Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

He wound down the window and called to me, ‘Kilkenny’s?’

‘What is it?’ I asked. I hadn’t ordered anything, no deliveries due. Swift or otherwise.

‘I rang you.’ He cocked his head towards the house. ‘The answerphone.’

Aahh! Of course, the young man with no name. ‘Yes. Come on in.’

He locked up the van and followed me up the path. In the office he agreed to coffee and introduced himself as Jimmy Achebe.

It was hard to judge his age, though he had a very young face, unlined coppery skin, black hair. Closer to I saw the sides and the back were shaved and the wedge section glistened with oil or gel. He wore gold rings in his ears and a gold wedding ring. He was drenched in eau de nicotine. I wondered whether he’d light up without asking. I don’t keep an ashtray in the office. It’s a deliberate policy to prevent people smoking there. You’d be amazed how many chronic smokers still try, offering desperately to ‘use the bin/cup/saucer if you haven’t an ashtray’. Jimmy Achebe wore a pale blue nylon zip-up boiler suit with the legend ‘Swift Deliveries’ embroidered on the back in red.

‘So, how can I help? I gather you were interrupted yesterday.’ I brought the mugs over to the desk.

‘Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. My wife.’ He took the coffee from me.

I sat down opposite him. Fished out a pad and pen.

He looked away, shrugged, fidgeted and sighed.

‘Is it about your wife?’

He nodded, rubbed his nose with a broad palm. ‘Yeah, I think there’s something going on. She’s out when she should be in. I’m not saying it’s anything wrong, you know, but there’s something going down.’

‘Have you asked her about it?’

He sighed again. ‘She gets all defensive, tells me I’m paranoid, that I’m going to ruin things between us. Says I have to trust her. She’s been that moody, flies off the handle and that.’ He frowned, at a loss how to deal with the situation.

‘Tell me about her,’ I suggested.

‘What?’ He glared as though the idea were somehow improper.

‘What’s she like? How did you meet her? When did you get married? What’s her job?’

He groaned. ‘She’s called Tina. She’s a fashion designer. She makes her own gear – jackets and that – tries to sell it on to the buyers. It’s hard though. She’s tried for a few jobs in the trade but…’ He shrugged. ‘It gets her down sometimes. We’ve been married eighteen months. She’s epileptic – that makes it harder to get the work. People think she’s gonna have a fit every five minutes. I tell her not to say anything but she wants to be upfront about it. She’s proud, you know, doesn’t want to hide it but people just freak out.’

‘Does she work from home?’

‘Yeah. She tried renting some space in the craft village but that didn’t last long. She says she needs some capital to get ahead. So now she uses the spare room.’ He spread his hands.

‘And you’re a driver?’

‘Yeah, money’s crap but it’s regular.’ He glanced to see if his language had given offence. I smiled.

‘OK. So tell me about recently. She’s been going out a lot at night?’

‘No, no. It’s in the day. When I’m at work. A couple of times I’ve called home if I’m doing a delivery that way – grab a cuppa or some food – and she’s not there. I asked her about it later, “What you done today?” and she said she’d just been in and when I said I’d been home she says, “Oh yeah, I went up the shops.” I could tell she was lying. And the next time I asked her straight out, that’s when she got all upset and that.’

‘So this has happened twice?’

‘More than that. Other times I’ve rung up. I hate checking up on her but I don’t know what’s going on. She won’t talk to me about it. Your mind starts thinking all sorts, I mean all sorts. I know her regular things like aqua-fit and Fridays she likes to go down the market but this is different. She’s keeping something from me.’

‘Do you know how long she’s out?’

He shrugged. ‘A couple of hours.’

‘Any particular days?’

‘Middle of the week, I think.’

I thought about the way he’d described her moods. ‘She ever use drugs?’

He grinned and shook his head. ‘Only for the illness.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked him.

‘Find out,’ he said. ‘Find out where she’s going, what she’s doing. Watch her, follow her, whatever you have to do.’ He waved his arm as he spoke, pushing the problem my way. ‘Shit, I hate this,’ he said.

‘OK. Let me suggest something. First of all try and talk to Tina about it again. Tell her you’re worried, that you don’t want secrets in the marriage, ask her straight out to tell you what’s going on. Now if she won’t or if you’re not happy with what she does tell you then you can come back to me. I charge a hundred pounds a day for surveillance, minimum. I might have to watch the house for several days.’

He took a sharp breath in.

‘Think about it,’ I said. ‘It’s worth bearing in mind you may be paying for bad news. Tina’s keeping something from you, so there’s a danger it’ll be something you’ll find very difficult. I may find she’s having an affair – it could be something like that – but even if it’s completely innocent the fact of you using an investigator to spy on her could break up your marriage anyway.’

‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought about all that?’ he protested. ‘But knowing – at least I’d know.’ He rubbed his nose again. ‘If she was cheating on me I’d know where I stood. If it was something else,’ he shrugged, ‘maybe I’d not even tell her but I’d know. Now, it’s like I’m drowning.’ He frowned and looked away. I saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Think it over, try and talk to Tina again, then take it from there.’

‘Right, thanks.’

We stood up. At the door Jimmy turned. ‘About the money – can I pay it in instalments, if it’s a fair bit? You don’t need it all at once?’

‘No problem. By the way, if you do want me to do the work I’ll need a photo of Tina.’

‘Yeah, right.’

He’d lit the fag before he hit the pavement.

I wrote up my notes so they’d make sense another day. Then I rang the number for Dr Goulden. An answerphone told me the surgery was closed, would open again at four o’clock and then gave me an emergency number to ring. That seemed a bit drastic so I hung fire.

There was a heavy metallic sky and an unnerving pressure that made my eyeballs ache. The storm broke just as the kids emerged from school. Resounding cracks of thunder and great belching rumbles had half the playground in hysterics. The raindrops were the extra large variety that bounced as they hit the pavement. It kept it up for half an hour but even then didn’t have the decency to move on and dry up. Instead drizzle settled in. I closed the curtains and lit the lamps.

I got through to Dr Goulden’s receptionist who arranged an appointment for the Monday afternoon. I explained we weren’t patients but needed to see the doctor about a member of the family at Homelea. (Not strictly true but I didn’t want to fail at the blood-relatives hurdle.) As it was, the computer couldn’t cope with information outside of its programme, it needed a patient, so in the end the appointment was made in Lily Palmer’s name.

Dr Chattaway, Agnes’ GP and formerly Lily’s, didn’t have an appointment system. It was turn up and wait. I asked the receptionist when the quietest surgery was.

‘Oh, it’s always busy,’ she said, ‘but Monday’s by far the worst.’

When I rang Agnes she suggested we try Tuesday morning. ‘We’d still have fresh in our minds what Dr Goulden said…and I wouldn’t want to leave it any longer than necessary. So, Tuesday, I think.’