Good Investigations, page 2
I looked out the window and watched two young boys on the other side of the road trying to skateboard up and down the pavement. They were crap and kept falling off. Still, fair play to 'em, they didn't give up, they just got right back up, re-set the board and tried again. I like persistence; it's a handy thing to have, especially in my line of business.
I could remember being the same age as those kids. My mum used to tell me that I spent too much time watching other people, that it wasn’t nice to stare. But she didn't realise I wasn’t just staring. I was taking it all in, learning about people, what makes them tick, what makes one different from another, why some get along and why some don't. All that watching, all that learning, it goes without saying, was the perfect training ground for a would-be PI and by the time I set up shop I could read most people inside out pretty quick, even when they thought they’d done enough to fool me.
What's more, I'm not bashful and I don't mind shoving my great big hooter right in deep if that's what it takes to sniff out some crucial little detail in someone else's life. And I don’t care how personal it might be. A husband puts me on the trail of his wife when he thinks she's played away from home once too often. So I track her down with the other bloke, follow them back to his place or some cheap hotel, then out comes the long lens. It’s best if they cosy up at his place, then I can break in when the place is empty, rig up a mini camera and a microphone in the bedroom and then, night after night, I go back and watch the two of them at it, banging away like rabbits in spring time, shagging in more positions than you or I knew existed, all flailing arms and cramped up leg muscles. It's bad enough for the poor old husband, but when he sees his missus going down more often than a one armed boxer, when his todger’s not been near her lipstick for years, he’s just about ready to rip the little vixen’s throat out.
I sat back down at my desk and took a pen and pad out the draw. So, where to begin with my latest bit of nosey-parkering? Well, the name of the game this time out is to seek and destroy. Find the greasy bastard with his fat little digits dipping into other people's bank accounts then, one way or other, put a stop to his demands with menaces for my client's cash. Finding a nasty piece of work like this isn't always a piece of cake, but that's why people pay me to do this kind of stuff.
Being so nosey can have its drawbacks, especially when people aren't too happy with you taking a close interest in their personal lives. On the other hand, it has its advantages. For starters, I'm always picking up on little and, sometimes, not so little bits and bobs about people and filing them away in my head. Half the time I don't even realise I'm doing it; it just happens, all on its own. And it’s not just stuff about people I know; if it's interesting enough then I notice it, whoever it's about. It’s just the kind of thing that can come in seriously handy when I'm starting out on a new case. I scan the old memory banks and, if I'm lucky, I'll come up with some kind of connection or pointer that's enough to get me up and running. And, happy days, this time around I remembered a story I'd read in the Evening Standard last year about some posh bird who'd got herself a bit of a shop-lifting problem. What was it that got her unhappy little story in the paper? It turns out some nosey parker had found out all about her little problem and demanded ten grand cash to keep quiet. Unlucky for her, she didn’t have ten grand left in her bank account, so couldn't avoid every man and his dog getting to hear all about her embarrassment. Easy pickings for the newspaper and just the kind of 'human interest' story they like to serve up for their discerning readers. Her misfortune was my lucky break. Next stop was the local library, where I ought to be able to track down a name for the said woman without too much trouble.
***
And I was right, because it didn't take long at all to find the story I was after. Truth is, it never did, not with Lenny the Sponge on the case. Lenny works down the library, in the local archive section, and all the time he's not filing stuff away or dealing with the happy punters, he has his head buried in old newspapers, soaking up everything that's of interest to him. And most stuff interests the Sponge. His ability to soak up all this news is matched by the bloody amazing way he can cough it back up on demand; hence the moniker 'Lenny the Sponge'. Talent like that means he's always the bloke you ask when you need to track down a story, after all, why spend hours of your life looking for it yourself when Lenny can do the job in minutes. I buy him a beer once in a while to keep him on side. It's not all peaches and cream though; Lenny's a shirt-lifter and I'm his type, which means he's always after a bit more than just a pint of amber nectar, so I'm always having to fend off his amorous advances.
“There you go Dave. ‘Upper Crust Shop Lifting’. March 21st last year.” It took Lenny less than ten minutes to find the story and announce his success with a flourish.
“Cheers Sponge,” I said, trying not to sound too grateful. “Now, let's see what we've got.”
I picked up the newspaper and read the story through, twice. It was all about a little lady with a wanker-banker husband helping herself to goodies from Selfridge's, without paying. Only she wasn't any good at it and got caught. At least, that's what you'd think if you didn't read the whole story; you had to get past paragraph two. Sure enough, she'd been thieving from the clothes department at Selfridge's early in the New Year when a couple of store detectives caught her red-handed. She had a whole bunch of stuff in her shopping bag as she tried to leg it out the exit. Selfridge's were claiming another fine victory for their anti-thieving police. But in her defence the woman claimed she was bloody good at making off with all kinds of gear from shops all over town and had tons of the stuff at home, all without ever getting caught. Her brief must 'ave had a heart attack when she coughed up this info in court. She bought herself a longer sentence, but she did it because she reckoned the only reason she was caught was because someone shopped her. What's more, that someone had been trying to blackmail her. She'd received a couple a letters demanding money. The second letter included a selection of photos showing her stuffing goodies into her shopping bag, photos that were going to find their way to one or two shops that she was in the habit of fleecing if she didn't cough up. She could've just stopped thieving of course but she was addicted. Like any drug, she needed her regular shot and she just couldn't lay off. Trouble was, she couldn't pay up either. Her fella had plenty of cash for sure, but she didn't have much of her own and couldn't face telling him, so she just hoped the leech would give up. He didn't and she couldn't, so the men in macs were waiting for her one day and the rest, as the man said, is history. The judge didn't show any interest in the blackmail angle, but he did believe the bit about being hooked on thieving, especially as she could afford to pay for the gear, and he let her off with a light sentence plus a dose of counselling.
