The Double Cousin

By Derek Richard Denton

Jake Denver, accountant, should have heeded that inner voice warning him off: he didn't. The tax problem he was to fix for his cousin was a mare's nest. And the woman, wasn't she just too damned sophisticated to be using a PI with a shabby office in a run-down neighbourhood?

Here lies Jake Denver, simpleton. That could have been his epitaph. It very nearly was, thanks to that woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Richard Denton
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476336794

Derek Richard Denton

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR (Published By John Goodchild Publishers in hardback) Don't Go Near The Magic Shop Hider and Seekers The House in the Dunes Coping with Politics (non-fiction in paperback) AUTHOR'S NOTE: The above titles (hard back and paperback) are now largely out of print, but some have been published in Spanish, Italian, Swedish, French, and Greek. The film rights of Hiders and Seekers were sold but the work was never brought to the screen, alas. Hey ho, the wind and the rain. On Kindle are: A Permissible Deception (crime fiction) - now retitled The Double Cousin The Haunting of Rakers Wood (ghost story with love interest)) Mindgames Unlimited (science fiction for teenagers and young adults) The Third Balloon (juvenile fiction – magic and school adventure) The King of a Far Off Country

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I knew I was in trouble the minute I heard the judge pronounce sentence. But I was not the man in the dock. That was my cousin, James.

He was shaken, and so was I, looking on. I could see the shock register on his lean, handsome face because for once in his life his charm had not worked, not on the jury, and not on the judge either. Under the circumstances there could never be a plan B to fall back on. James was floundering, and in his position I would have been floundering, too.

I was staring at him, numbed by the unfairness of it all, but there was nothing I could do to save him, and he knew it. Somehow, I managed not to panic, but I could see big problems ahead for me as a consequence of James's conviction.

When he was in the Parachute Regiment, he had experienced many things in his varied and active life, some of them harsh, and many of them dangerous, but being sent to prison as a felon was not one of them. He had told me the night before that he expected at worst to get a fine and some harsh words from the beak. But he always was a cocky individual, was James; likeable, but too smart for his own good sometimes.

When the judge handed down the sentence, there was a whoop of joy from the public gallery. Before the court ushers could restore order, a woman’s shrill voice was shouting: ‘Serves you right, you bastard, for what you did to our Teresa. And our Billy.’

She was a bitter-faced blonde, obviously a member of the unsavoury Watts family. ‘Up yours, Denver,’ she screeched, sticking her middle finger in the air. ‘We’ve got friends inside that’ll rattle your cage for you, you little sod!’

While all this was going on, James lifted his face in my direction: I knew what his eyes were telling me. I did not feel good about it, because he was sending me a message I didn’t want to acknowledge. There was a favour owing and, reluctantly, he was calling it in. I owed him from way back. We both knew it, but right then I was wishing I didn’t.

* * *

Only the day before, he had discussed what he called contingency plans. ‘Just in case,’ he said. And when he saw me frown he added: ‘It’s a long shot, Jake. Don’t panic. It won’t happen. But, just supposing...’

‘Aggravated assault on a woman, James,’ I said, my voice up half an octave. ‘Are you taking this in? A woman.’ I was feeling pretty aggrieved because he had held out on me. ‘You should have told me before now that this was in the pipeline. This is serious stuff we’re talking about here.’

He was shrugging, smiling one of his reassuring smiles, but I was having none of it. ‘James, you can’t make light of it. It’ll be touch and go in there. You broke her jaw.’

‘She had a meat axe, for God’s sake! She was trying to brain me with it. What else was I supposed to do? Offer her the top of my head and say, Give it your best shot, dear? I don’t think so.’

Glenda Murchison, his young secretary, caught my eye, and then glanced away to look at James.

‘Listen,’ I said, trying to keep my tone reasonable, ‘whatever happens, you know I can’t stay on here in Liverpool. End of next week at best and that’s me finished here. I thought I made that plain when I wrote to you. I’ve too much on at home. Angela and I... Look, she has to be my priority. We’ve things to sort out.’ I didn’t want to discuss my marital problems in front of Glenda, James's secretary.

