Transmutation

Case Three

Zac Tremble Investigates – Series One

By

Chambers Mars

Text Copyright© 2014

Chambers Mars

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

All Rights Reserved

Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – You turn your back for five minutes

Chapter Two – Steven

Chapter Three – ‘Lionel Tewksbury’

Chapter Four – Are you pleased to see me?

Chapter Five – Lionel Tewksbury

Chapter Six – Discoveries

Chapter Seven – Sunday showdown

Chapter Eight – Rocks and hard places

Epilogue

Author’s Note

'Transmutation' is the third 'Zac Tremble Investigates' story. It follows, 'Metamorphosis', the second, and 'Chrysalis', the first. These are case files of the gay, Soho-based PI Zachary Tremble. ‘Transmutation’ is available for download exclusively from The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique.

Zac is on the case of 'Lionel Tewksbury', a swindler who seems to be active again. The case introduces us, briefly, to DI Capsicum, and we come to appreciate Matt's fine qualities a little more. The upgrade of the office is completed and Mrs Chan goes undercover. It ends pretty well, Zac sells his painting, Lionel has a run in with a set of sharp teeth, Zac finds the heir 'Franks' and in the process, 'Paul', the street hustler, a possibly apprentice for Zac, though that sounds like the blind leading the blind!

The Zac Tremble Case Files are a barely plausible, sometimes farcical, occasionally operatic journey through Zac’s world; his highs and lows, successes and failures and the emergence of one of the most touching (and funny) love affairs in PI history (do PIs fall in love?).

A story about trying to work out who you really are.

This case file is followed by case file 4, ‘The Red Kimono’. There are twelve case files in series 1 (all published and slowly making their way over from Amazon to The Carter Seagrove Book Boutique). Four case files have so been published from series 2.

Chambers Mars can be found at:

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

I hope that you thoroughly enjoy the story and feedback is always welcome. Please email me or visit the website to find out what I’m working on next and to find out more about The Carter Seagrove Project; my collaboration with author Alp Mortal.

Thank you!

Chambers Mars

August 2014

Contact Information

www.carterseagrove.weebly.com

carterseagrove@outlook.com

www.alpmortal.weebly.com

www.chambersmars.weebly.com

alpmortal@hotmail.com

chambers.mars@gmail.com

Chapter One – You turn your back for five minutes

“Suspect is heading into ‘The Old Waggoner and Grey’, appears mightily pleased with himself … also appears to be sporting a new overcoat and shoes … stop.”

I’m taking into a voice-recorder which is in my pocket and the microphone is pinned to my lapel. This is in an attempt to be inconspicuous; yeah … like sitting in the window of a coffee shop, talking to your lapel, is considered normal by most people. I am not normal; I am ‘Zachary Tremble’!

The voice-recorder came as part of the upgrade initiative that Elizabeth embarked upon about four months ago. It started with my birthday, my thirty-first birthday. I got a mobile phone and a laptop, some towels, a new carpet for the office, a holiday to the Isle of Wight with George, mention in the credits of a porn flick, my self-portrait exhibited in the Kings Road, and, finally, a banker’s draft from Matts’ office for the princely sum of £16,750, it being my pay off from both ‘Porter’ and ‘Metamorphosis’.

This ‘haul’ had far reaching consequences, mostly in the form of a glass, steel and leather BDSM make-over of the entire office, along with a whiskey decanter and bottled water.

George and I had been to the Isle of Wight for a long overdue holiday. I came back, spring in the step and looking forward to seeing Elizabeth. The flaky, gold-leaf, stencilled sign on the door, ‘The Zachary Tremble Agency’, still welcomed me. That was all I recognised, save for Elizabeth. She’d had a bit of a make-over too; gone the crimplene and white lace collars, now sporting a smart, albeit tent-like, jacket and skirt, with a white blouse; a killer whale in drag.

“I’m looking for ‘The Zachary Tremble Agency’ …”

“Zachary!”

“Elizabeth?”

“Cheeky sod; of course it’s me! So?”

“Very … ‘corporate’, very … professional. What is that smell?”

“New leather, fresh paint, just laid carpet?”

“Uhm … Could be. Why, Elizabeth?”

“Zachary, we live in the 21st Century, our clients are savvy and though we don’t like to admit it, judge on appearances. This says, ‘trust our judgement, you can rely on our discretion’ …”

“Did anything survive the cull?”

“Uhm, the coat stand … apparently that’s ‘retro’; the angle-poise lamp on your desk, for the same reason, your father’s shoe horn and the photograph.”

The photograph to which she is referring, is the one of my father passing out of Hendon, aged nineteen. It’s my touchstone.

“Do we have any work to pay for this?”

“Whilst you and George were holidaying on the Isle of Wight, Matt’s office sent over a banker’s draft for £16,750.”

“Fucking hell! Sorry, but …”

“The inheritance was £675,000.”

“Who got it?”

“The-”

“Please don’t say it was the banker.”

“Paul, the builder.”

“Oh, excellent!”

“You have a call back to make. A young man by the name of ‘Alexander’.”

“Really? The porn star?”

“Matt has an ‘inheritor’ for you, and suggests you, ‘do lunch’, tomorrow.”

“I ‘do lunch’, now?”

“Apparently you also do, ‘unveilings of self-portraits’. This arrived.”

Elizabeth is waving an invitation to the unveiling of the painting. The gallery in the Old Kings Road, owned by George’s pal, is unveiling my self-portrait in two weeks’ time. It transports me back to the exhibition I attended with my father; a posthumous retrospective of my mother’s best work. I never appreciated her genius until that moment.

“She would have been very proud, Zac.”

I can’t speak for the lump in my throat and tears which threaten to ruin a new silk tie.

“Do we still have coffee or is it green tea from now on?”

“Go and settle back in and I’ll bring you a coffee. Phone ‘Alexander’; he sounded very upset.”

I wander into my office. I can’t call it ‘my father’s office’ anymore. Some bizarre noises are heard from the outer office and a minute later I’m handed a perfect macchiato.

“Thank you.”

“How’s George?”

“He’s fine. We had a great time. I can’t believe my luck.”

“As long as he appreciates your fine qualities … and Mrs Chan?”

“Looking ten years younger … so I have to ask Mavis for a refund. She’s revelling in the attention that George gives her and the breath is tolerable; the ‘carboniferous period’ appears to be over …”

“The what?”

“No longer producing greenhouse gases.”

“And you think George could be a stayer?”

“No complaints so far!”

“I’m really happy for you.”

“So, what else has been happening?”

My tone signals that I don’t mean the IT course.

“Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary; the usual ‘comings and goings’.”

“Elizabeth. I’ve known you my whole life. Now, come on; spill!”

“A perfectly civilised gentleman has taken a fancy to me and we’re enjoying each other’s company; enjoying it very much actually.”

“Good for you! Where did you meet?”

“On the IT course.”

“What’s his name?

“Leonard Teague.”

“Retired?”

“Retired, but still dabbles in some business or other. A perfect gentleman.”

I’m over-joyed and overcome for a second. Elizabeth has been such a big part of my life that she’s dearer to me than anyone else I know, even Joe and Matt. Not a mother; my father tried to be both mother and father. No; the best friend a boy could ever wish for. I guess I’ve become protective as I’ve got older, not overtly … but she is seventy- five.

