It Never Goes Away Read online

  Brighton’s No.1 Private Detective

  You Can’t Make Old Friends

  Choose Your Parents Wisely

  It Never Goes Away

  Other books by Tom Trott

  The Benevolent Dictator

  Copyright © 2019 Thomas J Trott

  Cover design & illustration by Thomas Walker

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781793987327

  THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

  Names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any incidents, companies, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  for my wife, who makes me a better person every day

  1

  Death of a Private Detective

  Justine Swan was a pink marshmallow giant. Large and puffy, she had curly, short red hair, and three chins. The blouse under her coat was untucked, the top buttons undone, and the collars curled as though she had removed a tie that was strangling her. She had the look of someone who had come home from a long day’s work, freed herself from the clothes that shackled her, and crashed down into a comfy chair, only to find herself out again. Perched on the edge of the client chair, she leant forward toward the desk. Toward me.

  ‘I was driving past and I saw there was a light on, and I just kind of thought “why not?” you know? What harm can it do?’ Her accent was North American.

  ‘You were lucky,’ I told her.

  ‘So...’ she twiddled her thumbs, ‘what happens? What do I do?’

  ‘I take it you’ve never employed a detective agency before?’ I gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘No.’ She smiled back, slowly becoming more comfortable.

  ‘Why don’t you start by telling me what it is that made you come here tonight?’

  ‘It’s to do with my wife.’

  I nodded. It always is. ‘What about her?’

  She picked up the gold pen from my desk, a Montblanc, and started fiddling with it, holding it between her hands by the tip of each end. The she looked down, noticing it as though someone else had put it there and quickly laid it back in its place.

  ‘I... she... there’s this man,’ she stammered, struggling with where to start. ‘She gets phone calls. I saw her once, with him, she didn’t know that. That’s why we argued, that’s why I went out for a drive. He calls her. She’s terrified. And she won’t tell me why. I just... I’m worried about her.’

  She pronounced ‘about’ as ‘aboat’. Canadian.

  ‘How often does she get these phone calls?’

  ‘It’s not a regular thing, it’s just that... that’s when she started being so scared. She’ll barely leave the house. Getting her to work is hard enough.’

  ‘When did this start?’

  ‘I don’t know. The first time I remember must have been around a month ago.’

  ‘Have you overheard anything?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Not really?’ I teased.

  ‘No. Whispers, you know.’

  I nodded. ‘Ok. When did you see them together?’

  She looked confused for a second.

  ‘You said you saw her with him,’ I gently reminded her.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. One day, she was so anxious, she was home ill. I was suspicious. I drove away but I waited at the end of the road. I saw him drive up and park outside.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was... um...’ she winced, ‘...a black chap. Bald, I think. He drove a white Audi. I wrote down the number plate.’

  She passed me a slip of paper. That was one useful thing, assuming she had written it correctly. I picked up the gold pen and wrote down the brief description she had offered.

  ‘I think that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘It’ll do for a start,’ I reassured her.

  She scratched her forehead. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to ask you a few insulting questions.’

  ‘Ok.’ She looked nervous.

  I waited a beat, letting her settle. ‘Do you think your wife is having an affair?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not, she doesn’t sleep with men.’

  ‘Not even a one-night stand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. She’s never slept with a man.’

  ‘Ok.’ I scribbled a note just to make it clear I believed her. ‘Does she take drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has she ever taken drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘I smoked weed in college,’ she offered by way of an explanation, ‘she doesn’t even take paracetamol.’

  ‘Ok.’ I noted that too. ‘Does she gamble?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Not even an office sweepstake? The Grand National?’

  ‘She doesn’t like horse racing because of the fact they kill the horses if they break an ankle, you know.’

  ‘But an office sweepstake? On the world cup, just a couple of quid between friends, half of it goes to charity.’

  ‘Maybe if it was an animal charity. But she doesn’t see the fun in losing money.’

  Through the door behind her, Charlie entered silently and leant on the bookcase, his curly blond locks flopping over his youthful face, his flashy grin as smug as ever.

  ‘Does she ever have unexplained amounts of money?’ I pressed on.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A lot of cash suddenly, buying lots of expensive things, living above her means?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘What does she do for a living?’

  ‘She’s an academic, at the university. She’s really a very timid person. Almost autistic. That’s why I don’t understand how she can have got herself into trouble like this.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry,’ I reassured her, ‘we’ll figure it out.’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘Our basic rate for this type of investigation is three hundred and ninety pounds a day plus expenses. Unforeseen expenses that is, not petrol or food.’

  ‘Right, I see, that’s quite expensive.’

  ‘We might not be cheap,’ Charlie announced, ‘but we are the best.’ Mrs Swan almost jumped out of her chair.

  ‘This is Charlie,’ I explained, ‘one of our operatives.’

  Mrs Swan nodded uncertainly, and turned back to me. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Based on the number plate you’ve given us we should be able to get some basic details on the person. Then, if you want, we can decide where to go from there.’

