Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  She rubbed her burning, stiff shoulders, and considered her response, or rather, Cat Thomson’s response to Jerry Fitzwilliam’s enthusiastic correspondence.

  You had such a commanding presence when I saw you on breakfast TV. Your opponent went away with her tail truly between her legs, but I’ll bet your bark is worse than your bite! I think it wouldn’t be too hard for you to win this cat over! Why don’t you try? Let’s meet to discuss how we can help each other. When and where suits?

  Scattered throughout the missive, Bev included several emojis. Laughter, winkie, dancing girl, cat, kissing face. She had a fine line to tread between encouraging flirtation and avoiding frightening him off.

  Within twenty minutes, he’d messaged back.

  Might you be in London at any point in the next couple of weeks?

  Jx

  Once in the electrical repair shop, she pushed all thoughts of the Fitzwilliams out of her mind.

  ‘I’ve come to pick up my Dyson,’ she told the old guy behind the counter.

  The shelves in there were lined with electrical oddities and other people’s repaired appliances. The air smelled of old carpet and dust. It reminded her of a typewriter repairs place her mother had taken her to as a kid by the tall Co-op Insurance building. The old lady had wanted to collect machine parts from Underwood typewriters destined only for the scrapyard. Eccentric old bugger.

  With heaviness in her heart at the bittersweet memory, she gave the owner her receipt. He came out from behind the counter, trying to match Bev’s job number to her vacuum cleaner. But she had already spotted the first-edition Dyson with its grey plastic body and yellow trim. The vacuum for which she had fought for custody.

  ‘All back to normal?’ she asked.

  The guy laughed but there was no real humour in his voice. He dragged the Dyson to towards the till, beckoning her to follow. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said.

  Perplexed, Bev frowned. Retrieved her purse from her bag just wanting to pay up. ‘You serviced it, right? It’s working again?’

  ‘Do you want to know why it got bunged up in the first place? Eh? It jammed. Do you want to see what I pulled out from the pipes?’

  She shook her head. Shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  With a look of pure disgust on his face, the repair guy pulled out a clear plastic bag full of grey fluffy junk.

  ‘Yeah? And?’ Bev said. Checked her watch impatiently.

  Massaging the plastic, he moved the fluff aside to reveal cigarette butts galore and three used condoms. ‘The Dyson DC01 was not designed to vacuum up debauchery, young lady. It plays havoc with the dual cyclone.’

  She peeled an extra ten pounds from her purse. Half of her food budget for the week. Her cheeks felt like they might blister up with heat at any moment. Holding the note out to the repair man, she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact.

  ‘Save your money,’ he said, waving it away. ‘Pay for some lessons on basic hygiene.’

  ‘I had a visitor . . .’ Bev recalled the circumstances under which her design classic vacuum cleaner had been abused. She’d woken late the following morning, too hungover and too short on time to deal with the mess properly. Her client – the wife of a serially unfaithful curtain salesman – had turned up only twenty minutes later, forcing her to push her visitor out of the bedroom’s patio doors and into the garden. He’d been encouraged to use his initiative with regard to Sophie and Tim’s high fencing and just make himself scarce, pronto. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice.

  He pushed the bag into her hand ‘Well, you can take your intimate muck with you.’

  ‘So is the vacuum . . . you know? Sucking again?’ She could feel a giggle welling up inside her as though she was some idiot schoolgirl. Get lost, giggle. This is not the time or place. This guy hates you.

  ‘I wouldn’t be giving it back if it wasn’t—’

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked the screen. It was Angie calling.

  ‘Bev!’ There was urgency in her client’s voice. ‘I need to speak to you in person. I’m parked across the road.’

  Bev glanced outside and noticed the Range Rover parked in a bay alongside the bowling green.

  ‘Not here,’ Bev said. ‘Meet me in Altrincham Aldi, on the odds and sods aisle.’

  The disgust was evident from Angie’s tone. ‘Aldi? No! Odds and what? Why not Waitrose?’

  ‘Aldi. Follow me there. And wear a hat.’

  ‘I haven’t got a hat to hand.’

