Maloney's Law (10 page)

‘Come on, Paul, meet you up the woods in five minutes. See if you can find me!’

I should have gone with her when she called. That day more

than any other. But I didn’t. By the time I began to look for her, as she’d asked me to, she was gone. My contribution to my sister’s kidnapping and assumed murder is something I’ve never told anyone, not even Jade. It’s something I never will. Since then, each beat of the clock has been a small accusation. Each day, each moment I live takes me and all of us away from that moment twenty-four years, ten months and two days ago when our lives changed in a way that could never be un-changed. It’s always a part of me.

As is the knowledge I was not the one taken.

Now there’s a breeze that lifts my hair a little off my scalp, as I walk around two sides of the small, stone church and into the silence of the memorial area. Not quite a garden as there are no hedges or trees to mark any kind of boundary, but not quite part of the main graveyard either. It’s out of the way of the road.

When I’m ready, I brush aside the strands of ivy curving across one edge of the bronze plaque and read the words again:

Teresa Anne Maloney, 14 April 1970 to 27 October 1979: lost but always loved

Not much to show for a life, however short, and I pray that one day there might be justice, in a place where no mercy was shown. And, as I always do, I think about what her vanishing, the lack of any actual body to grieve over, has meant for all of us, for me. Maybe, without that, I wouldn’t be in the business I am today or maybe, without that, I would have already dropped this case. But for Teresa’s sake, and for Bluesky’s, I want to know the truth.

This time, I stay a little longer than usual; in two months-less-two-days’ time it will be a quarter-century since my sister vanished in the yellow and red and green-striped dress she loved so much and that, like her, was never found. If I knew the way to do it, I’d mark my own private anniversary with something more lasting than the twelve minutes I stay here, but I don’t know how.

I wonder instead how my parents will make their peace with it and if they have ever wished aloud to each other, or in the secrecy of their own hearts, that it might have been me and not her who was lost.

Back at the car, I lock myself in and run my hands over my face for a long moment. Before setting out from the church, I take the paper my mother gave me and slowly turn the pages, running my eye up and down the columns as I go. That phrase, that word. Where is it? Where is it? Maybe it was only ever something in my head, maybe... But when I least expect it, when I’ve almost given up hope and marked the incident down to my own imagination, there it is, leaping up from the black print like a message for me alone.

Bluesky. The name on Blake’s mysterious file. The woman. I read the article. Then I read it again.

As I drive back home, instead of mulling over the information I’ve gathered from this unexpected source, I think about the difference between Jade’s family and mine. I try to convince myself once again that my father’s deliberate absence today doesn’t hurt me.

As I ease the car into the only remaining space on the street near my flat, a black BMW, deadly as dark fire, swerves at me from the opposite direction. The next second, it’s rammed me at the offside front. As I’m jerked forward with the force of the crash, banging my nose on the steering wheel, the car screeches backwards, rubber on tarmac, and takes off with an angry roar.

‘Jesus. Jesus Christ.’

When I jump out of the driver seat, the BMW is swinging ’round the corner, and I can see there aren’t any licence plates. I leg it to the end of the street, but it’s already disappeared.

By the time I get back to my car, my nose has started to bleed.

Another warning, and this time they haven’t kept it verbal.

Chapter Eight

‘Paul? What on earth did you do to your face?’

‘Car accident,’ I grunt. ‘Gave me a nose-bleed.’

‘That’s not all it’s given you, by the look of it.’ Jade gets up, taps her way over to me in her impossibly high-heeled shoes, red this time I notice, to go with her suit and her matching garnet and diamante earrings. She peers at me as if I’m a difficult client whose case might be unsolvable. She may well be right. PI Rule Number Nine: Sometimes your assistant is not wrong. Not a rule I’ve discussed with Jade much.

‘Is that a purple eye, or have you been overdoing the mascara?’ she continues, taking a step back and frowning.

‘Do you think I’d use something that looks this cheap?’