I was fresh out of the army. I’d been using my training in accountancy for a career within the Adjutant General’s Corps (SPS), but I’d come out under a scheme the government was using to slim down the armed forces, all in the name, of course, of reducing the national debt. Anyway, I was five months back in Civvy Street, that’s all. I had not landed another job yet, but I wasn’t too worried in those early weeks because I wanted to enjoy being home in Salisbury with my wife and my two children.

That was the idea, but within weeks things had turned sour between me and Angela. I could see I was getting on her nerves, so when James telephoned me and explained the fix he was in, I reckoned a short spell in Liverpool helping him sort out his tax problems might be a good idea. It would give Angela and me breathing space.

What I wanted, needed, was my life back on an even keel. I wanted Angela and me, the kids... well, I wanted us to be the loving family we used to be. No more rows. No more sniping at one another. A couple of weeks apart, I was thinking, would do the trick. But as soon as I got a whiff of James’s set-up, as I did the moment I walked into his shabby quarters, I was regretting my decision. I immediately revised my initial offer of three weeks to two weeks maximum. I intended getting back to Salisbury as soon as I decently could without seeming too much of a rat.

‘James,’ I said, looking hard at him, willing him to understand how serious I was being, ‘I can’t handle the practical side of your business. You know that, don't you? Me, a private investigator? I’d mess up, big time. So don’t think I can cover for you if you get sent down, because I can’t. Really. No way.’

‘Sent down? Are you kidding? Anyway, just supposing you’re right and I ask you to take over here, just supposing I’m saying, there’s Glenda. She’s my rock. She’ll be yours, too. She knows everything about running the business, Jake. Most of it’s routine, anyway. Agency stuff, insurance, some checking work for solicitors, that sort of thing. That’s what pays the bills. And Glenda’s a reliable kid. She’s smart and she’s loyal. What more could you ask for?’

‘Listen to me, James,’ I said, with a sideways glance at Glenda. ‘Angela’s been more than a bit edgy lately and... Listen, I don't want to discuss it here, but I have to get home. That’s all there is to it.’

It was as though I hadn’t spoken. He stood there, smiling at me, then turning his head said: ‘Look at her. ‘My lovely Glenda. She’s one hundred per cent. I guarantee it. And if there is something tricky that you can’t handle between you, then, all right, you can walk away from it. It’ll keep till I get back.’ Then he had laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘But it won’t come to that. I keep telling you, it’ll never happen. Even the thought of it is ridiculous. I won’t get a custodial sentence. Meanwhile, you’ll sort out my difficulties with the Revenue and then you'll be winging your way back to Salisbury to the lovely Angela. And all in next to no time.’

‘You’ll be finished in the detective business if you do get sent down,’ said Glenda, deadpan, not looking at him. I could see she was troubled, and I didn’t blame her. I was troubled, too.

James grimaced behind her back. ‘If that happens, then I might sell up. I’ve got enough regular clients to make it a good buy for someone.’

Glenda cocked an eye in my direction again, pursed her lips, and shook her head just enough for me to get her message. James didn’t see the gesture. He was busy telling me: ‘You could always take it over, Jake. As a front man for me if you like. Now, there’s a thought, eh? Why don’t you come back to Liverpool? It’s where you belong.’

‘Listen James...’

‘We’d make a good team,’ he said, cutting in. ‘Me, you, and Glenda. Think about it.’

‘You never give up, do you? What about Angela? Do you think she’d leave Salisbury to come and live here again? She’s made a new life for herself. She's settled down there. New friends. She loves it.’

‘She’s a Liverpool girl, Jake,' said James, still beaming at me. 'And her mother lives here. That’s the clincher. Take it from me: girls always want to live near their mothers, sooner or later. Besides, the city’s in her blood.’

I was shaking my head in denial. ‘You don’t know Angela.’

‘I don’t have to. You’re born here: it’s like having malaria. You’re never free of it. You and me, right? Bitten at birth.’ He pointed a finger, grinning. ‘There’s no cure. Ask Glenda. Go on, Glen, tell him.’

‘What?’ She was not going to play his game, whatever it was.

‘She went to live in Scotland among the wild, hairy Jocks. Super job in Aberdeen. Oil industry. Loads-a-money. Lasted six weeks before the Mersey bug got working on her. Result? She was homesick big time. Right, Glen?’

‘If you say so.’ She was not pleased to be reminded.

