Chapter 2
Jude
Bloody December. It’s never a good month for me.
I hate the dark nights and dreary weather.
Wet and muddy building sites, snow and ice halting the work.
Everyone else seems to love it. The happy atmospheres drowning out the freezing mornings.
People out shopping, carrying on building up the bonhomie.
No one can diss it. Otherwise you're a bah humbug.
As if Christmas is not enough, I have to endure New Year’s celebrations.
New goals, New Year's resolutions—that, let’s be realistic, last until the third week of January—all shiny and nicely polished.
Some might even make it to February, but very few.
They’re simply put back on the shelf to gather dust, left to tarnish, ready to be dragged out again the next year and glossed back up.
So, coupling winter and Christmas with the bane of my life, it feels like I’m being put through a wringer, rolled in glitter and tinsel.
Because that bloody little building slap bang in front of my lovely new high rise? I have to look at the damn place every time I visit. Which is a lot, as I’ve moved some of my more important office functions here.
I’ve erected my gorgeous, modern, sleek building right over the road from it.
The premier address in London. A combination of the highest quality office space and luxury apartments.
Privacy guaranteed, which is why I’ve attracted a celebrity clientele, along with the super high earners and multinationals.
My riverside view is being slightly blocked at ground level only, my vision for a little exclusive park and VVIP parking battered and bruised.
“What complaints have I got this week?” I know my assistant, Brandon, is hovering with issues.
He does this shoe shuffle thing. I call it his complaint dance.
“Is it that fucking building again? What have they done now? What day is it, Tuesday? Damn. Not the choir again.” He shakes his head.
“Footballers? Kicking the ball at cars?” He goes pale.
“Not the fucking knit and natterers. Carter’s not even here.
They can’t have accosted someone else?” I’m running down their list of known criminal activities.
Sometimes it feels like they were sent by the devil himself to annoy me.
“It’s the boxercise lot. They’ve plastered fliers on every car. And in the coffee shop.” Okay, not so bad. “But…” Ah, there’s always a but. “They started doing a demo. Someone got hit over a latte.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “How is that my problem? Was the person part of the demonstration?”
“No, just some random office worker. Her boss has been on the phone about compensation,” he finishes off quickly.
“Well they need to contact that building over there.” I jab an angry finger in the direction of said eyesore.
“They’ll have insurance, and the coffee shop is a public space.
They sell to the general public. It’s not an exclusive this-building-only thing.
” I raise my hands in helplessness. “Unless people are vandalising, we can’t stop them from coming in. ”
“Well, you tried to bar the knitters and natterers,” he challenges my statement.
“They accosted Carter Maywood. One was feeling him up. She ought to have been arrested,” I say in disgust. Just because you're over seventy doesn’t give you the right to get handsy.
“They said they were sizing him up for the English winter for free knitwear.” Brandon is trying not to laugh. I am too. But they’d ended up on Good Morning London showcasing the knitwear they’d worked on. It’s a good job Carter was slightly drunk. He thought he’d hallucinated them.
“The hosts had a field day trying on the gloves, and getting the oldies to ring Carter’s representatives to arrange the meetup and handover. They even got selfies.” My voice has risen as high as my floor space in amusement. It was TV gold.
“Well, at least they’re not flash mobbing us.” He sounds relieved. “They haven’t got any arranged at the minute. I keep checking in with Gladys. No practising required.”
“We are not a training ground for their flash mobs. We don’t want to hear them sing, or see them dance. Or for them to act as witnesses to adultery.”
The Tuesday choir sings at all times of day and night.
They sing at any passers by. The chief exec of a bank—who was supposed to be in France, and not in the country one Tuesday afternoon—was caught on camera when they were practising a flash mob.
Unfortunately, a woman who was not his wife was hanging on his arm.
And an ill-advised makeout session took place on a street corner.
He’s blaming me for his wife divorcing him. Demanded I compensate him. Tosser.
His wife, on the other hand, has said she will fill my building twice over with people.
She was rubbing her hands together at the cash she was going to squeeze from him.
Even paid for the choir's Christmas party. She’d been waiting to catch him, but he’d been elusive for over twelve months.
