Something Wicked (5 page)

‘So, to be clear,’ he growled with a gruff hint of a Scottish accent, ‘you were in the house, you heard a “noise”’ – more bunny ears – ‘then
you and Mrs, er, Deacon came out of the house where you saw your car on fire.’

‘Right.’

‘And if you could repeat for me, in your own words, what you did then.’

What was it with police- and fire-types with their ‘in your own words’? Who else’s was he going to use?

Andrew gazed up towards the overcast clouds. He’d already been through this three times with various officers, police and fire, and now the main officer/marshal/ whatever he was, whose
name Andrew had heard and instantly forgotten, was having his go. At the far end of the road, the cable van was still parked, three workers crowded around drinking tea and gossiping. If Britain ran
on one thing, it was tea. Two things and it was gossip coupled with tea. The entire economy would come grinding to a halt if either was somehow outlawed.

So much for keeping his head down – this was supposed to be a quick in and out, deliver the report, don’t hang around and certainly don’t wait long enough for Stewart Deacon to
get home. So far, Mr Deacon was still to appear but the clock was ticking.

‘There was a hose on the garden,’ Andrew said, trying not to sound too exasperated with the whole thing. ‘I ran out of the house, grabbed it and put out the fire. Then I called
you – that’s pretty much all there is to it.’

The fire marshal’s pose became a full-on sugar bowl, both hands on hips, peeking over his shoulder towards Andrew’s smouldering car, which was being loaded onto a flatbed lorry with
a groaning heave of machinery and a beep-beep-beep in case the people five streets over didn’t know what had happened. Parked in front were two fire engines and a police car. Nice and
surreptitious. The case had become a true disaster.

The sugar bowl became a teapot again, foot tapping on the floor. If the marshal’s accent grew more Scottish – and therefore incomprehensible – with suspicion, then Andrew was
clearly prime suspect for torching his own car.

Andrew leant forward, straining to hear, even though the man was standing in front of him. ‘As best we can tell,
someone
poured some sort of accelerant – petrol, diesel,
lighter fluid, that sort of thing – over your bonnet and then threw a match over it. If you were going to blow up a car, then there are better ways. It’s too early to say how much, if
any, damage has been done to the actual vehicle, but as a minimum, it’ll need a new paint job.’

Behind him, the crane groaned with the strain of the car, before lowering it onto the back of the truck with a thump.

The marshal stopped to watch, before his hoarse growl started again. ‘We’ll take it away, look into things and come back to you. Did someone take your details?’

Andrew pointed towards one of the other officers. ‘Yes, your guy—’

‘Good, then someone will be in contact. One of our lot will sort you out with a number you can give to your insurance company. You probably know the drill.’ He raised a single
eyebrow conspiratorially, a gesture Andrew didn’t respond to. The marshal continued tapping his toe. ‘Private investigator, eh? I guess you’ve pissed a few people off in your
time?’

Andrew opened his mouth to reply but the man didn’t hang around, spinning and wrapping his thick coat tighter around himself before whistling towards one of his colleagues.

The moment he had told them he was a private investigator, their attitudes had changed – and not even subtly. Raised eyebrows, knowing glances and elbow nudges were just the start. In many
ways, he didn’t even blame them. If the roles were reversed, he’d be thinking the same too. ‘Oh aye, some private cop’s got too big for his boots and someone’s tried
to bring him down a peg or three.’ That’s why people like him were supposed to work in the shadows.

Violet hovered close by, peering up and down the road, no doubt wondering what the neighbours were going to think. She also kept trying to make eye contact with Andrew, telling him without words
that it wasn’t necessarily her son who had dashed out of the house in a strop and set fire to his car.

Poor Jack. Andrew didn’t know if the lad had thrown the match but he did know he’d have been annoyed too if some bloke had come into his house, apparently trying to break up his
parents, when he’d been a teenager.

As the marshal marched away, Violet took her opportunity, stepping quickly towards Andrew and lowering her voice. The breeze almost carried her words away but Andrew just about pieced together
her stage whisper.

‘He’s never done anything like that before,’ she said. ‘Honestly, if it
is
him, I’ll make sure he pays you back. We’ll sort something – just
don’t get the police involved. He’s only fifteen. Imagine how that’s going to look on a college or job application.’

