The Love Detective: Next Level Read online

  Also by Angela Dyson

  The Love Detective

  Copyright © 2019 Angela Dyson

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1838596 934

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This one is for my sister, Claire Dyson.

  With much love and thanks for everything, Clairabella!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty- Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter One

  Evidently, I wasn’t making a good impression.

  The woman sitting across the desk from me flicked a dismissive eye over the one neatly typed page of A4 paper that makes up my CV.

  “I’m afraid that we have nothing for you,” she sniffed, looking again at my resume, “because, as I’m sure you’ll agree, it is rather thin.”

  Harsh, I thought, but basically true. So, all right, at the age of twenty-six, I wasn’t exactly what you might call a high-flyer, but she must have something for me.

  “I believe that your last temping job for us was cut short after only three days.” There was an edge of enquiry to her tone. “The notes we have on file are rather unclear as to the reason for this.”

  I winced at the memory. Things had been going pretty well at the marketing company in Victoria, until a somewhat unfortunate incident involving my take-out cup of Grande Latte and a computer server. Apparently, there’s something in a double shot of caramel syrup that doesn’t quite agree with all its delicate little components. The system went down for two days with many thousands of pounds of potential business lost, I was informed by the managing director as he personally escorted me from the premises.

  I cleared my throat. The woman was awaiting an answer.

  “I was so efficient that I dispensed with the company’s workload in record time.”

  Hoping that this would be enough to satisfy her, I flashed what I like to think of as a frank and engaging smile. She didn’t smile back. In fact, she appeared to be growing testier by the minute. Well, I reflected, I’d probably be out of temper too if I’d got up that morning and actually chosen, of my own free will, to wear a heavily ruched tunic top in a particularly bilious shade of green. It would be enough to ruin anyone’s day.

  I took a swift glance at the laminate badge bearing the name Marion that was pinned to the offending tunic, and then widened my eyes at the accompanying slogan which promised that she was Here To Help. When was she going to begin? By her manner of barely suppressed irritation, I was guessing that it wouldn’t be any time soon.

  “I only need a couple of days a week, Marion, to fit in with my waitressing shifts.”

  I did my best to look bright and responsible and waited expectantly.

  Marion sighed and sat back, tapping one of her long synthetic nails on a pile of folders.

  “Part-time work is always much sought after, especially here in Wimbledon. And of course, we have plenty of other applicants. What is it about you that makes you different? Something that would incline me to put you forward as a candidate over all the rest? What’s your USP?”

  My what? What was she talking about? What does USP stand for? Unusual Sexual Practices? I think I’m relatively normal in that department but how could I ever be sure? I made a mental note to ask the very next guy I slept with. Come to think of it, it was a very interesting question and one that deserved further consideration, but it did seem a bit odd somehow to have it asked by a recruitment agent.

  “Hmm,” I faltered.

  “Never mind,” she said, and the nail tapping upped a level. “Let’s look at it from the other way around. Let’s consider your weak points.”

  I opened my mouth, about to explain that I wasn’t a big fan of routine, that I didn’t like taking orders and wasn’t a particularly organised person, when it occurred to me that this might be a trick question.

  “Well,” I floundered, “I’m very flexible and I’m… um… good with people.”

  I attempted another winning smile. “People like me.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “They do?”

  “Yes,” I added firmly, because that was just plain rude. “Usually they do.”

  There was a pause as we eyed one another, and I decided to give it one last shot.

  “I have recently developed some new skills.”

  The nail tapping stopped for an instant as she again looked at my CV.

  “No,” I explained, “it’s not on there. It’s not really the sort of thing that…” I hesitated. I was on the verge of telling her just how much I’d learnt in the last couple of weeks from my first stab at private investigating, or what the more narrow-minded may refer to as poking my nose into other people’s business, when I broke off. What was the point? Somehow, she didn’t strike me as the kind of person likely to be stirred by tales of stake-outs and surveillance. I got to my feet.

  “Forget it. I doubt you’d consider the experience relevant. Anyway, you have my number.”

  From her look of relief, it was clear that we were neck and neck in our desire to bring the interview to a close. As
I headed for the door, Marion called out, “I don’t hold out much hope.”

  I turned back. Was she still speaking to me? No, I decided. She was merely expressing her own view of the world. Must be the influence of the tunic.