‘Transvestites, so I’m told, spend a fortune to get that effect.’

‘This comes naturally, or as naturally as one crazed London driver and one dopey PI can make it. Any chance of an ice pack to hold over my fevered brow?’

As I settle into my chair, Jade stops frowning and sashays over to the kitchen. She disappears for a moment and comes back with a small pack of frozen peas I didn’t know we possessed, and a teatowel.

‘Where did the peas come from?’

‘Sainsbury’s.’

‘I didn’t know our kitchen could be so useful.’

‘You never know when an angry client will come in and beat you up. I’ve been keeping them just in case.’

‘If an angry client did take a swing at me, I’m sure those earrings would dazzle him into submission.’

Jade wraps the pack of peas in the teatowel and presses it against my left eye. ‘Shut up talking and hold this there for five minutes, would you? It may be the most useful thing we do all day.’

In spite of the fact that her breasts are pushing against my face and making me gulp, I obey. Rule Ten in the PI book: Sometimes simple obedience is best, especially when handling someone in high heels.

I watch as Jade goes back to her desk, focuses on her screen, and then answers two calls, one from a client I don’t want to talk to. I glance at my watch. There are things I need Jade to do. And it has to be this morning.

Because this evening, although she doesn’t know it, I plan to see Dominic.

Sliding the ice pack onto the desk, I take the photocopied papers out of my case and glance at them again. ‘Jade?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Any chance of you looking something up for me?’

‘Go on then, let’s have it.’

I show her the papers and, together, we take in the strange connection. As I speak my thoughts aloud, I watch her brush back her hair, fastening it with a clip, and cup her chin on her hand as she listens.

‘This changes everything, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t we go to the police?’

‘With what?’ I ask. ‘All we’ve got at the moment could be just an over-imaginative journalist, some unprovable suppositions, and a leap of faith. Not to mention the fact that some of the information we’ve come by hasn’t been gained by strictly legal means.’

‘Still, if it’s true, it means it’s more than just one dead woman. This is serious, Paul.’

She’s right. It’s more serious than anything I’ve been involved in before. I want to make sure Dominic’s in the clear. He has to be. More than that, I need to know the truth.

‘I know,’ I say as Jade continues to take me in with her big sapphire eyes. ‘But I need to find out answers. To do that, I first need all the police records you can find. On Bluesky, and the rest.’

She nods, ‘Sure, but it’ll take time. Are you certain this is what you want? Isn’t there another way?’

‘You mean the legal one? The one that involves walking into the Met, telling the reception officer what I know, and then waiting for them to shine a light in my eyes?’

‘The police have more advanced interview techniques these days.’

‘Nothing like a bright light and a thumbscrew to get the vocal cords working.’

‘I’ll have to try it one day,’ she says, deadpan. ‘It might get you telling the real truth to your staff. This is about protecting Dominic, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be silly. Why should it be?’ I turn my back on her, stride over to my desk, and leaf through some papers. ‘I’m just doing the job I’m paid to do and the one I want to do: giving Dominic the report he asked for and finding my way to the truth.’

‘I can see that. But you’re involved, and not in a professional way either. That’s what’s worrying me.’

There’s a pause and I drop the papers down. ‘I’ll be fine; don’t worry about me. Let’s just worry about getting the answers and getting out.’

When I look at her, she simply nods. ‘Okay.’

‘Thanks.’

For the rest of the morning, I work on the client accounts I’ve neglected up until today. I make three phone calls, arrange one initial meeting and a reporting session, and type up a schedule of surveillance for an adultery case. Whenever I glance at Jade, she’s either frowning at her screen or tapping away at the keys and juggling with CDs, in and out of the computer, in and out. The action of playing catch-up makes me realise how much Jade is right in what she hasn’t said. I have to raise my game to where it should be in terms of client handling or Maloney Investigations is going to be history. We can’t survive on Dominic’s fee alone, and there’s not just me to consider. There’s Jade, too; my failures aren’t going to help her.

