Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“It’s up to you. I don’t want you to think you have to. You’re doing enough as it is, and I’ve already taken you away from the gallery once today.”

I could see that she did not relish the idea of going alone. I felt warmed by the fact that she wanted me with her. “I’ve already told you not to worry about that. This is far more important.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t. I’d like very much to go with you.”

Anna suddenly smiled. “If Marty knew where I was going, he’d love it. He’s a big fan of the old detective stories.”

“I’ve read one or two of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s,” I said. “I quite enjoyed them.”

“Marty’s into the American hard-boiled school. Chandler, Hammett. James M. Cain. All those.”

All things considered, I thought that was quite apt.

The Simpson Investigation Agency bore little resemblance to any of its fictional counterparts. The first-floor office in Finchley had neither the opulence of Holmes’s residence, or the seedy masculinity of the American private eye’s headquarters. Blandly anonymous, it could have housed anything from a double-glazing company to an insurance brokers. A selection of framed certificates proclaimed the usual obscure qualifications. Sitting at the desk in front of them, Simpson himself looked as though he would be more at home with tax returns than problems of detection.

He shook both my and Anna’s hands and told us to sit down. He was a balding, innocuous-looking man lost somewhere in his forties. A smell of aftershave and peppermint clung to him. He offered us tea or coffee, and seemed disappointed when we declined.

“Now, Miss... Palmer?” He looked at Anna enquiringly. She nodded. “I believe you want to locate your boyfriend.”

“That’s right.”

“And what’s his name, please?”

“Marty Westerman.” Anna fretted with her hands as she told Simpson about Marty’s disappearance. He made notes on a printed sheet of paper, waiting until she had finished before asking any questions. He wrote her answers down diligently.

“Have you a photograph?”

Anna fetched a small snapshot out of her bag. I looked at it jealously, but it was only of Marty. He attached it to his notes with a paper clip.

“What do you think the chances of finding him are?” Anna asked. She looked and sounded nervous. Simpson pursed his lips.

“It’s difficult to say. From what you’ve told me, it looks as though he left deliberately. Why he went, and why he hasn’t been in touch, remains to be seen. It’s no good me even trying to guess. All I can do for now is try and trace his movements, find out who was the last person to see him, if anyone’s seen him since. I must warn you that I can’t promise anything, though. If anyone is really determined not to be found, then to be honest finding them’s pretty much a matter of luck.”

Anna was sitting on the edge of her seat, listening intently. “Do people normally come back in cases like this?”

Simpson gave an apologetic smile. “You can’t really make comparisons. If he just wanted some time to himself, then I’d say yes, there’s a good chance. But since we don’t know why he went in the first place, it’s best not to jump to any conclusions one way or another. I know it’s difficult for you, but I don’t want to raise your hopes too much at this stage. Let’s just see what we can find out, shall we?”

He stood up, offering his hand again. “You’ve given us enough to be going on with. If you’d like to have a word with the secretary in reception, she’ll give you details of the fees. I’ll get in touch with you in a few days to let you know what we’ve come up with.” He gave Anna a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll do our best.”

On the way out, I found myself hoping that their best would not be good enough. I could not see any way he might pose a serious threat. But at the same time, the irony of hiring someone to uncover the very thing I wanted to remain a secret was not lost on me.

I hoped I was not being too clever for my own good.

“You’re fucking joking!”

That was Zeppo’s reaction when I told him about the detective. It was not a task I looked forward to. I had not imagined he would be pleased. I was right.

“You’ve hired a private detective? Are you fucking mad, or what?”

“I didn’t really have any choice.”

“You didn’t have any choice? Jesus Christ, why don’t you just tell her what happened?”

“If you’ll calm down a moment I’ll explain.”

“Go on, then! Explain!”

I already had my argument prepared. “Anna was going to hire someone anyway. Since I couldn’t persuade her not to, I thought the best thing to do was offer to pay for it myself. At least this way I’ll know as soon as Anna does if he finds anything. Besides which, I hardly think anyone is going to suspect me if I’m paying for the investigation.”

I heard a thump as Zeppo hit something. I was glad I had chosen to tell him over the telephone. “This isn’t fucking Agatha Christie, Donald! We fucking killed someone, and now you’re trying to tell me you’re playing at psy-fucking-chology with a detective? Jesus Christ!”

“If we’re talking about taking risks, I hardly think you should be talking like that over the telephone.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! You’ve hired someone to find Marty, and you’re worrying in case someone’s tapping the fucking phone line? Oh, that’s a real risk, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think hiring a detective constitutes any real danger—”

“Well, I fucking do! Why didn’t you talk her out of it?”

“If you’d listen, I’ve already told you I tried! Would you rather I objected so much it began to look as if I had a reason?”

“You didn’t have to go with her, though, did you?”

“I’ve already explained—”

“Don’t give me that shit! All right, so you thought it’d be a good idea to pay for a detective. You could still have let her go by herself! You didn’t have to hold her hand while she saw him, did you? Now, instead of just being Anna’s boss, you’ve connected yourself to Marty! Whether you like it or not, you’ve made yourself part of that dickhead’s investigation! How can you be so fucking stupid?”

To be honest, that had not actually occurred to me. But I was not going to admit it to Zeppo. “I still think you’re overreacting. I can’t see how he can possibly begin to suspect either of us.”

“Why take the fucking chance, for Christ’s sake?”

“Apart from anything else, it puts Anna under an obligation.”

“An obligation’? How much of a fucking obligation do you think she’ll be under if she finds out you had her boyfriend clubbed to death?”

“It won’t come to that.”

“It better fucking not. Because if I go down, you go down! And if it’s because of your fucking stupidity, you better hope the-police get to you before I do, you know what I’m saying?”

“I think I get the general gist, yes.”

“You’d better. And in future, if you get any more bright ideas, I want to know about them first. Okay?”

I felt it was time to assert myself. “May I remind you who is paying whom?”

“I don’t give a shit. I don’t want you dropping any more surprises like this on me. And I want to know whatever the detective finds out, as soon as he tells you. Clear?”

I decided to let it go. I did not want to risk an argument at this stage. “Perfectly,” I said, icily.

“Good. Ring me when you hear anything.” He hung up.

Infuriated, I banged down the receiver. But then, as I thought about what Zeppo had said, I felt a vague unease. I had miscalculated. I thought that going to see the detective with Anna was the best course of action. Now I was no longer so sure. And also, at the back of my mind, was the nagging fear that if I had overlooked one thing, there could be others. It did not make for pleasant thinking.