“I’ll come to the course tomorrow and you can introduce me,” I offer.

“Excellent! We’re starting ‘social networking’ and ‘blogging’.”

Elizabeth goes back to her typing but like I always say, “what the fuck is she typing?” Perhaps it’s the 21st century version of ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ and typing is the equivalent of spinning straw into gold.

I call Alexander, the porn star I met at Errol Flintstock’s.

“Alex, what’s up?”

“Oh, Zachary, thank God you’ve called! Can I come in and see you?”

“Of course; any time today.”

“I’m coming straight over.”

Alexander arrives in a flourish. I didn’t see the ‘drama queen’ side of him at Errol’s. I got his elephant trunk-sized cock up my arse and a spunk shampoo and set.

“Oh, Zachary … so … ‘Devil wears Prada’!”

“Actually, I think she got it in Marks and Spencer’s …”

“The office?”

“No, the suit.”

“I meant the office, not Elizabeth!”

“We upgraded,” I explain, “What’s the problem?”

“It’s Granny …”

“AWOL?”

“No; but the money is disappearing and I think she’s being swindled out of her life savings.”

“Shit! Who by?”

“I don’t know. She’s being very closed and evading all of my questions.”

“Did you contact the Police?”

“Yes. And they said I have to give them more to go on. But … the Detective Inspector is a dream … James Capsicum!”

“I bet he is … and does! So, what do you want me to do?”

“Follow her and see who she’s fraternising with. It’ll be someone I don’t know, someone she’s met recently.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy-five. I wouldn’t have guessed that anything was wrong but she cancelled her subscription to Paris Match. I mean … you just don’t do that.”

I gather Alexander has inherited his ‘quality’ from his grandmother who, from the photograph, resembles Meryl Streep.

“Does she know you’re worried and possibly employing a private detective?”

“Oh, God, no! She’d be mortified.”

“When’s the best time to catch her?”

“She’s going to this IT course, over in Waterloo …”

“Oh, I bet it’s the same one as Elizabeth. I’m going tomorrow as it happens.”

“Great! Please don’t think I’m worried because I want her money. But if she starts wearing High Street fashion, then … well, you know where that leads.”

“Absolutely!”

“Thank you, Zachary.”

“I’ll charge you ‘special client’ rates … and report as soon as I’ve seen anything suspicious.”

“You’re a star. Uhm, I was just wondering …”

“Currently hitched and going strong …”

“Ah … good for you! Pedro has left me for a younger ‘up and coming’ star.”

“Up and coming?”

We snigger and Alex leaves, blowing kisses and complimenting Elizabeth on her Arum lilies.

“Elizabeth, I’m going to see Matt and pick up this ‘inheritor’.”

“Get a haircut and be back by four.”

“Why; what now?”

“You’re having your photograph taken by a professional; for the website and our brochure.”

“BROCHURE!”

“Zachary, image is everything. A smart appearance and a slick brochure will attract corporate clients. We deserve cases involving industrial espionage, international travel, hopping on the ‘red eye’ from New York to make that all-important report before a shareholders’ meeting … think ‘galactic’, Zachary.”

“I’m thinking padded cell and straight jacket. Aren’t we doing well enough?”

“Tracking down ‘the lost and clueless’; following old aged pensioners from the bingo to the chiropodist?”

“We cracked ‘Metamorphosis’!”

“That was more by luck than judgement. Your Father was ‘straight-jacketed’ by your Grandfather’s indoctrination of ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ … the old methods were the best because they were old …”

I’ve high-tailed it back into my office, suddenly feeling panicky and strangely, disloyal. All the gloss looks like the coat of varnish which hides the fact that the wood is unseasoned.

Chapter Two – Steven

I think Elizabeth knew that she had probably said too much because she stayed out of my office for a few minutes before appearing at the door.

“Zachary, I’m sorry …”

“It’s okay. You’re absolutely right. He wasn’t brave enough to face the future and he always did what Granddad told him to do.”

“He’s probably turning in his grave.”

“If he is, then it’s to get a better view.”

“I am sorry because I didn’t ask you first. I knew you’d dig in your heels, just like your Father did. We can change anything that you don’t like.”

“I like it all … and I love you more for thinking of me.”

It was her turn to high-tail it out of the office.

“Dad …”

“Zachary, lad.”

“We’ve upgraded and are going for broke; though I hope not literally.”

“You’re doing what I could never do. If your Mother had lived, she’d have changed a few things; I was always too stuck in my ways. The formula worked and I didn’t see any point in changing it. Like you, I felt disloyal if I ever did think about changing something … but I should have.”

“I’ve got a new case; sounds like a swindler.”

“Ah! Then take a gander at the ‘Lionel Tewksbury’ file.”

“Thanks, Dad; for understanding.”

“Don’t let her have all her own way!”

“Yeah, right!”

I defer picking up Matt’s case and the IT course is on Tuesday so I have some free time; not that I need it after the holiday. It’s not a break I need now; just a little time to mourn the passing of the old order.

“Elizabeth, I’m going out to get my hair cut. Can you order a new sign for the window please?”

I don’t wait for the reply or the reaction.

I love London. I never traipse around the streets; I wander … like I’m caressing a lover. I’ve never been to the other major cities in the world. Jesus! I’ve only been to Ibiza and the Isle of Wight. Dad and I never really took holidays; we always did ‘days out’ and often that meant getting dirty and poking our heads into some mechanical guts which belched soot and smelled of lead pencils.

I don’t need to pop back for the dog because the right royal little bitch is spending the day with George who is visiting his parents in Cheam. I said, ‘goodbye, sweetheart’ as I left this morning and she gave me a cursory glance like I was a member of her staff. Yeah; well, let’s see how long this perfect partnership lasts, ‘cos as sure as God made little apples and little shit machines, she’ll shit on the proverbial doorstep soon enough.

I head to the Kings Road and the gallery where my painting is being exhibited in two weeks’ time. The gallery owner, Steven, is a pal of George’s. We dropped the picture off before we headed to the Isle of Wight. It’s being unveiled in a fortnight, to some serious fanfare, judging by the invitation that Elizabeth was brandishing.

“Steven!”

“Zachary, good to see you. Did you see the invitation?”

“Yeah! Did you confuse me with Damien Hurst?”

“No sweetheart, you’re much more talented and good looking …”

I let that one sail over my head.

“… You’ve gotta decide how much you want to sell it for. I suggest £4,750.”

“I suggest you pop across the road to the optician’s. Who pays that for an unknown artist?”

“The Chinese, darling, or the Russians; better still if we can get a bidding war started …”

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly! You may have to get used to the idea, Zachary, that you’re a talented artist and you will be in demand. I hope you’ve got something else on the easel.”

“Uhm, yeah … a few shirts airing actually. I don’t believe this … and I won’t ever; probably.”

“I’m hoping, at some point, we can curate a joint collection of your work and your Mother’s …”

“She’d not just turn in her grave, she’d be over here and be having words with someone.”

“No doubt; most likely, ‘why the fuck didn’t you do this years ago?’”

I’m shaking and nodding my head like a nodding dog in the back of some chavette’s XR3i.