Across the road, a figure had appeared at the window. The elusive Mrs McIntyre, no doubt. Andrew watched her watching him. She was an older woman with a perfect bob of permed grey hair, crossed
knees, and a recliner which faced the street. Mrs McIntyre continued looking both ways until she realised she herself was being spied upon. For a fraction of a second her eyes locked onto
Andrew’s, before she turned away again, gazing down the road towards the cable TV van.

Andrew didn’t know how to reply. Omitting something from a police statement was as bad as lying, and this would affect him the worst because it was his car to which someone had set
fire.

At the bottom of the driveway, one of the police officers realised Andrew had been ditched by the fire investigators and turned on his heels. He was some tall bloke in uniform with a posture
that suggested he’d spent his formative years strapped to a board.

‘Please . . .’ Violet hissed, before snapping back into a fake smile as the officer approached.

He nodded Andrew off to the side of the driveway, removing his notebook from his pocket and taking a deep breath. ‘So, Mr Hunter, I’m afraid it’s mainly bad news. We’ve
been up and down the street talking to neighbours but it appears nobody saw anything.’

It was typical that Mrs bloody McIntyre wasn’t having a nose when it might have been useful.

‘Anyway,’ the officer added, ‘we’ll take a proper statement but I may as well ask the obvious: is there anyone you know of who could have a grudge against you?’

Andrew glanced over the officer’s shoulder towards Violet Deacon. Her husband and son would be a good place to start.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

The officer nodded, making himself even taller. ‘We’ve got a few issues with staffing today but I can either make an appointment to come and visit you for a formal statement, or you
can drop into whichever station is convenient for you.’

Andrew could imagine the reception he’d get down the local nick: a few hours being dicked about in a waiting room with vague promises that someone would see him soon. That was better than
having someone poking around his apartment or office, though.

‘I’ll come to you,’ he said.

The flatbed lorry grumbled to life, before being revved mercilessly. You didn’t need to be a mechanic to know there was something a bit dodgy with the engine – although an actual
mechanic would likely come up with something slightly more precise than ‘yeah, it’s a bit wonky, pal’. Well, depending on the quality of garage.

The officer handed Andrew a business card, offered a ‘don’t-hold-your-breath’ look and then ambled back down the drive.

Instinctively, Andrew fumbled in his pocket for the keys to his car, ready to head back to the office, before realising the obvious.

As if he hadn’t had a bad enough morning, he was going to have to take a bus.

Andrew reached his office a little after lunchtime. As he bundled through the door, Jenny peered up from the desk, over her glasses, with the hint of a frown coupled with a
smile. ‘You look like you slept in a bush.’

‘It’s windy out.’ Andrew dropped his jacket over the back of his chair. ‘You won’t believe the morning I’ve had. First, Violet Deacon doesn’t mind that
her husband’s sleeping with prostitutes, then her shit of a son tried to set fire to my car.’

Jenny removed her glasses, the frown overtaking the smile. ‘Really?’

‘Well, I assume it’s her son. He stormed out because he said I was trying to break up his parents, then a few minutes later, my car was on fire. Don’t even get me started on
the buses. First, this old couple got on and started unloading a sodding picnic – sandwiches, tea in a thermos, cut-up pieces of apple. You name it and she dragged it out of her coolbox. Who
takes a coolbox on a bus? Then I had a bunch of lads on the back seat behind me going on about their various girlfriends. It’s like a different language nowadays. I thought they were in a
brass band, then it dawned on me what they meant by tromboning.’ Jenny grinned as Andrew hit his stride. ‘Oh, don’t think it won’t happen to you. One minute you’re
listening to the right music and having normal conversations, the next it’s like the dialect you know is medieval English – and
you’re
the one who’s somehow fallen
behind. They kept calling each other “Bruv”.’

Jenny bit her bottom lip, no doubt thinking he sounded like her dad, or another generic old person. She said nothing out loud, the dimple in her cheek offering its own retort.

