Somehow, I found the courage to take up the pursuit.
Outside, it was getting darker. The cars had their headlights on. Hardly anyone was about. Sensible people were at home, getting supper. We were coming to a section of town where the shops had metal grilles in front of the windows. All my new-found confidence drained. I was your typical nervous woman thinking each shop doorway concealed a rapist or a mugger. Cursing the giveaway clicking of my heels, I stayed close to the kerb feeling less and less committed to this crazy quest.
But it was soon over. City break man turned right, crossed a kids’ play area and entered what looked like a council tower block. I looked to see how many floors there were. There must have been at least two hundred flats in the building.
I needed to know where he was going.
I pushed at the swing door and followed him.
He’d already started up a foul-smelling staircase covered in graffiti. I could hear his steps, so I followed him, counting the floors. At the fifth, I hesitated at the swing door he’d just gone through. It was still moving back and forth. Fortunately it had a square of glass and I spotted him halfway along the corridor using a key to let himself into one of the flats. I waited for him to close the door before I crept forward and checked the number.
With that, I don’t mind telling you, I’d reached the limit of my sleuthing for one evening.
15
When I got home there were anxious messages on the answer-phone from my two so-called sleuthing buddies. I was to call Anita however late it was (‘Wake me up if necessary and give me a rollicking’). But Vicky’s message was more of an apology. She said she’d felt terrible about leaving me to cope on my own, and she hoped I understood that Anita had been in such a state that she needed shepherding out of the shop.
I called Vicky first. Actually I was home before ten, which I thought was a reasonable hour to touch base.
Her voice was strained. No joy that I survived. No curiosity about what happened. Just: ‘It’s not the best time. May I call you back?’
‘Any time,’ I told her, ‘I’ll speak to Anita.’
She’s a puzzle, that Vicky.
Anita was totally different, firing at least six questions at me before I could get a word in.
I gave her the gist of what my mission had uncovered: the council flat in the ugly tower block off the main road out of the city.
She asked me, ‘Was his name on the door?’
‘God, no. Just rusty old numbers. 513.’
‘Do you think he really lives there? Could he be leading a double life?’ The council flat existence conflicted with Anita’s image of city break man as a big-time villain.
‘How would I know? All I did was follow him there.’
‘And the woman he met in the pub? What was all that about?’
‘You tell me.’
‘She was a classy dame, you said?’
‘Smartly dressed, for sure.’
‘But they didn’t act like lovers?’
‘No, it looked strictly business. They obviously knew each other, but there was no embrace, no smiles even. He handed her something in an envelope and she left immediately.’
‘What size envelope?’
‘Standard A4, I think.’
‘Not large enough for drugs?’
‘Probably not. It wasn’t padded.’
Anita went, ‘She’s in on the scam. We’ve got to investigate her as well.’
I was firm with her. ‘One’s enough to be going on with. Let’s concentrate on him.’
‘All right. Now we know he lives in council property we can find out his real name. There must be lists of tenants.’
‘I expect he told the council he’s John Smith, like he told you. Maybe he really is John Smith.’
‘So? The name may not be so important, but we can check. One of my clients works in the council offices. She’ll help.’
Her enthusiasm lifted my spirits, weary as my legs were from trailing after city break man, or John Smith, or whoever he might be. ‘I’m wondering what he handed the woman in the pub.’
‘Blackmail money?’
‘I doubt it. Where would he get enough to pay her off as well as funding all his trips abroad?’
And she was like, ‘What’s your theory, then, wiseguy?’
‘He’s a private detective and she’s hired him to find out about her husband’s trips abroad. The envelope contained his latest report.’
‘That’s good, that’s very good, but wouldn’t she want to hear it from him rather than reading it later? I know I would.’
‘Maybe she’s just the messenger and the report is for someone else.’
‘That’s better, but if he’s in work as a detective what’s he doing drawing benefits and living in a council flat?’
‘Amateur detective.’
She screamed with laughter. ‘What — Lord Peter Wimsey? Miss Marple? You’ve got to be joking.’
‘Actually, I was — I think.’
‘Listen, my flower. Let’s sleep on this and meet up tomorrow and plan our next move. Have you spoken to Vicky yet?’
‘She said she’d call me back.’
‘She’s pleased you’re okay, I bet.’
‘She didn’t actually say. I caught her at a bad moment, I think.’
‘Poor lamb. It’s that husband. He’s a drag.’
‘Really? Have you met him?’
‘No, but I pick up on things she says. I think he’s out of work and he takes it out on her.’
‘Knocks her around, you mean?’
‘Hard to tell. She’s not going to boast about it, is she? Sometimes living with a deadbeat is punishment enough. You and I should count our blessings.’
‘Being single?’
‘Give me a world without men. No beer, no football, just fat, cheerful women.’
We ended the call. Tired as I was after traipsing round the streets, I didn’t like to go to sleep in case Vicky called. I spent the next hour writing this blog, getting up to date, which is where you are now. It’s almost midnight and she hasn’t called. I know if I go to bed I’ll lie awake thinking about this quest of ours and whether deep down I really want to go on with it.
Good thing I have a hands-free phone in my van because the others always seem to ring me when I’m on the road. This morning I was halfway to the shop when Vicky called.
‘So sorry about last night. I was waiting for a call from Tim. He’d be suspicious if I was talking to someone else. He was out until late. By the time he got through, it was too late to call you.’
Another piece of the jigsaw that is Vicky’s marriage.
‘But I’m dying to know how you got on.’ Her voice was more chirpy now.
Without enquiring any more into Tim’s night life, I gave her my story, adding Anita’s take on it all.
‘You did brilliantly,’ she went. ‘I’m sorry you were left to go it alone. We’re not very professional as investigators, are we?’
‘We couldn’t all three of us have gone trailing after him. You were right to spirit Anita away. He would have