“I’m going for a cold shower and a reality check.”

“Zachary, seriously; get something else on the easel. There’s no law which says that ‘Zachary Tremble’ can’t be a successful artist and a private investigator. Sherlock Holmes played the violin.”

“He was a fictional character, Steven. That kind of thing only happens in books.”

“If we sell the portrait, what then?”

“Then I might believe that there is someone in London as stupid as me.”

“Right; well, if there is, you’ll be the richer of the two. Now go and get a new frock for the party and for God’s sake; don’t touch a hair on your head. It’s perfect right now.”

“I have a publicity shot today. Elizabeth said I had to get it cut.”

“The secretary?”

“Yes, my jailer. She’s like a stockbroker; her word is my bondage!”

“Just say you did.”

“She’ll check for clippings in my ears; like she used to when I was fifteen.”

I get the Picasso look and escape whilst my head still passes through the door. Seriously, I can’t take it in and as for a follow-up piece, what do I do; the dog?

Buying new clothes is as alien to me as selling pictures for five grand to Russian or Chinese collectors. Alexander can come and help me shop. What now? I go to the Saatchi for a dose of proper art and have a coffee. I’d talk to my mother, like I talk to my father, but I don’t know what her voice sounded like. I hear my father’s voice as clearly as if he were seated beside me. If you don’t know the sound of your mother’s voice, you’ll know what I mean … and how deep and painful that longing is.

Chapter Three – ‘Lionel Tewksbury’

George is taking Mrs Chan to the studio with him, ‘so she has company’. I don’t even get a look this morning; just a flick of the tail and a wink from the poop chute.

I go in to the office to review the headshots which were taken yesterday by Phil’, the photographer who actually knew my mother.

Elizabeth is wearing a string of pearls. She never wears jewellery, except for my mother’s watch, which my mother bequeathed to her.

“Elizabeth, you’ve got a string of pearls around your neck!”

She looks as uncomfortable as the person who ‘drops one’ in the packed lift.

“They were a gift from Leonard,” she finally admits.

“Christ; this is serious! Has he, you know, mentioned …”

“No, nothing like that yet. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

“I meant marriage, not sex!”

“Oh … no, but you know, a girl can harbour hopes.”

I’m bewildered as much as I’m pleased and decamp to my BDSM cell where I review the photographs. If a seventy-five year old woman still harbours hopes of a knight in shining armour riding a white steed and whisking her off her feet, then there’s something good left in the world. I choose a photograph and Elizabeth approves it.

“The brochure is being done by George and printed by Prentice. The sign is being put up tomorrow. You have lunch with Matt and we’re leaving at four o’clock for the course.”

“I need the ‘Lionel Tewksbury’ file; the swindler that Dad investigated. He seems to think it’ll shed some light on Alexander’s Gran’s situation.”

“Very good.”

It still feels like we’re acting this out … but wasn’t that what Dad had said; act the part?

I call Matt to confirm where we’re meeting and apparently, we’re ‘doing lunch’ at Justin’s new café in The Strand.

“How was the Isle of Wight?”

“Perfect!”

There’s a moment of rapid processing, masked by a sip of the wine.

“Great! So, ‘Darren Franks’ …”

“The ‘inheritor’?”

“Yes; this one is a little different to the usual. We know who should get the money; ‘Darren Franks’, but he’s AWOL. His father kicked him out of the family home and hadn’t had any contact with Darren right up to the moment he died.”

“How long ago did he kick him out?”

“Five years, when Darren was fifteen.”

“Why?”

“Rumour has it that Darren told him that he was gay.”

“Why has he left Darren the money?”

“Guilt, most likely.”

Matt gives me a photograph of Darren, taken when the lad was fifteen, a school photograph. He’s an angel.

“Did he try to find him, before he died?”

“A half-hearted attempt, it drew a complete blank."

“How much is the fee?”

“It’s a fixed fee, not a percentage … five grand.”

“Wow! Okay, I’ll take it.”

“I got an invitation to the ‘unveiling’.”

“It’s a joke!”

“It’s pretty amazing.”

“Yeah, well, the bubble will burst when someone wakes up and asks why the Emperor is naked.”

“What else you working on?”

“A swindle case, no firm details yet. Client is worried that his grandmother is being swindled out of her life savings. I’m gonna follow her for a bit and see who she’s meeting and assess the case then. She goes to the same IT course as Elizabeth and I’m going along today to see the old girl and start trailing her.”

“In disguise?”

I laugh, but the suggestion is actually quite sensible.

“I haven’t thought about that.”

“If you meet her at the IT course, then you’ll have to keep a low profile; if you’re following her.”

We finish lunch and have a celebratory drink with Justin to wish him well in the new venture.

“Congratulations and good luck!” I wish him.

“It’s all down to you, Zac. You found me and got me the money.”

It’s the pay-off I prefer; not the one where I’m potentially getting a wad of notes thrust into my hand for a bit of paint daubed onto canvas. Justin is realising his dreams.

I go back to the office to get ready for the course.

“So … I’ll meet Leonard.”

“If he’s there. He’s quite busy with business at the moment.”

“Well, let’s go!”

We head off to Waterloo and the IT course that Elizabeth booked for us both after she bought me the laptop for my birthday. I’ve managed to avoid going thus far but it isn’t a bad idea. Changing the colour scheme of my ‘Gaydar’ profile is one thing; navigating the social networking landscape is quite a different matter.

Once we arrive, it’s just as I’d feared; the course is chocker with silver surfers and I’m the youngest by at least a generation. I clock Alex’s gran, the Meryl Steep lookalike but Leonard is absent. Elizabeth is visibly disappointed.

“When are you seeing him?”

“Tonight, for supper.”

“Well, there you go.”

“I wanted you to meet him.”

“You don’t need my approval, Elizabeth.”

“I wasn’t asking for it.”

But I knew she was.

“When you see him later, invite him for Sunday lunch. We’ll all go out.”

This puts a smile back on her face. At the break, she introduces me to Alex’s gran, whose name is Petunia Majors … a Meryl Streep lookalike, dressed in Dior and with the manners of Penelope Keith. We deliberately keep contact to a minimum because I will be trailing her and I certainly don’t want her to know that I’m an investigator. She thinks Elizabeth is a retired school teacher from Mile End.

“Why didn’t you tell her that you worked for the agency?” I pose at the end of the break.

“Discretion is the better part of valour, Zachary. I like to keep my powder dry.”

I don’t wish to know what or how. And she hasn’t told Leonard either; apparently she never tells anybody … and never did.

An hour and a half of social networking leaves me strangely suicidal and I’m relishing the chance of following Petunia. We bid each other farewell and I notice that Petunia is taking the bus towards Victoria. Alexander said that she lives in ‘Ebury Mews’, so it looks like she’s going home. I grab a cab to get there before her.

My supposition was right and she was on her way home. After clocking her going through the front door, I wait for a while, just to see if anyone comes-a-calling. After an hour, an elderly gentleman turns into the mews and stops outside her door. It looks like he’s garnering some strength, definitely composing himself and then he presses the bell. After a few moments, he’s admitted.

I wait, trying to look nonchalant. Having a dog at this point would be a great prop. Jesus, I’ve found a fucking use for the old flea bag after all!