She was out of the office-type receptionist clothes, wearing some sort of pinafore dress, like a throwback to the days of long, hot summers. Her long black hair hung around her shoulders.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘the phones have been quiet around here. Someone popped in earlier asking if we could test his wife’s toothbrush to find out if his son really is his
son but I told him we didn’t do that sort of thing.’

Jenny’s mobile phone began buzzing, accompanied by some poppish song Andrew didn’t know. She held it up, as if apologising for the ringtone pointing out what an old git he was.
Andrew turned on his computer and spun his seat away from her, pretending not to listen into her half of the conversation.

‘. . . All right, but I’m at work, I told you not to call . . .’

‘. . . I don’t know, sort yourself out . . .’

‘. . . I don’t care what you think. If you want to go, then go. You don’t need me there . . .’

‘. . . How many times do we have to go through this? We’re not going out . . .’

‘. . . So what if I stayed over? Look, I’m not having this conversation now and I’m not having it later. Just grow up . . .’

There was silence for a few moments. Andrew wasn’t startled by the fact Jenny was having an argument with someone – everyone did that, at work or not – but he was surprised at
the lack of edge in her voice. When she’d been putting it on the previous day to argue with Stewart Deacon, standing in front of his car, there was real venom in her voice. This time, there
was a simplicity: this is what’s happening, live with it.

After a few moments, Jenny spoke again, this time addressing Andrew. ‘Sorry about that.’

He turned to face her. ‘About what?’

‘That was this lad I know. He thinks we’re boyfriend-girlfriend, or whatever. I suppose we sort of are. I dunno what his problem is. I’ve told him not to call when I’m at
work but he’s a complete dickhead.’

Andrew opened his hands out. ‘Don’t worry about it. People’s personal lives don’t shut down just because it’s Monday to Friday, between nine and five. If you need
to deal with something, go for it.’

She shook her head. ‘I dunno what it’s like for you but lads are mental. You say hello, smile at them, ask them where they got their T-shirt and they think you’re joined at the
hip. No one’s up for a quick bit of fun any longer. You get to that point where you’re like, “all right, piss off, mate, I quite like my own bed, thank you very
much”.’

Andrew didn’t want to query what ‘quick bit of fun’ actually meant. In his mind, the words ‘young enough to be your daughter’ rang around, even though it
wasn’t quite true. She spoke as if she had no comprehension of what was appropriate. Still, hearing about young people being young kept him from feeling too old.

‘Sorry,’ Jenny repeated. ‘Anyway, I did the usual check on our client.’

That was the other thing Andrew insisted upon: if they took on a case that had any merit, they not only looked into the person they were supposed to be investigating, but they did a general
check of the client too. The last thing any of them wanted was a nasty surprise along the line.

‘Most of it, you’ll already know,’ she added, putting her glasses back on. ‘Richard Carr worked as a risk account manager for an insurance company before retiring six
years ago. I’m guessing he made a fair few quid from that and his credit report is healthy. He’s married and lives out Prestwich way with his wife, Elaine.’ She peered over her
glasses at him, checking he was keeping up. ‘Elaine’s his second wife, by the way. He divorced his first wife, Carol, nineteen years ago and married Elaine eighteen years back – a
week before Nicholas was born.’

Another glance over the glasses, the implication clear: there was every chance his wife-to-be was pregnant at the time Richard had been married to his first. Jenny swirled her hand in the
air.

‘Blah, blah, blah . . . elected as a councillor three years ago, a bit left on his mortgage but not much, decent pension. He’s not mega-rich but not poor either.’

She shuffled through the papers on her desk, muttering to herself. ‘I’ve printed out some of the news reports from the time—’

‘Aah.’

Andrew interrupted her but Jenny grinned back, already a step ahead.

‘I know, I know – you want a clean investigation without knowing too much of what might have gone before, but there are a few pieces of information I’m going to have to give
you.’

Andrew returned her smile. It was true that he preferred to ignore as much of any previous investigation as he possibly could. Part of that was for practical reasons – he had no right to
read police reports – but it was also impossible to know how much of a news report was true. He could seize upon an inconsistency in a piece of journalism, only to find out the reporter had
got the wrong end of the stick. Or just made it up: you never knew with these journalist types. Either way, if possible, it was better to talk to people himself and make his own judgements.