‘There was rejoicing in the streets of Anfield when she returned,’ he said, winking at me. ‘Even though she is an Everton supporter, her neighbours welcomed her back. And she’s got a new boyfriend now, so things worked out pretty well in the end. Like a fairy tale it was. Tell him, Glen, how it is.’

The girl frowned, obstinate in her refusal to play along.

‘OK, I’ll say it for you. This city, Jake, is a magnet. Glenda knows it, but she won’t admit it. It draws its sons and daughters back home. More than any other city in the world.’

I smiled despite myself. ‘James, listen to yourself, will you?'

'What? What have I said? I'm just telling you how it is.'

'James, just bugger off, eh? And you can shove the poetic imagery, because it doesn't suit you. Besides, even if it were true, you're looking at one son of the city who is determined to buck the trend.’

‘Give me a break will you, Jake? All I want you to do is mind the store along with Glenda when the trial is on. You and her working in tandem. Is that too much to ask?'

Glenda rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll be in court, won’t I? I’ll be watching you strut your stuff.’

‘Me, too,’ I said.

It was as if Glenda and I had never spoken. He just rolled on: 'Everything you need is in the files. Glenda will show you.’

I sighed noisily, but he just grinned in his usual winning way. ‘Have faith, the pair of you. Have faith. Have I ever let you down?’

'Well...' I said, but was cut short.

‘Yes, all right, all right. But promise me you’ll see to the tax man, Jake.’

‘Woman,’ said Glenda, chipping in. ‘Tax woman. It was female, that voice on the phone.’

‘Man, woman, whatever,’ said James, shrugging. ‘Just promise me you’ll sort the tax out. That’s where the real pain is for me. That is the real threat to my wealth and happiness.’

I remember looking across at him, then at Glenda, and I remember sighing another big, heavy sigh. It was a sigh of resignation. I also remember the grin spreading across his face and lighting up his eyes. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I know about these things.’

That grin of his, I have to admit, was like the sun coming out in that gloomy little office of his. But all that optimism on parade then was before the judge had pronounced sentence.

* * *

James was staring at me. He was not grinning, and neither was I when I saw him led below to the cells. Against my better judgment, I’d trusted him. It was a pity the jury hadn’t.

The court emptied and I was just regretting that there was no way I could get word to him when, outside in the corridor, someone thrust a piece of paper in my hand before moving rapidly away in the throng. It was a scribbled note from James. All it said was: Keep the firm ticking over till I can get out, eh? Please. As a favour. Just do your best. There’s a parcel on my desk. Shove it in the post box outside the cleaners for me. No stamp needed. I’ll apply for a visitor’s pass as soon as I can. Come and see me.

That note was the classic gotcha: for me, for my conscience, and for my debt of honour that had begun to fester deep inside me. But there was no escape for me. I was already dreading to think what Angela would say when I telephoned her.

CHAPTER TWO

I looked about me in the press for signs of Glenda, but failed to see her. She had been in the public gallery, but had come late and was at the back, on the opposite side to me. When I did spot her again, she was on the pavement outside the court, standing in the winter sunshine and talking to a podgy, middle-aged man in a navy-blue Crombie overcoat. He looked pleased with himself when he took his leave, patting her shoulder and smiling into her face. I wondered at the time if it was her father, or some uncle, but there were no kisses.

I followed her, intending to offer her a lift back to the office, but within half a block she walked into the gloom of a multistorey car park. It was obvious she had her own transport, and in a way I wasn't sorry. I wasn't feeling up to polite conversation on the topic of my cousin's jail term.

I was still shocked by the verdict of that jury, for there were changes in the offing that I didn’t want. I stood on the pavement, looking about me. I baulked at the very idea of heading straight back to the office. Instead, I went to one of the posh bars near the law courts where I fretted over a glass of low-alcohol beer. I needed time to reflect on what had happened and how it would affect me. And all the while, I was mustering arguments against my remaining in Liverpool. Somehow, I had to find a means of escape.

For a start, I knew what James was hoping for would be impossible for me to deliver. Angela would never agree to move back to Liverpool, even on a temporary basis. Her life was in Salisbury now, and she loved it down there.

Second: the detective business held no appeal for me. I disliked the very idea of it.