After an hour, the guy leaves and heads out of the mews, hailing a cab the first chance he gets. I’ve seen enough to recognise him again, enough to describe him to Alex and ascertain if the guy is a ‘this season’ or a ‘faithful classic’. I get the bus back and suddenly realise that it’s nearly eight-thirty.

“George,” I holler, as I enter the flat, “I’m sorry I’m so late …”

The dog hasn’t moved out of her basket. She’s languishing in it like the Queen of fucking Sheba, and giving me the look that says, ‘you’re in so much fucking trouble; dinner is ruined and he’s gone to the pub.’

He was in the shower.

“Honey, hi, I’m sorry I’m late …”

“Don’t worry, we can order pizza.”

We kiss, and I’ve never kissed a guy like this before; a sweet, welcome home kiss at the end of a day’s work. It thrills me.

“I would have called but I had someone under surveillance.”

“Crikey, really?”

“Uhm, yeah … a prospective swindler. Anyway, didn’t you eat already?”

“I just grabbed a snack.”

He’s lying. I know he cooked and it got ruined. So why doesn’t he have a go at me? No-one is that nice.

“Shall we whisk Mrs Chan out before we settle down?”

“Already did.”

“Oh. Great! So, what do you want to do?”

“Need you ask …”

I know this is going to sound really ‘fucked up’ but, if I’ve done something wrong, I expect to get slapped for it and then we move on. By not telling me off for being late without a call, I feel … Christ, I can’t think of the word; on the one hand, guilty and on the other, patronised. When I was a nipper and did something wrong, my dad, Joe, or Elizabeth, clipped me round the ear and that was that; over and done with. Now I have something that will fester like sweaty socks; discarded and kicked behind the laundry basket.

This doesn’t stop me getting a good seeing to or giving as good as I get. Every little angst ridden sperm is so keen to see the bright lights of the big city that most get a ride in the tunnel of love; a few find the back of his throat and get swallowed, along with the guilt.

“You were so fucking hot tonight!” George exclaims.

“You turn me on and make me feel so fucking good,” I reply.

“Under-cover work obviously does it …”

“I’ll be doing a lot more if this chap turns out to be a swindler.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Jesus; I hadn’t even thought about that. My father had a career in the Met’ to fall back on if things got hairy. I have a somewhat pert arse to fall back on … and not much else.

“Perhaps I should take karate lessons,” I suggest, though hardly seriously.

“Well, if this guy has some heavies, you need something.”

It puts me in a thoughtful mood. I fall asleep, dreaming of being roughed up by a couple of goons and I’m woken by screams and threats of bodily harm.

“What the fuck?”

George is absent from the bedchamber. I get an inkling of the circumstances that have led to this outburst when a chew toy gets lobbed and thuds against the bedroom door. It’s poetic. She’s chewed the corner of his laptop bag.

“What did I fucking say?” George is screaming, “That’s Marc Jacobs, you fashion terrorist! Fucking hell; that was a special colour!”

I wander into the kitchen and Mrs Chan spies me and hopes I’m her ‘port in a storm’.

“Don’t fucking look at me. Wouldn’t even get out of the basket last night … treated me like something you found on the sole of your shoe … payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“Look … ruined,” sobs George, handling the said laptop bag like a dead infant.

“I’d suggest making one out of her but she’s of more use to me as a ‘prop’ at the moment. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“They don’t do this colour anymore … it matches the piping on my iPhone cover.”

More sobbing. George leaves, inconsolable; carrying the laptop in a shopping bag.

“So, my little princess, how’s the fall, break anything on your way down?”

My princess is not one to feel remotely guilty of course and she finishes the job she started.

I head in and call Alex.

“Yes, I did. An older gentleman … looks like Bruce Forsyth.”

It is not someone that Alex knows and I plan to follow the old chap and see what he’s up to. Elizabeth brings me the ‘Tewksbury’ file in which there is a photograph, of ‘Lionel Tewksbury’, and, accounting for the passage of time, it’s the same bloke. I close my door to concentrate, seeing as the signage guy has arrived to put the sign on the office door. He’s shit hot and packed like a bag of grapefruits.

Lionel Tewksbury was an ace swindler. Preying on the lonely, old and rich and alleviating them of bags of cash. According to the file, the scam was a ‘South Sea Bubble’, fake investment ‘opportunity’, investing in something called the ‘Transmutation Investment Fund’. The fund invested in a company which claimed to be able to turn carbon into iron, using a revolutionary microbiological culture, the process having been discovered in ancient Chinese writings. All a complete load of bollocks of course but Lionel swindled hundreds of thousands of pounds out of the unwary investors. Of course, it should be remembered that this was donkey’s years ago when money was worth something.

I’m wondering if he’s trying to do the same thing again. He, Lionel, got off on a technicality the first time round and disappeared to Spain, leaving a cohort, Bushell, to carry the can. He, Bushell, died in prison.

I call Alex back.

“See if she’s investing in a new company; in particular, one which claims to be able to convert carbon into iron. The man I saw was a suspected swindler in one of my father’s earlier investigations. This ‘Lionel’ guy, if that is his real name, got off last time.”

Alex feels better for having something to do, save worry and repeatedly exfoliate. The ideas of both a disguise and some protection give me the perfect excuse to speak to Dad.

“Be careful round that slimy bugger, Zachary, lad. Don’t get a gun; it’ll ruin your jacket lining. Get a truncheon, easier to hide and doesn’t make so much noise! As for a disguise, I’d say a tramp, ‘Lionel’ won’t look twice and he’s a superior bugger; brilliant brain, corrupted by an early association with the whiskey bottle.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem; any time. As I recall, ‘Lionel’ had a lady friend, upon whom he lavished a lot of the ill-gotten gains. She was innocent but ended up in Bedlam. She might remember something. Her name was ‘Cybil Fox’.”

Dressing as a tramp is easier than falling off of a log … and I have the perfect prop! I’m still concerned about carrying a weapon. I abhor violence of any kind but if there are goons involved, then I’d be stupid to plough in without something. I also need a discreet voice recorder and a camera; though the phone has an in-built camera.

If this is acting the part, then I don’t feel so bad about it anymore. Actually, it’s quite fun … until I remember that Alex’s gran is probably handing over her life savings to this piece of shit. I wonder who he’s lavishing the money on this time?

Whilst I cogitate this, I apply some thought to ‘Darren Franks’, the now twenty year old man whose father kicked him out for being gay and who is now in line for his father’s money. An hour’s thought draws a complete blank on that front. However, as fortune favours the brave and the depraved, I log on to check my ‘Gaydar’ messages and ‘tracks’, and low and behold, I inadvertently click on a profile of a guy who, in his description, rather naughtily mentions the escort agency he works for. Now, you’re fifteen and on the streets; a dead ringer for the Angel Gabriel. How are you going to survive?

Five years on and still selling his arse. I’d like to think he isn’t but it’s the only lead I’ve got.

I’m energised all of a sudden and need fresh air. I also need to catch up with Lionel somehow; and do I go see this Cybil woman who’s in a mental institute?

I head out and Elizabeth informs me that Leonard would love to join us for lunch on Sunday and suggests the carvery in Willesden which was the scene of my father’s proposal of marriage to my mother over some beef brisket and fried onions.

