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Margaret McNair

Customer Service Manager

KENNETH PRENDERGAST

Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers

Forward House

394 High Holborn

London WC1V 7EX

Mrs. R Brandon

37 Maida Vale Mansions

Maida Vale

London NW6 0YF

5 November 2003

Dear Mrs. Brandon,

Thank you for your letter.

I was perturbed to hear of your “new genius plan.” I strongly advise that you do not invest the remainder of your child’s fund in so-called “Antiques of the Future.” I am returning the Polaroid of the Topshop limited edition bikini, which I cannot comment on. Such purchases are not a “sure-fire win,” nor can anyone make a profit “if they just buy enough stuff.”

May I guide you towards more conventional investments, such as bonds and company shares?

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Prendergast

Family Investment Specialist

TWELVE

I DON’T KNOW WHY I didn’t do this before. It’s like Mum says, I need to get my facts straight. All I need is to find out the answer to one simple question: Is Luke having an affair with Venetia? Yes or no.

And if he
is
—

My stomach spasms at the thought and I do a few quick shallow breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Ignore the pain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I’m standing in West Ruislip tube station, right at the end of the Central Line, consulting my little A–Z. I’ve never been to this bit of northwest London before and I wouldn’t really have thought of it being the kind of place where private detectives hang out. (But then, I suppose I was really picturing downtown Chicago in the 1940s.)

I head off down the main road, glancing at my reflection in a shop window as I pass. It took me ages to decide what to wear this morning, but in the end I went for a simple black print dress, vintage shoes, and oversize opaque sunglasses. Although it turns out that sunglasses are a crap disguise. If anyone I knew spotted me, they wouldn’t think, “There’s a mysterious woman in black,” they’d think, “There’s Becky, wearing sunglasses and visiting a private detective.”

Feeling nervous, I start walking faster. I can’t quite believe I’m actually doing this. It was all so
easy
. Like booking a pedicure. I phoned the number on the card that the taxi driver gave me, but unfortunately that particular detective was about to go off to the Costa del Sol. (For a golfing holiday, not to follow a crook.) So I looked up private detectives on the Internet—and it turns out there are zillions of them! In the end I chose one called Dave Sharpness, Private Eye (Matrimonial a Specialty), and we arranged an appointment and now here I am. In West Ruislip.

I turn into a side street and there’s the building ahead of me. I survey it for a few moments. This really isn’t how I’d imagined it. I’d envisioned a dingy office down some alleyway with a single lightbulb swinging in the window and maybe bullet holes in the door. But this is a well-kept low-rise block with venetian blinds and a little patch of grass outside with a notice saying
Please Do Not Drop Litter.

Well. Private detectives don’t
have
to be gritty, do they? I stuff the A–Z into my bag, head toward the entrance, and push open the glass doors. A pale woman with badly layered aubergine-dyed hair is sitting at a desk. She looks up from her paperback and I feel a sudden pang of humiliation. She must see people like me all the time.

“I’m here to see Dave Sharpness,” I say, trying to keep my chin high.

“Of course, dear.” Her eyes descend to my bump expressionlessly. “Take a seat.”

I sit down on a brown foam chair and pick up a copy of
Reader’s Digest
from the coffee table. A moment later, a door opens and I see a man in his late fifties or even early sixties approaching me. He’s paunchy, with bright white hair sticking up from a tanned head, blue eyes, and a jowly double chin.

“Dave Sharpness,” he says with a smoker’s wheeze, and grips my hand. “Come through, come through.”

I follow him into a small office with venetian blinds and a mahogany desk. There’s a bookshelf filled with legal-looking books, and a series of box files with names on them. I spot one with “Brandon” written on it. It’s resting openly on the desk, and I feel a flicker of alarm. Is this what they call discreet? What if Luke came to West Ruislip for a business meeting and he walked past this window and saw it?

“So, Mrs. Brandon.” Dave Sharpness has squeezed himself behind his desk and is addressing me hoarsely. “First, let me introduce myself. I had thirty years in the motor trade before turning to private investigation. Having had various painful experiences myself, I know all too well the trauma you are undergoing right now.” He leans forward, his chins wobbling. “Be assured, I am one hundred and
fifty
percent committed to providing results for you.”

“Right. Fab.” I swallow. “Um…I was wondering. Could you not have my box file out on show, please? Anyone might see it on that shelf!”