Third: quite apart from my ignorance concerning the nuts and bolts of the business, there was the matter of temperament to consider. My cousin was altogether tougher, and more outward-going than I was. He always had been. I could see James as a private investigator, but never me.

I sat there, full of foreboding. I was being drawn into something I was not prepared for and which would complicate my life in several unpleasant ways. I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit right then. I wanted to walk out of that bar and drive home to Salisbury and never see Liverpool again, my feelings were that strong. But it was not as simple as that. It never is where James and I are concerned.

I cursed him silently because I was very much aware that there was a debt of honour outstanding. I could not ignore it; not when James was in trouble and needing help. Going to jail was bad enough for him, but seeing his business go under as a result was more than punitive, it was shattering. If I stood aside and did nothing to help keep it afloat till he got out, I would be kicking him when he was down. I couldn’t do that to him. I just couldn't. I knew I had to shape up for his sake. I simply had to.

To be fair to him, James never mentioned the matter that lay between us, the debt. Not ever. He is not that sort of man, but that made it even harder for me to turn my back on him.

The fact is that when I was fifteen, he fished me out of the Mersey after I had been chucked overboard from one of the ferries. A gang of youths had suddenly grabbed me, and the next thing I knew I was over the side. I banged my head on the fender on the way down and I was unconscious before I hit the water. It was James who dived in after me and kept me afloat till I was rescued. The Mersey is about a mile wide at that point, between Liverpool and Birkenhead, and it is deep, and fast flowing, and there was some risk to both of us from the twin screws at the rear of the ferry.

When I recovered consciousness, I was in the Royal Infirmary, and there was James, wrapped in a blanket, sitting by my bed and refusing to budge till he knew I was all right. You can never forget a thing like that.

We were fifteen, the pair of us, with him just six weeks older than I was. His diving in to rescue me, how’s that for bravery? I’ve wondered ever since whether I would have had the courage to dive to his rescue in that turbulent river if our roles had been reversed. I was a much better swimmer than he was then, but I cannot say with any certainty I would have done what he did, and it shames me. So, for me, my debt to him was doubly binding, no matter how he might shrug it off. For me now it was payback time. Even though I didn't want to remain in the city, I had to stand in for James. I knew I just had to. And I had to do so with good grace.

To an outsider there are strong similarities between the two of us. It often confuses a casual acquaintance. It is not surprising when you think that our fathers are brothers and our mothers are sisters. That makes James and me what some people might call double cousins. At the time of their joint wedding our parents were featured in the Liverpool Echo with several photographs and a brief, though inaccurate, account of how the two brothers had met the two sisters. That’s newspapers for you, getting the details wrong, but at least the photographs were of the right people, and only two of the names were misspelled. I still have the cuttings at home somewhere.

Like James, I am fair-haired in a dark blond sort of way. We are both clean shaven. I am in my mid-thirties, therefore so is he. Like him, I did a spell of body building at a gym in my youth, just to bulk up a bit, nothing excessive. Like James I continued a systematic keep fit regime all through my army career. I still do a bit at home with dumb-bells and a Bullworker Super X5, again to keep fit, because I don’t play a sport any more, though I do go jogging and swimming. Obsessive? N, I just don't want to go to seed like so many men once they leave the forces.

However, although we are similar in build and colouring, James has a keener edge to him. I am more reserved. I view life from the edges. That’s what Angela told me recently during one of our rows, rows that seemed to blow up only after I’d left the army. Since she said it, though, I keep wondering if she isn’t right about that side of my nature. Looking back sometimes, I wonder why I ever went into the army at all. When Angela was being really spiteful, she said it was because there was always someone there to tell me what to do. I admit to resenting that remark. I still do, but Angela was always sharp-tongued when vexed, and during that period she had seemed vexed a lot of the time. I realize now, looking back, that I was slow figuring out why.

In the army, with basic training out of the way, I moved to payroll systems, then on to other things concerning funds for managing the running of an efficient army. I was using computers, not guns. James, however, was in the Parachute Regiment and seeing active service all over the globe. He was a real soldier, the genuine article, and he knew things about endurance, ruthlessness, and aggression that I could not begin to imagine. So, he could cope with the business he had chosen for himself after demob; but I was an accountant, with no intention of changing to something different and altogether more precarious, and potentially more unpleasant.