  Bev thought about the knitted fashion disaster that was sitting in the hire car’s glovebox – her go-to headwear for masking her identity during stakeouts. ‘I’ll lend you a sodding hat.’

  Cutting Angie off and not staying to listen to any more of the repair guy’s lecture, Bev wheeled the Dyson rapidly out of the shop.

  CHAPTER 11

  Bev

  ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have met somewhere more civilised,’ Angie said, pulling the bright green bobble hat further down over her ears. She was wearing sunglasses too and was beginning to attract the attention of the till staff. She wrinkled her nose at a poorly dressed old man who was examining a nylon striped doormat with interest.

  ‘Look, Angie. We’ve got to be careful that we’re not seen together in public by anyone in your social circle,’ Bev said, eyes darting up and down the jumbled aisle of miscellaneous marked-down merchandise. ‘Jerry doesn’t know what I look like, right? It needs to stay that way.’

  ‘Can I take this hat off? It’s itchy. And green’s not my colour. It makes me look jaundiced.’

  ‘You’ll look fucking jaundiced if your husband finds out I’m catfishing him under a pseudonym. Look, Angie. What have you found that can’t wait for half an hour?’

  Jerry Fitzwilliam’s battered wife shoved a piece of paper into her hands. ‘A bank statement,’ she said. ‘I managed to break into his office but he came back home to get something. I nearly died. I can’t believe he didn’t notice the open window. I thought he’d catch me, but I managed to—’

  Bev set her shopping basket on the ground and snatched the statement from her. Examined the logo on the quality paper. ‘Coutts & Co? Nice. They don’t let you bank there if you’re stacking shelves in Asda.’ She grinned. ‘This is a good start. Well done.’ Scanning the transactions, she could see the current account was over quarter of a million in the black some two weeks ago, but that the money had been transferred out. It was not immediately obvious where to. ‘There’s a few listings of an account number registered to a company named Spartacus Holdings. Does that ring any bells?’

  Scratching gingerly at her forehead beneath the green, rough wool hat, Angie shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Does Jerry have any business interests or jobs outside of his political work?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He gave up his City job. He was stressed. We’ve been living off savings, he said, and then his MP’s salary, once he was elected.’

  ‘Let me show this to a friend,’ she said, folding the statement carefully in half. ‘Try to have another dig around his office next time he’s out. Look for laptops, USB sticks, phones or statements for phone accounts you didn’t know about. They might list numbers he’s dialled . . . get more financial information like this.’ She waved the Coutts statement. Slipped it into her handbag. ‘Anything you can lay your hands on. Look for keys to furniture that’s locked. People lock things for a reason.’

  ‘Like his desk drawers?’

  Bev’s response was fully formed and waiting on the tip of her tongue to be shared with Angie, when she swallowed the words back down to join the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Standing only three feet away was Rob. Rob the Knob, who had crept up on her like the sneaky shit he was.

  ‘Hello, Bev.’ Carrying a plastic basket laden with shopping. He glanced into her basket, empty but for a pack of heavy-flow sanitary towels and two bottles of cooking wine. ‘I see you’re eating well.’

  ‘What the fuc
k are you doing in Altrincham, Robert? Didsbury’s your patch.’ How much of her conversation with her new client had this destroyer of worlds heard? She appraised his shiny grey suit trousers that were befitting of an office junior – not a thirty-year-old marketing manager. Noticing the small paunch that had recently appeared above his belt, she curled her lip. ‘Skiving? Been sacked?’

  ‘Afternoon off. I needed a new curtain pole from Homebase for my magnificent home and thought I’d nip in here for some bits.’ He smiled the smile of a boxer who’d just delivered a sucker punch to an opponent. ‘Is that OK with you or do you have to consult your solicitor for an opinion?’

  ‘Yeah, magnificent with my hard-earned cash. Shove it up your arse, Rob. And fuck off while you’re doing it, or I’ll call security and tell them you’re a sex pest.’