Chapter Four – Are you pleased to see me?

If I am going to pick up Lionel, then I need a disguise and I head home to see what’s left in the wardrobe of my father’s stuff. A veritable tramp’s delight; old and musty, too big and non-descript. I should have got rid a long time ago but I couldn’t bear to be left with nothing. I don an old suit, shirt and tie and brogues but they still look too clean so I pop them into Mrs Chan’s basket for ‘authentication processing’ and whilst I’m at it, I hoike out an old truncheon of Dad’s; a fearsome beast which has a brighter future ahead of it now.

‘Tomorrow, sweetheart, you’re on the job. No special training required; just be yourself … and I’ll thank you not to destroy any more of George’s things. That was wicked and I’m deducting the cost of the replacement from your salary.”

It’s not paying attention; it’s having way too much fun chewing off buttons and wiping it’s tush over the surface of the short-brimmed Fedora that Dad always wore. It’s sacrilege in some respects.

I head out to buy a voice recorder and trial the camera which is built into the phone. Strange sometimes isn’t it; the way things happen? I was in the Tottenham Court Road, looking at the voice recorders when a young man walks past and gives me the eye, nodding in the direction of some doorway further up the street. I follow and catch him up.

“Suck you off for ten quid.”

“I don’t want -“

“Fuck me for thirty; fifty without a condom.”

“I don’t want you to suck me off or to fuck.”

“What do you want? I don’t do any crazy fucked up shit.”

An idea springs into my head.

“I want you to help me find someone. He’s on the streets and I need to tell him his dad died.”

“Who the fuck are you then?”

“A friend; Zac.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred.”

“A grand.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“Okay. What’s he look like then?”

“What’s your name?”

“Paul …”

Nothing more is forthcoming and I show him the photograph; a copy, smaller in size than the original which was a school photograph on A4.

“If you find him, call me or come to this address.”

And I give him the business card.

“Shit, a PI!” Paul exclaims.

“Yeah, the private dick of your dreams if you find this guy.”

“I need some money.”

“Ten quid. And you don’t need to suck me off for it. Call me in three days.”

I hand over the photograph and ten quid, then watch him skip down the street, weighing up the odds of seeing him again; probably zero … until he needs ten quid again.

I buy the recorder and head back to the office to test it and work out the best way to catch Lionel up to his old tricks. En route, I spy Paul in a café in Old Compton Street, munching on a butty and downing gulps of tea. I admonish myself for assuming that he was gonna use the money to buy drugs.

Elizabeth welcomes me back as I reach the top of the stairs, informing me that we are to have a small ceremony to unveil the new sign on the office door, which is currently hidden by some fabric; decorator’s dust sheet material.

“Is it still called ‘The Zachary Tremble Agency’?” I ask.

“Of course! We can’t change that. Anyway, you are ‘Zachary Tremble’.”

We’re both a bit nervous.

“Should I say something do you think?” I suggest.

“Let’s make a wish,” Elizabeth replies, seriously and very tenderly.

“Okay, we’ll pull the tape together and make a wish.”

We step forward, holding hands and pull the tape to reveal the new sign as we make our wish. I don’t know what Elizabeth’s wish was but mine was very simple; ‘please let David Beckham be gay.’

The new sign, stencilled on the old pane of glass, simply reads, ‘The Zachary Tremble Agency’. The smart black lettering is subtly accented in platinum. Oh, the website address and the telephone number are in brackets beneath the main sign, and that’s it. No great change but it’s right that it stays the same.

We wander in to have some champagne. Apparently, the new sign signals the end of the upgrade process, save getting a key to the cash box. It’s symbolic; we have a bank account now and the tin contains some stamps and a float of ten pounds for coffee and milk.

“Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

“Thank you, Elizabeth, I wouldn’t have done it and without you, I’d have closed up shop.”

“It’s always your choice, Zac and I never promised anyone that I’d keep it open … only that I’d look after you.”

“You do,” I blub.

“You make me very proud and if, and only if, you want to carry on with the agency, I’m right beside you. Never do it for me, your Father, Grandfather or your Mother; do it for yourself.”

“I’m going to do this for as long as. I can’t say more than that.”

“Let’s pack up and go home early today.”

“Good plan,” I agree, wiping my eyes, “tomorrow I go where no man has gone before.”

“Brixton?”

“No!” I chuckle, “Into disguise to follow a known swindler who’s possibly active again.”

“The man who Alex is worried about?”

“Yes; he is Lionel Tewksbury. The photograph on the file confirms it, despite the difference in age. I saw him enter Petunia Major’s home.”

“Be careful, Zac. I wasn’t here when your Father investigated that case. I was back in New York sorting out my Grandmother’s things following her death. I remember your Father saying that Lionel was a slimy bugger and not averse to physical acts of violence.”

“I’m taking one of his truncheons.”

“I hope you don’t have to use it.”

“I’m taking Mrs Chan too.”

“Oh, that’s fine; she’ll have his bollocks off before he can say, ‘wanna buy a fake Rolex’…”

We titter and pack up.

“Are you seeing Leonard tonight?” I ask.

“Yes, for supper. He cancelled last night; held up by a client.”

“What does he do exactly?”

“He’s a will writer and sells insurance policies to cover funeral expenses.”

“Oh, right. Good for him. I should get one written I suppose.”

“So should I. Perhaps we’ll ask him to do ours when we see him on Sunday.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

“Goodnight, Zachary.”

I step lightly home, feeling something has shifted; actually, a huge weight from my shoulders. If I make or break this agency, then it will have been entirely down to me. It won’t have been in the pursuit of trying to make someone else happy.

George isn’t back yet so I walk the dog and she’s a tad more attentive as I go in. The clothes look suitably ‘soiled’ and the smell is vintage dog … with overactive glands!

“Come on, sweetheart; then I’ll cook and ruin dinner and we’ll be quits!”

George comes in brandishing the proof of the brochure and a new bag for the laptop. Apparently Marc Jacobs is doing a new range which matches the colour of the waistband of George’s favourite brand of pants. I’ve burnt the pasta sauce and mistakenly mixed cough mixture into the salad dressing. Ah, domestic bliss … and pizza from the place on the corner goes down just as well. I go down and blow George, to remind him that a dog is for life and not just for providing the excuse to go shopping. Then he spoils the moment and asks me if I’ve deleted my ‘Gaydar’ profile.

“I’ve said I’m a ‘couple’ and I’m only looking for ‘friends’.”

“And the triple X photographs of your cock and puckered orifice?”

“Guys should know what kind of shit red hot stuff they’re missing out on!”

He swallows that and a good deal of my semen.

I call Alex because something occurred to me.

“He needed a way in, Alex. Meeting someone on the course and having a coffee is one thing but inviting them back is something else. Your Grandmother strikes me as a little more circumspect. He must have had something to get his foot inside the door.”

“I’ll ferret.”

We walk the dog and then I dress up to show George the disguise … and he doesn’t recognise me.

“Don’t shave,” he suggests.

“Good idea,” I agree. I’ve only just begun to bother as part of the upgrade initiative.

“How are you going to pick him up?”

“I’m gonna wait at the place in Victoria tomorrow and hope I get lucky.”