Was I truly going to stay on in Liverpool? That was the big question I had to answer. I knew what my conscience was telling me, but I was still threshing about like some fish newly landed on the river bank. So, I fetched another drink from the bar and continued to reflect upon my situation.

Procrastination is the thief of time: I had a teacher who used to din that into me and the rest of the class. Mrs Swinerton was a disciplinarian; she would have been just fine in the Military Police. I looked about me, my gaze taking in the other procrastinators lolling about the place. They were city types mostly, drinking, chatting, or reading the financial pages, or just staring into space and wishing they did not have to go outside to smoke a cigarette. I wasn’t doing any of those things: I was busy devising ways of escape in my head, and feeling bad about it.

I longed to extricate myself from this mess of James’s without seeming too much of a heel while I was doing it, but my chances were not looking good. If I walked out on him, I'd be the biggest rat that had ever scurried off a sinking ship. I was stuck, and I knew it.

As I began to think about what James had asked me to do for him, I knew I could not tackle any of the heavy stuff. Debt collecting, for instance, was definitely out. I had heard him telling Glenda about one case he was dealing with, a serial debt-dodger and general malefactor, a real hard case. I wanted none of that.

I was also worried about being Glenda’s boss, Glenda the Magnificent, Glenda the One Hundred Per Cent Girl. She was used to James calling the shots, James knowing what he was doing. She would not, I was certain, take kindly to Jake the Unready sitting in the boss’s office, sucking his thumb.

The reason I was in Liverpool was that James, running his one-man detective agency, had parted company with his accountant more than eighteen months previous, being informed one day, by means of a terse letter, that his business was ‘really rather too small to be worth the continued attention of Macklin & Macklin, Accountants.’ They wished him well, but James was to be discarded forthwith.

Despite his intention of doing so, he did not find himself another accountant. He told me he’d let things slide. Weeks turned into months, and then a year, and it drifted onwards from there. Finally, Revenue and Customs began to badger him. This was not surprising, considering that he never replied to any of their polite inquiries. One day there was a Miss Crawford on the end of the line requiring him to make an appointment so that she could discuss his tax liabilities. She informed him he was part of a sample trawl of businesses failing to comply with the tax laws of the UK. It was a new HMRC initiative, James told me, one of far too many for his liking. Customs and Revenue, he said, were out to get him. And to me it looked as if they were.

When he wrote that first letter to me in Salisbury, he told me his number had come up in a sort of devil’s lottery. They were his words. They might be planning to make an example of him, he said, so he was counting on my being able to straighten things out. Please, he wrote, would I be good enough to join him at his Liverpool premises ‘toot-sweet’?

I was surprised he could still be flippant, because in his shoes I would have been shaking. The officers of Revenue and Customs can be very stern if they feel you are mucking them about. I had a gloomy feeling that James would soon experience their full displeasure.

What I quickly came to resent, though, was that I had no inkling of a pending court case. When I first arrived, Glenda was in the office alone. James was seeing a client on the way in to work, she said. He’d be in about eleven, or soon after. Meanwhile, she made me a cup of coffee and showed me the filing cabinet where I saw his so-called records.

I was dismayed. I told Glenda so, politely. I said that in the absence of some crucial documentation, I could see myself having to go cap in hand to the Menacing Miss Crawford, which was James’s name for her, and throw myself on her mercy. I was not optimistic.

‘Don’t blame me,’ said Glenda. ‘I’m always telling him about receipts, about bills. He never completes anything I put in front of him. He seems to think it will all take care of itself.’

Then James had walked in, all smiles and handshakes. He beamed at me and said: ‘You’ll sort it for me, Jake. I know you will. Now, who’s for a little drink to celebrate Jake’s arrival?’ That was typical James. I fell for his blather, as usual.

It was during my second day that Glenda raised the matter of his court appearance, fixed for the following morning: she had to cancel an appointment. That was when I realized James had held out on me.

'What is this about?'

‘It’s no big deal, Jake. Hardly seemed worth mentioning. Still, I’m sorry if you feel I’ve held out on you. But it’ll all be over by lunchtime. Then we can get down to business, sort out my taxes, eh?’

