Interleaved Lives Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Roderick Hart

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1800467 637

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

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  31

  1

  When I opened the door a cold blast from the world outside froze the moisture on my face and I still hadn’t found my shoes.

  ‘Mr Hunter?’

  ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Just out of the shower, I take it.’

  This woman was very observant.

  ‘Alison Ogilvie.’

  She was neatly turned out with the slight whiff of class I had learned to detect but was never completely at ease with. A money thing, really. She had it and it showed in her clothes. Nothing ostentatious but quality, nonetheless.

  Running fingers through my hair, I led her upstairs to the flat. If first impressions matter as much as they say I already had a problem. Only one chair had nothing on it, no books or papers. She brushed some dog hairs off it and sat down. Then she opened her tooled leather messenger bag, a high-end piece attractive to a thief in its own right regardless of the contents.

  ‘I have your card.’

  She’d found it in the supermarket with cards from everyone else looking for business: electricians, plumbers, gardeners (no job too small) and a dog-grooming outfit happy to make bold claims.

  ‘You look surprised.’

  I was. I’d only handed them in the day before to Asda, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose, where Alison Ogilvie had found it. Alison was the upmarket type. When she bought a duck she liked to know its little webbed feet had known water before its final journey to the shelf.

  She looked round the room, perching on the edge of her chair as if sinking into it would risk contamination. Which was always possible since I no longer tidied up as well as I used to before my wife disappeared. I hadn’t been prepared for such a quick response. I hadn’t been prepared for any response at all, but there she was, a stranger sitting in my living room, a potential client.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘My husband’s cheating on me.’

  I was sorry to hear that but not inspired by the prospect of checking it out.

  ‘He spends too much time away from home, much more than he needs to, and things have cooled considerably despite an outward show of affection. Acting isn’t his strong point. His heart isn’t in it anymore. Hasn’t been for some time.’

  Alan Ogilvie was chief financial officer for an international drinks company. He’d worked his way up, in a subsidiary at first, but was now established at head office. Well and good, but as she explained all this my visitor was strangely calm.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Ogilvie, you don’t seem too upset.’

  She wasn’t, not any longer. But I had to understand they had been partners in more ways than one. In the early years she’d supported him while he completed his qualifications. And that wasn’t all. As he grappled his way up the greasy pole, she’d hosted social gatherings which were terminally tedious to her but vital to his career. Or so he had said at the time.

  ‘I take it there’s money involved.’

  ‘Isn’t there always? Over the years I’ve invested a lot in that man, in us.’

  ‘You’re a professional person yourself?’

  ‘A chartered accountant.’

  I heard these words with a sinking feeling. Further meetings with this woman, if there were any, might well involve scrutiny of her husband’s accounts, both declared and concealed, and mind-numbing hours poring over spreadsheets. If he was salting money away to fund his encounters with other women it would be possible to prove it. Perhaps he was paying for a love nest somewhere or maybe they slummed it in cheap hotels. Either way, unless he paid cash, there would be a trail. But I had nothing to worry about. Alison Ogilvie was better equipped to investigate such things than I was. She had something else in mind.

  ‘Your shoes are under the table.’

  Did I detect the hint of a smile? I thought I did, but fished them out anyway, put them on and felt better for it.

  ‘You don’t wear slip-ons, I see.’

  According to an article in Cosmopolitan, men who wore slip-ons were less trustworthy than those who used laces. News to me, but many things were.

  ‘Mrs Ogilvie, if you already know your husband’s cheating you don’t need me to prove it.’

  ‘I want details, Mr Hunter, chapter and verse. I don’t need to know how young the new model is, just how much he’s spending on her. How much of our money?’

  I got the point. She no longer cared about him or his love-life but she had no intention of paying for it. I offered her tea or coffee, both of which she declined. There were things she wanted to know. Like my track-record in bringing cases to a successful conclusion.

  ‘I have no track-record, Mrs Ogilvie, I only posted the cards yesterday. You would be my first case.’

  ‘So you have no experience.’ I could tell from her tone she was disappointed, but she was not above turning it to her advantage. ‘I assume this will be reflected in your fee.’

  ‘Number-crunching only takes us so far in this life, Mrs Ogilvie, don’t you think?’ Not the best remark I could have made to an accountant, but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘Paying less would be small consolation if I failed to deliver.’

  Fine as far as it went, but the lady countered without missing a beat.

  ‘The same could be said of paying more.’

