Jenny Parker Investigates Read online

  ‘Sorry, thought nobody here. We cleaning.’

  ‘Well go away and clean some other time,’ I shout, releasing some of my tension in anger.

  In defiant confirmation of my sudden change in status, I walk boldly over to flush the toilet, run the taps in the basin then wait for a few minutes before sliding back the bolt and walking purposefully out of my hiding place. There is nobody left in the flat; the cleaner has disappeared as quickly as she came – and without catching sight of me. My position remains uncompromised; there is no witness to my clandestine activities.

  I sit on the bed and try to quiet my trembling nerves. Of course there had to be a cleaner; Martin would hardly have done it himself and couldn’t afford to let his wife even know he had this place.

  My sin turns from despair to presumption.

  Now that I have managed to concentrate on my breathing for a few seconds, I feel myself becoming calm, almost relaxed. The crisis is over; I have been spooked by a cleaning lady, no harm done, no need to panic. In fact, I handled it perfectly, if I ignore the emotional aspects.

  I stand up and retrieve the bag of dildos. A sudden fear grips me as I realise my handbag is missing. I left it on the bedside table when I was emptying the drawers and now it’s gone.

  ****

  Back at the office, having dumped the sex toys in a public refuse bin, I search through my handbag desperately trying to discover if anything is missing. I discovered it lying beside the bed, contents spilled onto the floor. There’s a distinct possibility that it had fallen that way but I’m worried that it has been rifled through. Thank God my purse appears untouched. I know exactly how little money was in it and it’s all there.

  Nothing appears to be missing but I can’t shake off my feeling of deep unease. Perhaps I’m reacting to the close shave, the near disaster of discovery. I look at my hands and they’re steady enough but my energy is diffuse and unfocused. I feel I need a stiff drink, just to steady my nerves. A couple of large gin and tonics should do the job, but I have no time left to slip out to the pub. Although I have drunk very little since I became pregnant with Toby my body still feels the buzz of excitement, the euphoric anticipation of leaving all my worries behind for a few hours and slipping into alcoholic oblivion.

  A dangerous alternative pricks my brain into a momentary ecstasy as it remembers the chill nasal bite and re-lives the subsequent blossoming of clarity and freedom. There is a man one floor down who works in Corporate Finance who would sell me a line, but my heart and mind sink into despair as I recall my previous state of dependence. If I start using again to make me feel better, Toby will certainly suffer badly and I’m not going to let that happen.

  I open up the first of the files that Paul considers himself too busy to deal with and begin a painstaking examination of a badly deficient set of cash-flow figures. It’s good that I’m hard at work as the faint smell of bad breath heralds Paul’s looming presence at my shoulder.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ he enquires, taking the opportunity to peer down at my breasts.

  I turn slightly away from his whiff to reply. ‘A couple more days should bottom it, though I do have a lot of other stuff piling up.’

  ‘This is all needed really urgently, Jenny.’

  ‘What about Martin?’ I ask bravely. ‘Any news? And has he left any notes on this job that might speed things up?’

  ‘No news, nothing at all, at least nobody’s told me anything. As for notes, he must have used his laptop for everything; they must all be on his local drive. There’s no work of his at all on the server.’

  ‘Well I can’t do it any quicker. If you want a proper reconciliation it’ll take me at least two more days, longer if I have any queries.’

  ‘Can’t you find a way of either speeding things up or else work longer hours until it’s finished?’

  A pang of panic shoots through my heart. I have to get Toby. I can’t stay a minute extra.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ I sigh. ‘Lunchtime tomorrow, then you can review it in the afternoon and get it signed off by close of play.’

  ****

  Getting the heavy box of folders home was a pain. My back feels like it has been badly put out. My arms are sore and my shoulders are stiff. I ended up sitting on the damned box all the way; it was too big to manoeuvre into a seat even if there’d been one free. The kitchen is a mess, crocks piled up in the sink, pans congealing on the hob. It’s too late to be clanking around clearing up, it’s 1 a.m. and I’m still poring over cash-flow information. I’m determined to pass it all back to Paul with a clean bill of health attached. Nobody can accuse me of slipshod work, of not being thorough.