He was right about lunchtime. It was done and dusted bang on the hour, but he was headed for jail, not soup and a sandwich with me and Glenda at some hostelry.

James was not married, so there was no wife to run the business for him while he was absent. If he had a steady girlfriend, I had yet to hear about her. There was only me and Glenda to look after his affairs.

‘What a mess,’ I muttered, as I sat there in that hotel lounge. I was thinking about my own situation as much as his. I was fretting about what Angela would say when I told her what James had asked me to do for him.

'Better get it over with,' I murmured, patting my pockets for the mobile phone I usually carried. Then I remembered I had left it at home because Angela had dropped hers and shattered it. Fortunately, there was a telephone booth in the hotel lobby.

I dialled and redialled several times, but no one picked up. Finally, I left a message: ‘Something’s come up, darling. It’s about James. Spot of bad news. Speak to you tonight. Tell you about it then. Take care. Love you.’

* * *

There was one blessing awaiting me: my car was where I had left it. Despite the reputation of Liverpool as a lawless city, no one had interfered with it. Angela had our one decent car. She needed it to ferry the kids about. I did not like the idea of her coping with a breakdown in some lonely Wiltshire lane in the fading light of a winter’s afternoon, so I had taken the jalopy, the one going tatty at the edges. Maybe that was why it had not been touched.

I set off along the dock road, heading for my cousin’s office. It was a dismal journey, and as I drove I was thinking of poor James being bundled onto some prison bus with a lot of scabby-headed hard cases for company. He was going to hate that, for James was fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. He would not relish sitting next to some low life who had pissed his pants in the cells while waiting for prison transport.

On the previous evening I had asked him if he had really hit the pair of them, the Watts, mother and son. He stared at me with those cool grey eyes of his and said: ‘Of course I hit them.’

‘You hit the woman as well?’

‘Damned right I hit her! She was worse than her son. She had a cleaver. She’d already carved a chunk out of the sideboard with it. Wait till you see the size of her. You’ll see her in the witness box.’

‘But you broke her jaw.’

He had looked uncomfortable for a moment. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. But I had to knock her out. She’s a very dangerous woman. And Billy Watts is no fairy. I had my hands full with him. So, when his mother started in as well... And, listen, she broke her old man’s arm in a domestic fracas only last year. He left home in a hurry after that and hasn’t been seen since. Do you blame him?’

‘So you’re pleading guilty?’

‘No, I’m bloody not! It was self-defence.’

I should have known right then that he’d go down. Juries do not like a man striking a woman, even if she is twice his size and coming after him with a meat axe.

A self-defence plea hinges on what the courts define as reasonable force. Breaking a woman’s jaw was never going to be acceptable, especially when the woman in question appears in the witness box dressed in a reasonably tasteful floral pattern dress. It does not matter if in volume the dress could house six boy scouts on a camping expedition. So long as it softens the impression made by her powerful body mass, it will achieve the effect she wants. This woman was almost demure as she spoke in muted tones, eyes lowered throughout. If James had not already told me what she was like, she would have convinced me if I’d been on that jury.

CHAPTER THREE

When I saw for the first time where James had his base, I was shocked. To be frank, I could not see any client being impressed. His office comprised two rooms above a dry cleaner’s premises. It was located in a small, shabby parade of shops.

At his end of the block was a cindery, rubble-strewn lot where, it seemed to me, callers would be rash to park their cars. The shop on the left of the cleaner’s, as you looked towards it, was boarded up, and so was the one next to that, giving the entire frontage a dismal air. James, however, claimed most of his clients contacted him by telephone, so the premises did not matter all that much in a business like his. I wasn’t so sure, but he argued that the main thing for him was the low rent. That, and the two little crackers working in the dry cleaner’s shop. I had yet to see, but he rated them highly. On the subject of the girls and their looks Glenda, though, was inclined to be dismissive, sour even.

James shared a small lobby with the cleaners. On his side a narrow staircase ran via a glass door up to a dark landing where he had his office. Coming back after my liquid lunch that day, I found the office door ajar. Inside, I could hear someone clattering about. Something heavy was being lugged around. It was not your average office sound.

I hesitated, then pushed the door open a little further and peered inside. I saw a woman with her back to me. The hairdo and the shapely backside told me it was Glenda. She was bending over something on the floor.

