Cop to Corpse

7

Call me Ishtar.

Why? It’s as good a way of starting a blog as I can think of. Shades of Moby Dick. But this isn’t about whaling, or seafaring, or moby, or dick. Correction. I guess a moby is sure to come into it if that’s what you call your mobile phone. As for a dick, just wait and see.

Ishtar is the name I’ve chosen for myself, not wanting the world to know who I really am. She is the Babylonian goddess of love and war. A weird combination, you’re thinking, but everyone needs to be loved and most of us are willing to fight for it.

This is the start of something that may soon develop into a story of scandal, fraud and possibly more. Can’t say where it will lead because the action has only just started. Three of us are going undercover. We’re well placed to get at the truth, better placed than the police.

If we’re right in our suspicions, the story needs exposure, which is why I’ve chosen to post my blog this way, through a worldwide network that reveals sensitive information while protecting the identities of the main players, not least myself. Whistleblowers and human rights activists use this facility in confidence of remaining anonymous. The thing I find funniest is that the system is so brilliant that it’s also used by so-called intelligence agencies across the world to give out information while covering their sources, yet they can’t unravel it to unmask other users. How is this done? As I understand it, everything I write will be bounced around such a network of relays run by volunteers that it will be totally impossible for you or anyone else to track me down to my steamy little lair, so don’t even think about trying.

Got that?

Let’s go.

My profile

Whoops — I have to be careful here or my mask will be ripped off even before I begin. I can tell you safely and truly I’m female and between twenty and thirty and passably good looking, enough to have had the lovers I’ve wanted, three when I was still at school, starting with the French assistant, the seriously yummy Monsieur F, who set the bar high for those who came after. Coming up to my exams, just turned fifteen, I was seriously poor at languages, piss-poor, my father said at a parents’ evening, and it takes a lot for him to use words like that, so my form teacher arranged extra tuition and the extra wasn’t what she or Daddy (who was paying) intended. I learned a lot I didn’t know about masculine and feminine. It included French oral, but without words, and, believe me, I experienced the present perfect, but still failed my GCSE. Monsieur F left suddenly after only one term and after that I had to be content with spotty sixth formers who had none of his finesse and knew nothing about irregular verbs or irregular anything.

What else? I did pass enough exams to scrape into a university in the west of England — got to be mysterious about which one — and ended up wiser and poorer, twenty grand in debt and with a respectable degree that got me no job at all. The best thing I did at uni was learn to drive because after a few months attending the job centre I took over Daddy’s old Renault Clio (we’re all Francophiles, my family, in different ways) and started work with a florist, delivering flower arrangements, and that’s what I do. BA (Hons), flower deliverer. Sally, my boss, the owner of the shop, says we cater for every occasion from the cradle to the grave. Cradle to the grave, womb to the tomb, erection to the resurrection, depend on me to arrive smiling with your red carnations.

The job leaves me plenty of scope for other diversions, if only I had the funds to enjoy them. I earn a little extra cash in hand from teaching the piano, a skill I didn’t mention that comes easily to me. I’ve got my own flat in a part of town where I’m unlikely to bump into a rich stockbroker. Living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom. Just enough, until I find a way to break into the Pimms and polo set and meet the multi-millionaire.

Enough of daydreaming. I’m going to tell you about the real stars of this blog, my co-conspirators, Anita and Vicky. They couldn’t be more different.

Anita

She’s the funny one, terrific company, with her own quirky way of looking at the world. I wish I could remember one-tenth of the things she comes out with. Only last night she was, like, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, sky-diving is not for you.’ And after a few drinks, ‘I think my head is hosting the Olympic Games.’ Anita is seriously overweight and has no colour sense, but she’s a beautiful mover. Everyone watches her on the dance floor. Oh, and she does amazing things with her eye make-up, like the Egyptian look she’s currently into, using the liner to create black outlines meeting in curves that sweep high up her face. I first met her in the flower shop. She came in for a single freesia stem because she said it was cheaper to have in the bathroom than a can of air-freshener. Like me, she’s single (‘If you ever see me walking up the aisle, stick your foot out’) and has a well-paid, useful job as the manager of a travel agency. Useful because thanks to Anita the three of us have taken a few cut-price trips to sunny places.

