‘Yeah … is the client still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Tell her I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. And Ada?’
‘What?’
‘Be nice to her, all right? Talk to her. Make her a cup of tea or something … are you listening?’
‘Yeah,’ she drawled. ‘I’m listening. Be nice, talk to her, cup of tea … anything else?’
‘Try not to fart too much.’
She laughed.
I ended the call, dropped my cigarette out of the window, and drove off into the rain.
2
The town of Hey is pretty much the same as any other medium-sized town in the south-east of England. It’s got a town centre, housing estates, supermarkets, a bypass, outlying villages, a river, a park, pubs, clubs, fights, drugs … it’s got 200,000 people living 200,000 lives, and it’s got no more goodness and no less shit than any other place I’ve ever been to.
It’s Any Town, Anywhere.
It’s Hey, Essex, England.
It’s where I live.
It’s where I come from.
My office is situated on the second floor of a three-storey building at the lower end of Wyre Street in the middle of the town centre. Wyre Street is a narrow pedestrianised lane that runs parallel to the High Street. It’s mainly populated with small businesses, like mine, and independent shops that can’t afford to be located in the High Street: hippy shops, comic-books shops, skateboard shops, candle shops … the kind of shops that don’t make much money and never last more than a year or two.
It’s OK.
It’s a street.
It’s where I work from.
*
It was getting on for midday by the time I got back to town. I left my car in the usual place — a council car park in the old market square — and walked up the steep stone steps that link the car park to Wyre Street. The streets were as quiet as you’d expect on a rainy Wednesday lunchtime, and most of the people I passed were too busy keeping themselves out of the rain to pay any attention to me, but I still got a few wary looks as I made my way back to the office. It was only to be expected. I’d been driving in the rain with no side window, so I was soaking wet and dishevelled. My face was still bleeding, the welt from the hammer blow had swollen up and was starting to turn blue, and I was carrying a manky old carrier bag filled with smashed-up bits of camcorder.
If I’d seen myself in the street, I probably would have been a bit wary too.
When I reached the office building, the front door was open and George Salvini was lounging against the porch wall smoking a cigarette. A middle-aged man, and always impeccably dressed, George runs an accountancy business from an office on the ground floor.
‘Hello, John,’ he said, grinning at my appearance. ‘You’re looking very gorgeous today.’
‘Thanks, George,’ I said, nodding at him as I went past into the corridor and started climbing the stairs.
The second floor of the building is all mine. It has a corridor with a cinnamon-coloured carpet, a toilet with a sink and hot water, and a window that looks out onto the alley at the back of the building. The door to the office has a pebbled glass panel lettered in faded black paint — John Craine Investigations — and I can still remember the childish kick of pride and excitement I used to get whenever I saw those three simple words: John Craine Investigations. But that’s all it is now — a memory, as faded as the paintwork on the glass. And as I opened the door and went in that day, I didn’t feel anything at all. No kick, no pride, no excitement. I was a private investigator. It was a job, that’s all. It paid the bills.
I shut the door behind me and looked over at Ada. She was sitting at her desk across the room, almost hidden behind a wall of papers and box files and computer stuff — monitor, printer, scanner. Ada was over sixty now, but she still looked the same as she’d always looked: overweight, tired, dressed like a bag lady. Today she was wearing a scratty old cardigan over an XXL Nirvana T-shirt, and although I couldn’t see her feet, I knew that she’d be wearing her foul-smelling old furry slippers.
I smiled at her.
‘Jesus Christ, John!’ she said, getting up from her desk. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘Honestly, it looks a lot worse than it is …’
‘I knew something had happened,’ she said, coming over to me and peering closely at my face. ‘I just knew it.’ She took out a tissue, spat on it, and started dabbing at my wounds.
‘Please, Ada,’ I said, gently easing her away. ‘It’s OK … really.’
‘Who did it?’ she asked.
‘Preston Elliot. You know, the StayBright insurance case?’
She frowned. ‘I thought that was just routine surveillance.’
‘Yeah, it was. It just got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’
She stared at me. ‘A bit out of hand?’
I held up the carrier bag and shook it. ‘We need a new camcorder.’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Do you know how much that cost?’
I took the damaged memory card from my pocket and passed it to her. ‘Can you see if this still works?’
‘I doubt if it will,’ she said, taking it from me and studying it. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’ She looked at me again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? That lump on your face doesn’t look too good.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said, gazing round the office. It looked the same as ever: Ada’s desk, a window, a couple of easy chairs against the wall, a fridge, filing cabinet, stationery cupboard. And over to the right, the connecting door to my private office.
‘Is she in there?’ I said to Ada.
‘Who?’
‘The client,’ I sighed. ‘The woman who’s been waiting to see me. Remember? The one I asked you to be nice to?’
‘Oh, right,’ Ada said. ‘Yeah, I thought she’d be more comfortable in there.’
‘What’s her name?’
Ada shook her head. ‘She didn’t say.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘I’m not your receptionist.’
‘Yes, you are.’
She frowned at me again. ‘I thought we agreed that my job title was administration manager?’
‘Yeah, and the administration manager’s responsibilities include secretarial work and receptionist duties.’
She grinned. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘It’s a good job we don’t get many face-to-face clients, isn’t it?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, you’re not exactly in the ideal state for face-to-face meetings yourself at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I’m a private investigator,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to look rough and mean.’
She snorted. ‘You don’t look rough and mean. You just look as if you’ve been beaten up, that’s all. There’s nothing remotely rough or mean about that. In fact, if anything — ’
‘Yeah, all right,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘Do you want to go and tell our nameless client that I’ll be with her in a minute, please?’
‘OK.’
‘I’m just going to clean up a bit first. Would you mind making us some coffee?’
‘Coffee?’
‘Yeah.’ I gave her a look. ‘Is that all right?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And could you call the garage too? My side window got smashed. I need someone to come round and fix it. The car’s in the car park.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’
I smiled at her again, glancing down at the furry slippers on her feet. They were purple. And today she was wearing a matching purple crushed velvet miniskirt that was equally as old and threadbare as her slippers.
‘Very nice,’ I told her.
She smiled. ‘You’re too kind.’
‘I know.’
I cleaned myself up as well as I could in the toilet along the corridor, then I towel-dried my hair, slicked it back with my fingers, and took a final look in the mirror. I wasn’t exactly presentable, but I didn’t look quite so much like a beaten-up wino in a cheap black suit any more.