Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

“This will make Ross furious,” Ailsa said.

“That’s too bad, I’m weeping.”

I took the note, folded it up and put it away in my breast pocket. The only advantage I’ve ever found to wearing suits is the number of pockets you get with them, but it still doesn’t swing me in their favour. I sat with Ailsa for a while and we said the things you say early on in an affair when the words are new and the feelings are mint fresh and shining bright. She told me to be careful. I said I would be. I called for the nurses and they wheeled her back to her room. I gathered up the bits of paper in the conference room and stuffed them into my pocket. I was desert dry and wrung out from the afternoon’s work.

I was at the reception desk of Sleeman Enterprises at 9.30 the next morning. The same girl was behind the desk but at first she didn’t associate my denims and shirt sleeves with Mr Riddout. When it dawned on her, her face took on a sickly look and she started to cast about her for help.

“Yes Mr Riddout?” she stumbled over the words. She’d giggled about Mr Riddout to her friends and now she was embarrassed to see him again in the flesh.

“Hardy’s the name Miss, I want to see Mr Haines.”

“But I’m sure you’re the man I saw yesterday. You looked around.. interior decorator.”

I made a non-committal gesture and handed her Ailsa’s note. She read it quickly despite her agitation and got up from her chair.

“I’ll tell his secretary,” she said.

I reached over, took the note and eased her back into her chair by the shoulder.

“Calm down,” I said. “I’ll tell her. I just let you see that so you’d let me go through. That’s OK?”

“Oh yes, yes, the door you want is…”

“I know where it is.”

I gave her a small salute and a grin and went down the passage. I knocked on the door and went in before the blonde answered. She didn’t like it and got ready to high hat me. Her hair dominated her, it was fine and yellow and swept up into a beehive arrangement that defied belief. Her voice rasped slightly and I suspected that the hair would be harsh to touch from silicone spray.

“Can I help you? Sir.”

The last word just got into the sentence and hung there looking as if it might lose its place. I took out the note, unfolded it and put it on the desk. I put my licence card down on top of it and gave her my strong, silent look. Her reaction to the name Sleeman nearly cracked the mask of make-up on her face and had the same effect as on the other girl. It brought her to her feet, sharp.

“I’ll tell Mr Haines, he’s in, you can see him…” She was practically stammering. God knows what would happen if Ailsa herself walked in. They’d probably start fainting and this one would spill her nail polish all over the copy.

“That’s nice,” I said, “I’m glad he’s in, but couldn’t you just buzz him?”

She looked down at the intercom as if she’d never seen one before and didn’t know whether to talk into it or put a coin in it. She sucked in a breath and flipped the switch.

“Mr Haines, a gentleman to see you. It appears to be important, he has a letter from Miss Sleeman.”

“Five minutes.” Haines’ voice had a nice timbre and pitch even over the furry intercom.

I collected my papers and walked across to the connecting door. The blonde jumped up and moved towards me with beckoning hands.

“You can’t go in,” she said breathlessly. “He said five minutes.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said and opened the door.

Haines got up looking surprised and I looked him over carefully. He wasn’t as big as he’d seemed the first time I’d seen him, but he was taller than me and he was noticeably heavier. It was all wrapped up in an expensive linen shirt with epaulettes and the latest thing in gabardine slacks — a high-waisted production with narrow belt loops and deep cuffs. He had thick dark curly hair and even this early in the morning his beard was making his chin blue and shadowy. He looked a bit loud, a bit florid. My mind jumped about trying to register a firm impression of him before giving it up. He bore a close resemblance to a picture I’d seen in the papers of Mark Gutteridge, twenty years back, accepting a racing cup after one of his horses had carried off a major event. Others might have missed the similarity but Mark Gutteridge, who was probably a two shaves a day man like this one, could not have.

It seemed to be everybody’s day for getting up abruptly from their chairs. Haines was nearly clear of his when he checked himself and moved back to its padded leather comfort. He was sharp, he’d recognised me immediately I’d stuck my face in and he didn’t like it a bit.

“Don’t get up,” I said, “this won’t take long. Your boss has a little chore for you.”

I handed him the note, he read while trying to work a big chunk of flesh out of his lower lip. When he finished he put the paper down on the blotter and slid one of its edges under the leather envelope corner that held the blotter in place. I went up to the desk and repossessed the note. He didn’t object and I was beginning to wonder if you had to spit in his face to make him act as aggressive as he looked. He made himself comfortable in his chair without looking at me: I thought he might feel he had an edge sitting down so I perched on the end of the desk. That still left quite a space between us. He reached out for a cigarette from the open box in front of him. He flicked one out and lit it with a gold desk lighter.

“What’s the nature of your business with Miss Sleeman?”

I was listening for a South Australian accent. I didn’t pick any up but maybe there’s no such thing.

“Sorry,” I said, “didn’t catch it.”

“What is your business with Miss Sleeman?”

I paused while he blew smoke around and tried to think of something to do with his left hand.

“I don’t think you’re too bad,” I said. “Just much too young for what you’re doing and a bit out of your depth. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I asked you a question.”

“It doesn’t deserve an answer. The business is private, confidential, that’s all you have to know. Now do as you’re told.”

He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off. “And don’t say ‘You can’t talk to me like that’ because I just did.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Never mind.” His voice was firmer and he seemed to think he was making up some ground. “I can see that you’re trying to push me around as much as you can short of hitting me again. I wonder why?”

He was making up ground. He let go a smile that crinkled up the fine white scars around his eyes and mouth in a way that was probably very attractive to women.

“How is Ailsa?” he said suddenly. He’d dropped the hurt look and the probing look, now he was mild and charming. He was a chameleon.

“She’s OK,” I said gruffly. It seemed inadequate.

“Bloody awful business,” he said, “I got the gist of it from Sir John Guilford, and I read about Bryn. Dreadful. A chapter of accidents.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t want to sit here exchanging chummy gossip with you, Haines. I don’t like you, you don’t like me. But since we’re at it, did you hear about Susan Gutteridge? She’s in hospital too.”

He looked and sounded surprised. We were talking about his mother although he didn’t know that I knew it. Nothing like filial concern showed in his face but there was no way it would — his feelings about his own flesh and blood were unique to him.

“God, no. What’s the matter with her?”

“Hit and run.”