‘Hello,’ I said, trying to sound casual as I walked in. ‘What’s going on?’

She straightened at once and turned to face me. I could see she was exasperated. ‘Oh, it’s you. I got fed up waiting.’ She was out of breath. When I did not say anything, she added: ‘I’m taking my typewriter with me. Will you give me a hand, please? Like a fool I put it down on the floor. I can’t think why I did that now. Anyway, I can’t pick it up again.’

It was an old, mechanical Hermes, long, long out of date, but a Rolls Royce among office machines in its day. It was a pale metallic green and it still looked well cared for. I could hardly believe it: a typewriter in this age of laptop computers and iPads.

‘Typewriter?’ I said.

She was on the defensive immediately. ‘Yes, a typewriter, and it’s mine. I bought it with my own money. I’m entitled to take it with me.’

‘I can’t believe this. You mean James didn’t buy...’

‘No, he didn’t.’ She sounded vexed. ‘He flatly refused to buy a computer. He has a bee in his bonnet about hackers and I couldn’t persuade him otherwise. And he wouldn’t buy a decent typewriter, either. He tried to fob me off with a second-hand electronic thing he got from a charity shop and it was a mess. It spent most of its time buzzing and spitting. So I brought my old typewriter from home. Actually, it was my mum's.’

I was puzzled. ‘So where are you taking your typewriter now?’

‘Home, where it belongs. I’m not leaving it here.’

‘Didn’t James pay you rent or anything for its use?’

She smiled a tight little smile. ‘Yes, when he remembered to, but...’

‘Well, then, I’ll pay you a proper fee, starting today.’ I smiled back at her, expansively I hoped. ‘Will that solve the problem? Or I can get you a computer. A low spec desktop and a printer should be cheap enough, and quite adequate.’ Actually, I was thinking of second hand with some software thrown in, but I did not want to sound too mean right at the outset of our relationship.

But she was shaking her head. ‘No. No thanks.’

‘Look, if you’re worried about your wages, I’ll see you get paid every week, on the dot, till James gets back. That’s a promise.’ I was speaking with more confidence than I felt and I think she picked up on that, because she stared at me, hard.

She sighed in the end, and then spoke as if to a child of ten: ‘You don’t understand. I mean you can’t be expected to. I’m leaving. I’ve got another job. With Mr. Rabbinowitz. I start first thing tomorrow.’

‘That man I saw you talking to outside the court? That was him, then? Rabbinowitz?’

‘I didn’t know you’d seen me.’

‘I thought maybe it was your uncle.'

She shook her head slowly from side to side. 'No, it was not my uncle, not my father, not my second cousin twice removed...'

'All right,' I cut in. 'You've made your point. But listen, Glenda, you can’t just walk out like this, surely?’

She looked at me and snorted softly, the way women do when they’re going to be nasty. ‘I’m leaving. I’ve already left. I took my cards out of the file. I’m not asking for any holiday pay. I’m not even asking you to make up this week’s wages. I just want you to give me a hand with this damned typewriter.’

I stared at her and she stared right back. I had no idea what to say to keep her there. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Shall we move?’

There was nothing else to do, so I picked up the typewriter. It was heavy all right, and awkward to handle, but I got it downstairs and out to the edge of the pavement while Glenda ran ahead to her little blue Fiesta. She opened the front passenger door. ‘Put it on the seat, please, would you?’

I felt that everything was slipping away from me before I’d even got going. I had to try again. ‘Won’t you... can’t you... reconsider?’ I said, trying my best to look appealing. ‘Please. I do need your help to sort things out. And James said you were...’

‘I know what he said about me. I was there, remember? But I have to think of myself. My feller says this was a crummy job anyway. No prospects or anything.’

‘What about a couple of days, then? Just till the end of the week. Double time.’

She was shaking her head even before I’d finished speaking. ‘I’ve been thinking of leaving for a while. Mr. Rabbinowitz’s agency is bigger and more classy. I used to work for him a couple of years ago. He’s gone up in the world since then. Got a nice office in the middle of town. Carpets on the floor. A water cooler. And air conditioning. Very plush. Anyway, my feller says I’d be a fool to hang on here, now that this has happened. He says the business will fold because Mr. Denver’s finished as a detective now he’s got form. Jobs are hard to come by, so when Mr. Rabbinowitz offered me a position as his secretary, I jumped at it. You see...’ She gave up on the explanation and shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

‘Well, could you just give me an hour or so of your time? To show me the ropes. I don’t know where anything is.’