“I’ll take the brochure to Prentice and Steven has some graphics he wants done for the unveiling. It’s going in The Standard.”

“Shit! And I promised I’d start something else.”

“The dog?”

“No, not still life. Anyway, she’s an employee now and her anonymity needs to be protected too.”

“Did you decide on some ‘protection’?”

I show him the truncheon.

“Jesus! That looks like it could do some damage.”

“A crack on the head with that and he’ll see stars.”

“Ram it up his loathsome arse!”

“I should practise my technique.”

“Oh, Zachary! Are you pleased to see me … or is that a forty-two centimetre long truncheon in your pocket?”

That picture made it into my private photograph album on ‘Gaydar’.

Chapter Five – Lionel Tewksbury

The following morning at around eleven, Mrs Chan and I, hot foot it to Ebury Mews; to loiter, kick tin cans and ferret in bins … I wear latex gloves for that part.

At around noon, the man I believe is Lionel Tewksbury, turns up looking pretty chipper and the suit looks new. He rings the bell with a flourish and presents Petunia with some roses when she opens the door. He’s admitted inside and twenty minutes later they re-emerge.

I mooch, keeping fifty yards back. They head into Pimlico and step inside a smart little restaurant. Assuming they’ll be there for at least an hour, I take a break and head to a greasy spoon on Buckingham Palace Road. I order a cup of tea, paying in loose change, picking the coins out of my stained palm with equally stained fingertips; courtesy of a spent coffee filter. Mrs Chan is parked outside, looking every inch the part of the down and out’s scruffy hound. It licks itself and occasionally jumps up and head butts the window. I mutter under my breath, trying to give the impression that I’m suffering from mental health issues.

I’m asked to leave when the flies abandon the fly paper and settle on me. Someone presses a two pound coin into my hand. Perfect!

Back on the job and Petunia and Lionel are still at the restaurant, deep in conversation. I can see this because they’re sitting in the window. I peer in whilst scratching my groin and hawking up. Both look away, disgusted. I get a glimpse of paperwork on the table. I shuffle off, dragging the dog.

They leave and I stay out of sight. I’m guessing he’s gonna drop her off back at the mews and then scuttle back to his hole, probably via the bank. Bingo! He does and now I’m convinced he’s trying the same scam. I quickly call Alex to warn him and to get his grandmother to put a stop on her cheque.

“What excuse do I give her?”

“Tell her that you’ve heard the bank is going to the wall; well, they all are. Get her to move the money to the Post Office.”

“Oh God, Zac. I’m so grateful if it was the case that he was about to clear her out. We had homemade cake last Sunday at teatime; I mean … homemade!”

“Oh God, poor thing. It’ll be fine now. We still need to know how he got his grubby little fingers in the pie.”

“I’m on it! Oh, this is quite exciting.”

We ring off. He’s right, it is.

We trail the sleaze ball to a pub, ‘The Old Waggoner and Grey’, where he stays for an hour, then, slightly wobbly, he toddles off for the bus. We follow because we have to know where he lives. I must be the only down and out with a Loake wallet and an Oyster Card!

He lives in Kilburn and we clock the address and then belt home, not because the dinner is going to be ruined; no, I’ve got an itch and put good money on having fleas in my pants.

I hang the suit out of the window, throw the underpants away and scourer my privates with a Brillo pad and douse the region in vinegar. It stings like fuck and then I remember I’m allergic to wool … and the suit is pure new wool.

“FUCK!”

George surfaces from the couch and I explain.

“Camomile lotion,” he suggests.

“Will yoghurt do?”

It leads to more photographs and as a result, eight hundred guys in London apparently want to become my ‘friend’.

All in all, it’s been a good day and Mrs Chan is whacked, snoring in her basket, wearing the Fedora.

“Honey, you coming to bed?” George calls out.

“Soon, sweetheart; just gotta do something.”

I set up a new canvas on the easel.

Chapter Six – Discoveries

It’s Friday. I pick up The Standard on the way in and find the advertisement for the unveiling the following week.

“Jesus!”

“Good morning, Zachary.”

“Good morning, Elizabeth. Everything okay? Did you see Leonard last night?”

“I did, thank you. He was very charming and we went to ‘The Baker’s Dozen’.”

“Oh! Serious buttering up.”

“He was very apologetic for letting me down the night before. He suggests we might go away for the weekend soon.”

“I’m not wearing top hat and tails.”

“I think we’ll see how it goes.”

I recall all the details of the day before, minus the yoghurt incident.

“Petunia had a lucky escape but we have to stop him once and for all.”

“I know and I’m thinking about that. One step at a time. Has a young man by the name of Paul, called in or telephoned, with news of Darren Franks?”

“No, though there was an undesirable urchin outside the door this morning but he scuttled off when I asked him what his business was.”

“I bet that was him; damn!”

“He’ll be back.”

I retreat to my office and think about how to stop Lionel, once and for all.

“Dad?”

“At the end of the day, Zachary, lad, it’s all about evidence.”

“Petunia can provide copies of the forms.”

“The investment company is probably ‘legitimate’, so you’ll need to find and prove a connection between Lionel and the company, but me thinks, you’ll need a signed confession. He knows how the game is played.”

“I might go and see Joe and this copper that Alex mentioned; James Capsicum.”

“Keep it all meticulously recorded; it’s what Elizabeth is good at.”

“See you later, Dad.”

“Well done, lad.”

I pop up and see Joe to give him an update. He knew the original case.

“He’s a slippery bugger. He’ll be an independent agent of the company so that he can assert he didn’t know what they were doing. Get the forms and dig into the company. You might try speaking to Cybil Fox.”

“She’s in Bedlam, ain’t she?”

“She’s here.”

“I thought she was as mad as a barrel load of frogs.”

“She has her lucid moments. Harmless and keeps to her room.”

I seek out Cybil and find a little doll-like creature tucked up in a room away from everything and everybody else.

“Hello,” I say to announce myself.

“Hello, Jeremy.”

“How are you today?”

“No complaints, my sweet. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to see you and ask you if you needed anything.”

“What a sweet boy. Lionel is coming in today, nurse said.”

“Oh good! What time?”

“Three o’clock, for tea.”

“I bet you’re really looking forward to that, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t answer and looks wistful for a moment, like the name has opened a box of photographs; images of the life she never had and could only imagine.

“Would you like some tea now?”

“Oh, thank you darling … that would be lovely.”

I scuttle off to grab a tea from the trolley and carefully place it on her tray with a sweet biscuit.

“Thank you.”

“What’s Lionel up to these days? I haven’t seen him for ages.”

“Oh, you know Lionel; always dabbling in business. Apparently writing wills for people as well as selling insurance and shares in some company.”

My heart stops momentarily.

“Writing wills and selling insurance?”

“Lots of old people don’t have one and don’t have proper insurance to cover their funeral expenses. That’s what he says. He’s also got these shares to sell; some ‘sure thing’ his pal put him on to. He gabbles on and I just listen.”

“That’s great. Did he say which pal told him about the shares?”

“Oh, now you’re asking. Let me think. You know him; Bushell’s youngest … Simon.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember, Simon.”

“Lionel will be angry with me today,” she announces.

