Isabel Wolff - Out of the Blue

‘Or entering a hotel with her.’

‘Oh God.’ I felt sick.

‘Or seeing his car parked outside her house. So I ask you, as I ask all my matrimonial clients, to give that serious thought. Will you be prepared for such … unpalatable images, Mrs Smith?’ he enquired. I heaved a sigh.

‘Yes. I think I will.’

‘In that case my fees are forty pounds an hour exclusive of VAT, fifty-five pounds for evening work, with any expenses on top, plus petrol which I charge at a very reasonable eighty-five pence a mile. Now,’ he went on, ‘do you just want the basic?’

‘What does that involve?’ I enquired.

‘I trail your husband to work and wait in my car, with my small but powerful camera at the ready. Wherever he goes, I won’t be far behind, going snap, snap, snap!’

‘Isn’t there a danger that he’ll spot you?’

‘Mrs Smith,’ said Ian Sharp patiently, ‘what do you notice about me?’

‘Notice?’ I said, dumbfounded. ‘Well, nothing, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What distinguishing features do I have?’

‘Well, none that I can see, really.’

‘How tall am I?’

‘Er … medium.’

‘What sort of frame do I have?’

‘Well, you know … normal. Not fat, not thin.’

‘Pre cisely !’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Mrs Smith, I am totally nondescript!’ he went on proudly. ‘I am very ordinary. I can pass undetected in a crowd. People do not clock me. They do not remember me. I am invisible in my averageness.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘I would not be picked out in a line-up.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘My appearance is dull and hum-drum.’

‘Well … ’

‘Which means, Mrs Smith,’ he went on confidently, ‘that your husband will be oblivious to my presence. May I add that in fifteen years as a private investigator, I have not been spotted once. Mind you,’ he added, ‘these men are usually so wrapped up in their assignations that they don’t notice me trotting along behind. But there I am, Mrs Smith. There I am.’

‘Right. Well, good.’

‘So that’s the basic search. What we call the Bronze Service. However, you can have a more sophisticated service, the Silver Service, in which I wear … ’ He suddenly opened his jacket with both hands, revealing what looked like a bullet-proof waistcoat. ‘This!’

‘Er … ’

‘This is a body-worn harness in which there is a concealed video camera. Can you see the camera, Mrs Smith? Can you? If so, kindly tell me where it is.’

‘Er, no,’ I said truthfully, ‘I can’t.’

‘It’s here,’ he said, pointing to a tiny pin on the lapel. ‘There is a lens hidden in this pin, which is mere microns thick.’

‘Good Lord!’ I said.

‘Now, if you want video footage, this is what I’ll use, but surveillance equipment of this kind is pricey so that’ll add another ninety-five pounds a day.’

‘I see.’

‘We could also use this.’ He picked up a briefcase and slapped it on the desk. ‘This is a recording briefcase, Mrs Smith. I could have it placed in a cupboard in your husband’s office; inside is a powerful radio mike – extremely sensitive – which would pick up any sweet nothings he cared to murmur down the phone.’

‘I see.’

‘And if you want the Full Monty Five Star No Holds Barred Gold Service – well, then that’s going to involve four of my colleagues following your husband full-time, detailing his every move. Mrs Smith, he would not be able to scratch his backside without me and my lads knowing about it.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Nor do I, Mrs Smith, nor do I. I think the Bronze Service will be more than adequate for your purposes. Now,’ he added, ‘do you have any idea what this other woman looks like?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a clue. And I can’t find out surreptitiously, from Peter, because he denies that he even knows her.’

‘I see. Have you got a photo of your husband?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I produced a recent snap.

‘How tall is he?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard to tell from this.’

‘About five foot eleven, and he weighs thirteen stone. No, he’s lost weight recently, so I guess he might be only twelve. His hair is sandy, as you can see, and he has a fair, lightly freckled complexion.’

‘And what time does he leave for work?’

‘He goes at about eight fifteen and gets the District line to Embankment; then he walks to his office in Villiers Street, where he works on the seventh floor.’

‘Make of car and registration?’ I told him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m on the case. But first, I need the usual deposit of five hundred pounds up front.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I said as I opened my bag. ‘I can give you a cheque right now.’ As I wrote it out I mentally thanked Lily for her wonderful help.

‘Mrs Smith,’ said Sharp as I reached for the door handle. ‘One last question. Have you decided what you’ll do if your suspicions do prove to be correct?’

‘What I’ll do?’

‘Yes. What course of action you’ll take.’

‘Action? Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’

‘Well, with respect, Mrs Smith, I think you should try and work out what your attitude to his adultery would be.’

‘To his adultery?’ I repeated. What a horrible word. ‘It would be totally unacceptable,’ I said.

‘So to recap,’ I said with professional brightness, ‘a typical February day … ’

‘Terry, don’t pick your nose … four, three … ’

‘With a thick bank of heavy cloud … ’

‘Tory leadership next … ’

‘Sitting over most of the country … ’

‘Two, one … ’

‘And this is known, rather depressingly … ’

‘Oh Christ! Where’s the piece about William Hague?’

‘As anti-cyclonic gloom.’

‘I don’t know – who’s got the tape?’

‘So not the slightest chance of sunshine at the moment, I’m afraid.’

‘Find it!’

‘Especially in Chiswick.’

‘ What? ’

‘And there may be wintry showers in the south-east later on.’

‘I can’t.’

‘So have your brollies handy – just in case.’

‘Oh God, fill, Faith! Fill, fill FILL!’

‘And talking about brollies,’ I went on, ‘we all know that it can rain cats and dogs … ’

‘A minute and a half please, Faith.’

‘But did you know it can sometimes rain frogs and fishes, too?’

‘Well done.’

‘Yes, here’s a little-known Freak Weather Fact for you. Everyone knows that those great big cumulonimbus clouds bring thunderstorms.’

‘Do we?’

‘Well, sometimes you get tornadoes forming out of the bottom of them.’

‘God, I think I’ve got a tornado in my bottom! I had a nuclear curry last night.’

‘And if these little tornadoes go over a pond, they actually suck up the frogs and fish.’

‘Get away!’

‘Then, when the storm moves away, the tornado dies and the frogs and fish drop out of the sky.’

‘Streuth!’

‘There have even been instances of it raining Dover sole along the Thames.’

‘You don’t say. OK Faith, in three, two … ’

‘But fortunately this is a rare occurrence.’

‘And zero. Thanks.’

‘See you in half an hour.’

As I made my way back to the office, I saw a copy of Bella magazine on the planning desk. ‘Is Your Husband Playing Away?’ screamed the headline. As usual these days, when I see anything about infidelity I grab it and read it right through. There were some dreadful stories about women finding alien suspenders in the laundry basket, or coming home to find their husbands in flagrante with the au pair. Then there were accounts of the nightmare scenario in which the Other Woman decides to spill the beans. Shirley from Kent found a note on her windscreen from her husband’s mistress, and Sandra from Penge had the Other Woman phoning her up to confess. I was immediately filled with horror at the thought that Jean might do that to me. In my mind’s ear I could hear her, threatening me in an accent which for some reason I’d decided was not so much Miss Jean Brodie as Irvine Welsh: ‘Noo, yew listen to me, lassie,’ she was saying menacingly, ‘I’m in love with your husband!’