Sacrilege - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

My boss was none too pleased when I called to say I needed to take some leave. “You know full well that staff are expected to book leave at least two weeks in advance,” he admonished me in a tone intended to inflict serious repentance and retraction.

    But I was past caring. “Sorry, Frank, but it can’t be helped. A sudden death in the family, I’m afraid.” I kept my fingers crossed that it was a lie. I forbore mentioning that I had grown weary of processing insurance claims years ago and, for two shakes of a lamb’s tail, would get out altogether.

    “Oh, I didn’t realize. You should have said right away. Of course you must take leave, as long as you need. Please accept my deepest condolences, Laurence.”

    “Thanks Frank.” I put the receiver down. There was something to be said for people like Frank Jefferson. A man of the old school, he could be a devious rascal when he liked, but had respect for his staff and always played fair. For my own part, I could only trust my sins would neither find me out nor prove me psychic.

    The obvious place for me to stay in London would be with my brother Marc. However, I knew he had recently taken up with a new love interest so I did not want to intrude. His last boyfriend, Nick, had died in a fire and I was so pleased that he had started to get himself a life again, especially as I would always feel partly to blame for Nick’s death.  However, neither did I much fancy staying at a hotel on my own.  So I called my old next-door neighbour, May Finn.

    It was good to hear her voice. “Of course you can stay, Laurence, for as long as you like. It will be lovely to see you again.

    “Likewise, and I dare say we both have lots to catch up on.”

    “I can’t wait.”

    There was an indefinable note in her voice that fed me the slightest of misgivings. However, for all she had a heart of gold, May Finn had always been something of a prickly pear and I thought no more of it. “See you tomorrow then, about three o’clock.”

    “I’ll look forward to it,” she said warmly.

   Next, I called Marc and told him I would be in London for a while.  “That’s great. It will be god to see you. Do you want to stay here? You know you’re always welcome.” I explained about the widow Finn.

    “Oh, right.” The relief in his voice was tangible and I grinned down the phone. Things must we going well with the new boyfriend. “Give the old girl my regards, won’t you?”

    “I will,” I promised. We chatted a little longer but I sensed he had someone with him (the new boyfriend?) and pleaded the need to go for a pee.

    “See you tomorrow.”

    “I can’t wait.”

    I thought I detected a note of irony in much the same way as I had when May Finn had spoken those same words. “Bye for now,” I said with faint misgivings. It was only as I replaced the receiver that it struck me that I hadn’t seen either Marc or May Finn for ages. Yet, yet here I was expecting to be received with open arms the very next day. I could have sworn I heard my mother murmur in my ear, “Laurence, dear, will you never learn?”

    I caught a mid-morning train to London, arriving at Euston in time to grab some lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant I knew from the old days. It was crowded and I asked a young man if I might share his table. A shock of red hair conjured up a picture of that same Nick Carter, for whose death I felt so responsible. Perhaps that is why I felt drawn to his table although, facially, he bore no resemblance to Nick whatever. 

    “Be my guest.” He had a pleasant smile and we got chatting. He volunteered the fact that his name was Ryan and I told him mine. “Nice suit,” I said for the sake of something to say.

    “I have a job interview later. I want to make a good impression.”

    “I’m sure you will. Good luck.”

    “Thanks.”

    “Did you have far to come?” I asked conversationally.

    “Not really. I live with my boyfriend in Bow. We were supposed to be getting married next week.

    “Congratulations.”

    “Thanks.” He looked mildly surprised, “but we called it off.” He added, “A civil ceremony is a wedding by any other name, don’t you think?”

    “I do indeed. I’d get married myself, but my boyfriend hasn’t asked me.”

    He visibly relaxed. “Maybe you should pop the question yourself? Mind you, I did that and I’m not even sure I still have a boyfriend.”  He groaned audibly although the hint of a grin played on his lips. 

    “Maybe I should,” I agreed, “But he might say ‘no’ and I’m not sure where we’d go from there. Besides, we’re happy as we are. Why try and fix what doesn’t need mending?”

    “You are so right,” he agreed with feeling.

   We continued eating in companionable silence. Later, I wished him luck at the interview again and expressed the hope that he would patch things up with the boyfriend.  He merely shrugged. We exchanged business cards although I suspect we both knew we were only going through the motions as it was unlikely we would ever meet again. Even so, we gave each other a parting hug as if we had been friends for years.