‘I’ve left you a list. And some notes. I typed them up last night, just in case. They’re in the top drawer of the desk, on the right.’

‘Just in case? You thought he’d get banged up?’

‘Well, my feller, he’s a bobby, he said he’d get done. I mean, he beat up a woman. Broke her jaw. It was on the cards, wasn’t it? And I never thought Mr. Denver was like that.’

‘He isn’t,’ I protested. ‘There were extenuating circumstances.’

She looked at me, but said nothing; then she opened the car door and got in behind the wheel. She started the engine and looked at me again, waiting for me to take my hand off the door so she could close it.

‘Glenda,’ I said, feeling awkward using her name all the time like that when I hardly knew her, ‘I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m floundering here. I haven’t a clue, but I promised James I’d...’

She revved the engine, expecting me to take the hint. Then she relented, lowered the revs and said, ‘Just deal with his tax situation. That will be tough enough. Leave the rest. You can’t do the impossible. You’ve seen his so-called records. I could never get him to obtain proper receipts for anything. He hated paperwork, full-stop. Most of the stuff he just lost. In the end I gave up nagging him.'

‘But what about the clients?’

Her hand was on the gear lever. ‘They’re no longer my concern. I’ve typed my last letter, posted my last parcel ten minutes ago. Now I’ve quit. Didn’t you hear me telling you? Hans off the door, please.’

‘Parcel? Was that the one he left on his desk?’

‘Yes. Are you checking up on me?’

‘No. James asked me to make sure it was mailed, that’s all.’

‘Well, you needn’t worry. I’ve done it for you. My last little task for my boss. You can tell him when you visit. I assume you will. And don’t worry about it. It was a routine thing. It’s always the same client. The name’s Dundas. You’ll probably have another one to deal with in a month or so, if you stay that long. Just keep it for a few days and then mail it back unopened. There’s always a return address indicated on the back. The address varies sometimes, so check it. Once it was somewhere in Wales with one of those names you can’t pronounce. Another time it was Glasgow. But mostly it’s to some address in Westfield. That’s out Ainsdale way, somewhere along the coast. Not as far as Southport, more this side, towards Formby. Anyway, there are sticky labels and stamps in the desk for you to use. James normally sees to that, but sometimes he asked me to handle it when he was busy. It's odd, I know, but that’s one task he is methodical about. The process takes all of five minutes, so no big deal. But it’s a fee earned, so James says, and it’s easy money. And he always gets a cash payment.’

‘What’s that all about?’

‘It’s not drugs, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Strange, though.’

‘James says it’s a cheap and effective way of keeping something safe from prying eyes. But he wouldn’t say more than that when I quizzed him.’

‘How do you know it isn’t drugs?’

‘Because Mr. Denver opened it once, to be on the safe side. There was a book of some sort, like a note book. Red leather. Good quality. Tied up tight with a green silk ribbon, and fixed with a wax seal. There was an emblem on the wax, like a design stamped into it.’

‘Could be a signet ring,’ I mused.

‘Yes, could be. And there was a small video cassette. Home movie maybe. Everything sealed in a clear plastic wrapper. Tough and very secure.’

‘James must have had some explaining to do.’

‘He sorted it out on the phone. I heard him. He told me later that he didn’t need to open the parcel again. He was satisfied it was the same contents because he weighed it every time.’

‘Weighed it?'

'Yes.' There was the ghost of a smile on her lips.

'Smart move, then, eh?’

‘Probably.'

"Hmm.' I was puzzled.

'Oh, James is clued up all right. Except when it comes to keeping records and receipts. They’re just boring.’ Her smile was still a mere stretching of the lips, no real humour there.

‘What about his other clients? Can’t you give me some tips?’

She sighed. ‘I’ve already told you. They’re not my concern any more. And if you want a tip, they’re not your concern, either. Don’t get involved with something you know nothing about. Some of James’s business was unorthodox, shall we say?’

‘Unorthodox? Like the parcel?’

‘Yes.’

‘He told me his work