  Rob glanced disparagingly at Angie’s snot-green bobble hat, failing to look directly at her, as if Bev was a contagious disease, easily spread to anyone she talked to. ‘You’d know all about sex pests, Beverley. Pulling in Aldi’s a bit of a low for you, though, isn’t it?’ Finally he addressed Angie directly. Still staring at the hat. ‘She’s got a fanny like a fire bucket, this one. Are you one of her wingmen, or is she doing you?’

  Angie merely stared at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘That’s it,’ Bev shouted. ‘Security! Guard! Help!’

  Laughing as though he’d said something hilarious, Rob scuttled off towards the tills, dumping his basket on a chocolate display and exiting empty-handed.

  Breathing deeply and slowly to calm herself after the altercation, Bev turned back to Angie, picking up their conversation anew, as if a run-in with the man who’d ruined her life had never happened. It didn’t do to share her drama with a client who had enough of her own to contend with.

  ‘Yes. Desk drawers. Exactly. Check them if you can,’ she said. Keeping the adrenaline and cortisol out of her voice. Calmer, calmer, calm. ‘Look through the pages of books for illicit photos or hidden documents. Check the pockets of his suits. And I need money to float this job, Angie. If you think he’s messing around but can’t find evidence of an affair, I’ll need to honeytrap him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angie said, the furrows on her brow deepening. ‘Really?’ Clearly she had no interest in bringing up the subject of Rob. Good.

  ‘You want grounds? Infidelity is a biggie. I pretend to be sexually interested in him. If he tries to put the moves on me and we get evidence of that . . . I’ve already arranged to meet with him in London. Get as much evidence as I can.’

  Angie pulled her purse out of her Mulberry handbag, opening the notes section.

  Bev could see only a fiver in there. No sign of any credit cards whatsoever. She sighed, thinking of her share of the water bill that Sophie had recently dropped into her lap. A nasty addition to the pile of brown paper envelopes that were stacking up on the coffee table. Demands for thousands of pounds’ worth of payments she knew she couldn’t make. Utilities. Credit card bills. The dreaded tax demand. Not to mention the rent she owed. ‘Is that all you’ve got in the world?’

  Angie bit her lip. Tears standing in her blue eyes. ‘For now . . . Sorry.’

  Bev waved her hand dismissively, though the worry of her own financial meltdown was not so easily wafted away. But asking clients for money up front was the element of self-employment that she struggled with most. ‘Forget it. Give me some cash next time. Leave it with me. But Angela, do me a favour. Don’t come chasing after me in public. We’re damned lucky Jerry’s never met me before, given his connection with Tim. And what would have happened if Rob knew Jerry and had recognised you? If Jerry gets wind of what’s going on, we’re both in a mountain of bother. Right?’

  CHAPTER 12

  Bev

  ‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’ the waiter asked.

  Bev clenched her fists, pressing her fingernails into her palms until it hurt. Forced a smile onto her face. ‘A Hendricks and tonic, thanks.’ Glancing down at the drinks menu, she realised too late that she couldn’t actually afford a drink that was approaching £15. Shit. But she had to blend in, here in the busy bar of this Michelin-starred restaurant that felt like a memory from her past.

  ‘Cucumber?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Perched on the bar stool, she smoothed down her uncomfortably tight dress, pulling the fabric towards her knees. Hooked her stiletto heels over the footrest, feeling the sting in her feet that had grown unaccustomed to glamour, having spent the last year mainly in trainers. Beyond the packed bar, she spied tables full of elegantly dressed Sloane Rangers and their moneyed husbands. Funny how wealthy women so frequently wore pale colours, as though they were boasting by means of their Max Mara cashmere that no dirt would ever besmirch them.

  What the hell was she doing? Her heart was thundering away to the point where she felt it might give out entirely. Agreeing to meet Jerry Fitzwilliam for a drink and nibbles felt like a step too far in her shitty career as a private investigator.

  ‘Breathe,’ she counselled herself, practicing the techniques Mo had taught her. Breathe in for four, hold for two, out for six. Repeat.

