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  Vicky gripped her shoulders. “Easy, Martha. We won't lose Katie. Have you noticed anything else unusual about her nature or actions?”

  Martha thought for a moment. “I wondered if she’d been smoking something. Her breathing while asleep sounded like a dog or… I don’t know what.”

  “Something other than human?” Vicky moved her face closer.

  “That’s an odd way to phrase it, but yes.” Her eyes pleaded before further words were spoken. “What am I going to do, Vicky?”

  Vicky let out a long, heavy breath. “If I do some quiet digging into the background of this house and its owners, would that set your mind at ease?”

  Martha nodded with desperate enthusiasm. “It’s not your job though, is it?”

  “No. But if these people are anything to do with what I suspect, I've my own reasons to get involved.”

  “Don’t put yourself at risk. I couldn’t live with myself if I got you into trouble or brought you to harm.”

  “Would you e-mail me any names, place details, or relevant information about Katie’s friends? The more you can provide, the better. Do any of them work at the homeless charity? Is that where she befriended them?”

  “No. I understand she met the first while out clubbing. They seem most interested in the work she does. I only know that because Katie used it as a rebuke one evening. Told me she wished I took an interest in her job, the way her friends do.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I’m always asking about her day. From the curt, unblinking and deadpan responses I get, you’d think I was water-boarding her for state secrets.”

  “Have any of her friends or their connections approached either you or Andrew?”

  “No. Should they?”

  Vicky noticed the oven clock. “I’d better head back to work. Keep me in the loop about anything untoward that happens. By that I mean with Katie or any of you.”

  Martha wrung her hands. “What aren’t you telling me, Vicky? What do you know?”

  “Nothing for certain. I don’t want to add to your present worries until that changes, okay?”

  Martha released a reluctant sigh. “Okay. Thank you for doing this.”

  “My pleasure. Take care.” She went for the door.

  3

  Infidelity and Incredulity

  Your average pedestrian could walk past the dull blue and white sign for ‘Rutherford Private Investigations’ without ever noticing it. It clung to a weathered, red brick wall in a dead-end street at the arse end of Maidstone. Two similar signs with different font and colour combinations hung below. The first read: ‘Goldfinch Asset Management.’ The second: ‘Shangri-La Reiki.’ Neither business still traded and now William ‘Bill’ Rutherford occupied the top floor of a Victorian, three-storey office building in solitude. He enjoyed the peace. Not that his former neighbours below made much noise. The asset manager got into occasional heated discussions on the phone with his clients. These became more frequent, right before he shut up shop. The Reiki practitioner on the ground floor stayed silent as the grave. Not a surprising situation, given the focus of her work. Anyone climbing the staircase to his office might wonder if the torn, stained wallpaper was the only thing holding this shabby structure together. The place belonged to a slumlord. A dodgy thug, but one who hadn’t raised the rent in three years, despite departing tenants. Was it damp? Yes, the place smelled musty. Was it ugly? For sure. But ignoring its proximity to a car mechanic’s lockup whose stock in trade appeared to be servicing getaway vehicles for bank robbers, the street remained mostly free of trouble. Bill surmised this to be on account of every nearby property belonging to a member of some criminal fraternity. He didn’t care. The office was cheap and so was he. The clients he dealt with were desperate for help. Cheating partners, thieving relatives and problem fly-tipping. These were the bread and butter of his regular workload. If people paid on time and he kept a roof over his head on a nearby rented terraced house, Bill couldn’t care less how grubby and bottom-dwelling his business premises appeared.

  Bill grew up in foster care. He’d spent two years homeless, before acquiring a series of dead-end jobs for a time. It was during this period he noticed someone at one company embezzling funds. Intrigued, he investigated out of interest. When he presented the evidence to his employer, they prosecuted the individual and gave Bill a cash reward. Other staff at the firm liked the guy who got arrested. They put Bill through a rough ride. He left and used the reward to set himself up in his newfound talent as a private investigator. Now aged thirty, he was content with his lot in life. Working for others didn’t suit. Bill hated answering to anyone. His modest existence might cause some to grimace. But when you’ve hit rock bottom on the streets, a reasonable home to sleep in, food on the table and employment on your own terms all feel like unattainable dreams. He had no complaints.

