The Bursar's Wife (8 page)

“Told you, boss. He’s a bluetool. So what’s the plan?” The plan, and this is why I had Jason with me, was for him to distract the driver while I attached the tracker to the car. It had a strong magnet and, being the size of a mobile phone, would only be visible if someone were looking for it. I opened the glove compartment again and took out an old packet of cigarettes I kept in there. I don’t smoke but you never know when the false camaraderie of another smoker will come in useful – I’d learnt many things by striking up conversation with a smoker. I gave the packet to Jason.

“We’re going to walk past the car together. You’re going to realise you haven’t got a light and go back and ask him for one. I’m going to slip this under the car.”

“Cool.”

We got out and walked out of the car park, just two mates on their way to work nearby. The driver gave us a half-curious glance, Jason getting a fag out of the box. We crossed the road heading to the back of the Merc and Jason was furiously patting his pockets, perhaps overplaying the search for a light.

“Shit,” he said loudly, and changed direction to head for the driver’s door as I continued to the back of the car. “Excuse me, mate, got a light?” The driver said something I couldn’t hear. I glanced up the road and then bent down to untie my shoelace, slipping the tracker under the large rear bumper until I found metal. Jason was making small talk. I tied my lace and stood up, moving to the pavement. I coughed. Jason joined me, throwing the unwanted cigarette to the ground.

“Not very responsive, and not the sharpest tool in the box,” he said.

“It is bloody early in the morning.”

We crossed the road again and went towards the petrol station on the corner. I sent Jason inside and looked back down the road. The gate to River Views opened and a young woman in a long coat and heels came out. She had cropped black hair cut shorter at the back than the sides. Mark the chauffeur was out of the car and opening the back door before the gate had even closed behind her. Jason came out of the petrol station with yesterday’s Cambridge
Argus
as the Merc came up to the corner and turned onto Elizabeth Way, heading out of town. We walked back to the Golf: the blinds were still closed on the top floor of River Views.

The main
Argus
headline was something about a gypsy encampment outside Cambridge but a smaller headline at the bottom of the page read MURDERED WOMAN IDENTIFIED – HUSBAND HELD and named Albert and Trisha Greene, reporting the fact that he was a primary school teacher. A colleague of his was said to be “shocked” and there was the inevitable quote from a neighbour about how “ordinary and friendly” the couple were.

We sat in my car and finished the coffee and watched several people leaving River Views for work; mainly young professionals in smart hatchbacks. But we’d yet to set eyes on Quintin Boyd. Jason was not used to sitting quietly for long periods and started to explain the differences between Ambient and Techno music, each apparently with its own sub-genres. I tried to make my disinterest obvious; I much prefer stakeouts on my own; they give me time to brood over everything that is wrong in my life.

“I’m thinking about giving up college,” Jason said. A taxi drew up outside the gates opposite and the driver looked out to check the address. I half turned to Jason, keeping an eye on the taxi.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m thinking if I got a full-time job maybe Mum could give up the chat line.” The taxi driver was getting out of the cab. I risked a glance at Jason.

“You know about that, huh?”

“Of course I do. Our walls are like, made of cardboard. Sometimes when she thinks I’m out I’m really in my room.” I looked at him and he clocked my confusion. “Sometimes I pretend I’m going out just to get some peace and quiet.” The taxi driver, a black guy in a cloth cap, was at the doorbell panel next to the gate, looking at the glow of names.

“She’s got that job so you can be at college. She’d kill you if you left, you know that.” When I checked the driver was talking into the grill next to the buzzers.

“It’s horrible though.” His voice went wobbly and he turned his face to his window. “I hate listening to it. I mean your own mother saying that…” Shit, this wasn’t the time for a heart-to-heart. The taxi driver got back into his car and waited. I glanced up at the top floor and saw the windows go dark. I turned to Jason.

“Listen, Jason. You’ve got to suck it up, as you like to say. You could quit college, no one can force you to stay, but it would break your mum’s heart and the most likely outcome is that she would kick you out and refuse your money anyway.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His phone went whoosh but he ignored it. The gate opened and someone who could only be Quintin Boyd came out; even at this distance I recognised him from his photo online. He paused to close the gate behind him. He looked good in a black knee-length mac. He had no luggage or briefcase and carried himself with straight-backed confidence. I was too far away to see his face properly. He ran his fingers through his hair and got into the back of the waiting taxi. I started the Golf’s engine and watched the taxi driver do a three-point turn. I turned to Jason.