    Later, as my bus made its way through familiar territory and old haunts, I retrieved the card from a pocket and read the name, Ryan J. Banks., Chartered Accountant.  I couldn’t help but reflect, somewhat wryly, that I’d never have guessed his profession. In spite of the suit, he certainly hadn’t conformed to the stereotypical image of any accountant I’d ever met or imagined. The smell of his aftershave, the smoothness of his cheek and warmth of his body against mine as we’d hugged stayed with me the whole journey. Nor had I entirely shrugged it off by the time I was walking up the path to May Finn’s front door.

    For years, I had thought of her simply as the widow Finn and we had barely exchanged more than a few words word of greeting now and then. I’d got to know her better at about the time Danny and Poppy burst into my life. She had proven a good friend during what has been trying times. My heart gave a flutter. Much as I was looking forward to seeing her again, I had avoided facing up to the fact that I really should have told her truth about Danny. 

    As far as the widow was concerned, Danny had died some three years ago. Such was the gravity of events at the time that Philip had arranged with the Home Office for Danny to join the ranks of the untimely deceased and take a new identity. Born Daniel Conti, his new birth certificate read, Maurice Heaton although no amount of persuasion or bribery had persuaded Danny to answer to the name, Maurice.

    May Finn was opening the door before I’d even rung the bell. “Why, hello Laurence! It’s lovely to see you again!”

    “Ditto, May.” We hugged. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I murmured guiltily.

    “Time flies so, doesn’t it? Now, come on through. I dare say you’ve eaten but I’ve baked some scones to have with our tea while we…catch up on things. Would you like to take your bag upstairs and freshen up first?” 

    "That would be nice.”

    “Yes, of course. I’ve put you in the back bedroom. You can find your own way, can’t you? Between you and me, my legs have a problem with the stairs these days so I try to avoid them as much as possible.”

    “It’s very kind of you to let me stay.”

    “Rubbish. I shall enjoy the company and I can’t wait for you meet Andrew. He lives next door, you know, in your old house. We’re getting married next spring. He’s gone to visit his daughter in Eastbourne but he’ll be back in a few days so you can meet him then.”

    “May, that’s wonderful!” I gave her another hug and she giggled like a schoolgirl, for all that she had to be pushing seventy by now.

    “Now, run along while I put out the scones and make us a pot of tea.” I chuckled. It could just as easily have been my mother telling me to tie my shoelaces properly…

   No one makes scones like May Finn. I tucked in with relish. “Where are you going to live, you and Andrew?” I asked between mouthfuls.

   “We’ve yet to decide on all that. He only asked me to marry him last week and I only accepted yesterday.” A pink blush appeared on each leathery cheek, making her look years younger. “Yes, well, more of that later. Tell me all about yourself. What have you been up to lately?” 

    It struck me as an odd question. I could only assume it was an oblique reference to the reason I had left London. Shall I tell her about Danny now? I knew I should. She was someone in whom I had complete trust, after all.  But how and where the devil do I start?  “Oh, we plod on, you know, Philip and I. He sends his regards by the way. You really must come up and see us sometime.”

    “I’d like that. But each time I suggest it, you find some excuse to fob me off,” she reminded me tartly but with a twinkle in the pale blue eyes that took the edge of her words.

    “May…” I began falteringly. “I have something to tell you.”

    “Oh?”

    “Yes. It’s a delicate matter and to be honest I’m not sure how best to put it to you.”

    “I see. In that case, perhaps you had better read the note first.”

    “Note…?” Had I missed something?

    “The one Danny left for you.”

    “Danny? You’ve…seen Danny?” I felt acutely relieved, embarrassed and guilty all at the same time.

    "Oh, yes, I have indeed. Now, where did I put it? Ah, yes, I remember!” She went to the mantelpiece and retrieved a sheet of notepaper from behind a carriage clock.

    “How…?” I gulped, hot flushes refusing to let me off the hook lightly.

   "How did we meet?  How else but taking a stroll down Memory Lane at his grave?” Her voice, heavy with amused irony as it was, would have stopped even Tony Blair, in his tracks. “As you know, I regularly visit my late husband Michael at the cemetery. After tidying the grave and laying some flowers I’d then do the same for Danny.”

    “That’s very sweet of you,” I gulped, only to receive a glare that brooked no further interruption.

    “Imagine my surprise when I came across a young man with a skimpy beard at Danny’s grave. I was even more taken aback when he appeared to recognize me and greeted me like a long lost relative. I didn’t recognize him of course. He’s changed so much. I think it’s called growing up. Besides, one doesn’t expect to visit a grave and find oneself chatting to the deceased.”

