Peter Lovesey - Cop to Corpse

If I approached the bar he was sure to notice me. If I stood aimlessly or even found a seat I’d get some funny looks. A lone woman in a pub who isn’t there to buy herself a drink is open to misinterpretation. It wasn’t as if I had a Salvation Army tin to rattle.

On the other hand, I didn’t fancy waiting outside.

In the end it wasn’t a decision out of Modesty Blaize. A basic need settled it. All pubs have loos. I’d been wanting one ever since missing my chance in the department store.

I pushed the door and stepped inside, rapidly noting that the place was reasonably busy and that city break man was at the bar with his back to me waiting to be served. The door for the ladies was to the left, discreetly recessed. I was in there like a homing pigeon.

When I emerged, I had a plan. As I anticipated, he had moved away from the bar. I sidled up to it and ordered a glass of house white and asked for the hot food menu. There was a long mirror behind the barman and I used it to check where my man had parked himself. He was at a table to the left of the entrance and facing across the room. In front of him was a pint glass of beer. I was out of his sight-line.

I took my wine to a table behind him. The folding menu came in useful to duck behind in case he turned round. I was feeling more comfortable about this caper now. It was just a matter of making the wine last and keeping up the observation, or ‘obbo,’ as we sleuths call it in the trade.

Ten minutes passed agreeably enough. I rather wished Anita and Vicky could have seen me now, much more calm, in control, shadowing my unsuspecting suspect. The wine wasn’t the worst I’d tasted, either.

Then he was joined by a woman.

She was dark-haired, elegantly dressed in a businesslike slate-grey pinstripe suit softened by a pale blue scarf worn over the shoulder. Thirtyish, I estimated.

He didn’t stand to greet her and there was no embrace, nor even a token kiss. She took the chair opposite. He didn’t have the grace to buy her a drink. There was a short exchange of words and then he produced what looked like an envelope and handed it to her. She opened it, checked the contents, tucked it in her bag, got up and walked to the exit.

I was in two minds whether to follow. Something of interest had been handed across and I strongly suspected it had a bearing on our investigation. But you can’t be in two places at once and my main quarry was still here.

City break man didn’t remain long. Perhaps a minute after the woman had left, he got up. He hadn’t finished his beer, but he was off. Mission accomplished, it appeared.

I shielded my face with the menu. I’m sure he didn’t see who I was.

And just for a moment I was tempted to let him walk away to God knows where, just as the woman had. Inside I was as twitchy as a daddy-long-legs at a window.

Somehow, I found the courage to take up the pursuit.

Outside, it was getting darker. The cars had their headlights on. Hardly anyone was about. Sensible people were at home, getting supper. We were coming to a section of town where the shops had metal grilles in front of the windows. All my new-found confidence drained. I was your typical nervous woman thinking each shop doorway concealed a rapist or a mugger. Cursing the giveaway clicking of my heels, I stayed close to the kerb feeling less and less committed to this crazy quest.

But it was soon over. City break man turned right, crossed a kids’ play area and entered what looked like a council tower block. I looked to see how many floors there were. There must have been at least two hundred flats in the building.

I needed to know where he was going.

I pushed at the swing door and followed him.

He’d already started up a foul-smelling staircase covered in graffiti. I could hear his steps, so I followed him, counting the floors. At the fifth, I hesitated at the swing door he’d just gone through. It was still moving back and forth. Fortunately it had a square of glass and I spotted him halfway along the corridor using a key to let himself into one of the flats. I waited for him to close the door before I crept forward and checked the number.

With that, I don’t mind telling you, I’d reached the limit of my sleuthing for one evening.

When I got home there were anxious messages on the answer-phone from my two so-called sleuthing buddies. I was to call Anita however late it was (‘Wake me up if necessary and give me a rollicking’). But Vicky’s message was more of an apology. She said she’d felt terrible about leaving me to cope on my own, and she hoped I understood that Anita had been in such a state that she needed shepherding out of the shop.

I called Vicky first. Actually I was home before ten, which I thought was a reasonable hour to touch base.

Her voice was strained. No joy that I survived. No curiosity about what happened. Just: ‘It’s not the best time. May I call you back?’

‘Any time,’ I told her, ‘I’ll speak to Anita.’

She’s a puzzle, that Vicky.

Anita was totally different, firing at least six questions at me before I could get a word in.

I gave her the gist of what my mission had uncovered: the council flat in the ugly tower block off the main road out of the city.

She asked me, ‘Was his name on the door?’

‘God, no. Just rusty old numbers. 513.’

‘Do you think he really lives there? Could he be leading a double life?’ The council flat existence conflicted with Anita’s image of city break man as a big-time villain.

‘How would I know? All I did was follow him there.’

‘And the woman he met in the pub? What was all that about?’

‘You tell me.’

‘She was a classy dame, you said?’

‘Smartly dressed, for sure.’

‘But they didn’t act like lovers?’

‘No, it looked strictly business. They obviously knew each other, but there was no embrace, no smiles even. He handed her something in an envelope and she left immediately.’

‘What size envelope?’

‘Standard A4, I think.’

‘Not large enough for drugs?’

‘Probably not. It wasn’t padded.’

Anita went, ‘She’s in on the scam. We’ve got to investigate her as well.’

I was firm with her. ‘One’s enough to be going on with. Let’s concentrate on him.’

‘All right. Now we know he lives in council property we can find out his real name. There must be lists of tenants.’

‘I expect he told the council he’s John Smith, like he told you. Maybe he really is John Smith.’

‘So? The name may not be so important, but we can check. One of my clients works in the council offices. She’ll help.’

Her enthusiasm lifted my spirits, weary as my legs were from trailing after city break man, or John Smith, or whoever he might be. ‘I’m wondering what he handed the woman in the pub.’

‘Blackmail money?’

‘I doubt it. Where would he get enough to pay her off as well as funding all his trips abroad?’

And she was like, ‘What’s your theory, then, wiseguy?’

‘He’s a private detective and she’s hired him to find out about her husband’s trips abroad. The envelope contained his latest report.’

‘That’s good, that’s very good, but wouldn’t she want to hear it from him rather than reading it later? I know I would.’

‘Maybe she’s just the messenger and the report is for someone else.’

‘That’s better, but if he’s in work as a detective what’s he doing drawing benefits and living in a council flat?’

‘Amateur detective.’

She screamed with laughter. ‘What — Lord Peter Wimsey? Miss Marple? You’ve got to be joking.’

‘Actually, I was — I think.’

‘Listen, my flower. Let’s sleep on this and meet up tomorrow and plan our next move. Have you spoken to Vicky yet?’