Paternoster (3 page)

The driver of the car and Chris Wilde hurried across.

‘She all right?’ the driver asked. ‘I nearly died when she ran out like that.’ He turned to Eden. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

‘She was hiding,’ Molly said. ‘She’s taking photos.’

Chris Wilde rounded on her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a private detective,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘I’m collecting evidence for a client.’

‘What sort of evidence?’

‘It’s confidential.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Wilde snatched the camera from her hands and flicked through the photos she’d taken. Shit, she was outed now. The camera had days’ worth of evidence.

Chris Wilde’s face blossomed red. ‘They’re all of me,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of photos of me.’

‘Give it back.’

‘That’s my house, and my van,’ he said. Furious, he barked, ‘What the fuck are you up to?’

‘Give it back. I won’t tell you again.’ Each word was a rattle of bullets.

He snorted in her face and held the camera above his head. ‘I could smash this right now.’

Eden took a step back and sized him up. He had four inches and maybe five stone in weight on her. Then again, she had twenty years on him, and she ran six miles three times a week. Wilde was still sweating and puffing from the effort of unloading his van.

In one movement she leapt and grabbed his wrist, twisting and ducking as she brought his arm round and high up behind his back, his hand bent backwards. She bent it back an inch further, feeling the tension flex. One tap on his elbow and his arm would snap.

Wilde screamed, ‘Let go of me, bitch!’

She prised the camera from his hand and let him go. He stumbled back, rubbing his arm. ‘Fucking lunatic.’

She looked down at Molly. ‘You OK now, sweetheart? You’re a brave girl.’

Eden turned and stalked back to her car, clutching the camera to her chest, aware they were watching her every step. She slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, thumping the steering wheel as she drove away. The operation was blown.

Christ knew what she’d tell the client. There was no way she could report to him in this state. Her jeans were torn, her head thumped and her wrist was swelling up. She headed home: an art deco flat in a block near the centre of Cheltenham. The block was dun coloured with curving balconies; a swathe of lawn puddled round the block, guarded by stately cedars. She’d lived there for two years and loved its wide windows and aura of more sophisticated times, half expecting a glimpse of a flapper sipping a cocktail and twirling a rope of pearls each time she let herself in. Her flat was on the second floor. She trudged up the stairs, aching as though she’d been beaten up. She’d fallen hard on her shoulder when she dived across the road.

She paused outside her door, listening. There was no one in the corridor, the only sound the distant thrum of a radio on the floor below. She checked the door before inserting her key. The hair was still in place across the doorway. Slowly she cracked open the door and inched inside, scenting the air. Nothing. The apartment nursed an air of dejection that told her she’d been the last person to leave. Crossing to the window, she checked the thread in the frame was untouched. In her bedroom, the bottom drawer of her chest of drawers was slightly open, the top drawer firmly closed, just as she’d left them. She let out a long breath.

The bathroom mirror presented a sorry sight. She’d banged her cheekbone when she hit the pavement, and it was already blooming. Her hair was matted with blood and grit. She parted her hair at the temple. Another scrape there, not too serious, but it had bled profusely. Her left wrist hurt when she moved it but there was no crunch of broken bones. Probably just a sprain, she thought; she’d had worse on the job, and went into the kitchen to get an icepack from the freezer. Twenty minutes later, her wrist was numb with cold and the swelling was receding.

A shower dealt with the blood and grime ground into her hands and hair. Her scalp stung when she shampooed, and the cut on her temple reopened, leaving a smear of blood on the towel when she dried herself. She dabbed it with antiseptic, biting her tongue at the smart. Baby, she chided herself. It’s only a scrape, not like when … She shoved when aside. Jackie was dead, remember? No need to dwell on the past. Hammond was banged up for a good long time, and now she was Eden Grey, private detective and saver of small children, scourge of scumbags across Cheltenham.

Yearning for the old days, her old job, her old life, felled her for a moment, and she wondered what her old teammates were up to while she was chasing insurance scams. Drag-netting paedo rings, kicking in doors, hanging out in dives and running agents, probably. Necking pints and scoffing curry to celebrate the end of an operation. She wondered if they ever mentioned her. Remember Jackie? She could nail a scrote.