  As she tried to calm her heart rate, she considered the last few days. Already wound tight enough to snap, there had been another incident where she’d been sure she was being followed – on the way back from a late-night trip to Hale Tesco Express for two pints of milk and a bag of custard doughnuts. The shadow Science Minister had finally accepted her friend request on Facebook, resulting in some back and forth between her – masquerading as Cat Thomson – and him on Messenger. She had ramped up the flirting to a level where, worryingly for this job’s prospects, he’d accused her of being a journalist, digging for scandal. Naturally, she had denied it. She’d asked Doc to put together a suitably boring corporate website for a spoof engineering company, listing her as the marketing manager on the, ‘meet the team’ page. Catherine Thomson, with the winsome smile and the tits to die for, who had been with the firm for five years. She’d sent Jerry the link, challenging him to see for himself if she was for real or if she was, indeed, a hack on the hunt for an exposé.

  Maybe he got a mate to look into it, she thought, twisting and twisting at a napkin. Maybe he’s got contacts in HMRC or wherever it is they hold National Insurance records. Those bastards would know in a click of the mouse if Cat Thomson is a fake ID or not. Shit, shit, shit. He might be coming here with the police to have me arrested. Maybe that’s why he’s late. Maybe there are cops outside with guns, waiting to take me down like some terror suspect. Christ. What the hell are you doing, you berk?

  ‘Your Hendricks and tonic, madam,’ the waiter said, laying down a paper coaster and a bowl of nuts. Setting her drink on the bar with some ceremony.

  Bev nodded. Forced another smile. ‘Ta. I mean, thanks.’ She gulped down half of the double gin in one hit. Registered the alcohol flowing through her veins like quicksilver. It should have served to bolster her confidence. She had nothing to worry about. Not really. Didn’t she? Fitzwilliam had seemed to accept Doc’s website as the real deal, after all. And though he hadn’t exactly reciprocated her amorous advances in the universal languages of emoji and innuendo, neither had he closed her down, which implied tacit encouragement. He had been the one to chase her for a London meet, though he had only suggested a drink in this very public place. Would he take her bait or play it straight?

  Bev reached into her handbag, switching on the tiny recording device just poking out beneath the lid. She said a silent prayer that the equipment would pick up all sound and hopefully, feed a half decent picture back to Doc’s laptop in Manchester.

  ‘Cat?’ A warm palm on the small of her back.

  She started. Jerry Fitzwilliam was standing before her, now, grinning, all chalk-stripe suiting and shiny shoes.

  Did he see me fiddling with the camera? I bloody hope not. Flirt, you daft cow.

  ‘Jerry. My, my.’ She held out her hand, expecting him to kiss her knuckles. Instead, he encased it in hi
s giant pink fist and shook it energetically as though she were a male colleague at the office.

  ‘Thanks for coming all this way,’ he said, casting a fleeting eye over her and immediately moving his focus onto the restaurant beyond. A man with better things to do than this.

  ‘How nice to meet you in the flesh,’ Bev said, trying to switch on her inner seductress. Don’t say pig. Don’t say pork. My God, he’s got a sty in his left eye. Eeuw. Every muscle in her body tensed up anew, shrinking away from the contact. This was going to be tough. She batted her eyelashes.

  But her greeting was lost as a maître d’ swept up to them.

  ‘Mr Fitzwilliam!’ All smiles and sycophantic bowing. ‘Your private dining awaits.’

  ‘Private?’ Bev said, almost losing her footing as she slid off her bar stool. ‘What? You mean on our own? Oh. Right. Fine.’ She pictured Angie’s bruised neck and swallowed hard.

  ‘I took the liberty of booking a delightful space away from prying eyes. We can hear each other in there.’ Fitzwilliam’s hard blue stare was fixed on her, then.

  He gestured that she should follow the maître d’, past all those sophisticated diners who couldn’t hear her anguished silent cry for help. Private.

  They were led to an exquisitely decorated room where some top-end interior designer had gone mad with taupe velvety finishes, leather and mirrored this and that. It had been set up for dining à deux. There were no windows. The chaise longue against the back wall sent images flickering through Bev’s brain of the email thread she’d been sent anonymously only days ago. Snippets made to look like clippings from newspaper articles.