“So, what d'yer reckon?” asked a curious Sponge.
“Could be what I'm after.” I was still thinking it through. “Worth a shout, at least.”
The Sponge leaned in a little closer and I could just pick up a whiff of aftershave. “Has it got me a hot date then?” He sounded hopeful and had a great big grin on his cheery face.
“Not with me, mate. Give me a photocopy of that and I'll get you a beer and a bag of cheese an' onion the next time I see you down the George.” He had a way with the boys, but he wasn't gonna have his way with me.
“Don't know what yer missing, lover boy. Could be more fun than you've 'ad in years.” He looked down at my arse as he picked up the paper and made for the copier in the back of the office.
Five minutes later I was standing in front of a tall bookcase in the reference section of the library, thumbing my way through the London phone book, or, more accurately, thumbing my way through those parts of it that covered the letters G to L. The very best bit of the story in the paper was that it named the jail bird, one Helena Jacques, so all I had to do now was find her and there was no better place to start looking than in the phone book. My luck was in, with her having such an unusual surname, and, sure enough, I found just five entries, all of which made it into my note book. None of them were Helena or H Jacques, but the phone could be in her old man's name, so no need to look elsewhere just yet. All in all, a very satisfying visit. All I needed now was a payphone and there was one of those just outside the library.
It was third time lucky when I started making phone calls. The upmarket tones of one Helena Jacques answered the phone just as I was about to give up and move on to the next number on my list. She refused point blank to meet me, but was happy as Larry to talk to me on the phone when I told her the bare bones about my case. She never did have any idea who the blackmailer was, but she guessed it must 'ave been someone she knew pretty well. He seemed to know so much about her, especially all her favourite shoplifting venues and quite a few other bits and bobs about her private life. What's more, not only had the bloke sent her two letters, he'd also phoned her once to really put the frighteners on; which, incidentally, is why she was sure it was a him and not a her. Seems he was good at working her up, leaving her so scared she dropped the phone on the floor when he hung up.
What she'd never been able to work out was how the hell he'd taken all those photos without her knowing, especially if she was right about it being someone she knew. It looked to me like we were dealing with a pro. She also told me she heard a rumour at the time about some other bird being blackmailed, just like her. But it was only a rumour, no more than hot gossip that had her mates' tongues wagging. She hadn't a clue who the woman was they were all talking about and she didn't think anyone else knew either, but she had the distinct feeling that it was for real, not some made-up fantasy.
I thought I'd done well to get this much info, but she'd not finished yet, not by a long chalk. I'd had a starters and the main course, and now she served me pudding, rhubarb crumble and custard. After her court case was over she suddenly started receiving letters offering her anonymous support. There were three letters, spread over a month, from another woman saying she'd also been blackmailed by some bloke who'd dug up some dirt on her and wanted paying to keep stum. She'd had the money, lucky for her, and he'd fucked off after she coughed up. Now she just wanted Mrs J to know she wasn't alone, not to get too down about it all. Shame was, she didn't keep the letters, and now she felt guilty about chucking them out. I told her not to worry about what you can't undo. I tried to work a bit more info out of her, giving her memory a nudge here and there, hoping something might click in her head and give me a decent clue to find this mystery pen pal. But, willing as she was to tell me everything she could, there just wasn't anything else there. So, I thanked her for her time and said my goodbyes. She even wished me luck. Now there's a nice lady.
What a result. Now I knew there were at least two other victims out there, and maybe a third. If they were out there then maybe I could find them and butter 'em up with my South London charm; they might not like re-visiting nasty times, but anything they could tell me stood a chance at helping me out. I stepped back on to the street. A half-eaten burger was sprawled across the pavement, waiting patiently for someone's dog to finish it off, and the sky was one long sheet of low, grey cloud, looking for the right moment to dump its load of rain. But I was pleased with myself and didn't even mind fighting my way through the scrum of shoppers as I made my way towards the High Street. It was lunchtime and it was going to be a big one. After all, I'd earned it.
***
Lunch was a tasty one and I was still enjoying the last knockings of bacon and eggs, the little bits that wedged themselves between my teeth, when the office door swung open and a tall, bald bloke wearing trainers, dirty jeans and a tatty leather jacket strode in with something on his mind.
“Watcha Dave. How's things then?”