Enough wallowing. She made a pot of strong coffee, and, still swaddled in her fleecy dressing gown, fired up her laptop, perching it on her knees on the settee while she downloaded the photos from the morning, copied them on to a thumb drive, and wrote her report. It was one of the perks of working for herself: doing her admin at home, in her dressing gown, with daytime TV chuntering in the background. It was something to offset the cashflow crises and the breathless weeks when she feared she might never get a client ever again.

When her report was finished, she checked it through and made out an invoice, then set it to print while she dressed in a navy plaid short kilt, opaque black tights, black silk blouse and biker boots. She covered the bruise on her cheek with makeup, and as an afterthought, she painted her nails dark blue. Blue nails might just distract from her pulped cheekbone.

Once dressed, she checked through the report a final time and slotted the copy into a folder with the thumb drive of photos and her invoice. She wrote the client’s name on the front:
PAUL NELSON
.

Snatching up her keys, she hoiked her messenger bag over her shoulder and baited her flat: thread across the window: some drawers left a fraction open, others closed tight. Another resident passed her in the corridor as she came out of her flat. She nodded hello and faffed about with her keys until he passed, then set up the hair across the doorway. Breathing a deep sigh, she set off to walk to her appointment with Paul.

Good old Paul, he’d put a bit of work her way in the two years she’d been a PI: insurance scams mostly, plus some intelligence gathering on his competitors. She liked working for him: he was courteous and dignified and always paid her invoices on time.

His headquarters were in Eagle Tower, a huge block that dominated the Cheltenham skyline. Regency houses, like a line of grubby wedding cakes, cowered at its base. Many of them had been converted from residential dwellings, their once elegant front gardens concreted over and clotted with executive cars.

At the reception desk, she asked for Paul Nelson’s PA, and was told to wait. A man in a suit strolled past her, clutching a coffee carton. As he drew level, he nodded hello, then his gaze dropped to her legs, and her short kilt riding on her thighs. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, smirking when he spilled hot coffee over his fingers.

‘Eden?’ Janice, Paul’s PA, stood before her: short and sturdy, in an immaculate trouser suit and with a wayward lilac streak in her white hair that indicated she had a wild side, you just weren’t going to witness it during working hours. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘Only just got here,’ Eden said, and followed Janice to the lift up to Paul’s office. Janice swung the door wide and ushered Eden inside. As always, Eden was struck by the size of the room. She could fit most of her flat in its square footage. It was tricked out in beige and cream with flashes of cinnamon, so tasteful she imagined he’d seen a picture in a magazine and had simply said, ‘I’ll have that.’

Despite the modern décor, Paul’s desk was antique mahogany – huge, dark and imposing – the sort of desk where peace treaties are signed. His laptop lay open on the desk, alongside a silver pen tray that held a fountain pen and a silver propelling pencil.

Paul, in grey suit trousers and red braces, rose as she entered and came round from behind his desk to shake her hand. He had an athletic build, and sandy hair that was just starting to recede in two scoops from his forehead. In his early fifties, he was still a good-looking man, with an air of authority about him that wasn’t entirely down to the massive desk and executive chair.

‘Eden, great to see you again. Take a seat.’ He motioned her to a seat opposite him then turned to his PA. ‘Could we have some coffee, please, Janice?’

Paul was the president of a development firm that specialised in converting historic buildings to new uses. The shell would be retained, in some cases just the façade held up by hydraulics while the remainder was demolished and rebuilt. It preserved the ambience of an area, kept the beauty of the old and installed the convenience of the new, he had explained to her when she first met him. The best of both worlds. She’d seen one of his projects: a wall, the face of a building, like a film set, with nothing behind it.

Paul resumed his seat behind his desk. Though impeccably groomed, his skin was greyish at the temples and there were blue smudges beneath his eyes.

‘You’ve got something for me?’ he asked. She caught him frowning as he looked at the bruise on her face, a shadow lurking beneath the makeup, but he was too polite to mention it.

Eden slid the folder across the desk to him. He picked it up and shook out the thumb drive.

‘All the photographs I took are on there,’ Eden explained.