  *

  I stepped out into the warmth of a beautiful May morning and strolled up the hill towards home, resolving to put all thoughts of my pitiful lack of office experience out of my mind. Here I was on a Friday, feeling the sun on my face and the sense of freedom that comes from knowing that I didn’t have to answer to some ego-inflated jerk of a boss. I liked my ad hoc lifestyle. I had my waitressing shifts and still some slack on my credit cards and so, all in all, life was pretty good. And as for getting another part-time job or landing my next assignment, well, something would no doubt turn up.

  Something did. And much sooner than I could ever have expected.

  Chapter Two

  As I let myself into the house, I could hear the phone ringing. Dashing into the sitting room and flinging aside my bag, I made a grab for it whilst simultaneously trying to shrug myself out of my jacket.

  “Clarry? It’s Tara.”

  “Hi, Tara. How are you?” I asked distractedly into the receiver, whilst struggling to free my left arm from my sleeve. Tara is one of my fellow waitresses at Abbe’s Brasserie and, although we occasionally work together, we hadn’t particularly struck up a rapport and had never gone out together socially. I waited for her to continue.

  “Is there a shift you want me to cover for you?” I finally asked, presuming that was the reason for the call. “I can probably help you out.”

  “No. No, nothing like that,” she offered hesitantly. “It’s just that… well… you know what a talker Ian is.”

  I certainly did. My co-worker, Ian, or Iris as he prefers to be known, is one of my best friends. He’s wildly irreverent and utterly indiscreet. I adore him. He, in his turn, is very fond of me and I don’t think the fact that he also has size eight feet and can borrow my silver sling-backs for his drag queen act at the Jezebel Club, has anything whatsoever to do with it.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Once he gets started, it’s almost impossible to shut him up.” I finally managed to yank my arm clear and sank down onto the sofa. “So, what’s he been on about now?”

  “It’s just that he mentioned,” Tara sounded a little embarrassed and I wondered what was coming next, “just in passing conversation, that you undertake private investigations, and so, I wanted to know if you could take on a job for a friend of mine.”

  Typical Ian! He’d played a minor part in my recent adventures as a first-time amateur sleuth and now he was setting himself up as my agent.

  “Actually, what he did say,” continued Tara, “was that although a highly experienced investigator, you keep the waitressing on as a cover story.”

  I bit back a laugh at the absurdity of his exaggeration. I’d had one case, very nearly screwing it up.

  “Tara. Listen,” I protested, “Ian is prone to, well, to be nice, let’s call it sensationalism, because in truth I haven’t much—”

  “Much time? That’s such a shame. But what if my friend could pay more than your usual fee? Do you think you could fit her in?”

  Fee? She had all my attention now.

  “Perhaps I might be able to squeeze something in. What’s the story?”

  “OK.” Tara sounded relieved. “My friend Caroline is worried about her sister.”

  From her delivery, she seemed to assume that this statement said it all.

  “And?” I encouraged.

  “Vanessa is younger than Caro and I, she’s twenty-one and recently she’s become involved with some people that…” She cleared her throat. “Well, the fact is, Caroline and her family are a bit concerned about the group she’s got herself mixed up with.”

  “What’s the problem with them? Are they into hard drugs? Or crime? Because if so, it’s not me you should be talking to, but someone who knows about these things—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” she cut in. “It’s just that her family don’t exactly approve of…”

  “Tara, my family have hardly ever approved of any of my friends and why on earth should they? You’re telling me that this girl is twenty-one and—”

  This time it was Tara who interrupted.

  “There’s more to it than that. I can’t really explain over the phone. Would you agree to meet Caroline and talk it over?”

  I thought for a moment. “Sure, if you think I can help.”

  “Great. Thanks so much. And I’ll be there too. Oh, and you’ll like Caro’s mother, Diana Maitland.”

  “Mother?” I yelped. “Who said anything about mothers?”

  Mothers, in my opinion, being one of life’s natural hazards, are best avoided. They can be very tricky to deal with. My own mother doesn’t exactly come highly recommended, so I know what I’m talking about.

  “You don’t happen to be free today, do you?” continued Tara, blithely ignoring my interjection, “because I’m seeing Caro this afternoon at Mrs. Maitland’s.”

