From Written in the Stars, by Dorothea Dawson
The gods had finally started to smile on me, I decided when I arrived at the office to find Shelley temporarily absent from her desk. Before she could emerge from the loo, I slipped into my old office where I found Gizmo hunched over one of the computers. I recognized the program he was running, a basic template for a computer-controlled security system for a mediumsized building split into a mix of large and small rooms. It looked like one of the privately owned stately homes whose owners had turned to us after we’d scored a spectacular success in closing down a ring of specialist art thieves. It was a case that I didn’t like thinking about, for all sorts of reasons, so I was more than happy to have Gizmo around to take care of that end of the business.
He grunted what I interpreted as a greeting. “I’ve been thinking, Giz,” I said. “I know you probably think I’m being paranoid, but if you’re going ahead with a meeting with the cyberbabe …” I caught his warning look and hurriedly corrected myself. “I mean Jan, sorry. If you’re going to arrange a meeting with her, you should have somebody to cover your back. Just in case she turns out to be a nutter. Or the whole thing is some terrible set-up.”
He did that thing with his mouth that people use to indicate you might just have something. “I guess,” he said. “It’d have to be
“How about me?”
“You don’t mind?”
I sat down and made meaningful eye contact. “Gizmo, you need someone who can suss this woman out at a hundred yards. Your anorak friends would be about as much use as a cardboard barbecue. Besides, this is self-interest. The last thing I need right now is the human equivalent of the Pakistani Brain Virus eating up my computer genius. Just check the date and time with me, and I’m all yours.”
“Sound,” he said, his eyes already straying back to the screen.
“There is, of course, a price to pay,” I said.
He closed his eyes and raised his face towards the ceiling. “Suckered,” he said.
I spread out the contents of the envelope Della had given me and explained what I wanted. “It’s a freebie,” I said. “For Dennis. Can do?”
He scratched his chin. “It won’t be easy,” he said. “I’ll have to take it home with me. I don’t have the software loaded here. But yeah, it should be doable. When do you need it for?”
“The sooner the better. The longer it takes you, the longer Dennis is going to be behind bars.”
He shuffled the photographs together, giving each one a glance as he fed them back into the envelope. “I’m still working on the Dorothea information,” he said. “I farmed one end of it out to a lad I know who’s shit hot on adoption records. But there are some more avenues I can pursue myself. Which is the priority — this stuff or the Dorothea material?”
I had to think about it. All my instincts said that I should be pulling out all the stops to help Dennis. But whoever killed Dorothea might have other victims in mind so the sooner I got to the bottom of that can of worms, the better. Besides, I was being paid for finding out who had murdered the astrologer. If there had been only me to consider, the decision would have been easy. But being the boss isn’t all about strutting your stuff in jackboots, especially with wages day approaching on horseback. “Dorothea,” I said reluctantly.
Gizmo had the look kids get when they’re told they can’t play with the new bike until Christmas morning. “OK,” he said. “By the way, I think Shell wants a word.”
I bet she did. Short of abseiling out of the window, I didn’t see how I was going to be able to avoid letting her have several. I took a deep breath and walked into the outer office. Shelley was sitting behind her desk. It looked as if she was balancing the check book, a maneuver I find slightly more daunting than walking the high wire. “Hi, Shelley,” I said breezily. “I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to tell you Donovan will be doing an overnight, so you won’t have to bother cooking for him tonight.”
If glares had been wishes, the genie would have been on overtime that day. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about my son,” Shelley informed me.
The words alone might not have seemed menacing, but the tone put them on a par with, “Has the prisoner a last request?” Ever since she had her hair cut in a Grace Jones flat top, I’ve been expecting her to batter me. Sometimes when I’m alone, I practice responses to the verbal challenges I know she’s storing up to use against me. It doesn’t help.
I smiled and said brightly, “Don’s settling in really well, isn’t he? You must be well proud of him.”
Her eyes darkened. I waited for the bolts of black lightning. “I was proud of his A level results. I was proud when he made the North West schools basketball team. I was proud when he was accepted at Manchester University. But proud is not the word for how I feel when I find out my son’s been arrested twice in the space of a week.”
“Ah. That.” I tried edging towards the door, but noticed in time that she’d picked up the paperknife.
“Yes, that. Kate, I’ve been against this right from the start, but I gave in because Donovan wanted so badly not to be dependent on me and not to get deep into debt like most of his student friends. And because you promised me you wouldn’t expose him to danger. And what happens? My son, who has managed to avoid any confrontation with the police in spite of being black and looking like he can take care of himself, gets arrested twice.” She banged her
“You can’t hold me responsible for police racism,” I tried.
“Suddenly it’s a secret that the police are racist?” Shelley said sarcastically. “I can hold you responsible for putting him in places where he’s exposed to that racism.”
“We’re working on a way to deal with that,” I said, trying for conciliation. “And the work he’s doing tonight couldn’t be less risky. He’s protecting Gloria Kendal against a nonexistent stalker.”
Shelley snorted. “And you don’t think that’s dangerous? I’ve seen Gloria Kendal, remember?”
Time for a different approach. “Gimme a break here, Shelley. People pay money in encounter groups for the sort of experience Don’s getting here. He’s not complaining, and he’s making good money. You’ve done a great job with him. He’s solid as a rock. He can handle himself, he knows how to take responsibility, and it’s all because he’s your son. You should believe in him. And it’s about time you let him go. He’s a man now. A lot of lads his age are fathers. He’s got more sense, and it’s down to the way you’ve brought him up.”
Shelley looked astounded. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stood up to her like that either. We faced off for a good thirty seconds that felt more like minutes. “His name’s Donovan,” she said finally. “Not Don.”
I nodded apologetically. “I’m going home now,” I said. “I need to have a bath and a think. I’ve done some background checks for Toronto and San Juan, I’ll e-mail you the billing details.” I made for the door. On my way out, I turned back and said, “Shelley — thanks.”
She shook her head and returned to the check book. We hadn’t actually built a bridge, but the piers were just about in place.
I got home to two messages on the answering machine. Richard had called to tell me he’d be home around nine with a Chinese takeaway, which was more warning than I usually get from him. I’d
The second message was from Cassie, asking me to call her when I could. She sounded concerned but not panicky, so I fixed myself a drink and ran a hot bath that filled the air with the heady perfume of ylang-ylang and neroli essential oils. I was determined to make the most of a night in with Richard. I slid into the soothing water and reached for the phone. Cassie picked up on the second ring.