Chapter 2.11 #2
Five doors led off, but one of them lay open, revealing a hospital-style bed with siderails, and a pump-controlled drip stand beside it. A wheelchair and sling-hoist for getting the patient out of bed.
Not that she looked as if she did much of that.
An emaciated woman lay slumped beneath the duvet, looking about a decade older than Davey with her white hair, sunken eyes, and hollow cheeks. There was a yellow tone to her papery skin, like parchment. Sickly.
That would be ‘Jenny’.
Davey tiptoed over there and closed the door. Careful and quiet. Then bustled Roberta through into a compact and antiseptic living room. Not a speck of dust, discarded book, or abandoned coffee mug in sight.
To be honest, this whole place made Roberta and Susan’s home look like the inside of Rennie’s car.
An ancient fabric suite was arranged before an old-fashioned, bulky TV, while a glass coffee table contained nothing more exciting than a little wooden stand with coasters in it.
Patio doors took up most of the end wall, showing off a ratty garden not much wider than the house. And it was not a wide house.
Weeds grew up between the paving slabs of a deserted patio, and the lawn was about knee-deep. Which seemed a bit out of character, given how fastidious Davey was in here.
There wasn’t room for a shed, but that weeny garage sat off to the right, against the back fence. Another drooping rose rambling up the side wall.
Davey closed the door to the hall, cheeks all pink and flustered. ‘It’s not that I’m ungrateful or anything, it’s . . . We have a routine.’ Pulling off his embarrassed rubber gloves. ‘No one comes to visit. . . . Not friends, anyway.’
Maybe she’d been a wee bit hard on him. What with the ill wife and everything.
Yeah.
Give the poor sod a break.
Roberta held up her bloodstained printouts. ‘Got your PNC checks.’
He licked his lips. Nodded. Looked back at the closed door, as if peering through it, across the hall, through the door opposite, and into his wife’s sickroom. ‘Do you mind if we do this in my office? I don’t like mixing home and business . . .’
A crazy-paving path twisted its way through the long grass, past a row of quivering bushes, to a little door in the garage wall. Surrounded by the weeping rose.
Davey led the way, with Roberta limping along right behind him – staying close, because he only had the one golf brolly, and it was still dinging down out here.
The garage side door was peppered with about six different Yale locks, and Davey worked his way through a bundle of keys, undoing each one. Then shuffled sideways on the narrow path. ‘After you.’
She gave the bundle of keys a pointed look. ‘This better no’ be one of them “Suburban Sex Dungeons” we hear so much about . . .’
But instead of leather straps and shackles and paddles, whips, ball-gags, and dildos-of-all-nations, the weenie garage had been turned into a home office, complete with lined walls, a proper ceiling, and carpet on the floor.
Not a sex swing in sight.
A collection of corkboards ran along one wall, covered in photos and diagrams and missing-persons posters. Four of which were for cats.
The room was rounded out with a small desk, a micro-kitchen area, and a pair of matching filing cabinets.
Davey kicked off his little ankle wellies and slipped on a pair of tartan baffies. Frowned at Roberta’s soggy boots. Then wisely didn’t ask her to do the same. Forced a smile instead. ‘Jenny got tired of me slouching about the house after I retired, so this was all her idea.’
Bet it was.
Roberta had a good squint at one of Davey’s cases: a stakeout on a bungalow in Mintlaw.
Floor plan, photos of the participants, notes, a telephone bill that looked as if it’d been scrounged from a bin.
‘You should get yourself some red string, Davey: tie the bits and bobs together. Go for a proper conspiracy-theorist-slash-serial-killer vibe.’
He furled his brolly, then filled the kettle. Set it boiling. ‘So . . . you’ve got those PNC checks for me?’ All casual, like.
‘I’m a classy broad, Davey. Need a bit of foreplay before the full-on shagging starts.’
He shrugged, then produced two mugs. ‘What do you want?’
‘Tea.’ She watched him get the bags out. ‘Tell me about Mr and Mrs X.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Aye, you do know I catch murderers for a living, right, Davey? All this . . .?’ Pointing at the little groups of photos. ‘Beneath my pay grade. Doing you a favour, here.’