Now for Vicky.

She’s the one with a husband. We’ll call him Tim (I have to be careful over names) and she’s always been mysterious about him. I think he’s currently out of work. Whatever, he’s out of the house a lot and seems to prefer his own company, which is why Vicky is able to spend so much time with Anita and me. She’s a true friend, I’m sure of that, but there are no-go areas of her life and Tim is one of them. We don’t ask. Even Anita knows better than to draw her out. Vicky is sweet-natured, a little old-fashioned from her upbringing (her parents were into their forties when they had her), generous, starry-eyed, never been known to tint her hair, but why should she when it’s natural raven-black, straight out of a romantic novel? Yes, she’s a beauty. More than once on our nights out Anita and I have had to rescue Vicky from testosterone-fuelled males. None of us minds being chatted up by the poor hopeful darlings, but as Anita says, you soon get to spot the ones with three pairs of hands. You can be wearing a wedding ring and a crucifix pendant and they still think you’re up for it.

Vicky has never said so, and I wouldn’t ask, but I know she’d dearly like to have a child. I’ve seen the way she looks at little kids. Why she hasn’t fallen pregnant I don’t know. I hope it isn’t because she or Tim are infertile. Of course it could be that they don’t want to start a family until Tim finds work. Vicky is a school meals assistant and I doubt if it pays much. You wouldn’t know it, but a lot of her clothes are out of the charity shops. Here in this well-heeled city, people’s cast-offs are sometimes as good as you’d find in the best dress shops.

That’s the three of us, then. We meet a few evenings each week and again at weekends, Friday and Saturday evenings and sometimes Sunday afternoons. Often it’s for nothing more exciting than a couple of drinks, cider mostly, but with Anita in the party we always have a giggle. Last night she was telling us about this customer of hers, a woman obviously in her sixties, all blonde curls and blusher, wanting to book two weeks somewhere in the sun and she’d heard about Ibiza and twenties to thirties holidays. Twenties to thirties? Anita, trying to be tactful, goes, ‘Are you sure you want that sort of holiday? It can be rather demanding.’ The woman answers, ‘That’s up to me, isn’t it? I know what I’m looking for.’ So Anita, being Anita, thinks toy boy. ‘I feel bound to mention that there’s a lot of drinking in Ibiza.’ And the woman goes, ‘I’m all for that. I carry a bottle of water at all times in case of dehydration.’ Which of course makes us scream with laughter. Anita goes, ‘Actually I meant drinking in bars.’ And the woman is like, ‘I wouldn’t be going all the way to Ibiza to waste time in a bar all evening.’ So Anita feels duty-bound to explain, ‘That’s what happens on twenties to thirties holidays. It’s all about making friends, and that’s where it gets done.’ The woman goes, ‘I’m sorry, whatever it is that gets done, I’m not doing it in a public bar. I prefer somewhere more quiet.’ More hoots from Vicky and me. Anita goes, ‘I’m wondering if you’d be better off on a cruise. We have some wonderful cruise brochures.’ The woman is like, ‘God no, I did one of those and it was up the coast of Norway and we froze. The temperature never got into double figures. All the men had cold hands. That’s why this time I definitely want a place in the twenties to thirties.’ Twenty Celsius, Geddit?

I’m glad we had a good laugh. I could see Vicky was a bit down when we started, but by the end of that story she was fine.

Now you know the good guys in this blog, Vicky, Anita and me, and you’ll be wanting to find out who the baddies are. There’s only one so far and, natch, he’s a bloke. Maybe it’s jumping the gun to call him an out-and-out baddie. We need to know more about his shady activities before hanging him out to dry. That’s our mission, to uncover the truth.

And hang him out to dry.