Paul leafed through the report, skim-reading it. He put it down when Janice came in with the coffee: an elegant silver coffee pot, white cups and saucers edged in gold. Eden suppressed a sigh. If only she had more clients like Paul. Once this was done, business was going to be slack with just surveillance on a cheating spouse on her books. That wouldn’t keep her in chocolate hobnobs.

‘So, what have we got here?’ Paul said.

‘It appears that Chris Wilde is running a gardening business,’ Eden said. ‘I saw him lifting compost and pots out of a van. He’s got a logo on the van, with his name, and a website. I checked the website: he claims he handles all sorts of garden work, from building patios to erecting garden sheds, plus general maintenance and landscaping.’

Paul snorted.

‘There are a number of client testimonials dating back about four years,’ she continued. ‘It could be that he’s been running it as a sideline. However, I ran a financial check on his business and he’s been bringing in reasonable money through it for the past six months.’ She paused to sip her coffee. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. It looks like he’s faking the bad back.’

‘Not your problem.’

‘It’s pretty horrible when you find out someone’s lying to you, though.’

‘He’s worked here for eight years,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll give him a chance to explain, obviously, but between us I doubt he’ll still be on the payroll this time next week.’

Eden paused. ‘There was a problem when I was collecting evidence this morning. Wilde saw me, and he knows that I’ve been taking photos of him.’ She briefly explained about the child running into the road. ‘Wilde probably realises the game is up. If you’re thinking of taking action to protect your interests, I recommend you act sooner rather than later.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Wilde hands in his notice now, while he’s still on sick leave, he’ll be entitled to his pension. If you sack him for faking a bad back, he’ll lose his pension.’

Paul whistled. ‘That’s why I hire you, Eden, you’ve got a devious mind. You’ve probably just saved me thousands. I’ll see Chris Wilde today, if possible.’

‘I’m sorry about the stuff up,’ Eden said, ‘and sorry it’s forced your hand.’

Paul waved her apologies away. ‘Probably best in the long run.’

Eden drew an envelope out of her bag and handed it to him. ‘The invoice, I’m afraid.’

Paul smiled. ‘No problem. I’ll get that paid straight away. I know what cashflow’s like in a small business. Was there myself once.’

‘Thanks.’ Eden rose to leave.

‘Have you got a minute?’ Paul said.

‘Sure.’ She sat back down again, pleased to see him refill the cups. Janice’s coffee was excellent: strong and not too bitter.

‘I wondered if I could ask you to do some work for me personally, not for the firm.’

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘I was divorced seven years ago,’ he said. ‘Zoe, my wife, took the house, Tessa and Holly, my two daughters, and a good chunk of my money. It was a bad time to lose a sizeable amount of money, but I paid her off rather than let her have a percentage of my business.’

Eden nodded. ‘More of a clean break.’

‘Exactly. It was tough, as you can imagine, but I’ve built myself back up again, got back on my feet.’

Eden smiled to encourage him to continue. Sometimes clients just needed to get their story out of the way before they could get to what it was they wanted her to do. They crafted a tale for themselves that had to be told in a certain order, and had to be heard before they could move on.

‘Anyway, Zoe has seen that the business is holding on. In fact, between us, I think it might be about to do much better.’ He smiled a wolfish smile.

‘Oh yes, got a big contract coming your way?’

‘Going to a meeting about it later today, in fact.’

‘Great. And your ex-wife …?’

‘She keeps asking me for more money. I pay maintenance for the girls, but she says it’s not enough. She thinks I’m paying myself huge bonuses and she wants a slice of it.’ He rearranged the pens on his desk. ‘I’ve heard that she’s got a new man in her life, and I wonder if he’s behind her asking for more money. I want to know how much of the maintenance I pay for the girls actually gets spent on them.’

‘You want an idea of her income and outgoings?’

‘Is that possible?’

‘I can see where she works, where she shops, what kind of lifestyle she has, run a credit check to see what she’s got on her cards.’

‘That would be very helpful. It wasn’t an amicable divorce at all, and she’s been sending me some pretty unpleasant messages. I wish we could just sit down like civilised people and discuss it.’