Nothing but Trouble (4 page)

‘That’s fine.’

Jess took a business card from her bag and put it on his desk. ‘We should get together sometime, go for a drink and have a
proper catch-up.’

‘Yeah, that sounds good.’

‘Are you on the same number?’

‘Same number,’ he said.

Jess turned to go, then stopped. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you. I think you may have a more profitable client loitering outside.
I noticed him on the way in, middle-aged geezer, grey hair, smart suit and tie. He was pacing up and down the street, kept
stopping to stare at the door and then walking on again.’

‘You probably scared him off.’

‘Yeah, I tend to do that to men.’ She grinned, raised a hand and gave him a wave. ‘Thanks again, Harry. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

After she’d gone, Harry went to the open window and gazed down. The office was on the first floor, above a newsagent’s. He
couldn’t see anyone matching her description hanging around. After a minute Jess appeared and began walking towards the station.
He stared at the top of her head for a moment, wondering if she’d glance up. She didn’t.

He took off his jacket and sat back down at his desk. So, the first client of the new business, if he agreed to take the case,
was probably one who’d still be paying the bill five years down the line. Still, it could be worse. They could have no clients
at all.

It was another half-hour before Harry heard the buzzer again. Going through the same procedure as he had with Jess, he got
up from his desk, put his jacket back on, went into the reception area and waited. There was a long delay, as if whoever had
come in had stopped on the stairs and was in two minds as to whether to proceed. Harry had to fight against the temptation
to put his head round the door and give them some friendly encouragement.

The man who finally entered the room was in his early fifties, almost as tall as Harry, with cropped steel-grey hair, a squarish
face, a strong jaw and a pair of piercing dark eyes. He had the kind of upright stance that suggested he might once have been
in the army – maybe even still was – and was sporting an authentic deep tan. His grey suit, perfectly tailored, had probably
been made in Savile Row.

‘Are you Mackenzie?’ The voice was gruff, with a hint of a southern Irish accent.

‘The other one.’ Harry put his hand out. ‘Lind, Harry Lind.’

‘Martin Locke.’

As they shook hands, Harry noticed the gold Rolex watch on the other man’s wrist. ‘Come on through to my office. Would you
like a tea or a coffee?’

‘No,’ replied Locke brusquely. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we.’

As Locke pulled out the chair and sat down, Harry was already aware of what the problem was. He’d seen plenty of husbands
and wives over the past few years, all desperate to find out if their spouses were cheating on them. Of course, deep down,
most of them already knew the answer, but they still felt the need to see the evidence in black and white. Harry watched while
Martin Locke crossed his legs, stared down at the floor and began to twist the gold band on the third finger of his left hand.
‘So, how can I help?’

‘It’s a delicate matter.’

‘I understand.’ Harry waited patiently. It was the first few steps that were always the hardest, saying it out loud. There
was no point in pushing for the information; it was better to let people take their time.

Locke lifted his head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I can rely on your discretion?’

Harry gave a nod. ‘Naturally.’

Locke thought about it for a while longer. ‘It’s my wife, Aimee. I think she may be seeing someone else.’ As if it was a relief
to finally say the words, he heaved out a breath. ‘We’ve been married five years. We’ve had our ups and downs, what couple
doesn’t, but I thought we were all right. Only recently …’

Harry nodded again. ‘Recently?’

‘I could be wrong, I don’t know.’ He glanced quickly towards the window and then back at Harry. ‘It’s just a feeling.’

In Harry’s experience, it was rarely just a feeling. There were usually more practical reasons why people suspected their
partners. ‘She’s been acting differently?’

Locke’s face tightened. ‘I need to know the truth. She’s younger than me, you see, and … Well, no man likes to be made a fool
of, does he? I want to know where she goes, who she sees.’

‘You’d like us to mount a surveillance operation. That’s no problem.’ Harry opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out
a form. He passed it over to Locke along with a biro. ‘If you could fill this out. I’ll need your address and a contact number.
Does your wife work?’

Locke ignored the biro and took a gold fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket. ‘Only on Wednesday and Friday nights.
At a club called Selene’s. I presume you know it.’

