“His first wife was killed?”
“Sorry, didn’t I mention that? That was Jeanette, who you already know about. She died in a road accident six years ago. Quite tragic, really.”
Six years. The significance of that wasn’t lost on Ben.
Quilley was watching him with that half-smile. “Are you all right, Mr Murray? You look quite pale.”
“I’m fine. Go on.”
“Where was I? Yes, John Kale. Remarried about the same time he moved to Tunford. His second wife’s called Sandra. Met her when he was stationed at Aldershot after he was wounded, not long before he was discharged.” The detective turned down his mouth. “Doesn’t look a very select article, Mr Murray, if you don’t mind my saying. Works as a barmaid in the local pub. Kale’s employed in a scrapyard in the next town. Quite well thought of, from what I can gather. Bit of a local hero. You know, local boy goes off to fight, wife dies, he comes back injured. All very tragic.” He looked across at Ben, as though waiting for him to say something.
Ben took it as his cue to ask what he had been dreading. “Do they have any children?'
There was a subtle change in Quilley’s attitude, as though the question pleased him. “No, and that’s another tragedy. Kale had a child by his first wife, a little boy, but it seems the baby was stolen from the hospital not long after it was born. Jeanette Kale was staying down in London with her parents at the time. They never did find out what happened to it.” He tut-tutted. “Makes you wonder if that had anything to do with what happened afterwards. You know, her getting herself killed, him getting shot. Almost like everything went to pieces for them after that.” His smile remained, but his eyes were unmistakably watchful now. “Still, they say things happen in threes, don’t they?”
Ben told himself he was being over-sensitive about the man’s manner. “Did they have any idea you were checking up on them?”
“Oh, no need to worry about that. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I let people know when I was checking up on them, would I?”
The impulse to get out of the office and away from the man on the other side of the desk was growing stronger. “So is that everything?” He found himself hoping it was.
“I think it more or less covers what you wanted to know, wouldn’t you say?”
Ben found himself nodding. “How much do I owe you?”
The detective’s smile was no longer so bland. He settled back in his chair, folding his hands across the top of his stomach. “Well, now we come to a bit of a problem, actually.”
Ben’s hand slowed on the route to his cheque book. “I’m not with you. We agreed on a rate.”
“Yes, yes we did. But that was before... how shall I put it? Before I was fully aware of the nature of the research.” He nodded, as if appreciating the phrasing. “You see, Mr Murray, the reason I’m so good at my job is that I believe in thoroughness. I don’t like leaving things half done. And if I come across something that puzzles me, well, I can’t rest until I’ve got to the bottom of it, if you take my meaning. How is the book going, by the way?”
The walls of the office seemed to be closing in. “Okay.”
“Good, good. Because I got to thinking that it’s rather unusual for a writer — or a photographer, such as yourself — to hire a private investigator to locate someone just to interview for a book. To say nothing of expensive. Anyone doing that must either want to interview them very badly indeed or...” The smile broadened. “...or have their own reasons for doing it. Now you might say that those reasons are none of my business, and perhaps you’re right. But as I pointed out to you at our last meeting, I do like to know a little about who I’m working for. And so I took the liberty of carrying out a little ‘extracurricular’ research, for want of a better term.”
Ben thought about the phone call to the studio. The detective had been checking up on him. Oh, Jesus, what have I done?
“I must offer my condolences on the death of your wife.” Quilley shook his head, slowly. “A terrible thing to happen at that age. Terrible. And leaving you to look after a little boy as well. A handicapped one at that. It can’t be easy. Particularly when, if you’ll pardon me saying, he isn’t actually yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that he’s your stepson. What else could I mean?”
The edge of the chair seat dug into Ben’s palms where he gripped it. “If there’s a point to this why don’t you get to it?”
“No need to be defensive, Mr Murray. I’m only commenting on the facts. And I’m sure that when you come to interview Mr Kale for your book you’ll find it helpful that the two of you have so much in common. Quite a catalogue of coincidences, really. His first wife also having died young, and you both having sons — or in your case a stepson — born on virtually the same day. Except that Mr Kale doesn’t know where his son is, of course.”
The urge to walk out and the desire to lunge at the face across the desk were equally strong. “I don’t see how any of that’s relevant. Or anything to do with you.”
The detective grinned as if Ben had made a joke. “I take your point, Mr Murray. Of course, it isn’t anything to do with me. Nothing at all. And I do apologise if I’ve touched on a nerve. I’m sure you’re very fond of the boy. Look on him as your own after all this time, I dare say.”
Ben felt uncoordinated as he took out his cheque book. “I asked how much I owed you.”
“So you did, Mr Murray. And, as I said, it’s a difficult question. You see, what we basically have here are two separate issues. On the one hand there’s the fee for my time and expenses, which is fairly straightforward. But then there’s the question of... how shall I put it? The value of information, let’s say. And I’m sure you can appreciate that’s less easy to put a price on. What’s worth one thing to one person may be worth much more to another. How do you judge these things?” The detective’s smile was indulgent. “I’m sure you appreciate the problem.”
The pen seemed cumbersome as Ben wrote out a cheque.
“It’s six days by my reckoning. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and include Saturday at the same rate. There’s fifty pounds for expenses as well.” He tore out the cheque and dropped it on the desk. He stood up. I’ll take the report with me.”
Quilley’s smile had shrunk a little but it was still there. He handed Ben the cardboard folder. “As you wish, Mr Murray. As you wish.”
There were signs that Maggie’s charity was wearing thin. Her smile was glassy as she served the lasagne. Ben sat next to Jacob. On the other side of the table Scott and Andrew whispered and cast glances across at him, sniggering from time to time.
Colin still wasn’t home. He had called to say that he would be working late. Maggie ordered them all to the dinner table as she announced the news.
“He says it’s unavoidable, so that’s all right, isn’t it? Still, never mind. I’m sure we can manage without him. And if his dinner’s burnt when he decides to get back, that’ll just be too bad, won’t it? If he doesn’t like it he’s always welcome to find himself some other hotel.”
Ben said nothing. He wished he hadn’t accepted Colin’s invitation. He had called him at work as soon as he had left the detective’s office. A secretary had said he was in a meeting, but Ben had insisted on talking to him.
Colin had listened to his ranting account and then said, “Shit.” He’d told Ben he couldn’t get away just then, couldn’t even talk for long because he’d got a room full of record company suits and an angry band, and if he didn’t get back soon they’d start breaking the furniture on each other. “Come over for dinner tonight. We can talk then,” he’d said.