    I squirmed in my seat.

   “When he revealed his identity,” she pressed on with obvious relish, “I was, well…flabbergasted, to say the least.”

    “So what did you do?” I had to know.

   “What else could I do? I brought him back for scones and tea of course. Danny always liked my scones. He certainly hasn’t changed in that respect. He scoffed the lot.”

    “Did he…?”

    “Explain everything?  Yes, he did. I have to say, Laurence, that young man is a credit to you. I dare say Philip has played his part too. One thing for sure, Danny adores the pair of you.  Now, dare I suggest you read the note?”

    I read with mixed feelings:

      Dear Laurence,

      Grandma Finn says you are coming to London.  If you are looking for me, please don’t. I can take care of myself, honest. Teresa is in big trouble but I will sort it and see her safe. Please, please, don’t interfere. You will only get hurt and I couldn’t bear that. Go home and I will be in touch as soon as I can. - Love, Danny x 

      PS It was great to see Grandma Finn again.

      “He’s very worried about you, Laurence. He thinks you might try and find him and get out of your depth. Now, I wonder why?” she added with an irony that did not escape me.

      “I think he might have at least a little faith in me!” I protested.

      “He loves you, isn’t that enough?”

     “I suppose, if you put it that way.” I raised the teacup to my lips, drained it, and automatically reached for the teapot without even asking. Remembering my manners just in time, I glanced up enquiringly.

    “Go ahead, help yourself…” said May Finn, “My home is yours for as long as it takes.”

    “As long as it takes for what, exactly…?” I muttered as I poured the tea.

    “As long as it takes for you to find Danny, I imagine.”

    “You don’t think I should just go home and wait then?”

“What I think you should do, Laurence, and what I know perfectly well you will do are not, I fear, one and the same. Now, can I tempt you with another scone?”

That evening, turning a deaf ear to the widow’s reservations, I went to the address Agnes Musoke had given me. I had intended to call on kid brother, Marc, but he wasn’t picking up his mobile or answering the land line so I plumped for Ginny Sharp instead.

The address turned out to be a small hotel situated in a back street near King’s Cross. No surprises there. Ginny Sharp must have touted for business on every inch of those streets in her time. A sign across the door read, The Portland Hotel. In for a penny…I told myself, and marched straight in.  A woman at a counter marked ‘Reception’ glanced up from a glossy magazine, “Sorry, we’re full. Try across the road.” She returned to her magazine only to look up again seconds later as if surprised to find me still standing there. “We’re full,” she repeated.

“I’m looking for Ginny Sharp,” I said with a self-confidence I was far from feeling. It crossed my mind that Danny may have had a point about my not interfering I shrugged. It was too late now. Besides, hadn’t my interference on another occasion reached a successful conclusion…eventually?  Better not to dwell, I decided, on what had passed in between.

“Why didn’t you say so?” the young woman muttered impatiently then, “She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“How should I know? I’m not her keeper.”

“When are you expecting her back?”

“When she turns up, okay? Now, it’s like I said, we’re full. So piss off or I’ll call security.”

You must have some idea surely? It’s important I see her.”

“Tough,” she snapped then, “Give it about a week, yeah? You never know, you might just catch her.”

“Thanks for nothing,” I muttered.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure,” she called sarcastically after me.

I resisted a desire to have the last word and called Marc. No answer. I left a message on his voicemail, spotted a bus that wasn’t even going my way, ran for it and just caught it.

Half an hour later found me in The Flying Horse. It was close to my firm’s London office. I’d been a regular customer for years and had always much preferred it to The Copper Kettle that stood only yards from my old home. Moreover, I had a great fondness for Mo, who ran it with her husband, Max.

“Hello Mo.”

“Well, knock me down with a feather if it isn’t Laurence Fisher. How are you? It must have been a few years now since you left.”

“It feels like only yesterday,” I admitted. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, up and down like the weather. You’ll have one on the house, of course. What takes your fancy?

“I’ll have a pint of best bitter then please.”

“Then it’s a pint of the best coming up. You always were a bitter man as I recall.”

“You’ve a good memory.”

“You need one in this game, believe me. People like it when you to remember who they are so they come back. The trouble is, they also expect you to remember every sob story they’ve ever told.”

We both laughed.

“How’s Max.”

Her jolly face clouded over. “You wouldn’t have heard of course. Max passed away a year ago come September. Cancer… “

“I’m so sorry.” I was genuinely shocked and upset.