  His office furniture reflected its surroundings: rough, old and sourced from reclamation yards. As long as the desk and chairs held together, aesthetics didn’t factor as a consideration.

  Bill reclined at his desk and clicked shut a game of ‘Solitaire’ on his chunky, refurbished laptop computer. His mop of scruffy, thick black hair stabbed down into sideburns fading into designer stubble. Hedge-like eyebrows further darkened eyes like polished ebony. So dark was his stare, the playful light inside stuck out like a sore thumb. In a gloomy environment, it yet suggested someone who didn’t take life too seriously. He picked up a dog-eared paperback resting atop a pile of old documents. Its title, ‘HOW TO BE IDLE,’ appealed to him when he found it lurking in one forgotten corner of a backstreet secondhand bookshop. Bill wasn’t into busting a gut, nor accruing a lot of shiny stuff society hinted everyone should aspire to. Freedom was wealth as far as he was concerned. Junk and expensive clutter came at too high a price in that regard. He thumbed through the book without paying much attention, then tossed it aside. The paperwork caught his eye. No need to keep any of that. Case closed. A thick-bodied blowfly buzzed past his head, wheeling in lazy circuits of the plain, wood-floored office. Bill ignored it and picked up his dented, grey metal waste bin. He walked across to where sunlight stabbed between dusty yellow window blinds that had once been white. With the bin midway between his desk and the street-facing windows, he retreated to spend several minutes folding multiple paper sheets into a squadron of darts.

  It was on his seventh attempt to launch a dart into the bin (four of which went wide of the mark to crash on the floor) that three knuckle raps sounded on the office door. Bill stuffed the errant paper planes into his bin and tucked it back beneath his desk.

  “Come in,” he called, jostling the remaining papers together as if they formed part of a busy and important case he’d been disturbed from solving.

  A man with a thick neck and rough, unshaven face entered the office. Bill put him around seven years his senior. Oblong glasses added to an almost psychotic detachment in beady eyes bulging behind them. It presented an aspect with no hint of human warmth. He’d seen that look before and it unsettled him. Who was this guy? He ran the possibilities through his mind: 1. A hit-man hired by the partner of someone I’ve investigated for cheating, come to collect their pound of flesh. 2. An abusive partner who wants me to track down his fleeing girlfriend. 3. Some random thug, about to kick off. None of those choices appealed.

  The man cleared his throat. His voice came less harsh and much softer than expected. “Mr Rutherford?”

  Bill looked round the room in an almost sarcastic, drawn-out manner. He couldn’t very well claim to be anyone else. It wasn’t like this joint suggested he employed staff. “That’s me. And you are?”

  “Philip Stokes.” His voice didn’t give much away, but he extended a hand in greeting.

  Bill accepted. “Bill. What can I do for you?”

  The man scrunched up his face, beady eyes rolling upwards as if to access awkward memories or some prepared speech. “I’d like you to monitor my wife.”

  “Oh?” Bill motioned toward
a chair on the public side of his desk. It wobbled and cried out for reupholstering, but Stokes didn’t appear to care as he sat down.

  Bill circled round to his own chair, clicking a ballpoint pen hooked into his shirt pocket. He yanked open a stiff drawer and tossed a ruled pad onto a blotter beside his laptop. “Suspicions of infidelity, or is this about something else?”

  Philip Stokes took off his glasses for a moment to polish them with a cloth. “Suspicions of infidelity.”

  “While you’re at work?”

  “Yes. While we’re both at work.”

  “The same place?”

  “No. I’m a hospital IT Manager. Wendy, my wife, works as PA for a Business Manager at the council.”

  Bill scribbled down some notes. “And you’re concerned her boss is giving a performance appraisal for areas you’d rather he didn’t?”

  Philip shifted in his seat. “How did you know?”

  “It’s a story old as the hills. I don’t want to blow smoke up your arse, but such suspicions don’t always turn out to be true. Best to be sure though, right?” Bill wasn’t about to talk himself out of a paying customer.

  “That’s what I thought. Until I’m certain, I daren’t confront her with it. Think of the damage to our relationship.”

  “Hmm. Sensible approach. What aroused your suspicions?”