“That stuff your mum says, on the phone, it’s just acting, she doesn’t mean any of it. You know that, right?” I was just repeating what little Sandra had told me about it. Apparently some of her regulars didn’t even want to talk about sex, they just needed someone to lament about what a shitty week they’d had. In fact the sex calls were the shortest calls and on a call by call basis made the least money. She’d laughingly told me that she was sometimes too good (not really a positive given the idea is to keep them on the line for as long as possible), and that it was amazing what some sound effects using a tub of yoghurt could achieve.

“You know what else would break your mum’s heart?” I asked. He nodded.

“Yeah. If she knew that I knew.” The boy wasn’t stupid, bless him.

“Why don’t you invest in some noise-cancelling headphones,” I said, only half joking. He grunted noncommittally as I pulled out of the car park.

“They’re expensive, boss.”

“Well, you might be able to afford them when we’ve finished with this job,” I said. We eased into the last of the rush-hour traffic behind Quintin Boyd.

IN THE OFFICE SANDRA WAS GETTING READY TO LEAVE
, watering her plants and putting the computer to sleep.

“I thought you weren’t in today?” I asked.

“Just thought I’d put in a couple of hours.” She picked up some letters from her desk and went through them. “You need to renew your membership of UKAI or they’re going to take your entry off their website. There’s your share of the building maintenance that needs paying. The other tenants want a meeting next week and a John rang, something about your garden fence. Oh, and I’ve done the HPI check on the Mercedes, as well as getting an address from the DVLA.” UKAI are the UK Association of Investigators. They are supposed to raise the standards of the profession but for me membership means being in the online directory that potential clients look at – it was how Sylvia Booker had found me after all. They kept sending stuff through the post on the proposed arrangements for licensing private investigators. I never replied to these missives; licensing would probably mean the death knell for Cambridge Confidential. Sandra handed me the letters.

“The DVLA really ought to tighten up their procedure for giving out details.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m very convincing on the phone,” she said, winking at me. I smiled and looked down at the post she had given me. I considered telling her about Jason knowing how good she was on the phone but thought better of it. “Besides, men can’t resist helping a woman in distress, can they?” she said, giving me a look full of meaning which I ignored. I took it as a sign of her disapproval of my continuing with the Sylvia Booker case. I’d filled her in after meeting Sylvia yesterday and she’d said the whole thing smelled rotten, and she’d obviously looked Sylvia up on the web.

“I bet if she wasn’t posh or attractive or if it had been a bloke you would have asked more questions.”

I told her she was wrong even though she may have been partly right. On the other hand she seemed to be leery about any women I came into contact with. I’d also told her the whole thing reeked of money.

“Maybe, but money doesn’t cover a rotten smell. I should know,” she’d said. “I married a rotten smell with money.”

She put on her coat and went to the door. “Has Jason gone home?” she asked.

“He’s running an errand for me in London,” I said. As I spoke he was actually on the train to London with Quintin Boyd, whom we’d followed to the station after a few hours watching him in town. I would have gone myself but I was worried about missing my date with Nina, even though Jason had pointed out that he also had a date with Rowena. I figured my need was greater than his. I hadn’t said that to Jason when I’d passed him a few twenties and all but kicked him out of the car. I didn’t tell Sandra this either, of course, who stopped at the door and looked at me with a warning brewing on her face.

“If he’s involved in anything even remotely dodgy, George, I’ll have your balls.”

* * *

With Sandra gone I put my feet up on the desk and looked at the HPI report, which gives buyers an idea of whether the used car they are about to hand over cash for is stolen or has outstanding finance on it. No adverse data was recorded against the Mercedes, which was only a year old. The address that Sandra had blagged from the DVLA was in Royston, just south of Cambridge, and the car was registered to a firm called Chauffeured Comfort Cars.

I put aside the UKAI reminder and the buildings maintenance bill and picked up the number Sandra had written down for John’s mobile. I got his voicemail and told him to call by my house tomorrow. I went to the window and tried to rub some grime off but it was all on the outside. Our Lady of the Saints said it was nearing four and I was nearing the possibility of male-female contact. A bath seemed in order but first I needed to transcribe my scribbled notes from the day’s surveillance. I sat down again and went through my notebook.