Well, who needs private investigators? The church choir's flash mob will do nicely. More effective than MI5.
“To be honest, going over there is a waste of time. The woman who owns it has basically told me to fuck off.” I make a sorrowful noise in the back of my throat.
“Well your team are calling her a lot.” He stares at me. Is he siding with her? “And she issued a cease and desist on the grass park. You need to be cautious, Jude,” Brandon advises me.
“That park is a fucking disgrace. All I was trying to do is tidy it up,” I almost shout. A few weird sorts are starting to hang around. And whilst I would help anyone, I don’t want discarded drug paraphernalia outside my building. And surely as children are around on most days, neither does she.
“I tried to call her again,” I tell him, not bothering to hide my frustration. “But she’s not answering. Even her office assistant is now either not answering, or when she does she’s curt and to the point with a hasty brush-off. I thought we were getting somewhere with her, but sadly no.”
“Well, it’s Christmas soon. Maybe invite her and her team over for drinks. Butter her up.”
I make a noncommittal noise. “I’ll think about it.”
He nods and leaves me to sit and ponder the dossier in front of me.
Name: Emma Lincoln. Pretty name, I wonder if she’s from Lincoln originally.
Age: 38. - she sounds younger.
Height: 5 feet, 3 1/4 inches - what’s the quarter all about??
Weight: Unknown. Medium build. -Medium- what does that even mean?
Hair: Brown- brown? really? How exciting. -this investigator has gone all out with the descriptions.
Eyes: Blue- blue, jesus- Riveting reading this.
Headshot provided from company website. - Christ, that’s grainy. Mmmm. Not bad, looks on the boring side. Are those pearls?
Marital status: Divorced eight years. Ex-spouse: Nigel Drew, remarried Abigail Langford (Langford Plastics) Took her name: Nigel Drew-Langford.
- Mmm. She’s an heiress. He dropped on lucky, landed on his feet.
I’ve met her and her dad. She was really timid, dad spoke for her all night.
Ooh that’s the night I met Lucinda. Nothing timid about her.
Focus on the fucking dossier, Greystone.
Children: Oliver Drew 17 years old. Noah Drew 13 years old.
Nathan Drew 8 years old. - Eight years old?
She must have divorced him as soon as the baby was born.
Or whilst she was pregnant. That must have been hard for her.
Why is she called Lincoln? Must have gone back to using her maiden name. Really wanted him gone.
Address: Can be supplied on request.
Work life: Owner and director, Synergy Recruitment Ltd. Set up 8 years ago. - Starting to see the pattern here. Looks like her life upended right at the time of her divorce.
Previous Employment: Prestige Recruitment Ltd.
-Founding director. Resigned eight years ago.
Company founded with Nigel Drew still appointed.
Terry Ford. Still appointed. They fucking fired her.
Or she walked away, as part of the divorce settlement.
My money’s on fired. You don’t just walk away from a business like that. Wow, wankers.
Work address: already supplied.
Hobbies: None. Yep, boring.
Interests: None. Nada, nothing. How can that be???
Current relationships: None. Unsurprising. Even internet dates require a meetup at some point.
No convictions or complaints. No offences at all. Dull, dull, dull.
I snort in disgust. “Jesus, what is she, a nun? Didn’t know it was a religious sect over at that building. The woman really should get out more.”
“Who should get out more? Not you? You’re never in.
” Brandon’s back, and now that he doesn’t have any complaints to deal with, he's back on top form. Nobody else would dare say that to me. Everyone else is terrified of me. He thinks I’m a big teddy bear.
Probably a bit between the two is about right.
“The woman in the building.” I point generically, getting up from my desk and walking to the front windows that look out onto the river.
It’s an amazing view, but I look down, and there it is.
“Emma Lincoln. The owner of that.” I point directly down now.
“Just think what I could do with it, the space. Do you know she actually said the word ‘harassment.’” I pull a what-the-hell face.
“Me, Jude Greystone, harassing her.” Brandon snorts in my favour as I wave my hands around in agitation.
“She didn’t, surely. Are you sure you’re not being dramatic again?” He rolls his eyes in a very dramatic fashion.
I scowl at the impeccably dressed man in front of me. “Did you listen in? I was on my mobile.”