  I held the receiver away and rested my head back against the sofa cushions, taking a moment to deliberate. It would probably prove to be a complete waste of time, but as I had nothing else planned for the next few hours, what did I have to lose by checking it out?

  “Fine with me,” I replied. “I’m not due at the restaurant until six. So yes, let’s do it.”

  “Right,” said Tara, “give me five minutes and I’ll call you back,” and she hung up.

  Chapter Three

  At three o’clock, I pulled into the long gravel drive of a grand double-fronted house in Wimbledon Village. Thick woody stems of a well-established wisteria clambered up the white stucco walls, its fountains of cascading lilac flowers stirring restlessly in the afternoon breeze. A pair of great stone urns flanked a flight of stone steps leading up to the front door. I parked my battered old Renault between a smart Volvo and something that was all black metallic lines and shiny chrome detailing and hoped it didn’t look too out of place. This family must be loaded, I thought, trying to smooth some of the creases out of the cream jacket that I’d flung over the black vest top and jeans I was wearing, in the unshakable belief that a jacket always gives a woman an air of confidence.

  I took the stairs at a trot and rang the bell. Almost immediately it was opened by a woman in her late fifties. She was wearing one of those fitted shift dresses that designers claim will serve you for any occasion. In this case, they were right. In a shade of soft caramel, expensively cut and teamed with low-heeled pumps, the look appeared relaxed and effortless but was clearly anything but. With her immaculately coiffured honey-coloured hair and a necklace of heavy linked gold gleaming dully around her throat, this woman was every inch the old-money Wimbledon Grandee. I was glad I’d decided on the jacket.

  “Hello, I’m Diana Maitland.” Her voice was low and perfectly pitched. “And you must be Clarissa? How kind of you to come at such short notice.”

  She extended a beautifully manicured hand.

  “Actually, everyone calls me Clarry.”

  “Clarry then,” she replied smoothly. “Do come in. We’re just about to have tea. I gather that you are a local girl?”

  “Yes, I’m just off the Ridgeway,” I answered, as I followed her across pink-veined marble flooring and into what I believe estate agents refer to as a Formal Reception Room. And formal it certainly was. High ceilinged, with a huge marble fireplace, it was decorated in tones of richly glowing honey and amber. There was an antique desk, fragile-looking tables with spindly legs and two long apricot velvet sofas. Perched upon a window seat that curved along the length of the southernmost wall, was Tara. Her lank hair, colourless face and slight body, bearing living testimony to the fact that it is possible to be too thin. Beside her sat a tall woman of about twenty-eight who appeared to have either g
ot dressed in a hurry or whilst undergoing a sudden outbreak of nerves. She had the look of a badly bound scrapbook, all wisps and patches of material; a flash of shirt poking out through the buttons of her long navy cardigan, a corner of hankie showing above the line of a pocket and her fine brown hair escaping the confines of a tortoiseshell clip.

  I greeted Tara, was introduced to Caroline Maitland and furtively dusted off the seat of my jeans, before taking my place on a high-backed chair proffered to me by Diana, who then sat down opposite me. Above her, on the wall, hung an imposing portrait of an elegantly dressed woman of some bygone age, squinting down her straight and disapproving nose as if certain that anything the forthcoming centuries could offer would never meet with her approval. I thought that in Diana, I could detect a family likeness, but I might have been wrong.

  “Will you pour, Caroline, please?”

  Dutifully, Caroline rose and approached a white clothed table, set with primrose and gold-ringed china. Now, my idea of tea is a mug of supermarket brand. Things, I could see, were done differently around here. There were platters of thin-cut sandwiches and a three-tiered cake stand bearing tiny little chocolate éclairs and something golden and sponge-like that oozed cream. In this display, as in the perfectly arranged spray of yellow roses on a nearby console table, the plumped-up scatter cushions on the sofas and the highly polished parquet flooring, the presence of an army of staff was felt, if not seen.

  Caroline handed us cups of fragrant tea and then indicated the sandwiches.

  “I won’t,” Diana demurred and then turned to me. “Do please, Clarry, help yourself.” The coolly assessing gaze she bestowed upon my generously proportioned size fourteen figure was not lost upon me. I hadn’t planned to eat anything but now, shooting her a dazzling smile, I stretched out and placed just two of the egg and cress crustless triangles on my plate. I wanted to save room for the cakes.

  “I trust that you have been enjoying this delightful weather, Clarry?”