‘So is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all that might help the inquiry.’
I’m completely torn, fighting tears now.
‘No.’
CHAPTER 10
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew has switched the office landline to answerphone but with the speaker activated. He listens to it ring – two, three, four rings . . .
Matthew Hill, private investigator. Please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.
He grimaces through the long beep. A puzzle that, away from a microphone, his voice echoing in his head sounds utterly unremarkable, yet on playback it’s excruciating.
He clears his throat, wondering which version of his voice other people hear. At last the beep ends. A pause. And then the voice of a woman with an alarmingly breathy tone.
I need you, Matthew.
There’s a longer pause after which the caller rambles about her love of good jewellery – and why shouldn’t a widow wear her good jewellery, Matthew? Am I supposed to be embarrassed by my wealth? She talks of the problems of isolation since her husband’s passing. He was a very successful man, Matthew. Another pause. Potent . . . Matthew hears himself gulp. At last the caller continues and it rapidly becomes clear that what she actually ‘needs’ is a bodyguard to accompany her on holiday while she wears her biggest diamonds. Two weeks. South of France. She mentions having booked a wonderful villa but in a rather remote area. She’s prepared to pay a premium on his usual rate and will be happy for him to join her for restaurant reservations. I know some wonderful places. She leaves her details. Matthew finds that his eyes are still wide, uncomfortable now through lack of blinking.
There have been a number of similar approaches in recent months – all politely declined. He should laugh it off but in truth, it depresses him. Why don’t people take his work more seriously?
Sal reckons it was the stalker case he worked on. His wise wife had always warned against anything too close to security work. He took on the stalker case strictly as a one-off as he felt very sorry for the woman involved. A journalist – Alice Henderson. It was a legitimate and intense inquiry – at times emotionally gruelling, also dangerous – and although it worked out in the end, he’s promised Sally not to take on anything remotely resembling bodyguard duties ever again.
No Kevin Costner gigs, Matt. It sends the wrong signal. Promise?
Promise.
Sadly, despite greater clarity on his website, potential clients – many of whom appear purely rich and lonely – are not yet taking the hint. Matthew fears he’s losing credibility while Sally is losing patience.
These women clearly fancy you, Matthew. It was that picture in the paper. And that new TV series. People get the wrong idea . . .
Don’t be ridiculous, Sally.
The ‘local hero’ newspaper coverage of the cathedral shooting hasn’t helped. The local Sunday ran another big feature yesterday. And while high-profile cases are technically good for PR and hence business, Matthew’s still quietly disappointed he’s not being offered the kind of legitimate and complex investigative work he craves. Interesting cold cases. Shoulder to the wheel. Is that really so much to hope for?
Matthew pours a dash of hot milk from the jug on his tray into the remnants of his coffee and sips. Better. It’s borderline obscene how quickly good coffee revives him. He’s just about to google advice on options to help Amelie – whether in fact they should turn to a professional counsellor – when the entry buzzer signals someone at the door downstairs.
Matthew frowns and checks his watch. Mondays are normally quiet. There’s nothing in the diary and ‘walk-in’ clients are rare now that his website urges a phone call or email as first contact. He moves across the office to the intercom, praying it’s not someone breathy who wants him to go on holiday . . .
‘Hello. Matthew Hill. Can I help you?’
‘I’m so sorry to turn up here without an appointment, Mr Hill. It’s Ed Hartley. Gemma Hartley’s father. Can I come up? I really need to speak to you, please.’
Matthew’s puzzled. His office is nearly an hour from Gemma’s hospital. He presses the buzzer and issues his regular warning about the steepness of the flight of stairs.
He holds the door ajar and waves his arm to signal for Ed Hartley to take a seat over to his right.
Matthew sits in his own chair behind the desk but, seeing the ashen nature of Ed Hartley’s face, gets straight back up.
‘You look quite shaken, Mr Hartley. Must be such a difficult time for you. Can I get you a coffee? Or a glass of water?’