February 2020, Edinburgh
‘What do you take in your tea, Mrs Waters?’
‘Ms Waters. Just black thanks, and weak. Wave the teabag over it.’ The receptionist, a wilted man of around fifty with a melancholy chin and a an olive green waistcoat that suckered in around his navel region, nodded and disappeared through the glass doors into the hall.
‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Janet asked Jeremy.
Jeremy shook his head. ‘I’ve been here before. Arthur makes dreadful tea.’ He flicked at a thread on his tie, smoothed the creases down on his trousers, picked up a magazine that had something to do with home security on the front cover, and sat down on the chair opposite Janet.
Janet waved a hand at the room. She said ‘I didn’t expect something so…’ He interrupted her.
‘Smart? Professional?’ Janet didn’t like his tone.
‘It’s been a while,’ she said, ‘since I’ve had anything to do with private detectives. Thirty years, maybe more. They were all a bunch of crooks then. Vietnam vets. Or police that couldn’t stick the uniform.’ Why was she telling Jeremy this? To impress him? To show him she wasn’t just a puddly old woman with eccentric tastes in pets? They sat in silence until Arthur returned, the tray with its white cup and saucer and a single plastic-wrapped shortbread on a matching plate shaking in his hands.
‘She’s just finishing a call,’ he said to them, ‘Dr Connolly-Smythe I mean, and then I’ll take you through.’
A doctor? Jeremy hadn’t said anything about her having a doctorate. Janet’s hands moistened. Heat flashed through her cheeks. She laid her palms flat on her lap and took two deep breaths. Doctor of what? Forensics? Investigations? Biology? She looked across to Jeremy. He was leafing through the magazine, pausing at the pages with the bigger pictures. She shouldn’t have come. This detective woman would work it out. She’d know as soon as she saw her. See it behind her eyes. The peccant wrinkles around her lips. Why was she here? Risking everything over a ridiculous cloud. She took a sip of tea, burnt her upper lip, and rattled the cup back onto the saucer.
‘OK, Lisa’s ready now, let’s go through.’ They followed Arthur down a wide bright corridor lined with large succulent plants and a series of closed doors with burnished copper name plates. Arthur tapped at the last door on the right, listened for a moment, then opened up. ‘Mrs Waters and Mr Hartridge,’ he said, ushering them in. ‘The ones with the missing cloud.’
The woman that walked out from behind the desk to greet them was short and neat, in a black suit with loose wide legs and a narrow boxy jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a ship. Her shoes, impossible to ignore, were patent black gloss, with thick crepe soles and cherry red laces. Janet stared at the shoes as they came towards her and stopped just in front of her own.
‘Ms Waters,’ she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ She reached out to grasp Janet’s hand. The detective’s hand was cool, and larger than Janet had expected. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said to them both, ‘and we’ll start from the beginning.’
Janet sat down beside Jeremy. Let Jeremy do the preamble while she studied the other woman. There was something odd about her, something unnervingly familiar. Her squared off chin. Her ears that angled out just too far to be attractive. Had she been on television? The woman was speaking to Janet now.
‘How about in your own words, Ms Waters,’ the detective said, with the lightest of an Antipodean twang.
‘Yes, of course,’ Janet said. ‘Cyril. But first, your accent? I was just wondering…? The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I was born in Australia. Been trying to get rid of the accent ever since.’ She flicked open her laptop. ‘You sound a bit similar yourself. Did you live in Oz, too?
It was the way she said Oz. A faint Australian drawl with a stronger Scottish burr. Janet’s vision blurred. It couldn’t be. He’d never mentioned children. Had he lied? She stared at the detective’s skin. Tried to estimate her age. It was possible. Yes. And the name. That double-barrelled name. Why hadn’t she spotted that? Worked it out before they came. All it would have taken was a quick search on the Internet.
‘Are you alright, Ms Waters?’ Doctor Connolly-Smythe was looking at Janet without a hint of recognition. But Janet knew. She was certain. The detective was the Inspector’s daughter.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 