  I look with regret at the bombsite kitchen and wonder why I bothered working all these hours after Toby and Tim went to bed. Now I’ll be even more tired than usual in the morning, the house will still look like a tip. I’ve just spent four hours on something a junior could quite easily have done. The time would have been far better used to clean up the house and get some sleep. I resolve to tell Paul to deal with things like this himself in future, and I stumble upstairs to bed.

  As if sensing my wakefulness as I pass his door, Toby lets out a small whimper and I can hear him turning over in his cot. Freezing, trying not to breathe, I wait for him to settle down again but I begin to feel the tug of his presence and the change in his state. He murmurs softly, calling me to him. My body relaxes and I get back into my breath as I take him in my arms and watch his soft eyes gazing into mine.

  8

  Four days later I wake up and it is Toby who has died. His little cold body has turned blue and his big brown sightless eyes stare accusingly up at me, asking why I neglected him and allowed this to happen. My whole body is shaking with dread as I heave myself out of bed. The bedside clock glows 3.32 and snores of indifference confirm Tim’s supine presence. I shuffle naked through the cold air, not pausing to try to locate my pyjamas, discarded by Tim’s passion, and into Toby’s bedroom.

  The soft glow of the night light reveals his chubby aliveness. He is lying in an untidy heap at the very bottom of his cot, outside the covers I carefully arranged over him, but glowing with healthy warmth and breathing steadily. It’s as if he was struck down with sleep in mid-bounce and lay where he fell.

  Overwhelming relief settles me into a chair and I hold his hot little hand in gratitude and joy. Martin intrudes. The idea of his own cold lifelessness replaces the dream I had about Toby, but this time it is a waking nightmare. Yesterday shock and fright numbed me after the police came to the office. The worry about what they might ask me had me beavering away, head down, until it was time to collect Toby. He did a much better job of distracting my thoughts than anyone else could and held my full attention from the moment his eyes lit up at my appearance.

  Now there’s a new day to face and with it the knowledge that I will have to do something, tell somebody perhaps. Oh no. I panic at the prospect of Tim finding out he’s been betrayed. I visualise his reaction, the acrimonious divorce, his successful custody battle leaving me ashamed and childless. I look at Toby, my sleeping son, and my heart tells me that he is my only priority. Whatever has happened to Martin, wherever he is, none of it matters compared to Toby.

  As I tread softly out of the kitchen with a beaker of water, the soft hum of the computer draws me into the study. Half asleep, I waggle the mouse and squint at the sudden brightness of the screen. “United to increase bid for Brazilian striker” is revealed, as if I might be at all interested.

  I sip my water and feel the cold trickle down my insides. Another chill, a deeper one, joins it as I bring up the browsing history. A long list of items, beginning with “Blonde has all her holes filled with cock” and continuing in a similar vein of depravity down the rest of the page.

  Tim often lingers down here after I go to bed, preferring the company of pornographic images to mine. Ever since Toby, he’s been like this. Then he comes to me, aroused by the images playing in his head, demanding that I provide a warm recep
tacle for his selfish ejaculation. Toby is calling to me and rattling his bars. I hurry back to his room. He’s excited to see me. I gather the warm bundle in my arms, feeling the heavy cold nappy that must be making him uncomfortable. An echo of the chilling fear in my dream pierces my stomach then eases as I caress my precious bundle.

  Preoccupied by Toby’s needs I put any thoughts of Martin at the back of my mind until I am hurrying through Spinningfields, trying not to be late for work. As I walk, a fresh wave of panic causes me to stop and let out a gasp of air. All the possibilities, at least all the bad ones, flood through my thoughts, all of them end with Tim prising Toby screaming from my arms and throwing me out of the house. As I try to rationalise away this dreadful result another more certain scenario arises. The Cheshire wife will have me fired if she finds out about Martin and me. I have no doubt she is capable. I am certain it would take only a word from her. Martin was never explicit about his wife’s background, but I gather that his exalted and very highly paid position at Landers Hoffman was down to her family’s influence.