“Oh, why?”

“I lost the pearls he gave me. I can’t find them anywhere.”

It takes cast iron resolve I don’t know I possess not to throw up.

“I wouldn’t worry, Cybil, they’ll turn up. Don’t mention it and we’ll look for them next time I’m here.”

“Oh, could we?”

“Of course. Okay, I have to go, but I’ll be back very soon. Take care, Cybil.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

I pop back to say goodbye to Joe and then decamp to the pub for a stiff brandy. If I’m right, and there’s no doubt in my mind at this moment, how the fuck am I going to tell Elizabeth?

Back in the office, I complain of a headache and close the door to close my eyes for half an hour.

“Dad, help!”

“Zachary, lad, you have no choice; you have to tell her and tell her straight. She’s going to be upset but if you’re honest and gentle, she’ll be fine. And I don’t fancy Lionel’s, or Leonard’s, bollocks’ chances!”

“Jesus! Our Elizabeth being strung along by that creep. It makes me feel sick.”

“Do it now.”

I surface and open the office door.

“Elizabeth, have you got a minute? I need your help with something.”

I’m honest and gentle.

“I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.”

“I knew he was too good to be true.”

“What do we do about Sunday lunch?”

“We’re still going and I’ll deal with it. We can’t prejudice the case so close to nabbing him. Just promise me, Zachary, when it’s time for just desserts … rip his fucking bollocks off.”

“Gladly!”

She goes home and I don’t blame her. What a fucking cunt. First Cybil and now Elizabeth. Alex pops in with the copies of the forms that Lionel left with his gran and I investigate Simon, Bushell’s youngest; the same Bushell no doubt. He’s the MD of the investment trust company and lives in London. I park that, feeling a bit whacked.

Closing up, I see a shadow loitering outside the office door. Opening it, I find Paul lurking at the top of the stairs.

“Hello!”

“Is she there?”

“Do you mean Elizabeth? No. Come in.”

“I’ve got something for ya’.”

“Darren Franks?”

“Yeah, but he don’t go by that name.”

“Where did you find him?”

He pulls out a page torn from the latest copy of ‘Gay Times’; the escort advert page. He hands it to me and points out the ad.

“Holy shit!”

“Fucking awesome!”

“It must be twelve inches long!”

“Bet he’s making a mint.”

“No doubt.”

“So, do I get my money?”

“I have to check him out first. Do you trust me?”

He eyes me for a few seconds.

“I guess.”

“Come back on Tuesday, after four o’clock. I’ll sort you out.”

“Will she be here?”

“Elizabeth will be out.”

“Alright. You ain’t messing about are ya’?”

“No. You found him and I’ll pay you … once I’ve checked him out.”

“Okay. Any chance of something before Tuesday?”

I eye him this time.

“Here’s fifty quid; it’s all I’ve got on me. Get cleaned up and be here at four-fifteen on Tuesday.”

He leaves and turns at the door.

“Sure you don’t want to fuck me?”

“I’m sure. But thanks.”

I shake my head all the way home. Processing all my emotions is exhausting. George is just ahead of me.

“Good day, sweetheart?” He asks, kissing me on the lips as I shed the togs.

“Oh, you know; pretty good.”

It’s midnight before I stop shaking and shuddering and the tears have dried up long ago.

Chapter Seven – Sunday showdown

On Saturday, wearing something casual and trying to look relaxed, I station myself in the café opposite the ‘The Old Waggoner and Grey’ and wait for Lionel to show. He does; for a liquid lunch. Judging by the swaggery gait, he doesn’t yet know that Petunia’s cheque will bounce.

I record everything, taking photographs of him arriving and leaving, with who I assume is Simon Bushell. As they part outside, Lionel hands over an envelope and then disappears. Well, it ain’t Petunia’s money, so God knows what other poor old dears they’ve fleeced.

I call Matt and give him the details of Darren Franks. It’s better that he follows it up now. From the photograph in ‘Gay Times’, and on the guy’s website, he is Darren Franks. I’m assured of the five thousand pound finder’s fee and I’m debating whether I should charge Alex anything for saving Petunia. I guess I have to cover expenses.

Once Simon and Lionel have disappeared, I head home. George has taken Mrs Chan to the park and the flat is quiet and empty. Matt said something odd earlier. “Check your emails later, I’m sending you something.”

I log on and there’s an email from Matt, with a file attached; an MP3 file and I assume therefore, that it’s some music. It isn’t. It’s a rare recording of an interview which my mother gave to some obscure BBC arts programme. I’ve never heard it and believed it had been lost. For the very first time in my life, I hear my mother’s voice. I’m too astounded to do anything, except listen to the hour long programme in which my mother spoke for about thirty-five minutes. It fills a space to overflowing.

“Why the fuck did Matt send it, and why did he send it now?”

I email a suitably reply but it leaves me in profound thought and I’m barely aware of George’s return with Mrs Chan.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I mumble.

I escape to the studio and I don’t emerge for at least three hours, by which time I’m more like my usual self.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m preoccupied with this case. It’ll be over soon.”

“What’s our cover for tomorrow?”

“Elizabeth is a retired school teacher. I’m her nephew, an artist, and you’re my boyfriend, a graphic designer. We’re keeping it simple.”

“But you’re not using your real name, are you?”

“No, he’ll remember Zachary Tremble. I’m ‘Darren Franks’.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes; well, sort of … but yes. Matt’s dealing with it now.”

“Well, that’s great and Alex’s Gran is safe from Lionel, so…”

“Yeah, I know; fucking brilliant result and if all goes according to plan, Lionel will be out of business and Cybil will get her pearls back.”

“Why do I detect an elephant in the room?”

“Everything’ll be fine …”

I’m feigning worry to hide a bigger issue; one I haven’t had to deal with before.

Wardrobe decisions and sex carry us through to Sunday morning and the atmosphere is a little tense. In just over two hours I’ll meet Lionel and it’ll be an act of supreme restraint not to crack him over the head with the truncheon before the sherry is handed out.

We meet Elizabeth and travel together, meeting Lionel at the carvery. She looks tense too and is deliberately wearing the pearls; perhaps as a reminder of the rogue that lurks beneath the polished exterior … and he is ‘suave’; then I guess swindlers are.

Introductions are made and the conversation takes on no meatier a subject than the weather for a while but I sense a storm brewing.

“Elizabeth tells me that you write wills and organise insurance for funeral expenses, Leonard,” I say, remembering just in time that he is ‘Leonard’ and not ‘Lionel’.

“That’s right.”

“Elizabeth and I could do with your services.”

“It’s always best to have these things arranged well in advance. If you have significant assets then you want to be sure that their value is protected.”

“I couldn’t agree more. But where do you invest these days? I mean, the banks are shaky …”

“The Far East. I’m investing in several investment funds that are showing a very healthy rate of return.”

“Really …”

I get the slimy bugger to reveal as much as possible, recording it all.

“Let me have some information, could you?”

“With pleasure.”

The patter is polished and well-rehearsed. He’s wearing a bespoke suit, an excellent watch, a heavy gold ring and rather flash cufflinks. Considering this man is in his mid-seventies, he doesn’t miss a beat. Dad said he had the brains. Nothing short of a written and signed confession is going to sink his ship.

