‘Why?’
‘She just didn’t seem the sort to fall in love. Emotionally scarred, I’d say now, but back then I would have said she was frigid. Strange how you look at life when you’re young.’
‘It’s not that many years ago.’
‘A lifetime for me, and now I’m married, pregnant, and about to give birth.’
‘A beautiful man?’
‘My husband!’ Amanda laughed. ‘Short and fat, but he’s kind, and he’ll not let our child or me down, ever.’
‘Barry Montgomery?’
‘He wasn’t a keeper. He was the good night out, not the stay at home type. Not the person to spend a lifetime with.’
‘The other two in the house?’
‘One of them, the most promiscuous, found religion. She’s doing missionary work somewhere overseas.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The internet, Facebook. Everyone’s there somewhere.’
‘And the other?’
‘Hannah, you’ll see her on the television every night reading the news. She was the most academic of the four. She may know more than me, but I doubt it.’
‘Any reason for any of you to have wanted Barry dead?’
‘I never saw him again after the big argument with his father. I was mighty angry at the time, but no, and I don’t think we cared either way after a few weeks. And why should we? All we worried about was passing our exams and having a good time. If Matilda wanted to be a wallflower, not that she didn’t get plenty of offers, then that was up to her. And believe me, we didn’t need the competition. Matilda was the beauty; we weren’t. Not unattractive, not stunners either. Still, I’m not complaining. Life’s turned out well for me.’
Larry left Amanda and her house, knowing that happiness was to be cherished at all costs. There were times when he imagined a life without his wife and his children, the opportunity to make his own choices without considering others, to get drunk, to smoke more than he should. But he knew he would not change his life for anybody. He, like Amanda Jenkins, was a happy person.
***
‘And what do you have in mind? Muscular, gymnastic, overnight, or by the hour? Our men are flexible as to your requirements. If you want them to accompany you to a work’s function, office party, they are the soul of discretion.’
Bridget had not immediately let on to the gentlemen for hire companies that she had phoned that day that it was a police matter. Suspicious, she thought, the change in tone when she had finally told them who she was and why she was phoning.
Bridget had looked at and not been offended by the companies’ websites, where there were hundreds of men to choose from. The pictures showed some bare-chested, others in dinner jackets, wearing bow ties, the ages varying from the twenties up to the more distinguished in their fifties, greying hair, creases in the face. No mention was made on the websites of the extras, just that the arrangement between the client and whoever they sent was strictly for social purposes. On the phone, before Bridget had identified herself, the extras had been outlined, sometimes in more detail than she required.
‘Send us a photo,’ the last company said. ‘If he’s not on the website, then he may have been a past employee.’
‘Thank you,’ Bridget said. ‘We’re interested in his movements, not your company.’
‘I was a police officer once,’ the man said. ‘Wales. I made it up to sergeant, so I know our legal position. It’s always a grey area, but we’re above board.’
‘You’ve got the picture on an email now,’ Bridget said.
A pause while the former police officer opened the email. ‘Yes, I know him. A few years back, attractive, hit with the ladies. I’ll need to check the records, but I don’t think he was here for long.’
‘I’ll send some officers out to your premises. Is that acceptable?’
‘The website is our shopfront, not where we’re situated. Just a small office in Brixton, up two flights of stairs. Ninety minutes?’
‘DCI Isaac Cook and Sergeant Wendy Gladstone will be there.’
‘Black guy, tall?’
‘Don’t tell me…’
‘We were on a course in the past. He could have made good money back then.’
‘He still could,’ Bridget said. ‘He’s an attractive man. It’s more than my life’s worth if you tell him what I just said.’
‘Don’t worry. Discretion’s my middle name.’
‘Apart from that, what other names do you have?’
‘Nick Domett, previously of the Cardiff police, currently the proprietor of Gents for Hire.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘My mother was proud of me when I was a police officer, although the money was lousy.’
‘It still is,’ Bridget said.
‘That’s why I’m here in this office, raking it in. My mother has never forgiven me, not that I can blame her. We’re not breaking any laws, not serious ones, but people still have a perception that what we’re doing is somehow wrong.’
‘I’m not criticising.’
‘A special discount, Bridget,’ Domett said, his tone of voice clearly joking.
‘You never know,’ Bridget said.
‘Spoken like a true libertarian. A believer in not passing judgement as long as no one’s hurt or offended.’
‘I’m not serious. Ninety minutes, two visitors.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Domett said.
Bridget knew that she and Wendy would have a good laugh about the risqué repartee she had had with the owner of the escort company.
***
There was one thing obvious when Isaac and Wendy met Nick Domett at his office in Brixton: he wasn’t one of those whose pictures and physiques figured on the Gents for Hire website.
The man wasn’t a beefcake, not even a meat pie, Wendy thought, smiling to herself, having to hide her mouth with her hand.
‘Good to see you, Isaac,’ Nick Domett said as he got up from his chair. The office stank, as did the man. Stubble on his