‘Yes,’ Harry said, although he’d never actually been inside. The club was in the West End and hadn’t been open that long.
About ten months or so, he thought. He remembered reading an article about it in a magazine. It was one of those exclusive
joints where the glitterati hung out, ordering cocktails at a hundred quid a pop and partying until they dropped.

‘There’s a casino there too. That’s where my wife works. She’s a croupier.’

Harry was surprised.

Locke must have seen the expression on his face, because he said, ‘I don’t keep her on a leash, Mr Lind. She’s free to work
where she wants – and to do what she wants. Within reason, naturally. She was a croupier when I met her and she enjoys it,
so why not?’

‘You’ve got a photograph?’

Locke dived into his pocket again. He took out a small head-and-shoulders shot and passed it over. ‘This was taken a few months
ago.’

Harry gazed down at the picture. Aimee Locke was an attractive woman in her late twenties, with wide grey-green eyes, a full
mouth and shoulder-length blonde hair. There was,
however, something forced about her smile, as if she hadn’t really wanted to have the photo taken.

‘I’m away on business next week,’ Locke continued. ‘I’ll be gone from Monday morning until Friday night. What I want is a
full report of what she does, where she goes and who she sees.’ Now his voice was more forceful, the earlier uncertainty gone.
This was suddenly a different man, one who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He glanced up from the form and
stared hard at Harry. ‘You think you can manage that?’

There was an edge to his tone that Harry didn’t like. Martin Locke, he decided, probably wasn’t the nicest guy in the world.
But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t paid to like his clients, only to do the best job he could for them. ‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.

Locke finished filling out the form, signed it with a flourish and pushed it back across the desk. Harry noted the address:
6 Walpole Close. The street was on the south side of Kellston, part of an exclusive enclave of detached modern houses with
the kind of security – high walls, electric gates and multiple alarms – that discouraged the local riff-raff from even attempting
a break-in. His eyes scanned down the page. Aimee Locke was twenty-nine and drove a white Ford Mustang. Lucky Aimee. ‘So you
want us to start first thing Monday morning.’

‘No, I want you to start this evening.’ He paused briefly, his lips thinning into a tight straight line. ‘She told me she
was working, but I know she’s meeting someone at a restaurant. Adriano’s on the high street. I heard her making the arrangements
on the phone.’

Harry had been planning on doing his unpacking tonight – the upstairs flat, overflowing with boxes, looked like it had been
hit by a bomb – but it could wait. He gave a nod. ‘That’s no problem.’

‘I’ll book a table for two in your name. For eight o’clock. She should be there by half past.’ He paused again. ‘It’ll be
on
expenses, naturally.’ Reaching back into his pocket, he retrieved his wallet, flipped it open and took out a folded piece
of paper. ‘Here, this is a banker’s draft. I presume it’ll be enough for now.’

Harry took the cheque from his hand and opened it. It was for two thousand pounds. He had to fight against the impulse to
raise his eyebrows. Most of their clients, and especially the wealthier ones, had a tendency to wrangle over even the most
moderate of retainers. They wanted results, but rarely wanted to pay for them. He kept his voice neutral as his gaze flicked
up towards Locke again. ‘That’s fine. I’ll write you out a receipt.’

Martin Locke shook his head. ‘No need.’ His eyes narrowed a little, his mouth crawling into a smile. ‘It’s not as though I
don’t know where you are.’

Was he joking? Harry thought not.

‘After tonight,’ Locke continued, ‘you can leave off until Monday morning. We’re spending the weekend together, so there’s
no point you being there.’

‘Monday morning, then,’ Harry said.

Locke rose to his feet and stared grimly down. ‘Oh, and I’d rather you didn’t call. I’ll come and see you when I get back.
You can update me then.’

‘As you like,’ Harry said as he stood up too, and the pair of them shook hands across the desk.

Harry watched as the older man left the office. It was only when he heard the front door close that he sat down again. He
picked up the photograph and stared appreciatively at Aimee Locke. She was certainly a looker, the kind of woman who could
turn any man’s head. But was she a cheat? Only time would tell. He didn’t enjoy sneaking around after adulterous wives, or
husbands – it all made him feel faintly dirty – but a job was a job, and in the present economic climate he couldn’t afford
to be fussy. At least Mac would be pleased. The office wasn’t strictly open yet and already there was money coming in.