“Mr Sturgeon. Good to see you.” I sounded as welcoming as I could when I didn't really want to see the bloke right now.
“Yeah, you too Dave.” He was chipper.
I was going to say, 'Pull up a chair', but he already had. Mike Sturgeon was a client. He turned up one day about a month ago with a story about his mum's pussy. It had gone walkabouts and never been seen since. They'd checked out all the neighbours, every alleyway and kebab house for streets around, and even spoken to both vets operating in our neck of the woods, but dear old Flossy still didn't show up. So there he was, asking me if I could find the moggy for him before his mum died from the stress. What with all the work I've had on the go over the summer it was a no brainer and out of desperation I said yes. And all for just twenty-five quid. I'm too soft.
“Any news then, about Flossy?” He sounded a bit desperate and kept shifting in the chair.
One of the fingernails on his right hand was as black as coal. “That looks nasty,” I said, nodding at his dodgy digit.
“Yeah, hurt like fuck when Damien shut me finger in the car door,” he said, glancing down at it.
“Ouch!” I tried to sound sympathetic.
My go at side-tracking him didn’t make much of an impact. “Me mum's getting a bit down, yer know, about Flossy being gone an all”.
Truth was, I hadn't found the cat and wasn't likely to either. They were often nicked and sent off for animal experiments, to who knows where, but I couldn't tell the bloke that. “I've gotta tell you, Mr Sturgeon, it's odds on the cat's gone for good. Normally, if you don't find them within a few days then you never do.” He wanted to jump in, but I pushed on, hoping to close this case right now. “More than likely, Flossy's been run over and then carted off by the council: they're doing that kinda thing all the time in busy manors like ours. If I was you, I'd take the twenty-five quid you were gonna pay me and buy your mum a new pussy”.
“But mum ... she'll keel over.” He looked gutted and the words stumbled out. Poor old mum, but at least her son cared for her. Either that or he was worried he would have to start doing his own washing and ironing when she found out he’d failed to track down Flossy.
I got up from my chair, walked round the table and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Never mind, she'll get over it soon enough after you get that new cat.”
“Yeah, I guess so”. He sounded no better, but tough, this case was closing faster than a Scotsman's wallet.
I packed him off to the nearest pet shop, then dived for the window. The guy must 'ave been dripping in cheap aftershave, stuff so strong it made my nostrils hurt, and now the whole room was reeking of eau de Flossy, or whatever the hell it was he was wearing. The sodding stench was going to take days to get rid of.
“God. You smelly git”. I breathed in fresh Peckham air, keen as a diver coming up for a lung full.
The case of the disappearing pussy got me thinking. If I wanted to be full-time on this new case, or as good as, then I needed to clear out all the old tosh that was hanging around the place and dump all the unsolved mysteries that might trip me up later. I'd been hanging on to one case for months, on purpose.
Early June I'd taken on a sad sounding case for a dad whose only daughter had run away from home a few weeks earlier and, despite calling in the cops, no one had seen her since, leaving mum and dad scared witless. There's plenty of dodgy characters in this ol' town only too happy to grab hold of a homeless teenager and set them to work as a prostitute or drug dealer, or both if they're out a luck; and they don't get any thanks or any pay for their trouble, just a good hiding if they act up. The dad was all tears and sleepless nights. He looked as genuine as they come. But when I went looking for the girl it didn't take me long to find her, shacked up with some mates just a few streets away from caring dad, and as soon as I did find her I made sure I suffered from memory failure in a big way. She'd legged it because dad had been beating the crap out of her and mum. Mum was too scared to do a runner, thinking dad would find them and beat the life out of them. But daughter couldn't take any more so she just didn't go back home one day after school. Instead, she found a hide-out with the big sister of one of her mates, where all she did was worry about her mum and what dear old dad would be doing to her. Her new landlady backed her up, so there was no way dad was getting a result out of this one.
I'd felt sick in the pit of my stomach when I got back to the office and wasted no time letting the law know about dad, but when they paid him a visit the wife was too scared to press charges. Ditto the girl. So dad got off scot free. Trouble was, the tosser didn't clock it was me who shopped him and he kept calling me on the blower asking if I'd found the girl! Was he joking! So I'd been stringing him along ever since, taking his money and giving his daughter as much time as possible to hide herself away for good. But that had to stop now. I called him straight off and told him I was dropping the case, as he was wasting his money hoping to find the girl after all this time. He couldn't give a toss. I made a note to smash his car up some time.
And that was pretty much that. All that was left was a regular job I had with Tony Opilis who runs a local newsagents. He's always getting ripped off by shoplifters and every once in a while, when he's losing more stock than he can cope with, he calls me in to play store detective. I hang around the place taking hours to make me mind up about which train spotting mag to buy, until I can see some little urchin or cash shy pensioner emptying a few choice goodies into their coat pocket. Then I swoop in like Batman and haul them out the back for Tony to have a few words. Lucky for them, Tony's a nice bloke and I've only twice known 'im call in the cops, both times for repeat offenders. The rest just get a nasty warning and told to keep off the premises for a while.
