“My grandmother was an atheist.”
“Oh yes, but that’s no reason to miss out on a church is it? Lovely bunch of flowers, music, the whole…”
It wasn’t hard to find Dani’s supervisor.
Seb Gatesman, twenty-nine, fiddling with his mobile phone round the back of a large, detached house on the edge of a park in Barnes, trying to take a photo of himself looking appalled, horrified and humorous all at once to send to his mate who had just suggested this thing they could do tonight, the most—you won’t believe—like we’re gonna totally fuck those bitches up it’s gonna be…
“Excuse me?”
Theo Miller, dressed in a suit and tie, stood beneath the ash tree and smiled politely. The younger man was nearly a foot taller than Theo, with a carefully trimmed dark goatee that he secretly oiled last thing at night and first thing in the morning. He wore a white shirt and black trousers, and was proud of this because all the patty bitches who worked under him had to wear the jumper with the name on it, like the parole sluts they were.
“Excuse me?” repeated Theo. “Mr. Sebastian Gatesman?”
“Who’re you?”
Too early in the morning for Theo to be anyone important, the wedding party was still down the church. Gatesman was just here making sure his staff didn’t fuck up the reception, the champagne bar the ice sculpture the chocolate fountain the diamond hidden in the wedding cake health and safety had given him such shit over that and he’d been like it’s the size of a fucking fist no way you could fucking…
…but it’d be just his luck if someone broke a tooth on it.
“Mr. Gatesman, my name is Theo Miller, I work for the Criminal Audit Office. I’m here about Dani Cumali…”
“Yeah? What’s she done?” Seb Gatesman is keen for the answer to be bad. Hit by a bus, fell off a roof, gnawed by an unexpected llama, he’ll take it.
“She’s dead.”
“Fuck off!” Not anger or sadness—just an outrageous joke being pulled, funny of course, it’s funny but also in bad taste, mate, like, that’s some bad taste.
“I’m afraid so.”
“What the fuck? You’re serious?” A flicker of something—perhaps relief—before the important thoughts hit. “That’s the whole fucking rota fucking—I mean sorry, mate, like it’s all very—but that’s the rota that’s—fuck! How’d she die?”
“She was murdered.”
“Fuck off.”
“You weren’t made aware by your managers.”
“No! Last to fucking hear anything, last of the—”
“Mr. Gatesman, my job is to audit the value of the crime. To do so I need to ascertain information concerning Ms. Cumali’s past in order to profile the societal impact her murder will have. Did she have dependants, was she in good standing, were there outstanding debts which have to be paid, these matters can be…”
A snort of derision.
Theo paused.
Thought that in another time, another place, this garden would be beautiful. Autumn leaves falling onto thick green grass. The twisted spine of the hawthorn, the tall sweep of the oak, acorns dropping, conker shells cracking open to reveal their shining fruit, the distant sound of water trickling from a stone fountain crusted with yellow lichen, fresh-cut flowers all along the windowsills, their perfume drifting through the cold.
The only ugly thing, he decided, was the face in front of his, but that was the face he had to deal with and so:
“Mr. Gatesman? Your insight would be most useful for my audit.”
“She was a patty, straight off the line. Twelve years or something, she was lucky she got this job, the company picked her up cheap too, you know what those women are like, once they’re in a way of thinking, there’s nothing, like she’s lucky she got what she got.”
“Did she have children?”
“Don’t think so. Dunno. Look, I’m her supervisor not her dad.”
“What was her job, exactly?”
“Cleaning. Also went on a few catering gigs to clean the glasses and unload stuff.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere we needed staff, got a lot of big contracts, corporate stuff. Doesn’t take much to clean a glass, even a patty is good for that.”
“Anyone she disliked or who seemed to dislike her? Anything stand out about her behaviour or the behaviours of others towards her?”
A shrug.
“Any friends?”
Another shrug, and sensing that maybe this wasn’t quite enough: “Look, man, she was just a patty, okay, I mean like is it such a—”
“I hear that a lot of patties—women like Ms. Cumali—are sold for sex to wealthy clients.”
A series of expressions cross Seb Gatesman’s face, rippling like wind across a flag.
First, default: indignation, fury, clownish, comical, he’s outraged how could you even—if you weren’t such a stand-up guy and I wasn’t so reasonable I’d
This phase lasted a few seconds, then died before Theo’s steady blinking gaze.
Second, cheeky: hey, actually, you know what, you and me, you and me, men like us, we’re men of the world we know how it and it’s not illegal so long as you pay for the indemnity is it it’s not illegal it’s just expensive and if these girls they want to make a pretty buck then well who are we?
Finally: a shrug.
In answer to most things, Seb Gatesman has a shrug.
Does it matter?
Does any of this fucking matter?
And despite himself, another flash across Seb Gatesman’s face, for there was a night not so long ago when a girl came off the patty line and he sat her down and said, “You’ve had it tough I get that, but here we help our own if they help us if you play ball with me I’ll…”
Fuck me that had been one hell of a—she had totally known what he needed and…
Standing in the autumn garden, wet leaves beneath his feet, popped red berries crushed underfoot on the flagstone path, Theo watches the journey of the mind across Gatesman’s face, and feels suddenly hot, and wants to be somewhere else, and has to force himself to keep looking the other man in the eye. “Was… Ms. Cumali part of this arrangement?” he blurted, moving his briefcase from one hand to the other, feeling suddenly short, awkward against the lounging sprawl of Gatesman.
“Nah. Look I’m not supposed to talk about this, will this be in a…”
“The report is about Ms. Cumali’s murder, not her work. Unless it’s relevant I don’t see why you need to be…”
“Only I’ve got family I’ve got—”
“If you cooperate, I’m sure I can keep your name out of this. Now the arrangement, the… uh… the providing of physical services to wealthy gentlemen…”
“Some women do it. It’s a choice.”
“Ms. Cumali didn’t participate?”
“Nah. Coulda made a couple of quid if she’d played it right, but you could see she was trouble, sometimes you can get paid for that too—a biter a screamer there’s a market for everything but when supply outpaces demand…”
Once again Gatesman’s thoughts deteriorated into a shrug. Economics: what’s a guy to do? What’s a stand-up guy to do?
Theo grunts: “I need to know Ms. Cumali’s movements for the last two months.”
“Uh, I don’t know if like I can… is this like… part of your audit? Only I’ve never heard of it being so…”
“Have you ever been audited, Mr. Gatesman? As victim or perpetrator, I mean?”
A shifting of weight that wants to give way to another shake of the shoulders, and wisely doesn’t go through with the motion.
A silent conversation, conducted in great detail in meeting eyes.
Seb, phone now forgotten in his hand, wondering what Theo knows.