Harry glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. He’d better organise some company for tonight or he’d be eating dinner
alone. Grabbing his phone, he called a couple of the part-timers who worked for Mackenzie, Lind, first Debbie and then Elaine,
but both of them were busy. He wondered if Valerie was free, but instantly dismissed the idea. As a copper, she wouldn’t be
too keen on taking part in one of his undercover operations. No, he’d better ask someone else. As he ran through the possibilities,
his eyes alighted on the card Jess had left him. Why not? He’d just agreed to help her out; maybe she’d return the favour.

She answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, Vaughan. It’s me, Harry.’

She sighed down the line. ‘Oh, please tell me you haven’t changed your mind about seeing Sam Kendall.’

‘No, of course not, but how do you fancy dinner tonight?’

There was a distinct hesitation. ‘Dinner?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not trying to get into your pants. It’s purely business, a surveillance job. I need someone
to share the table with so I don’t stand out like a sore thumb.’

Jess laughed. ‘Jeez, you really know how to make a girl feel special.’

Harry smiled down the phone. ‘Years of practice, hun. I know this is short notice, but you’d really be helping me out. Would
it be any more tempting if I said it was dinner at Adriano’s?’

‘That fancy Italian on the high street?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And you’ll be paying?’

‘I’ll be paying.’

Jess thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I did have plans, but seeing as you’ve asked so nicely, I suppose I could change
them. Okay, you’ve got yourself a date. When do you want me there?’

‘Better make it eight. She’s due at eight thirty, and I’d rather we were there before she arrives.’

‘Eight it is. I’ll see you then.’

‘Thanks. You’re a pal.’ Harry put the phone down, leaned back, laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
His gaze slowly dropped to focus on the picture of Aimee Locke. Innocent or guilty? In a few hours, he could be finding out.

At six o’clock Harry left the office and drove his slightly battered silver-grey Vauxhall down the high street. The lull between
the departure of the shoppers and the arrival of the Friday-night crowd provided a good opportunity to grab a parking space
near the restaurant. He needed to be prepared in case Aimee Locke and her dinner companion went on somewhere else after eating.

After locking the car, he strolled slowly back to Station Road. It was only the beginning of May, and what remained of the
afternoon’s spring sunshine fell weakly against his face. He felt a slight ache in his right leg, but it was nothing serious.
After endless sessions of physiotherapy, and multiple hours in the gym, his limp was now barely noticeable. The flashbacks
had become rarer too, although occasionally that terrible day still crept into his dreams.

Harry pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He wanted to look to the future, not the past. He might not be a cop any
more – the blast at the crack factory had put an end to that career – but he was still alive, still healthy and well beyond
the
tedious stage of feeling sorry for himself. Part of him would always miss the police force, but that was something he was
learning to live with.

There was a crush of people around the station, commuters returning from their day’s work. They spilled out across the pavement
and formed untidy queues around the row of bus stops. He weaved through the crowd until he reached the office door. Before
going up to the flat, he nipped into the newsagent’s and bought a pint of milk and an evening paper. A pile of unpacked crates
awaited his attention, but first he’d make himself a brew and have a quick read through the news.

On the first floor he checked again that the office was locked and then went back along the landing and up the next flight
of stairs. He sniffed as he opened the door. The flat had an unpleasant musty smell, as if it had been empty for a long time.
He sidled past the crates and opened the two double-glazed windows. The roar of traffic poured in, along with a blast of exhaust
fumes.

Harry took a moment to re-examine his new home. The living room was a decent size, although it was sorely in need of redecoration:
the walls were a bilious shade of green, the ceiling had been Artexed – probably at some point back in the seventies – and
the cream paintwork on the doors and skirting boards was badly chipped. There were two bedrooms, a bathroom with just enough
room for a shower, basin and toilet, and a narrow galley-style kitchen. It was hardly the height of luxury, but it would do
for now. He had a roof over his head and that was all that mattered.