  “Her work has become more demanding. She’s always staying late or attending ‘meeting preparation sessions’ with him. Her temper has flared up more than usual when she comes home.”

  “Is your wife bad tempered?”

  “Historically, no. Okay, she’s always berated me for my lack of career achievement.”

  “IT Manager at a hospital doesn’t sound like a lack of achievement to me.”

  Philip ran one hand across his head. “I hate my job. Never wanted to do it. I was happy as a computer technician. Wendy pushed me into applying for promotion to my current post. She has an appetite for the finer things and likes to chide me about us not moving up in the world.”

  “An aspiring parvenu.” Bill grunted and shook his head. “If I had a quid for every… Anyway, please go on.”

  “Wendy and I have been married for twelve years, ever since she was twenty. She’s five years younger than me.”

  Bill gave himself a mental pat on the back at having correctly assessed the guy’s age. “Do you mind if I ask how your intimate life has been of late?”

  Philip shrugged. “I thought it was okay. She often complains about feeling too tired for sex these days. At first I cut her some slack, because of her supposed excess workload. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Have you been stressed or short with Wendy? You mentioned you hate your job. Forgive me, but I’m trying to get the big picture while hearing one side of a story.”

  Philip intertwined his fingers. “I don’t think I’ve been short with her. I’m not a people person, Bill. I hate the personnel management aspect of my new job. Most of the time I let staff get on with things. Not because I’m easygoing; I can’t stand dealing with them.”

  Bill regarded him for one second with an amused snort. “You sound like an ideal boss to me.”

  “Thanks. The thing is, I love my wife. Sometimes I have trouble expressing it. I’m not romantic, but I want to give her all the things she desires.”

  “Do you desire them?”

  Philip bit his lip. “I’m not that bothered.”

  “I’m no relationship expert, but spending your life attempting to give Wendy everything she wants that you’re not bothered about, sounds a tad one-sided. Great for her; not so satisfying for you.”

  “You may be right. But like I said, I love my wife. Her happiness brings me fulfilment, if that makes sense?”

  Bill noticed a faint misting of the man’s eyes. This guy isn’t quite the emotionless cold fish I first imagined. “Okay. We’ve established you don’t fancy elbowing your way up the greasy corporate ladder. Tell me something about Wendy’s boss.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “A name would be a fine start. Age, address, perceived income, anything you’re positive about.”

  “His name is Christopher Warwick. He’s thirty-five. Two years younger than me. A smooth, overconfident, swaggering arse. Buff and smarmy. The guy who looks down on everybody else. Income north of sixty grand. More than half my salary again. I don’t know where he lives. Isn’t that your job?”

  Bill smirked. “Don’t sweat it. I only asked because the more information you provide, the less time I’ll have to spend on research. My rates are a mixture of an hourly charge plus fixed fees for stuff like GPS vehicle tracking.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “If it’s deemed necessary. So, a slick guy, two years younger than you, who earns at least fifty percent more. Your wife is a social climber. She’s spending a lot more time with said smarmy boss, while your love life languishes in the shitter. You’re worried she’s attempting to get a good grip on the next ‘branch’ before she lets go of you.”

  Philip squirmed. “You have an uncomfortable way of putting it, but I appreciate your frankness.”

  Bill clicked his ballpoint pen shut. “I’d say you’ve made a wise choice in seeking my help, Philip. Here’s what we’ll do, if it meets your approval: I’ll have a look at this Christopher Warwick. How much notice does Wendy give you when working late?”

  “Not a lot. A last minute phone call.”

  “Can you contact me right after with any details?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I warn you now, if it’s infidelity she may not be - or at least remain - where she claims. But that way I’ve an excellent chance of picking them up. Better than sitting around spying on offices or car parks for long and expensive hours. How does that grab you?”

  “Pretty much what I’d hoped for.”

  “Good.” Bill stood and offered a hand. “Don’t worry, Philip. I know it sounds trite, but we’ll soon uncover the answers you need. Then you can make concrete decisions about your future.”

  “Thanks, Bill.” He shook his hand then wandered out of the office in a numb daze.