“Those are beautiful pearls, Elizabeth. I don’t recall seeing them before.”

“They were a gift from Leonard, actually.”

Lionel looks at her lovingly and she returns the smile, fingering the pearls. I know she’d rather be crushing his vertebra but she’s a pro.

“Leonard is too generous by half,” she adds, cooing.

“Don’t be silly, my sweet. You’re worth it.”

Lunch progresses and he doesn’t look as if he is going to let himself down. Naively, I thought he might, given the relaxed atmosphere. As it happens, he and I head for the gents at the same time. Standing at the urinals, I say, “my father invested in some Far East stocks at one time; something called the ‘Transmutation Investment Fund’ …”

“It’s still going strong and between you and me, Darren, I’d pile everything I had in to it.”

“He made me promise to look after his legacy … and Elizabeth.”

“And a sterling job you’re making of it. What was your father’s line of business?”

“Oh, he was a private detective …”

In zipping up too quickly, Lionel gets his ‘John Thomas’ caught in the zip and shrieks, stumbling back.

“FUCK!”

“Oh Christ! You’re bleeding …”

He’s struggling and crying out.

“Won’t the zip go back down?”

“No it fucking won’t!”

Another chap comes in and then another … and then the manager upon hearing the commotion. It’s agreed that an ambulance will be called because the teeth of the zip are firmly embedded in the skin.

“I’d best tell the others what’s going on and ask George to take Elizabeth home. I’ll come with you to the hospital …”

“No fuss!” He bellows.

He’s getting flushed and breathless. They decide to take him into Casualty.

“I’ll tell the others and follow.”

“No, don’t worry. I’ll call my son.”

I melt away.

I gather up the others, giving them a brief snapshot and we head out.

“Sorry, Elizabeth. I couldn’t cut his bollocks off but it’s as good as.”

We all go back to mine.

George makes tea and I recall the incident in more detail, including the bit about lifting his wallet whilst all the fuss was being made.

“Zachary!”

“Some people are very careless with their money, Elizabeth and you know what they say; ‘a fool and his money are easily parted’!”

It’s stuffed full of cash and plastic, in four or five different names.

“We should hand this over to the Police; like the good citizens we are,” I suggest, whilst removing the cash, surreptitiously putting that into my pocket.

It wasn’t a bad plan, actually. They’d look at the contents, see all the cards and once Lionel went to report it, hopefully they’d have some difficult questions for him to answer. It also gives me the perfect excuse to seek out this dish called ‘James Capsicum’!

I head off to the station and George takes Elizabeth home.

Fortunately, being the dedicated member of the law and enforcement service that he is, James is in the office. I make my introductions. Alex’s prior interview with him serves for the perfect way in.

“But Zac; he’s as slippery as an eel.”

I hold up the wallet.

“I know it wasn’t right and probably scuppers any chances of a conviction but these cards must give you something and when he comes-a-calling to report the loss, you can ask the difficult questions.”

I also share with him all the recordings and the photographs. He’s especially pleased with the one of Lionel and Simon.

“It’s a bit unorthodox to say the least. I don’t know whether to thank you or put you in a cell!”

I snigger and for some unknown reason, blush.

“Stay in touch,” he demands.

“No worries. Perhaps you’d come in to the agency and we can have a proper introduction; and I’d like you to meet Elizabeth.”

“Okay; keep out of trouble.”

“It usually comes looking for me these days!”

I take a cab home. Well, an erection of this size and duration deserves the red carpet treatment!

Chapter Eight – Rocks and hard places

On Monday, I’m in the office before Elizabeth; a first … and I get worried. But then she materialises like the QE2 out of the mist.

“Where were you, the hospital?”

“I went to see Joe and to see Cybil.”

She’d returned the pearls.

“Did Leonard call?”

“Strangely, no; not yet.”

“I met the detective, James Capsicum. I gave him the wallet and everything else.”

“What are you doing with all that money you took out of the wallet?”

“Fund a new start for a young man who is in need of a firm hand and a good friend.”

I tell her about Paul and that I plan to give him some work on the agency books.

“That scruffy urchin I found outside! Not on this blessed carpet!”

“Elizabeth, he’s me, sixteen years ago. You remember … except I had Dad and you. He has no one looking out for him.”

“It showers and shaves and changes it clothes before it sets foot in this office; then he and I will be having words.”

“I recall something similar being said then.”

Matt comes over with the banker’s draft and Elizabeth has it out of his hands quicker than I had Lionel’s wallet out of his jacket pocket. We decamp to my office and the whiskey decanter.

“Darren doesn’t want his dad’s money.”

“Tell him to take it and give it to charity then.”

“I did.”

“We’re meeting up before the show; for a quick drink, yeah?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks for the recording …”

“I know how much you miss her.”

“It’s making me miss her even more … but it’s easier.”

“Gotta a good case for you; an insurance job. Painting that’s been stolen. The circumstances look a bit fishy.”

“How do you have it?”

“Do you remember Brooker; John Brooker?”

“Uhm, yeah; thick as shit and huge cock.”

“Yeah … well, not so thick. He’s working for the Sentinel Insurance Company and asked me if I knew of someone who could do a little fishing.”

“Are you … seeing him?”

“No, just friends …”

“I’ll take it. Elizabeth says I have to diversify into something called ‘sponge diving’ and attract corporate clients, get ‘red eye’ and probably wear poncey glasses.”

“Espionage …”

“What?”

“Not ‘sponge diving’ … espionage.”

“Oh, cool!”

Epilogue

Steven seeks me out and marshals me to a quieter corner.

“It’s sold.”

“Shit! How much?”

“£8,250, to an unknown collector; evidently one with taste and an appetite for you.”

“Who; one of the Russians?”

“No. A gentleman by the name of ‘Matthew Bellamy’. Clearly someone to cultivate a relationship with …”

Oh my God!

I say nothing to anyone and George and I make it home, riding the crest of the wave.

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks.”

“So, the next piece?”

“A portrait of my mother.”

“Ah! That’s really … touching.”

“Yeah … I’m gonna do a bit now.”

Settling in the studio and plugged into my MP3 player, I work on a little of the camouflage of the battle helmet she’s wearing in the photograph which I’m using as reference.

“Zachary, darling, it’s late.”

“Hi, Mum. Imagine the scene; a packed gallery in The Kings Road, Elizabeth looking like Patricia Routledge wearing something called a ‘fascinator’ … actually she looked more like ‘The Terminator’-”

“Zachary!”

“Sorry … Matt got propositioned by a Russian billionaire and the idiot turned him down. He bought the painting though.”

“Is it time to say ‘goodbye’ to George?”

“What do you think?”

“Actions speak louder than words. Matt bought the painting, found the interview recording and always gets you your cases …”

“George is a tiger in the-”

“Too much information! He’ll make a decent rug-”

“Mum!”

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Contact Information

Chapter One – You turn your back for five minutes

Chapter Two – Steven

Chapter Three – ‘Lionel Tewksbury’

Chapter Four – Are you pleased to see me?

Chapter Five – Lionel Tewksbury

Chapter Six – Discoveries

Chapter Seven – Sunday showdown

Chapter Eight – Rocks and hard places

Epilogue