Finder

Alex Woolf

Description

Introducing Waldo Mars - former model, failed inventor, and the best finder east of Alpha Centauri, or at least Uxbridge. Waldo is impeded, rebuked and generally resented at every turn by his put-upon assistant, Rose Duvalle. And if he isn't fighting with Rose, he is having to indulge the delusions of his bizarre clientele. There's Reg, for example, who's mislaid his Tuesday. And Tom, who's mislaid himself. And Gerald, who's lost a little patch of his study - just a small, cube-shaped area, right in the middle... Where do these people come from, and what Waldo wouldn't give for a straightforward case from time to time! An amusing, intriguing and surreal set of mystery stories about a finder who frequently feels a little lost.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 27 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849898140
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

THE FINDER







By
Alex Woolf




Publisher Information

The Finder
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © 2011 Alex Woolf

The right of Alex Woolf to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



The Finder

Waldo Mars flicked the indicator stalk and ushered his blue Peugeot 106 into the Sainsbury’s car park. The Target’s red Volvo V50 was pulling into one of the parking bays near the entrance, and Waldo found a space a discreet distance away. As he stepped into the warm and breezy afternoon, Waldo concocted a cover story: I’m shopping for my pregnant wife and four hungry kids, he decided. She has cravings for pickled gherkins, jellied eels, ice cream; the children will want … He began to invent favourite snacks for each kid, then found they needed names and ages to complete the picture. The Target had obtained his trolley from the trolley-park, and was now wheeling it through the automatic doors.
Samantha, 10, likes fish fingers; Joshua, 8, likes scrambled egg; Sebastian, 5…
Waldo yanked out a trolley for himself. Sturgeon, 3, likes… What do 3 year olds like? And what the hell were you thinking of, naming your child Sturgeon? The trolley, like Rose Duvalle, Waldo’s assistant, had a leftward tendency, and needed correcting now and then. With some difficulty, he rolled it through the swishing doors. The Target was in amongst the fruit and veg. He was tall and broad-shouldered; sand-coloured, except for his blue eyes. Waldo could see instantly why his wife didn’t trust him. The way he was eyeing those melons and feeling up those avocados with his large, hairy hands hardly spoke of a man fulfilled by his marital lot. In dairy, the Target stocked up with natural low-fat yoghurt and various flavours of milkshake. Waldo reckoned that Sturgeon might like the colourful little tubs of fruity yoghurt, and grabbed a few packs. He found some dairylea cheese spread for Sebastian, and some stilton for Samantha.
The Target continued onto meat and poultry, Waldo slaloming along behind in cool pursuit. Organic, free-range chicken. Well, the man had a conscience at least. Or was this part of an adopted guise to win the approval of his animal-rights-supporting mistress? Waldo extracted a black book from his rear pocket and scribbled a note. The Target’s trolley began filling up: wild rocket, wholegrain bread, brown rice and fresh salmon jostled in uncomfortable proximity to frozen chips, turkey burgers, sausages and spaghetti hoops. The perfect distillation of a double life in one trolley: shopping for his wife and kids as well as his health-fanatic girlfriend.
After paying for his purchases, the Target returned to the red Volvo and began unloading his groceries into its capacious rear. Waldo dawdled near the trolley bay, not wishing to be spotted. He then darted across the car park, abandoning his own trolley, so as not to risk losing his quarry. Pregnant wife and starving kids would survive, he assured himself, as he belted up and engaged reverse gear. Imaginary families always did.

Rose Duvalle dabbed some Angel Bright bathroom cleaner onto a cloth and went to work on the sink. Small circles, round and round, underneath the mixer tap, once around the plughole, up to the rim and down again. She hummed as she worked, not certain of the song, or even the tune, but the humming calmed her fizzing, feverish head in the same way that the act of cleaning always did. It was not usual practice for guests staying at a four-star London hotel like the Blue Parrot to clean their rooms, especially just after the maid had been, but then Rose was no ordinary guest. She had been living at the Blue Parrot for nearly four years, and it had become home to her. And the maids, while mostly very sweet, were, to put it bluntly, not terribly good at cleaning. Of course Rose would never complain. It was easier to put it right herself. Complaining would do no good at all. They would only send one of the maids along again. Frankly, if those girls couldn’t see the dirt the first time around, there was no earthly reason why they should see it the second. And why risk her ‘most favoured guest’ status among the staff. She was so popular with everyone from the assistant receptionist right up to the manager. It was far easier when all was said and done to do the cleaning herself.