  Another angle this woman had covered: better to level with her from the outset.

  ‘I should probably put my cards on the table.’

  She smiled again, and this time there was no doubt about it.

  ‘Why no
t? You seem to have put them everywhere else.’

  Until recently I’d been a detective with the police. I knew the ropes. Yet when I told her that, she would want to know why I’d gone out on my own. Had I left under a cloud or was it an amicable parting of the ways? But there was no way I was going to explain that last one to someone I’d just met.

  ‘I was a detective for five years.’

  Just months ago I’d been dealing with a drunken row between friends over a game of dominos. Take away the alcohol and no one would have died, but one of them did – in hospital of wounds to the head. His death had been as pointless as his life.

  ‘How depressing. That sort of thing must get to you over time, wear you down.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And that’s why you left.’

  ‘Not really. My reasons were more personal.’

  She looked at me inquiringly, hoping for more, but for now that was all she was going to get; though given the parlous state of affairs with her husband I didn’t expect her to take anything on trust.

  ‘You can always check my credentials.’

  She gave me a quizzical look. Did I think she was born yesterday?

  ‘I intend to.’

  Though her hair was impeccable, she patted it down anyway, as if a draught had wafted through the window from the convent across the road and ruffled a strand or two. Some people have black hair, of course, but I wondered about hers. There was just a hint of metal in the way the light reflected from it, probably down to her shampoo or conditioner. Or dye. Could it be that my unexpected guest dyed her hair?

  She opened her bag and removed a folder from one of its compartments. The criminal might know where you live but the bureaucrat has you filed, potentially much more damaging. The lady was getting down to business.

  ‘All you need to know by way of background, I think. The thing is, Mr Hunter, time is of the essence. He can move money at the click of a mouse. I need to nail him now before he realises I’m onto him.’

  I started leafing through the documents. A mistake. Apparently, its contents were homework, reading for later consumption. The paperwork could wait.

  ‘He tells me he has to be in Dublin this weekend. He’s given me an address and a phone number, a serviced apartment, city centre.’

  ‘Dublin?’

  ‘Imbibe is incorporated in Ireland. Saves a fortune on corporation tax. They run a small office there. A token gesture, really. Anyway,’ she said, tired of telling me things I would find out for myself in the file, ‘I want you to check if he actually goes there.’

  ‘You want me to go to Dublin.’

  ‘I’ll cover your expenses – provided you have the appropriate receipts and don’t overstep the mark.’ I took this to mean flying cattle class and overnighting in a cheap hotel. ‘Assuming you take this on and we agree a fee, how much would you propose to charge for a job like this? Have you a rate card?’

  The truth was I had yet to figure it out.

  ‘Forty pounds an hour?’

  She looked at me as if I had a screw loose and against her better judgment ventured a little further into my life. ‘You mentioned tea, I believe.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Now would be a good time. I think we should talk.’

  2

  On the short flight to Dublin I leafed through a copy Psychology Today, which promised to reveal why we sometimes act against our better judgement. Something I was doing now, watching two stewards selling drinks and snacks from trolleys. They were neatly turned out in their airline liveries and selling, according to Alison Ogilvie, was exactly what I should be doing but in a more professional manner.

  I remembered with embarrassment spending too long in the kitchen when she came. I usually drank from a tea-stained mug, currently in the sink with a couple of spoons. Tracking down clean cups and saucers took time. So did opening the biscuit tin to round up the few remaining chocolate digestives and bourbon creams. By the time I made it back to the living room the lady was in motion and well into the grand tour. Perhaps I should charge for that? Seeing her at full length I registered her suit, something I would surely have noticed before if she hadn’t been wearing a coat when she arrived. She looked good in it, if a little severe, though the black was softened somewhat by the white blouse underneath. Black and white. No shades of grey for Mrs Ogilvie.

  She stopped at a photograph of Susan in full outdoor gear, complete with mountain bike and Ben, our border collie, a foot of tongue hanging out and panting like a steam locomotive.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Susan.’

  To kill further discussion of this difficult subject I came right out with it. ‘She left me eight months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  I’d been sorry too, verging on the distraught, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  I put the tray down on the coffee table and was about to pour her tea when I realised I hadn’t made it yet. This wasn’t going well.

  ‘Builder’s brew or herbal?’ Susan only drank herbal tea, something to do with caffeine and blood pressure. ‘I have peppermint or green tea with jasmine.’