  ‘Ok, that sounds good. Thank you.’

  I pressed the intercom button. ‘Thalia, could you draw up one of our standard contracts for Mrs Swan.’ Then I stood up and began walking her to the door. Charlie moved from the bookcase to let us pass. ‘Thalia will take your retainer and guide you through the necessary paperwork.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grabarz.’ She shook my hand.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  I shut the door behind her. When I turned round Charlie was perched nonchalantly on the edge of my desk, helping himself to my bowl of pistachios, picking all the shells off and making a pile. Charlie was well-educated and badly-raised; spoilt by his daddy. Classically handsome, he had his uses to me, and could follow instructions.

  ‘What’s up?’ he drawled.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘How come you and Thalia are up here at midnight? How come you dragged me off a job to come up here too? What’s up?’

  ‘Do you remember the Penrith case?’ I asked as I wandered casually back to my desk.

  ‘Of course. Simon Penrith, wife AWOL, found her holed up in the H
otel du Vin.’

  ‘She went back to him, who would have thought it?’ I sat down in my chair, looking up at him perched above me, half facing away.

  He shrugged. ‘He’s a rich man, she’s a weak woman.’

  I reached for a handful of pistachios myself. ‘Anything about it you want to tell me that you left out of your report?’

  He avoided lying by giving a dismissive snort as he filled his mouth with a handful of nuts.

  ‘You didn’t tell her that if she slept with you you’d give her twenty-four hours?’

  He choked on the nuts, spitting them out onto the floor. ‘No!’

  ‘You’re sure? Before you slept with her you didn’t enter into any kind of verbal contract?’

  ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘So you did sleep with her?’

  This time he choked on his tongue, standing up and turning to face me properly.

  ‘You did sleep with her.’

  He still didn’t talk.

  ‘Let me show you three pieces of paper.’ I pulled them from my desk as I spoke. ‘The first is page four of our copy of the employee contract you signed with us, which is the one that includes the phrase “Improper relationships with clients or persons of interest relating to any Grabarz Investigations case will not be tolerated and will result in disciplinary action”. The second is our copy of the client contract that Simon Penrith signed with us. The third is the letter we received today from Mr Penrith claiming that you engaged in sexual activity with Mrs Jodie Penrith, a person of interest named in his client contract, and stating that he will go to the press if I don’t fire you before the end of the day. Although I think he’ll give me until the morning.’

  His eyes darted from the first piece of paper to the next, then the next, then to me. It was a second before the smugness returned to his face. ‘You’re not going to give in? He’s got no proof.’

  ‘Apparently there is a fourth piece of paper, in which Mrs Penrith describes the encounter between the two of you.’

  He scoffed, spraying spit into the air. ‘I didn’t pressure her, she came onto me.’

  ‘You’re fired.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice. It’s you or me, I choose me.’

  ‘Like you’ve never fucked a client’s wife?’

  ‘If I had I would have been risking my own reputation, no one else’s.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll take the heat.’

  ‘You don’t get a choice: it’s my name on the door, on the deeds, on the sign down in the lobby. I’ve spent two years building this agency. You signed the contract, you broke the contract. You’re fired. Thalia posted a letter informing Mr Penrith of the fact five hours ago. Your career as a private detective is over, dead.’

  ‘You didn’t even wait to find out if I did it.’

  ‘Grab your things and get out.’

  He stormed toward the door, opened it, then stopped and turned. ‘You’re wrong, you know. One day you’re going to come to me for a job, and when you do—’

  ‘Please, Charlie,’ I interrupted, ‘let’s not lose our dignity by turning this into a cliché.’

  He slammed the door.

  The room returned to silence, broken only by the soft rumble of traffic. I looked across the expanse of carpet to the door; just my private office was larger than both rooms I used to have above the Lanes. Grabarz Investigations occupied one quarter of the first floor of a two-storey green box on an industrial estate. It didn’t have the same charm, but it was far more professional, and had free parking.

  I put my feet up on the desk and looked over my shoulder at the lights streaming up and down the bypass. We were at the outer most limit of Brighton & Hove, the bypass slip road right below my window. Technically the city extends over some of the rolling hills beyond the tarmac gorge, but in every way that matters the city stops here.

  The door opened softly as Thalia entered.

  ‘No more business to attend to?’ I asked as I turned.

  She was wearing another of her figure-hugging black dresses and carrying slips of paper. ‘There’s a message from an author, wants to arrange a meeting with you.’

  ‘Author? What kind of meeting?’

  ‘Research, I imagine.’

  ‘What’s he written?’

  ‘Nothing I could find. I think he said he was self-publishing.’

  ‘Oh. I thought he was a real author for a second.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re too busy.’

  I took down my feet and got up to leave, her fingers were already on the light switch.

  ‘You’ve still got time to meet Clarence if you hurry,’

  ‘No,’ I looked at my watch: 12:24 a.m., ‘his message said midnight, I’ll have to text him and apologise. Did you find out where Piddingworth Plantation was?’