‘I still can’t.’ And a withering look didn’t shift him. ‘Client confidentiality. Like being a doctor, only with less money.’
Not as if she really gave a toss anyway.
Only being nosy for the sake of it.
Mind you: given that she wasn’t allowed anywhere near a proper case, thanks to Chief Superintendent Pine being a toss-weasel, might as well meddle with Davey’s caseload.
And Susan said she needed a hobby . . .
‘OK.’ Roberta raised a finger. ‘But say I’m here as a consulting detective, what with all my expertise, experience, and PNC checks. That means it’s all OK again, doesn’t it. Ethically speaking.’
‘Suppose . . .’
She plonked down into his office chair, swivelling from side to side as the kettle hiss-click-grumbled. ‘So, you staked-out Mr X’s place of business . . .?’
Davey stared at the ceiling. Pulled one shoulder up.
‘OK.’ Let it drop again. ‘Four months ago, Judith Sherman wakes up in the middle of the night to find her husband downstairs, on the phone. Muttered conversation, clearly hiding something. She confronts him over breakfast, he denies everything. Accuses her of being paranoid.’ Kettle boiled, Davey filled their mugs.
‘Two days later, husband Noel’s wearing a nice new pair of jeans, a nice new shirt, and a nice new leather jacket.
Very swish. Two weeks after that: gets himself a nice new BMW convertible. ’
‘Sports car and an affair.’ Roberta pulled on her best Jane Austen voice: ‘How frightfully midlife-crisisey!’
‘This goes on for a couple of weeks, and she’s sure he’s at it.
So, she calls me. Wants to make sure she’s got all her financial ducks in a drawer, because her husband’s a sneaky wee shite who’s probably hiding a whole heap of assets from her, which she intends to plunder in the divorce.
’ Mashing the teabags with a spoon. ‘I follow him for a couple of days – nothing special – then stake out his business.’
‘Which is?’
The teabags splatched into the bin. ‘Coillewood Development and Resolution Specialists Limited. Joinery, mostly. Runs a few guys out of his workshop just outside Stonehaven, putting up timber frames for kit houses. Does a bit of “debt management” on the side.’
Now that was a bit more interesting.
Roberta pushed off one side of the desk, setting the chair rotating all the way around, in a slow-motion twirl. ‘Loan shark?’
‘Nah: strictly legit. You’ve got an outstanding bill needs paid, or a County Court judgement, he’ll enforce it for a fifteen-percent cut.’ Milk in the teas. ‘You still take sugar?’
‘One. And a biscuit. None of your stingy knock-off-rich-tea shite, though. Something with chocolate.’
He plonked a mug down in front of her, along with a depressing disc of brown.
‘What the hell’s this?’
‘Ginger snap. All I’ve got. I’m not exactly making KitKat money, here.
’ He wandered over to one of the corkboards, crunching.
‘I stake out Noel Sherman’s office-cum-workshop, record all the comings and goings.
Thought maybe the woman in the electric-bogey-coloured Toyota Yaris might be his fancy piece. She’s a regular.’
‘And the other two: Red-Jag Man and Rusty-Jeep Boy?’
‘Gay people can have affairs too. Just cos Noel’s hetero at home doesn’t mean he’s not factory-floor fabulous.’
Roberta did another three-sixty.
Hmmm . . .
‘Gimme a bit of paper and a pen.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Well I’m no’ giving you an official Police Scotland printout, am I. Be incriminating.’
‘Thanks.’ Davey dug out a pack of Post-its and a chewed biro. ‘This is—’
A hard buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz cut across the room – joined by a red light, flashing above the filing cabinets.
He dumped his tea and hurried to the door, swapping slippers for mini-wellies again. Grabbed his brolly. Then bustled out into the rain. ‘Jenny needs me. Don’t touch anything!’
And he was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Leaving Roberta alone with her mug of tea and disappointing biscuit.
Right.
She stood.
Time to have a rummage . . .