I hope you choose Regal Airlines again soon.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret McNair
Customer Service Manager
KENNETH PRENDERGAST
Prendergast de Witt Connell Financial Advisers
Forward House 394 High Holborn
London WC1V 7EX
Mrs R Brandon 37 Maida Vale Mansions Maida Vale
London NW6 0YF
5 November 2003
Dear Mrs. Brandon,
Thank you for your letter.
I was perturbed to hear of your “new genius plan.” I strongly advise that you do not invest the remainder of your child’s fund in so-called “Antiques of the Future.” I am returning the Polaroid of the Topshop limited edition bikini, which I cannot comment on. Such purchases are not a “sure-fire win,” nor can anyone make a profit “if they just buy enough stuff.”
May I guide you towards more conventional investments, such as bonds and company shares?
Yours sincerely,
Kenneth Prendergast
Family Investment Specialist
TWELVE
I DON’T KNOW WHY I didn’t do this before. It’s like Mum says, I need to get my facts straight. All I need is to find out the answer to one simple question: Is Luke having an affair with Venetia? Yes or no.
And if he is—
My stomach spasms at the thought and I do a few quick shallow breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Ignore the pain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I’m standing in West Ruislip tube station, right at the end of the Central Line, consulting my little A — Z. I’ve never been to this bit of northwest London before and I wouldn’t really have thought of it being the kind of place where private detectives hang out. (But then, I suppose I was really picturing downtown Chicago in the 1940s.)
I head off down the main road, glancing at my reflection in a shop window as I pass. It took me ages to decide what to wear this morning, but in the end I went for a simple black print dress, vintage shoes, and oversize opaque sunglasses. Although it turns out that sunglasses are a crap disguise. If anyone I knew spotted me, they wouldn’t think, “There’s a mysterious woman in black,” they’d think, “There’s Becky, wearing sunglasses and visiting a private detective.”
Feeling nervous, I start walking faster. I can’t quite believe I’m actually doing this. It was all so easy. Like booking a pedicure. I phoned the number on the card that the taxi driver gave me, but unfortunately that particular detective was about to go off to the Costa del Sol. (For a golfing holiday, not to follow a crook.) So I looked up private detectives on the Internet — and it turns out there are zillions of them! In the end I chose one called Dave Sharpness, Private Eye (Matrimonial a Specialty), and we arranged an appointment and now here I am. In West Ruislip.
I turn into a side street and there’s the building ahead of me. I survey it for a few moments. This really isn’t how I’d imagined it. I’d envisioned a dingy office down some alleyway with a single lightbulb swinging in the window and maybe bullet holes in the door. But this is a well-kept low-rise block with venetian blinds and a little patch of grass outside with a notice saying Please Do Not Drop Litter.
Well. Private detectives don’t have to be gritty, do they? I stuff the A — Z into my bag, head toward the entrance, and push open the glass doors. A pale woman with badly layered aubergine-dyed hair is sitting at a desk. She looks up from her paperback and I feel a sudden pang of humiliation. She must see people like me all the time.
“I’m here to see Dave Sharpness,” I say, trying to keep my chin high.
“Of course, dear.” Her eyes descend to my bump expressionlessly. “Take a seat.”
I sit down on a brown foam chair and pick up a copy of Reader’s Digest from the coffee table. A moment later, a door opens and I see a man in his late fifties or even early sixties approaching me. He’s paunchy, with bright white hair sticking up from a tanned head, blue eyes, and a jowly double chin.
“Dave Sharpness,” he says with a smoker’s wheeze, and grips my hand. “Come through, come through.”
I follow him into a small office with venetian blinds and a mahogany desk. There’s a bookshelf filled with legal-looking books, and a series of box files with names on them. I spot one with “Brandon” written on it. It’s resting openly on the desk, and I feel a flicker of alarm. Is this what they call discreet? What if Luke came to West Ruislip for a business meeting and he walked past this window and saw it?
“So, Mrs. Brandon.” Dave Sharpness has squeezed himself behind his desk and is addressing me hoarsely. “First, let me introduce myself. I had thirty years in the motor trade before turning to private investigation. Having had various painful experiences myself, I know all too well the trauma you are undergoing right now.” He leans forward, his chins wobbling. “Be assured, I am one hundred and fifty percent committed to providing results for you.”
“Right. Fab.” I swallow. “Um…I was wondering. Could you not have my box file out on show, please? Anyone might see it on that shelf!”
“These are dummies with false names, Mrs. Brandon,” Dave Sharpness says, gesturing at the shelf. “Please don’t worry. Your file will be safely concealed in our client secure storage facility.”
“Oh, I see,” I say, feeling a bit more reassured. “Client secure storage facility” sounds pretty good. Like some underground system with coded locks and infrared laser beams criss-crossing each other. “So…what does that consist of, exactly?”
“It’s a filing cabinet in the back office.” He wipes his glowing face with a handkerchief. “Locked every night by Wendy, our office manager. Now, to business.” He pulls a pad of foolscap toward him. “Let’s start at the beginning. You have concerns about your husband. You think he’s cheating on you.”