Mo shrugged and handed me an expertly pulled pint. “I miss him, of course I do. But we had some good times, Max and me. He loved this pub too. Somehow, when I’m behind this bar it’s like he’s right here with me.”

“Dying of thirst here, Mo!” a jocular voice called out.

“Okay, keep your hair on, I’m coming.” Mo responded cheerfully.

Everyone roared, as I suspect they always did since the punter was completely bald. 

Hey, everyone, there’s been another gay murder!” A woman’s voice rose above the hubbub.

The entire bar fell quiet. Mo turned up the volume of a TV in one corner of the bar. A grimfaced newsreader was relating the fact that a young man had been found murdered on Hampstead Heath, historically a regular cruising area for gay men. The victim, as yet unnamed, was a young man in his twenties.  The newsreader moved on to an item about the latest suicide bombing in Iraq. Mo turned the sound down again and I only half-listened to the buzz of conversation going on around me.

“That’s the fifth gay murder in London since just before Christmas,” someone was saying. “It has to be the same person, surely?  I tell you, I’d be shit scared if I were gay.”

“If you ask me, gays ask for everything they get,” retorted someone else, “Good riddance, that’s what I say. Whoever’s responsible for these murders is doing us all a big favour.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say,” a woman with striking purple stripes in her grey hair declared loudly. “No one deserves to die like that. What have you got against gays anyway?”

“You need to ask? They give me the creeps.”

“Afraid of being chatted up?” someone piped up, “No worries there, mate. One look at your ugly face and a one legged chimpanzee would run a mile!” Everyone hooted with laughter.

Mo turned up the music.

It seemed to me that the pub returned to much the same as it had been a few minutes earlier. People were chatting, laughing, joking. Some were closeted together in earnest conversation. Others were staring into space, lost in their own private thoughts. Had we become so blasé about death, I wondered? 

I waved to Mo and left.

I called at the hotel a few nights later but there was still no news of Ginny Sharp so I visited my brother. I felt disappointed and frustrated. So it was good to see Marc again. He had moved to a bigger flat and I was impressed. It was spacious, elegantly furnished and drummed into me what I already knew. My brother, unlike me, was a career man. “I guess planners will always need architects like the rest of us need plumbers,” I joked.

“You could say that.” He grinned. “It’s good to see you, bro. We’ve left it too long this time.”

“Time flies,” I mumbled and wondered how many other people, like me, used the same excuse for relying on phone calls and e-mails rather than making a real effort to stay in touch?

Marc was an accomplished cook, and I had brought some wine. We enjoyed an excellent meal although I sensed something was preying on his mind. He would tell me later, I was sure, and resolved to wait and hear what he had to say before I burdened him with my own problems. It was good to see him looking so relaxed and happy. He had been devastated by Nick’s death, even though they hadn’t been together long. I wouldn’t risk spoiling things for him, especially as I had been partly responsible. Not that Marc blamed me, he didn’t. No one did. I was left to wrestle with my guilt on my own.  It wasn’t an entirely new experience for me, either. Harry, my first partner, had committed suicide. 

After dinner, we chatted about everything and nothing for a while until his boyish charm assumed a more serious air and I, on cue, put on my good listener’s hat.

“I dare say you’ve guessed I have a new partner,” he said quietly.

“I had wondered,” I confessed.

“And I suppose you’ve been wondering why I haven’t been on the phone to tell you all about her?”

“Her?” I could not suppress my astonishment.  ”You’ve got a girlfriend and not so much as a word over dinner?  Well, well. Who’s a dark horse then?” I remarked with a smile meant to tease and encourage at the same time.

“Her name is Jackie, although that’s not the name she was born with.”

“Lots of people change their names,” I said pointedly. Marc was one of the few people who knew about Danny.

“How is Danny by the way?”

“Fine,” I lied. “So what was Jackie’s name? You don’t have to tell me,” I added laughing, “But if you do I promise it will be our secret.”

“It’s no secret. Her name was Jack.”

“She’s …”

“A transsexual, yes, and I love her to bits. She’s moving in at the weekend so you’ll meet her soon. She’s a wonderful person, Laurie, everything I could ask for. She’s kind, funny, clever…”

“Clever?” I grinned, “Not so clever to fall for a chump like you, for a start!”

My brother looked relieved. “You don’t mind then?”

“It’s your life. If this Jackie makes you happy, that’s fine with me.”