  I expected her to say something mildly sarcastic like Good for you, but she plumped for the green. When I came back with it, and after the briefest of pauses, she started putting me on the spot. Politely, but that was what she was doing.

  ‘When I asked what you charged you seemed to pluck a figure from the air.’

  There was no point denying it, but I’d only posted my cards the day before and hadn’t expected such a rapid reply.

  ‘You weren’t prepared.’

  ‘True.’

  She asked a few more questions, all of which made me realise that from her point of view I wasn’t starting a business, I was playing at it.

  ‘In my time as an accountant I’ve dealt with a quite few ventures, several of which have gone to the wall through lack of forward planning.’

  ‘And you think that’s where I’m headed.’

  ‘As things stand. I suggest we meet again when you come back from Ireland. Review progress. In the light of the outcome I may have suggestions to make.’

  I had no idea what she meant by that, but I’d have to leave before I could return.

  As I made my way through Terminal 2, I knew that Alison Ogilvie, who should be nothing more to me than a client, had unsettled me. A formidable woman with a brain like a laser was fine, but she was training it on me and plainly wasn’t happy with what she found. So the best I could do right now was make a success of what she was paying me for.

  I tracked down its departure point in the concourse and took the next shuttle to the Premier Inn. Bound to be cheaper than the Radisson, I thought, chalking up a brownie point from the off.

  The girl at the Welcome Desk was astonished to learn that I hadn’t booked a room online. Everything was online now, she assured me with a smile. A neat way of freezing out the visually impaired, I pointed out, to an evident lack of concern. But she was able to fix me up and so I found myself entering a room on level two and dropping my overnight bag on the bed.

  I detected the reassuring smell of disinfectant. The room had been cleaned, or sprayed to give that impression. I spread the Ogilvie file on the desk and leafed through it again. Alison had provided two photographs of her husband, both holiday shots which could have been clearer. No doubt she had wedding photographs too, but those weren’t included. She’d probably torn them up.

  I copied both photographs to my phone then dropped in on Imbibe’s corporate website where, under the Our Team tab, I found an excellent image of the man and copied that too. Since I’d never met him, I had to be sure he wouldn’t pass unrecognised. If he did, my journey was in vain. Alan Ogilvie didn’t look duplicitous, but few people do. He had clear blue eyes and reddish blond hair, which would surely narrow the field. H
e was helping me already.

  The apartments on Grafton Street were central and no doubt correspondingly expensive. I walked slowly past the entrance a couple of times, but there was no future in that so I entered and tried my luck. A concierge was on duty and beyond him a waiting area for visitors to the privileged few. The artwork on the walls was commercial, less art than graphic design. Some brochures were in evidence, by the look of them from Discover Ireland.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  The name on his badge was Brendan, surname not provided.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Douglas Hunter for Alan Ogilvie, Imbibe International. He’s due here this evening.’

  ‘Feel free to take a seat in our waiting area, sir, though I should perhaps tell you that guests are not allowed above the ground floor unless in the company of residents.’

  A sensible policy with which I had no problem.

  ‘But you could let him know I’m here?’

  Such a simple plan. Concierge phones the apartment. If Ogilvie replies, that’s it, he’s in the building. But the concierge refuses to do it.

  ‘Here at reception we only call our guests in the event of an emergency. But you’ll have your friend’s number, Mr Hunter. By all means phone him yourself.’

  Brendan plainly regarded himself as the Keeper of the Gate. His attitude was getting to me, as was his habit of making his pronouncements without ever meeting my eye. Did he really think it was acceptable to stare at his screen while talking to a visitor? But the party line was clear. The apartments were havens of rest for their occupants, who were entitled to expect protection from riffraff like me. Which meant I could hang around a bit longer and hope my target turned up. But after half an hour cooling my heels in the waiting area I cut my losses and left. Brendan clocked my departure but didn’t look up.

  The nearest café wasn’t directly opposite the apartments but gave a reasonable line of sight to the entrance if you perched on one of the bar stools by the counter along the window. I don’t normally go for burgers but did on this occasion, backing it up with hot chocolate – a poor choice of evening meal, not improved by the background aroma of hot plate frying. The music didn’t help much either. A girl sat down nearby and started messaging at miraculous speed. It always amazed me what girls with dyed hair and distressed jeans could do with their thumbs. Youth was passing me by. As for the high gloss lipstick, I’d never gone for it myself. One of Susan’s virtues was facing the world without war paint. Presumably she was still doing exactly that on top of a mountain somewhere with the new man in her life.