It’s this realisation that propels me to my feet and out the door just after Jade and I have split a bacon and avocado ciabatta and a J2O from the corner deli.

‘See you later on,’ I say, wiping the crumbs from my mouth, ‘by 5.30pm for sure, as usual. Do you think you’ll have got something by then?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not going well at the moment. Maybe I’m losing my touch?’

She looks so despondent that I can’t help but give her a quick but heartfelt hug. Beneath my grip, her shoulders seem small and tense, and I hunker down next to her chair, taking her face between my hands.

‘Jade?’

Her eyelashes flutter upwards and those earrings glitter in the strip-light.

‘Now listen. You’re the best there is, and if you can’t do it, then what the hell, it can’t be done and we’ll find another way. You’re not losing your touch. I couldn’t do this job if it wasn’t for you, so please don’t say things about yourself that aren’t true. Okay?’

She nods, but I’m not convinced she means it.

‘Good,’ I say, ‘so repeat after me: “I’m the best”.’

‘You’re the best, Paul.’

‘No, no,’ I groan. ‘Why don’t women ever listen? Say you’re the best.’

‘You’re...sorry, I’m the best.’

‘Good. Well done.’ I kiss her on the forehead and get up. ‘I’m off on surveillance now to try to earn our keep. If you need me, the mobile will be on vibrate.’

‘Okay.’ Her sudden smile transforms her face in a moment. ‘Careful where you put it.’

‘Watch it.’ At the door, I give her a wink. ‘You’re getting way too cheeky.’

Cheekiness is a good sign, though. I’d hate Jade to be unhappy; I couldn’t do without her.

I settle down in the Vauxhall on the corner of one of the notquite-so-posh Islington roads. The house I’ve got in my view is a solid, modern red-brick construction with a Classical look and two white mock-pillars framing a small porch. Even from this distance, I can tell the pillars could do with a fresh coat of paint. I can’t decide if it and its owner, whom I’ve only met once, are on their way up or on their way down. These days it’s not always easy to tell.

Today, I’m watching his wife while he slaves away at his medium-level City job. I don’t have any doubts she’s unfaithful — all I need is the evidence — and I don’t have any doubts that I’m happier by far doing what I do and simply being me. No way would I want to be him, for the job or the wife. She lunches, belongs to a tennis club, a reading group, and a Pilates class, gardens and does good deeds. Not enough to fill anyone’s week, and as there aren’t any children, I can only assume her spare time is spent cheating on her loved one. It shouldn’t be too hard to nail her.

And while I’m doing that, I can think about tonight and Dominic.

He phoned me this morning. At home. The shiver of his voice on the line made everything around me glitter, in spite of all my doubts. Even now, I can almost taste his words again.

‘Paul,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve noted your report, thank you, and I’d like to talk to you about it. Soon.’

Several uncounted seconds passed before I was able to answer.

‘Paul?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m here.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘In that case, I’d like us to meet today.’

‘Sure.’ I’d scrabbled like a child for my PDA, but it slipped out of my fingers and glided across the floor. ‘When? And where? I can be at your office any time.’

‘No. Not the office. Come to Islington. Come tonight. Cassie’s away and the children are on a sleepover at a friend’s. Be here by 7.’

Before I could take in what he was saying, he’d disconnected. I’d stayed kneeling on the floor for several minutes, phone in one hand and PDA in the other. What did he want, and what would I be prepared to give him?

Sitting in my car now and staring at my subject’s house, I’m no nearer resolving either question, and it worries me that I haven’t told Jade about the conversation. Or about seeing Dominic on his home ground tonight. Rule Eleven of PI work: Always keep your colleagues up-to-date with events as they happen.

Today I haven’t done that. And because of it, there’s going to be trouble.

Don’t obsess, Paul, it’s never got you anywhere. Look at the house, wait for your client’s wife’s lover to appear and just do the job.