  She flicked off the switch as I reached the door. ‘Yeah, just over there.’ She pointed past the silhouette of my desk, out the window, over the bypass, to the rolling hills of the Downs.

  ✽✽✽

  I waved goodnight to Thalia as she climbed into her Mini and I climbed into my Jaguar. As of the last twenty-eight minutes, it was now a cold January 2nd, and over the last four hours snow had arrived just a week too late for Christmas. The wheels of my over-powered car span on the frosty tarmac as I exited the industrial estate, reached the bridge over the bypass, and joined the narrow country road that weaves its way north, up to Ditchling Beacon, and then down into the flat expanse of farms and villages beyond the Downs.

  Piddingworth Plantation was about halfway to the beacon, barely five minutes’ drive from the office. I passed no one, just tarmac, trees, and stone walls. Out of the darkness the lonely bus stop appeared, just a single post with a timetable attached, and my lights reflected off the rear of Clarence’s car.

  I pulled into the dirt lay-by, stopping an inch from his bumper. I could see his Mercedes was empty. I waited in my warm car, the heated seat was just starting to kick in. Across the road I could see the wooden gate that lead to the plantation; on my side, through the passenger window, was a steel gate into a farmer’s field, a stile over the wire fence, and a public footpath sign. Clarence was nowhere to be seen. I wrapped my scarf tightly and buttoned up my coat before I climbed out into the chill air.

  I crossed the road. Beyond the gate to the plantation the fresh blanket of snow was undisturbed by footprints. Beyond the blanket, dark trees creaked in the wind. There was no one there. I crossed back to the other side. A perfect set of footprints led from the Mercedes, round the back of the car (where I had parked over them), and across the mud to the stile.

  Beyond the stile a public footpath skirted the edge of a farmer’s field for further than I could see in the darkness, despite the glow of snow under moonlight. The footprints disappeared into a blur of white. The wind whooshed through my hair and round my ears. Clarence was still nowhere to be seen.

  I took my heavy 3-cell Maglite from the boot of my car, tested it, and then began to follow the trail, leaving the torch off for now. The first step down from the stile landed my Italian leather shoes in two inches of mud. The bottom inch of my charcoal suit trousers were dipped in it too. If this was all a prank I was going to invoice Clarence.

  The footpath ran underneath power lines, strung between wooden pylons with yellow signs saying “DANGER OF DEATH”. Over the wind I could hear the hum of each pylon as I passed underneath. To my left was the barbed wire enclosing the field. I knelt down to examine tufts of dirty white wool caught on the barbs, fluttering in the breeze. This field was used. I got up and kept moving. The footprints continued relentlessly. I started moving more quickly, wondering why I was going through this effort for a professional rival.

  Clarence Alderney used to be the private detective the rich went to, until I got some good publicity and started wearing suits. We were in direct competition like never before, but I liked to believe we were still on good terms. He was a different type of detective, for
a different type of case. The type where no one got hurt. Despite enough reasons not to, I trusted him. He had sent the message by courier. It was simple: “Meet me at Piddingworth Plantation at midnight tonight.” And yet his footprints were leading the opposite way.

  I reached the end of the field, where a kissing gate was creaking in the wind. The field had sloped down toward a valley; now halfway down it, I could no longer see the road or the cars. Two hundred metres to my right, connecting with this first field I could see a large barn half-submerged behind the slope. But the footprints didn’t lead in that direction. Instead, I could see them ahead, beyond the gate, disappearing once again into the white blur.

  I sidled through the gate into the next field, crunching onto neat rows of tilled earth, hidden by the carpet of snow. It was more difficult to track Clarence’s footsteps on this terrain, but I was just able to follow them across the field, then across wild grass, to a small copse of trees, and finally down to the bottom of the valley, where I arrived onto a single-track road. So far, I must have walked almost half a mile.

  I was at a T-junction. The road went from left to right along the bottom of the valley, and directly opposite me a private road bordered by hedges led off it, climbing gently upward. Any footprints had been obliterated by a set of tyre tracks coming from the road on the left, up the private road ahead. There were no tracks of any kind on the road to my right.

  Because of the hedges, I could not avoid walking on the road, so I waited five minutes to listen for cars and spot any lights that danced in the darkness. There was nothing, so I started up the private road. After two hundred metres I saw two tall chimneys peek out of the darkness above the hedges, and when I rounded a corner a large white farmhouse was revealed.

  All the lights were off. No smoke drifted from the chimneys. There were no parked vehicles to be seen. I edged closer. The white rendering was cracked all over, tiles were missing from the roof. Every window was broken, and the door was ajar. I waited a cold, windy minute. Nothing happened, so I clicked on the torch and headed inside.

  Every room was the same: bare floors, bare walls, and empty. The place had been abandoned for years. Leaving the torch on, I stepped back through the front door and walked round the outside. Following the dirty white render, crunching through dirty white snow, below dirty white clouds that were covering the moon and dimming the scene.