* * *

After we’d left River Views we’d followed the taxi into town and I’d dropped Jason off with Quintin while I went to park and catch up with him on foot. When I finally met up with Jason after calling from the office mobile he was standing outside a camera shop on Regent Street and looking in the window. But he wasn’t looking at the display, he was looking inside.

“There you are, boss.”

“I had a problem parking.”

“He’s been in there for ten minutes, talking to the sales guy.”

“Camcorders?” I peered in through the window past the cameras and saw Quintin being attended to by an enthusiastic pimply-faced teenager who could sense a sale.

“He doesn’t look like he’s buying anything,” Jason said, and before I could respond he disappeared from my side and I could see him inside the shop, the cheeky monkey. He gave me a wink and stood with his back to Quintin. A few minutes later Quintin emerged with a small plastic bag. Jason told me, as we sauntered after him, that he’d bought some memory cards for a handheld camcorder.

“A camcorder?”

“Yes, the little SD cards, you know, like you have in the digital camera in the office.”

“Yes, I know what they are.”

We followed Quintin around town for a bit, watched him have lunch, until a taxi took him back to River Views with his shopping bags, where he spent an hour doing whatever he was doing before Mark came back in the Merc and took Quintin (minus shopping bags but with briefcase) to the railway station where he dropped Quintin off.

That’s when I’d sent Jason after him. That’s when he’d protested, not just about his date, but saying quite reasonably that he wouldn’t learn anything sitting on the train and that tailing him across London was not an option. He was right, except that occasionally you thought you’d got all you were going to get and were about to call it a day or night when something happened that made you glad you’d gone that extra mile or sat in your car for that extra five minutes. Or in this case sent someone else to go that extra mile. If I’d had the time (Quintin was walking into the station) I would have told some poignant story to make my point but instead I just added another twenty-pound note to the ones I’d forked out, urging him to get some lunch and reminding him of the need for receipts. With Jason on Quintin I’d followed the Merc as far as the A10 south out of Cambridge, but mindful of the time I’d headed back into town, disregarding my own advice about going that extra mile. Like I said, it was only occasionally worth it.

* * *

I was out of the bath and in the bedroom and worrying about what the hell to wear – the choice was between an old corduroy jacket and a twice-worn Hugo Boss jacket that Olivia had bought me – when the phone rang. Perhaps Nina was calling to cancel, and I was surprised at how much the idea filled me with relief. But it wasn’t Nina.

“Boss?”

“Jason, where are you?” It was noisy wherever it was.

“On the train back to Cambridge, hoping I can still make the gig with Rowena.” I ignored the resentment in his voice.

“I’m assuming you have something to report since you’re ringing?”

“Well, I don’t know how important it is. Boyd spent a lot of time on the phone, and I’ve made some notes.” I heard the rustle of paper at his end. I checked my watch; I needed to be out of the house in fifteen.

“Jason?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them here—”

“Rather than go through it on the phone why don’t we get together tomorrow morning?” I looked at the double bed. “Let’s make it lunchtime. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“You’re the boss, boss.” We agreed that I would pick him up from his mother’s and we hung up.

I quickly changed the sheets on the bed before settling on the corduroy.

WE WERE IN A LARGE PUB ON REGENT STREET, NINA
’
S CHOICE
of where we should go after dinner. It occurred to me, as I sat opposite her – she looked good in a suede jacket over torso-hugging t-shirt and designer jeans – that the older I got the more difficult it was to go through the initial mating ritual of revealing myself: my likes and dislikes (more of the latter than the former), my view on the latest Julia Roberts film (not seen, not intending to see), whether I’d read the latest book that everyone was raving about (I made a point of never reading books that people raved about), and so on. I was beginning to see, after a long dinner of small talk at The Neapolitan, the sense of using a dating website like Sandra had suggested, thus skipping this initial phase of information exchange. Except that what was the fun in just meeting people who liked what you liked and thought like you did? Not that I was finding much in common with Nina, not that it bothered her, since she spent most of dinner telling me about her plans for setting up her own nutritional supplement line – apparently you could buy generically produced vitamins and the rest was packaging and marketing. Packaging and marketing being the way you got on in this day and age.