Where I’m parked isn’t too far from where Dominic lives, in Islington. I could just drive there and...stop it, stop it, for God’s sake. Concentrate on the task in hand: glance; wait; read two paragraphs of the latest Bosch novel — wish I had some of his luck, though I could do without the action sequences, I have enough of my own — glance again; and so on and so on until my brain pauses and then I’m there. I’m into auto-pilot when sensation stops and I’m nothing but an eye watching and someone who waits. And waits.

Two hours and forty-seven minutes of nothing creep by, alleviated only by nine minutes of the subject pottering around the garden staring at borders. I’ve almost given up hope when a maroon four-wheel drive glides to a halt in front of the house. At once, I snap the book shut, shove it into the glove compartment — I hate the thought of Bosch getting messy — and slide down into my seat so no-one can see me.

A tall, dark-haired man leaps out of the car, glances once to the left and again to the right, and strides down the pathway to the front door of Number 57. He’s good-looking, mid-forties, I’d judge, so younger than my client by at least ten years. What I wouldn’t do for an energetic, twenty-year-old bloke eager to learn.

Steady, Paul, keep your mind on the job. The last thing you want is a hard-on.

I wait for twenty-one minutes, then, taking my Nikon from the floor, I put on my sunglasses and stroll out into sunshine, which holds within it a hint of autumn. Nobody is around to see me, nobody cares.

It doesn’t take long to get inside Number 57. When I’m in, I see the walls could do with a spot of decorating and the paper is peeling at the top corners here and there. But there’s some pleasant, modern artwork, including two watercolour portraits of my client and his wife.

The groaning that greeted me in the hallway when I first sneaked in is reaching a crescendo, and I, like them, need to strike now before the moment is lost.

A quick peak through the half-open living room door shows me a white leather sofa nestling on a beige carpet. On this and next to the sofa rather than on it, a naked and sinewy back is pumping away in a rhythm all its own on top of what I once heard described as a fine pair of lungs. Straight sex has never turned me on. Still, I can’t help but admire the bloke’s smooth arse for a second or two.

Then I cough.

As always, it does the trick.

Three seconds later, I have a clear picture of two entwined bodies and two startled expressions, enough of each to aid identity, from whichever angle.

I stay long enough to say thank you on the grounds that politeness is free. Then I scarper before lover boy can blush and reach for his boxers and my client’s wife can even think about forming a scream.

Outside, I accelerate away, leaving behind me a cloud of late summer dust and discovered guilt.

Back at the office, Jade glances up at me for a second before returning her gaze to her computer.

‘The lover arrived later than I’d thought,’ I say.

‘Whose lover? The subject’s or yours?’

‘Yeah, yeah. How’s your stuff going?’

‘Still not as well as I’d like it to be,’ she says. ‘I can’t seem to get to the level of information we need. The Met must have upgraded their security system, if only for this case, and it’ll mean everything will take longer, if I’m going to get in and out of there without leaving footprints.’

‘Okay, no problem. You can only do what you can, but it’s past hours now. Why don’t you leave it ’til tomorrow?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, I’d like to know I can do this first. After this morning’s pep talk, I’m not going to let it beat me. After all, I’m the best, aren’t I?’

‘You certainly are, but don’t stay too late. I’d keep you company and get my report on this afternoon done, but I’m...’ I’ve done well so far in my attempts to seem cool, but the heat on my skin must be affecting my voice, ‘...I’m...out this evening.’

‘Good for you,’ she says, still tapping away on the keyboard. ‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Actually,’ I pick up the papers on the adultery case, left in a neat pile at the edge of my desk, and begin checking they’re in date order. They are. ‘Actually, I’m meeting Dominic.’

The keyboard falls silent, but Jade doesn’t move. ‘At his office?’

‘No, not exactly. I’m seeing him at home.’

‘Your home?’

‘His.’

‘Is that wise?’

I hesitate. The simple answer is I don’t know, but I’m going to go anyway. Everything in my body and mind is straining after the fact that tonight, at 7pm, I’ll be alone with Dominic again. Anything that might happen after that is nothing but a haze.