Interleaved Lives

Roderick Hart

Description

Douglas Hunter works as a police detective till he attempts to locate his missing wife by abusing privileged access to police databases. Forced to resign, he takes on clients. His first, Alison Ogilvie, has deep suspicions of her husband, which prove to be correct when he turns up dead with a plastic bag over his head.The two are pursued by Hunter's ex-boss, DS Maureen MacNeil, who didn't like him before and likes him even less now that he has gone private. In their attempts to discover what has happened to their respective partners, and to defend themselves from the abrasive DS MacNeil, they form an unlikely but effective partnership.

Sujets

• Edimburgo
• Edinburgh
• Édimbourg

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 09 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800467637
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Roderick Hart

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Contents
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1
When I opened the door a cold blast from the world outside froze the moisture on my face and I still hadn’t found my shoes.
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘That would be me.’
‘Just out of the shower, I take it.’
This woman was very observant.
‘Alison Ogilvie.’
She was neatly turned out with the slight whiff of class I had learned to detect but was never completely at ease with. A money thing, really. She had it and it showed in her clothes. Nothing ostentatious but quality, nonetheless.
Running fingers through my hair, I led her upstairs to the flat. If first impressions matter as much as they say I already had a problem. Only one chair had nothing on it, no books or papers. She brushed some dog hairs off it and sat down. Then she opened her tooled leather messenger bag, a high-end piece attractive to a thief in its own right regardless of the contents.
‘I have your card.’
She’d found it in the supermarket with cards from everyone else looking for business: electricians, plumbers, gardeners (no job too small) and a dog-grooming outfit happy to make bold claims.
‘You look surprised.’
I was. I’d only handed them in the day before to Asda, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose, where Alison Ogilvie had found it. Alison was the upmarket type. When she bought a duck she liked to know its little webbed feet had known water before its final journey to the shelf.
She looked round the room, perching on the edge of her chair as if sinking into it would risk contamination. Which was always possible since I no longer tidied up as well as I used to before my wife disappeared. I hadn’t been prepared for such a quick response. I hadn’t been prepared for any response at all, but there she was, a stranger sitting in my living room, a potential client.
‘How can I help?’
‘My husband’s cheating on me.’
I was sorry to hear that but not inspired by the prospect of checking it out.
‘He spends too much time away from home, much more than he needs to, and things have cooled considerably despite an outward show of affection. Acting isn’t his strong point. His heart isn’t in it anymore. Hasn’t been for some time.’
Alan Ogilvie was chief financial officer for an international drinks company. He’d worked his way up, in a subsidiary at first, but was now established at head office. Well and good, but as she explained all this my visitor was strangely calm.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Ogilvie, you don’t seem too upset.’
She wasn’t, not any longer. But I had to understand they had been partners in more ways than one. In the early years she’d supported him while he completed his qualifications. And that wasn’t all. As he grappled his way up the greasy pole, she’d hosted social gatherings which were terminally tedious to her but vital to his career. Or so he had said at the time.
‘I take it there’s money involved.’
‘Isn’t there always? Over the years I’ve invested a lot in that man, in us.’
‘You’re a professional person yourself?’
‘A chartered accountant.’
I heard these words with a sinking feeling. Further meetings with this woman, if there were any, might well involve scrutiny of her husband’s accounts, both declared and concealed, and mind-numbing hours poring over spreadsheets. If he was salting money away to fund his encounters with other women it would be possible to prove it. Perhaps he was paying for a love nest somewhere or maybe they slummed it in cheap hotels. Either way, unless he paid cash, there would be a trail. But I had nothing to worry about. Alison Ogilvie was better equipped to investigate such things than I was. She had something else in mind.
‘Your shoes are under the table.’
Did I detect the hint of a smile? I thought I did, but fished them out anyway, put them on and felt better for it.
‘You don’t wear slip-ons, I see.’
According to an article in Cosmopolitan, men who wore slip-ons were less trustworthy than those who used laces. News to me, but many things were.
‘Mrs Ogilvie, if you already know your husband’s cheating you don’t need me to prove it.’
‘I want details, Mr Hunter, chapter and verse. I don’t need to know how young the new model is, just how much he’s spending on her. How much of our money?’
I got the point. She no longer cared about him or his love-life but she had no intention of paying for it. I offered her tea or coffee, both of which she declined. There were things she wanted to know. Like my track-record in bringing cases to a successful conclusion.
‘I have no track-record, Mrs Ogilvie, I only posted the cards yesterday. You would be my first case.’
‘So you have no experience.’ I could tell from her tone she was disappointed, but she was not above turning it to her advantage. ‘I assume this will be reflected in your fee.’
‘Number-crunching only takes us so far in this life, Mrs Ogilvie, don’t you think?’ Not the best remark I could have made to an accountant, but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘Paying less would be small consolation if I failed to deliver.’
Fine as far as it went, but the lady countered without missing a beat.
‘The same could be said of paying more.’
Another angle this woman had covered: better to level with her from the outset.
‘I should probably put my cards on the table.’
She smiled again, and this time there was no doubt about it.
‘Why not? You seem to have put them everywhere else.’
Until recently I’d been a detective with the police. I knew the ropes. Yet when I told her that, she would want to know why I’d gone out on my own. Had I left under a cloud or was it an amicable parting of the ways? But there was no way I was going to explain that last one to someone I’d just met.
‘I was a detective for five years.’
Just months ago I’d been dealing with a drunken row between friends over a game of dominos. Take away the alcohol and no one would have died, but one of them did – in hospital of wounds to the head. His death had been as pointless as his life.
‘How depressing. That sort of thing must get to you over time, wear you down.’
‘It does.’
‘And that’s why you left.’
‘Not really. My reasons were more personal.’
She looked at me inquiringly, hoping for more, but for now that was all she was going to get; though given the parlous state of affairs with her husband I didn’t expect her to take anything on trust.
‘You can always check my credentials.’
She gave me a quizzical look. Did I think she was born yesterday?
‘I intend to.’
Though her hair was impeccable, she patted it down anyway, as if a draught had wafted through the window from the convent across the road and ruffled a strand or two. Some people have black hair, of course, but I wondered about hers. There was just a hint of metal in the way the light reflected from it, probably down to her shampoo or conditioner. Or dye. Could it be that my unexpected guest dyed her hair?
She opened her bag and removed a folder from one of its compartments. The criminal might know where you live but the bureaucrat has you filed, potentially much more damaging. The lady was getting down to business.
‘All you need to know by way of background, I think. The thing is, Mr Hunter, time is of the essence. He can move money at the click of a mouse. I need to nail him now before he realises I’m onto him.’
I started leafing through the documents. A mistake. Apparently, its contents were homework, reading for later consumption. The paperwork could wait.
‘He tells me he has to be in Dublin this weekend. He’s given me an address and a phone number, a serviced apartment, city centre.’
‘Dublin?’
‘Imbibe is incorporated in Ireland. Saves a fortune on corporation tax. They run a small office there. A token gesture, really. Anyway,’ she said, tired of telling me things I would find out for myself in the file, ‘I want you to check if he actually goes there.’
‘You want me to go to Dublin.’
‘I’ll cover your expenses – provided you have the appropriate receipts and don’t overstep the mark.’ I took this to mean flying cattle class and overnighting in a cheap hotel. ‘Assuming you take this on and we agree a fee, how much would you propose to charge for a job like this? Have you a rate card?’
The truth was I had yet to figure it out.
‘Forty pounds an hour?’
She look