turn up, remember?”
“Sorry! my mistake.” The receptionist looked at Zoe and gave her a knowing smile.
Zoe liked that. She always enjoyed a cat fight.
The private booth was very much that. No one came in or out while Jonathan was working.
“Glass of wine?”
“Why not. I’m looking forward to this. Been a while.”
Zoe lay back and felt that this was her escape. She would be home late afternoon with her hair flounced and a gorgeous classic French manicure, definitely not the multicoloured, bejazzled tramp look. An hour later Zoe left Jonathan in the booth and went to get her hair and nails sorted. Two hours later she was back in the Range Rover. She called Bob to check the carpet cleaners had been. They were still there and would not be finished until about 4 pm. Time, she thought, for a coffee and croissant at Marco’s. She jumped back out of the 4x4 and headed to the cafe. Open mouthed old git was nowhere to be seen. Pity, as she was on a high after a very enjoyable day.
It was ten past four. “Hi! Darling.”
Bob immediately felt a rising. He knew that when Zoe called him darling she was as randy as hell. “They are just packing up, carpets back to new,” he said.
“Great, I got us some M&S goodies. I’ll be home in half an hour.”
“M&S goodies?”
“Ha! Steady tiger, food, not underwear.”
Bob opened a bottle of their favourite Sauvignon. Neither of them really got all the flavours mentioned in the blurb, but it was just what they liked. He brushed his teeth and sat on the sofa with a glass of white and couldn't wait to see his beautiful lady.
9
Cheryl was looking at herself in the mirror. She was wearing her favourite LBD with black patent Louboutin pumps. Gold around her wrist and neck and a black and gold clutch from Aspinal’s completed the look. She filled the dress perfectly but as she turned side on she pulled her stomach in so the dress became loose. She looked at her watch and wondered about changing.
“Oh, god!” She couldn't decide and needed a second opinion. “Harry!” she shouted.
He was in his room. “What?” he shouted back. “I’m busy.”
Margaret knocked on his door and went in. He was on a mission.
“How do I look?”
“Great!”
“You didn't even look.”
“I don't need to, you always look great.”
“I’m off out on business, lock…”
He finished her sentence “I know! Keep the door locked, there’s food in the fridge, phone you if there is a major disaster.”
She ruffled his hair, much to his annoyance, and went to watch for her taxi.
Cheryl was looking up at the windows as the taxi pulled into the courtyard. What had once been a stable block was now twelve luxury flats. Hugh was standing at the window watching for her. As she got out she waved up to him and she noticed a light blinking off and the slatted blinds of the neighbouring flat flick closed. He buzzed her in and she took the lift to the second floor. Hugh was never sure whether to think of this as business or pleasure, probably because it was both really. He always started off the night awkwardly and true to form, he half shook her hand and half kissed her.
“Glass of champagne?” he offered.
“Lovely, thanks.”
“You look very beautiful.”
Margaret felt a bit embarrassed but Cheryl was glowing. “Thank you.”
“Looking forward to the night?”
“Not sure what we are doing yet? I was just told to dress for a dinner party.”
“Sorry, I did give a full briefing when I booked, I mean, arranged to meet you.”
Cheryl laughed. “Look, I’ve always enjoyed your company. Not many I can say that about. Can we just relax and have a good night. And, I’m starving, what's for dinner?”
Hugh laughed and suddenly felt at ease. “Not sure, the Fieldings like to keep everyone guessing.”
“Have you found out yet who your nosey neighbour is?”
“Sorry, that side have their own stairwell and lift so I never really see them.”
“The blinds were twitching as usual.”
“I don't even know if it's a single person or a couple. I never hear them moving about.”
Cheryl had a feeling that the blinking light might have been a flash from a camera or an iPhone. She decided to keep that to herself for now. She would have to persuade Hugh to make an effort to find out. Maybe later when she had his undivided attention she could try again.
The taxi stopped outside what was an unremarkable 70’s kit-built bungalow. Cheryl felt a bit less nervous as she had been sure the Fieldings, Edward and Anne, were of blue blood. Her own house was older and better built but simi
lar in its two public, three-bed, style. The dinner table was set for eight and the other six were already in attendance.
Cheryl glanced around the room which was all flares, big collars, platforms and multi-coloured shirts.
“Looks like a theme night to me?” Hugh said turning to Cheryl with his apology face on.
“No shit Sherlock,” Edward retorted and the room laughed.
“So this is Margaret?” asked Anne reaching out to shake hands.
“Eh! Yes! Nice to meet you.” Margaret glanced at Hugh who made a face which said ‘Ooops’.
The night passed quickly with Cheryl managing to deflect the more searching questions with ease. She was in her element and was quick-witted enough to turn her hand to almost any role.
Like the bungalow, the meal was from the 70’s. Prawn cocktail complete with a tiny umbrella, Chicken Kiev on a bed of rice and finished off with Black Forest gateaux and skoosh cream.
Cheryl hadn't been quite as starving as she had thought but the Fieldings, the Jacksons and the Thomsons were all easy company and they all clearly thought a lot of Hugh. For Margaret that was what mattered.
As the taxi arrived back in the courtyard Hugh leaned over and kissed Margaret. It was a slow sensual kiss. He stepped out of the taxi and Cheryl went to get out but he motioned for her not to follow and she sat back down. Her heart sank and she felt slightly embarrassed.
“Driver, please take the lady home.” He watched and waved as the taxi drew out of the courtyard. Those same blinds, high above, flicked open but the room remained in darkness.
10
Bob was in the garage looking after his baby. It was an investment from ten years back but hadn't really gone up in value. He was secretly glad about that as investments were all about realising a profit. As with his gambling, he liked to think he knew when to cash out but in this instance, it was all about holding and enjoying. A 1967 MkII Jaguar, like the one used in the Inspector Morse series. Black in colour with red leather seating and stunning chrome spoke wheels. It was the 3.8 litre with almost 190 horses under the bonnet, in its prime. It was completely original except for obvious wear and tear repairs. There was no new technology: satnav, alarm or tracker that could tarnish the car's reputation. It still had the factory fitted radio cassette and Bob owned a varied collection of those ancient pieces of technology to go with it. He didn't keep the cassettes in the car. The car was not for storage; in fact, it was completely free of any clutter. His average miles over the ten years were less than three thousand miles per year. Every Thursday and Friday, twenty miles round, roughly. The new offices were the same distance but just on the other side of town. It was Sunday morning so it was time to hoover out the footwell at the front. Nobody ever got to sit in the back and the only people allowed in the front were Zoe and, at a push, Dario. He had been forced to take it to a meeting with him as he was using his Ducati during the week. Some lame excuse that his BMW was needing a service. Dario had left gravel on the passenger side carpet with his messy feet and Bob was doing his best to extract the offending items.
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