When she had finished the bathroom, Rose started on her bedroom, and when that shone to her satisfaction, she moved on to the adjoining room, an office, and dusted, sprayed, polished and buffed in there. Her humming was no longer a recognizable tune; just a rhythmic noise made through her nose and closed lips, that slid up or down in pitch or volume depending on the vigour of her motions. Her face, pink at the best of times, now glowed with moisture, and thick strands of her mousy brown hair clung damply to her ear and cheek. When Rose had finished in the office, she took her little box of creams, sprays and cloths into yet another adjoining room, this time the bedroom of her boss, Waldo Mars. Like everyone else, Waldo was not aware of her secret activity, but then he was the sort of man who wouldn’t notice a well-polished side table if it leapt up and bit him on the behind. So why did Rose bother? Why did medieval sculptors carve angel’s faces on the loftiest cathedral parapets and gables far beyond the scope of any human observer. She did it because it needed doing. It mattered not that no one with eyes to notice such things would ever bear witness to her handiwork.
When Rose had finished cleaning, she spent another energetic half hour under the shower, soaping and rinsing her forty-five-year-old body at least a dozen times. Her concern was to track down and remove every trace of dirt from every pore, every crevice. And when soap and flannel had done as much as they could, she used pumice for a more abrasive touch. Her finger and toenails were kept ruthlessly clipped so no filth could find sanctuary beneath them. Specially formulated shampoo, with the antibacterial power of floor cleaner, kept her hair germ-free, if a trifle prone to shed itself.

After a long and detailed study of the moodscape on North London streets, Waldo Mars had selected the Peugeot 106 as the car least likely to arouse anger, irritation, admiration, suspicion, or in fact any kind of reaction at all. It possessed a kind of archetypal normality once associated with the man on the Clapham omnibus; the driver of a Peugeot 106 was as solid and reliable citizen as one could ever hope or expect to find. This was a useful attribute for a car habitually in pursuit of others, and consequently required to engage in frequent and suspicious changes of speed and direction.
Waldo followed the Target from Winchmore Hill to North Enfield. When possible, he kept a car or two between them to avoid being seen. He had followed many a target in this fashion, driving more often than not with his neck craned out of the window, and suffering permanent stiffness as a result.
The Volvo parked on a sandy drive off a narrow residential street. Waldo continued onwards fifty yards or so, then pulled over. His cover story? Visiting his aged aunt Bertha; too fragile these days to get out much, so he’s come laden with, laden with - Waldo cast around the Peugeot’s filthy interior for anything resembling a gift - laden with stories of her grand nephews and nieces, Sam, Joshua, Sebby and little Sturgeon.
The Target, freighted with bags of shopping, was letting himself into a yellow-fronted terraced house. He had his own key, Waldo noted: so the affair was at a fairly established stage. Treading carefully on the gravelled front garden, he peered through the net curtains, hoping to catch them in a clinch. Instead, he saw … children! Three or four of them were gathered around the Target, jumping on him in a frenzied greeting. He tossed a small one in the air, and hugged and kissed each of them in turn. There was no sign of an adult female presence. Waldo continued his vigil as the man vanished into the kitchen, then reappeared five minutes later with a set of plates steaming with breadcrumbed and sauce-drenched food. The children stepped up to the table and began hungrily devouring the food. Waldo did not know what to make of all this. He leaned back to scratch his calf, and in doing so caused gravel to pop audibly beneath his heel. The family group froze and turned window-wards in unison. The Target strode to the front door.
‘Can I help you?’ His eyebrows arched questioningly. Limpid blue eyes looked out from the handsome crag of a face.
‘Visiting my aged aunt,’ mumbled Waldo. ‘Come laden with stories of Sam and Joshua and Sebby and, and the other one … anyway, can’t seem to remember where she lives.’
‘Oh. Have you a number for her? You’re welcome to use the phone.’ The Target seemed … very nice.
‘Fraid not. Wife’s pregnant, you see. Youngest son is very upset with his name. So it’s all a bit hectic at home. Anyway, thanks - thanks for your help. Be going now.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the Target said to Waldo’s retreating figure. ‘I hope you find your aunt.’