“These are dummies with false names, Mrs. Brandon,” Dave Sharpness says, gesturing at the shelf. “Please don’t worry. Your file will be safely concealed in our client secure storage facility.”

“Oh, I see,” I say, feeling a bit more reassured. “Client secure storage facility” sounds pretty good. Like some underground system with coded locks and infrared laser beams criss-crossing each other. “So…what does that consist of, exactly?”

“It’s a filing cabinet in the back office.” He wipes his glowing face with a handkerchief. “Locked every night by Wendy, our office manager. Now, to business.” He pulls a pad of foolscap toward him. “Let’s start at the beginning. You have concerns about your husband. You think he’s cheating on you.”

I have a sudden urge to cry out “No! Luke would
never
cheat on me!” and get up and run away.

But that would slightly defeat the point of coming here.

“I…don’t know,” I force myself to say. “Maybe. We’ve been married for a year and everything seemed great. But there’s this…woman. Venetia Carter. They had a relationship in the past, and now she’s come to London. He’s seeing a lot of her, and he’s all distant and snappy with me, and they send texts to each other in this
code,
and last night he…” I break off, breathing hard. “Anyway, I just want to find out what’s going on.”

“Of course you do,” says Dave Sharpness, scribbling. “Why should you have to put up with the uncertainty and pain anymore?”

“Exactly.” I nod.

“You want answers. Your instincts are telling you something’s wrong, but you can’t put your finger on it.”

“That’s it!” God, he totally understands.

“All you want is photographic proof of the illicit affair.”

“I…er…” I’m halted. I hadn’t really thought about photographic proof. All I’d thought about was getting a yes or no answer.

“Or video.” Dave Sharpness looks up. “We can put all the evidence on DVD for you.”

“DVD?”
I echo, shocked. Maybe I haven’t thought this plan through. Am I really going to hire someone to tail Luke with a video camera? What if he found out?

“Couldn’t you just
tell
me if he’s having an affair or not?” I suggest. “Without taking any pictures or video?”

Dave Sharpness raises his eyebrows. “Mrs. Brandon, believe me. When we uncover the proof, you’re going to want to see it with your own eyes.”

“You mean…
if
you discover any proof. I’ve probably got it all wrong! It’s probably all perfectly…” I trail off at his expression.

“First rule of matrimonial investigation,” he says with a lugubrious smile. “The ladies very rarely get it wrong. Feminine intuition, you see.”

This guy is an expert. He should know.

“So you think…” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Do you really think…”

“I don’t think,” says Dave Sharpness with a small flourish. “I discover. Whether it’s one lady he’s dallying with, or two, or a whole string of them, myself and my operatives will find out and furnish you with whatever proof you need.”

“He’s not dallying with a whole string of ladies!” I say in horror. “I know he isn’t! It’s just this one specific woman, Venetia Carter—” I stop as Dave Sharpness lifts a reproving finger.

“Let’s find that out, shall we? Now, I’ll need as much information as you can give me. All the women he knows—both his friends and yours. All the places he frequents, all his habits. I like to do a thorough job, Mrs. Brandon. I will produce a full dossier on your husband’s life, plus background on any women or other persons deemed to be relevant. There is nothing you will not know by the end of my investigation.”

“Look.” I try to keep my patience. “I know everything about Luke already. Except for this one tiny thing. He’s my
husband
.”

“If I had a pound for every lady who’s said that to me…” Dave Sharpness gives a hoarse chuckle. “You fill in the details. We’ll do the rest.”

He holds out a fresh pad of paper. I take it from him and flip the pages, feeling uneasy.

“Do I need to…give you a photograph?”

“We’ll take care of that. You just tell us about the women. Don’t leave anyone out. Friends…colleagues…Do you have a sister?”

“Well…yes,” I say, taken aback. “But he’d
never
…I mean, not in a million years…”

Dave Sharpness is shaking his head in ponderous amusement. “You’d be surprised, Mrs. Brandon. In my experience, if they’ve got one little secret, they’ve got a whole host of them.” He hands me a pen. “Don’t you worry. We’ll soon let you know.”

I write “Venetia Carter” at the top of the page, then stop.

What am I
doing
?

“I can’t do it.” I drop the pen. “I’m sorry. This just feels so weird. So
wrong
. To spy on my own husband!” I push my chair back and stand up. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t even be here!”