  As I settle down opposite Emma the uncertainty I’m feeling lifts suddenly and my mind becomes totally clear and calm. Nobody, absolutely nobody under any circumstances, is to find out about Martin and me. I am adamant now, resolved, final answer. No matter what I am keeping quiet. He may be lying dead or dying somewhere, but that’s not my problem. The vision of Martin’s cold body lying unidentified in a morgue makes me shudder.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Emma’s cheery voice snaps me away from the horror film I’m playing in my head.

  ‘Oh,’ I gasp, ‘I’m a bit tired.’

  Emma comes around to my side of the desk and puts her arms around my shoulders. This simple, human act of concern triggers a flood of tears and I find myself crying uncontrollably. Emma stands holding me in beautiful inaction until I try to explain between sobs.

  ‘I had a dream,’ I splutter. ‘Toby was dead.’ I wonder if my dream was really about Martin, and the knife of doubt slides back into my solar plexus.

  Emma takes me to the toilet like a mother whose daughter has wet herself. She makes me look into a mirror and I see a shining blonde girl, a vision of loveliness, standing beside a small, tired brunette with unkempt hair and crumpled clothes. I look at myself with Emma’s eyes and feel pity.

  The strong, busy, thirty-four-year-old has deteriorated into someone who would not look out of place living in a cardboard box under the railway arches. Emma opens her voluminous handbag to reveal a comprehensive stock of make-up, face creams, lotions and scents.

  ‘Here.’ She smiles, in obvious relief that I didn’t grab a nail file and plunge it into my own heart. ‘Freshen yourself up, it’ll make you feel better.’

  I’m amazed at the difference a comb and a smear of lipstick makes. I can now see something of the feisty femme fatale that would drive Martin mad with desire. A small adjustment to my bra strap gathers what Toby sucked nearly flat into pink swellings that push against the fabric of my blouse. I am beginning to feel better and almost back to balance until I see the uniformed policeman waiting by my desk.

  9

  ‘Mrs Jenny Parker,’ I reply and watch as he writes carefully in his black notebook.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Youngs?”

  There’s a flush of guilty excitement coursing through my body as I visualise Martin’s nakedness sprawled exhausted on the bed in his flat. I left him there as I hurriedly made my exit, already very late for my lunchtime return.

  ‘A week last Thursday.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Lunchtime, 12.30, maybe.’

  That’s when he left the office to go to his apartment – I waited ten breathless and excited minutes before I followed.

  ‘You were here?’

  ‘Yes, sat at my desk. I saw him leave his office. I suppose he was going out for lunch.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you when he left?’

  ‘No.’ I’m not going to tell the policeman about the way Martin looked across at me and raised his eyebrows. I shiver slightly at the memory.

  ‘Was there anything unusual about Mr Young’s behaviour that day?’

  I remember his passion, his magnificent arousal, how his gentle tongue insisted on my own quivering release. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he hadn’t done many times before.

  ‘No, nothing unusual.’

  ‘The last time you spoke to Mr Youngs, what did he say?’

  ‘We only really talk about work. He he allocates projects to me, gives me instructions, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did he give you any instructions that Thursday?’

  I look up at the black garbed man standing attentively by my desk. His eyes meet mine briefly, I detect no real engagement from him, he’s only going through the motions it seems, hardly hearing what I’m saying. There’s no active interrogation going on, no careful scrutiny, little chance that he might read my thoughts, thank God. The last instructions Martin gave me were to keep on going, just like that, oh, yes, that’s good.

  ‘He gave me some work, that’s all.’

  ‘How did he seem to you? Was he happy? Sad? Depressed? Worried about something? What was he like?’

  ‘Happy. Definitely happy.’ I don’t need to lie this time.

  ‘Did you say anything to him while he was giving you instructions?’