  * * *

  “Are you ready for tonight?” Christopher Warwick’s round head sported a lopsided, cocky smile atop a trunk-like neck. He perched his beefcake form on the edge of his PA’s desk, eyes drifting to busy Maidstone streets far below the window.

  Wendy Stokes flashed her elongated hazel eyes, flicking long black hair across her shoulders. She wrinkled a petite nose between freckled, rosy cheeks; the only colour staining her otherwise milky white skin. “I’m excited, but nervous. It’s not like sneaking back to your penthouse for a lunchtime quickie.”

  Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Well, there might be time for one of those first.”

  Wendy clicked the ‘Save’ icon on her word processor. “Behave. I wouldn’t mind a drink before we set off.”

  Christopher got up. “We can do that. I want you to enjoy this evening. Let me fetch my jacket.”

  “I’ll phone my husband. He was to collect me after work today, since my car is in for repairs.”

  “Tell him not to wait up. The ceremony could last awhile. I doubt I’ll have you home before midnight.”

  Wendy bit her lip. “What shall I claim we’re doing?”

  Christopher reappeared at the door, fully suited. “Say it’s a vital funding proposal to assist children with terminal illnesses. He may think twice about getting shirty with you. Who’d object to something like that, unless they want to appear a complete heel?”

  Wendy’s eyes narrowed, but her smile remained. “You’re a devious one, Chris.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “You’ve got to view life like a game of chess. Everything, and I mean everything, is strategy and manoeuvre. There’s no room for complacency. Once you get complacent: checkmate. It’s all over.”

  Wendy clutched her mobile phone between both hands. All selfish mirth evaporated from her countenance. “And the person this
evening who... Are they a pawn in the game?”

  “Precisely. Pawns are sacrificial pieces. Oh, every once in a while one may reach the far side of the board and become a queen. But that’s rare. Mostly, they exist to further the greater good and enable more worthy pieces to help the whole side win.”

  Wendy swallowed hard. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so bad.” A tremor in her voice didn’t support the statement.

  Christopher’s forehead creased into a darker expression. The playfulness vanished from his boyish eyes. “If you’re not ready to move forward, I understand. I know Michelle woul-”

  “It’s okay.” Wendy stiffened in her seat. “I’ll be fine. Something always told me the elite guarded secrets to success us lesser mortals couldn’t imagine.”

  Christopher’s frown eased. He swaggered round behind Wendy, then kissed her cheek from over the shoulder. “You’re already adjusting. Taking your first steps into a bigger world. A more prosperous world, Wendy.” He half straightened. “Trust me, the pitiful human vehicle enabling our release of manifest energy this evening is worthless. A nobody, drawn from the gutter without hope or direction. We’re doing him a favour in the long term. And he is serving the world through this process.”

  “Like Jesus?” Wendy blurted.

  A blast of disdain from Christopher’s nostrils almost parted the hair on her head. “That's taking the analogy a little far, my dear.”

  Wendy flushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand all the religious aspects yet.”

  Christopher leaned closer again and nuzzled her ear. “You will in time.” He headed towards the corridor. “I’ll be down in the foyer making a few calls of my own.” A cynical smile accompanied the glance he threw back across one shoulder. “Tell Philip I said hello.”

  “I’m round the corner from their office now. Thanks for the heads-up.” Bill Rutherford disconnected his mobile phone. He sauntered along Week Street in Maidstone, enjoying a warm spring evening. Workers vacating office treadmills spilled across the pedestrian precinct. Many sought retail therapy, a coffee or something stronger as an antidote to jobs Bill knew they all despised. He’d spent a few evenings keeping a casual eye on the entrance and car park at Invicta House. Even without open source research into Christopher Warwick’s appearance through social media, Bill reckoned he’d have recognised the cocky bastard from Philip Stokes’ description. The Business Manager’s metallic blue Seven Series BMW also stood out as the car he’d have coupled Wendy’s boss with. Infiltrating the squat, multi-storey parking area unseen had been a greater challenge. Not to mention avoiding any prying eyes or CCTV while he affixed a GPS vehicle tracker to the executive ride. That was earlier in the week. Now, he took up position pretending to be a waiting passenger at a bus stop on Sandling Road. From there, anyone exiting the office could be acquired without giving rise to suspicion.