“You don’t need to make your decision today,” Dave Sharpness says unperturbed, reaching for a packet of toffees. “All I will say is that of the customers who react like your good self…ninety percent are back within a week. They still go ahead with the investigation, only they’ve lost a week. As a lady in your advanced condition…” His gaze drops meaningfully to my stomach. “Well, I’d be cracking on.”

“Oh.” Slowly I sink back down into the chair. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“And we don’t use the word
spying,
” he adds, wrinkling his florid nose. “No one likes to think of themselves as spying on a loved one. We prefer the term
distance observation.
”

“Distance observation.” That does sound better.

I fiddle with my birthing stone, my mind spinning. Maybe he’s got a point: if I walk away now, I’ll only be back in a week. Maybe I should just sign on the dotted line straightaway.

“But what if my husband saw you?” I say, looking up. “What if he’s totally innocent and he discovers I hired a detective? He’ll never trust me again….”

Dave Sharpness holds up a hand. “Let me reassure you. All of my operatives operate with the utmost caution and discretion. Either your husband is innocent—in which case, no harm done—or he’s guilty, in which case you have the proof you need to take further action. To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Brandon, it’s a win-win situation.”

“So there’s no way at all he could find out?” I say, just to be totally sure.

“Please.” Dave Sharpness chuckles again. “Mrs. Brandon, I’m a professional.”

Honestly, I never realized hiring a private investigator was such hard work. It takes me about forty minutes to write down all the information Dave Sharpness wants. Every time I try to explain that I’m only interested in whether Luke’s seeing Venetia, he holds up his hand and says, “Take it from me, Mrs. Brandon, you’ll be interested enough if we find anything.”

“That’s it,” I say at last, shoving the pad of paper toward him. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Excellent.” Dave Sharpness takes it and runs a fingernail down all the names. “We’ll get cracking on this lot. Meanwhile, we’ll place your husband under what we call low-grade surveillance.”

“Right,” I say nervously. “What does that involve?”

“One of my highly skilled operatives will follow your husband for an initial period of two weeks, at which time we shall meet again. Any information gained in the meantime shall be communicated to you directly by myself. I
shall
require a deposit….”

“Oh,” I say, feeling for my bag. “Of course.”

“And as a new customer”—he rifles in his drawer and produces a small flyer—“you qualify for our special offer.”

Special offer? He honestly thinks I’m interested in some stupid special offer? My
marriage
is under threat here. In fact, I’m pretty insulted he even mentioned it.

“Valid only today,” Dave Sharpness continues. “Buy one, get the second half-price. It’s a unique opportunity for new customers. Shame to miss out on a bargain.”

There’s silence. In spite of myself I’m feeling the teeniest, weeniest ripple of interest.

“What do you mean?” I give a reluctant shrug. “You get the second detective half off?”

“She’s a card!” Dave Sharpness wheezes with laughter. “No, you order a second
investigation
and you’ll get it half-price. Saves you coming back, you see. Wrap up all your investigatory needs in one go.”

“But I don’t have any other investigatory needs.”

“Are you sure about that?” He raises his eyebrows. “Have a good think, Mrs. Brandon. No other little mysteries you need to clear up? No missing persons you’d like us to trace? The offer’s valid only today. You’ll regret it if you lose out.” He hands me the flyer. “You’ll see our full list of services here….”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not interested, then find myself closing it again.

Perhaps I should just have a little think about this. I mean, it is a pretty good deal. And maybe there
is
something else I’d like to find out about. My eyes run down the headings on the flyer. I could trace an old schoolchum…or track a vehicle by GPS satellite…or simply discover more about a friend or neighbor….

Oh my God. I have it!

I’m not sure Dave really
got
the whole eyebrow thing. But I explained as fully as I could and drew him a picture and in the end he became quite enthusiastic. He said if he didn’t find out where and how Jasmine was getting her eyebrows shaped, he wasn’t Regional Salesman of the Year, 1989 (Southwest). I don’t know what that’s got to do with private detecting, but anyway. He’s on the case. Both of them.

So it’s done. The only thing is, I now feel horribly guilty.

The nearer I get to home the guiltier I feel, until I can’t bear it anymore. I hurry into the shop at the end of our road and buy Luke a bunch of flowers and some chocolates, and at the last moment I throw in a miniature whisky.

His car is in our parking space, which means he must be home. As I travel up in the lift I start getting my story straight. My plan is: I’ll just say I was at work all afternoon.

No. He might have called there for some reason and found out I took the afternoon off.