Dolly coughed. ‘I’m here on behalf of my sister, actually.’
Why they had to lie, Vic never knew. He looked her in the eye. ‘Your sister?’
‘Yes. My sister believes her husband is having an affair with another woman, and we would like you to watch her house and find out a little about her. Do you do that kind of thing?’
He nodded. He did do that kind of thing. He didn’t like it, but the truth of it was that it was his bread and butter.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’d like me to keep a woman under surveillance?’
‘Yes, exactly.’
He got out a sheet of paper and began to make notes, in what seemed to Dolly a very professional manner.
‘Right. Her name?’
Dolly hesitated for another moment. ‘Trudie. Trudie Nunn.’
‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘And the address?’
Dolly gave him Trudie Nunn’s address in Islington.
‘And how long would you like the surveillance on Mrs. Nunn?’
Again Dolly hesitated. She’d had it all worked out in her mind before she came in but suddenly she was all of a dither.
‘Well... we... my sister and I would like to know... what kind of work she’s doing, and if... my sister’s husband is visiting her and who she sees...’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘That’s all part of the job. But how long do you want me to watch—’ he looked at the page — ‘Mrs. Nunn? Or Miss Nunn?’
‘Mrs. Nunn. Mrs. Trudie Nunn.’
‘Right.’
Dolly thought for a moment. ‘Well, how much do you charge, Mr. Morgan?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘Twelve-fifty per hour, plus expenses. Usually I don’t do round the clock — I work from seven in the morning to seven at night, but if you want the night shift I can go from seven at night through to two in the morning.’ He smiled. ‘In my experience, if there is any hanky-panky going on, it will have happened before then, if it’s going to happen at all.’
Dolly was not amused. ‘I see. Well, I’d like you to do three or four days to begin with, and see how we go from there.’
‘OK, four days of seven to seven, or on the seven to—’
‘Day and night,’ insisted Dolly. She’d already opened her bag and taken out her wallet.
Ah. He rubbed his hands. Now’s my chance, he thought. He shifted his chair round toward his new toy and began tapping out numbers. Instantly a flashing sign appeared, saying: ‘BOOT ERROR — BOOT ERROR — BOOT ERROR.’
Dolly looked up from her calculations. ‘I’ll pay you in advance for two days, is that all right? I make that £475.’ She counted out the money and put it on his desk.
Morgan’s computer was now flashing: ‘£35.02.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘I’ve not quite got the hang of this yet... But that’s fine.’ He tried to switch off the machine. ‘Er... another thing, Mrs. Marsh. Do you have a photograph of your sister’s husband, or any particulars? His name, for a start.’
Dolly was taken aback. ‘Yes, his name is John, er, Jonathan... Jarrow... J-A-R-R-O-W.’ She spelled it out, then described Harry Rawlins while Morgan nodded, taking careful notes.
‘Right you are. So you want me to watch this Trudie Nunn, and if this Mr. Jarrow turns up you want me to make a note of it — how long he stays, et cetera. Is that it?’
Dolly nodded. ‘Yes, yes, that’s precisely it.’ Despite the shenanigans with the computer, she reckoned Mr. Morgan wasn’t as dumb as he looked. She made a mental note not to make any slips in front of him.
Business done, she stood up. ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’
‘Well, I’d like to know where I can contact you.’
Dolly opened her bag, searching through her wallet for the card she’d picked up at the hotel desk that morning. Morgan went back to tapping out something on his word processor.
‘You’ll find me here, should you need me.’
Still tapping, he flicked a look at the card she’d placed on his desk and said, ‘I don’t know that one.’
‘It’s very quiet, just by Queen’s Gate.’
‘And that’s where you’ll be, Mrs. Marsh?’
‘Yes, you can contact me there... but I’ll call in.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you will, Mrs. Marsh.’
He stood up and they shook hands. His grip was firm.
As he walked Dolly toward the door, Helen, the group secretary for a number of offices, entered with her arms full of papers. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know you had—’
‘That’s all right,’ said Dolly, ‘I’m just leaving.’
As Dolly closed the door delicately behind her, Helen gave Morgan an inquiring look. ‘Something juicy?’
‘Not really.’ Morgan crossed back to his desk. ‘Oh my God,’ he said, ‘now what’s happening?’ The machine seemed to have taken on a life of its own, the printer churning out sheets and sheets of paper.
Helen rushed up behind him. ‘You’ve got it on repeat!’
‘God damn it, I set it to receipt! I wanted a receipt!’
Helen turned the machine off and looked at the receipt. ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘cash. That’s unusual for you!’
He smiled. ‘Yes. Look, there’s some letters for you to do, and whatever you put in the machine yesterday, I’m afraid you’re going to have to put back in today. I wiped it!’
She shook her head. He was reaching for his old camel hair coat, the one he always wore, whatever the time of year.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘You know you’re going to have to employ me full-time now you’ve got that machine.’
He turned with a grin. ‘My darling girl, this is the age of technology. When I get that machine going I won’t even need an office!’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she retorted.
He went to open the door, giving it its usual tug, followed by its usual pull — but it remained firmly stuck.
‘Forget about your fancy computer — why don’t you get that door fixed?’ Helen said.
He gave it one more tug and the door swung open. ‘Just a matter of technique!’ he said with a wink and breezed out.
Helen sighed. She’d been in love with Victor Morgan for almost two years, but he’d remained totally oblivious, showing no sign that he thought of her as anything more than just another piece of office equipment.
In fact, he didn’t seem to care very much about anything — with the possible exception of his old car. Whatever the ups and downs of the business, he didn’t seem to worry about money, and she wondered if he had private income from somewhere. She knew he’d been in the police for twenty years before retiring to open his own investigation bureau — mostly dealing with petty debt collecting, marriage troubles, divorce settlements, writs, warrants and, of course, the odd industrial espionage job, which paid a bit more. But there was an awful lot about Morgan that she didn’t know, like the story of the boy in the photograph that was always tucked behind his bookcase. Good-looking boy; the image of his father. Once she’d asked about him, asked his name. Morgan had just shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter what his name is, Helen. He’s been gone a long time.’
‘Gone where? Abroad somewhere?’ she’d asked.
‘No, he was a heroin addict,’ he’d replied. And that was all he’d ever said.
There had been a wife, she knew that much, and maybe a divorce. But Helen would have had to be a very good private investigator to find out anything more about Morgan’s personal life.
As for her chances, she’d given up thinking anything would ever come of it. She’d once screwed up her courage to ask him to her place for dinner. He’d said yes, briefly kindling her hopes, and it had been a very pleasant evening. But that was as far as he’d ever let it go.