  Hardly. My mouth was not only full but also busy.

  ‘No, not really.’

  Martin had groaned ‘Oh my God, it’s coming,’ a completely pointless warning as my mouth was already filling up with his semen. He was always so apologetic about ejaculating. He didn’t need to be; whatever he wanted was fine with me as long as he didn’t squirt into my hair. One embarrassing afternoon at work with hair stuck together as if with glue is enough for anyone.

  ‘Do you have any idea where Mr Youngs might be, Mrs Parker?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Now the fear comes back. I remember my shaky legs as I tottered down the stairs from the apartment after I grabbed my stuff. Guilty feelings, shame and desperate sadness are crowding in on me now. What difference can it possibly make to Martin whether or not I share our secret with the police? If I knew where he is, I’d tell them, I’d go there myself, I’m so desperate for him to be safe.

  But he’s gone, I can tell by the emptiness in my heart.

  10

  I’ll give Tim his due, he never fails to bounce back. Despite the really shitty way I have been treating him of late, he keeps positive, keeps on coming back for more. Today he is especially buoyant; today he is being taken by his boss to Hillhead. The way his eyes light up hungrily, it’s as if he’s about to visit a high-class bordello where he’ll be invited to take his pick. Instead, at least I understand this to be the case, all it involves is an exhibition of earth-moving equipment, serried ranks of diggers and dozers, all painted the same yellow colour, no doubt. His bullish enthusiasm is infectious, however, and I find myself smiling alongside him, basking in the aura of his fun and excitement.

  ‘It’ll give you a chance to talk to Damian about that foreman’s job,’ I prompt, even though I know how unwelcome my suggestion will be.

  Tim clouds over immediately.

  ‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to be a foreman. How many more times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Well you ought to think again. You can’t be a dozer driver all your life. What about prospects, advancement, ambition? Haven’t you got any ambition?’

  He looks across at me sullenly. I am spoiling his day out already.

  ‘Yes, I want to drive a bigger machine. I want to be the best there is. I want to enjoy what I do. Every day I go to work I can see what I’m achieving. I make a difference, change the landscape. I look around at what I’ve done and I’m proud.’

  I feel myself softening despite the hard knot in my stomach that despairs he will ever grow up and take responsibility for his own life. Not while he has me to do it for him at any rate.

/>   ‘Okay, okay,’ I relent. ‘I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t want you to be passing up opportunities you might regret.’

  He brightens up again.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘foremen don’t get more money; they get less if you take overtime into account. Foremen don’t get paid for overtime at all, they’re just expected to work late for nothing.’

  They do get put on the staff, they do get holiday pay and they do get paid when they’re sick, though. I manage to keep myself from pointing this out even though I’m desperate for the flexibility this would bring to my life. As a member of staff, Tim could be much more help with the childcare duties than he is now. Being hourly paid means he gets nothing if he doesn’t show up. It’s me that gets Toby’s sick days to cope with, even though it’s me who has the higher paid job and better prospects.

  The £20,000 in the wardrobe pops into my head. Ten days have gone by since it was delivered to me by Casagrande and I’ve been reluctant to touch it out of some nagging feeling that it might have to be returned, or handed over to the police.

  I have no idea whether the acquisition has proceeded or not. I assume Paul put in a positive report after I’d written up our visit in the warm glow of the money and the death threat. As for the rest of the process, my pretend-casual enquiries have yielded no information at all.

  Paul is a dolt. If they’ve trusted him with any information, which I strongly doubt, he has a smug sense of superiority that prevents him from sharing it. Nor is there anything in the newspapers. There’s been no major press coverage involving World Ordnance Systems or whether they bought Associated Composites (Brackley) Limited. A mad, impulsive thought tells me to go for broke, put all that cash in WOS shares and hope they rocket when the takeover is announced.

  This excitement soon passes. If my luck is anything to go by, they’ll probably plummet as soon as I buy them. Anyway, there might never be a takeover and then someone will be asking me for the money back, or worse, exacting terrible retribution for my botched job.