Oh, Laurie, thank you! Give me a hug, yeah?”” He came and sat beside me and I could see he was close to tears.

“You should have told me,” I murmured in his ear as we embraced.

“I know and I’m sorry. I guess I needed some time to get used to the idea myself before telling the family.”

I felt him tense in my arms. “They might need a little time too,” I pushed him gently away and regarded the tear-stained face with a grin. “They’ll come round to the idea, you’ll see. They may not be the easiest bunch to build bridges with but we haven’t done so badly so far have we? Even Alan seems reconciled to having two gay brothers-in-law.  Let’s face it. That may be a small step for mankind, but it’s still one hell of a giant leap for Alan.”

“You don’t think this is a bridge too far?”

“I think maybe I should pay our sister a visit and put out a few feelers.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He gave me another hug. “Another drink, yeah?” he leapt up, boyish charm completely restored and I was glad I’d trusted my instincts and not mentioned that I suspected Danny had been kidnapped.

It was another three days before I struck lucky at the hotel. A different young woman sat at the counter this time but a clone of the first, nevertheless, and with much the same welcoming disposition.

“We’re full.” She returned to pairing her nails.

I had a flash of inspiration. “Ginny is expecting me.”

“Ginny,” the clone shrieked, “there’s a geezer here asking for you!”

A few minutes lapsed before Ginny Sharp emerged from a room behind the counter. If I hadn’t known she was a little younger than Danny, I’d have taken her for much older. Although it was only a few years since we last met, they had not been kind to Ginny. The heavily made up woman in the incongruously chic suit observed me with frank suspicion. “Who are you and what do you want?”  As common as ever, credit where credit was due, she had lost none of her natural directness.

“My name is Laurence Fisher. You may not remember me, but…”

“Bloody hell, yes, as if I could forget? So what are you sniffing around here for?”

“Can we talk in private?”

“No, we can’t. I’ve got nothing to say to you and whatever it is you think I might want to hear, I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.” She turned and opened the door.

“Agnes Musoke said you might be able to help me…find someone.”

Ginny stopped in her tracks, swung round and glared at me. “Do you have to be so bloody obvious? Go and shout it from the rooftops why don’t you?  Better still, go on TV and tell the world. What has Agnes ever done to you to deserve that, eh?” She glanced at the receptionist. “Next time someone turns up and you haven’t a clue who they are, GET RID.” She turned to me. “You might as well come through, I suppose. As I recall, you never were one to take a hint.”

I followed her into what had all the appearance of an office. She sat on a swivel chair behind a desk cluttered with assorted papers and files and promptly began to… swivel.

“I’m looking for a young woman called Teresa.  I don’t know her full name, only that she may be Ugandan and she’s a friend of Agnes Musoke.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit? I’m telling you the truth.”

“The truth as far as it goes maybe.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, Mister Laurence bloody Fisher, I haven’t got time to dance round any mulberry bushes. As far as Teresa’s concerned, I can’t help you. I wouldn’t, even if I could. As it happen, I can’t, and just as well for the both of us, I reckon.” She leaned across the desk, “You’re playing with fire, Fisher. Fire, did I say?  We’re talking nitro glycerine here. Mark my words, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll scarper back to Manchester pronto.”

“You know about Manchester?” I could not conceal a sense of shock that caught me off guard and plainly amused Ms Sharp.

“According to Danny it’s a cool place. I’m jealous. Believe me, King’s Cross ain’t a patch on what it used to be.”

“You know about Danny? You’ve seen him?” I struggled to contain my excitement.

“Of course I have. But don’t look so worried. It’s not common knowledge that Danny didn’t pop his clogs after all. Not yet, it ain’t, anyway.  Let’s hope it stays that way, eh? I must say, he’s turned out pretty well for a lowlife. We were never mates, you understand. But he was good to Poppy and she was…my friend. Don’t get me wrong. I’d throw the little scumbag to the wolves any day to save my own skin, you too. But I owe Danny, for Poppy’s sake if nothing else.”

“Where is he?”

She grabbed a pen and wrote on a scrap of paper. “There’s this house in a place called Sawbridgeworth. That’s in Essex in case you’re wondering”

“I know it.”

“Good. You’ll be able to find your own way then, won’t you?” She glanced up at me and sucked the end of her biro. “You’ll find him there most nights. I’d leave it a few days, though, if I were you. Give him time to settle in, so to speak.” She handed me the piece of paper. I took it and felt aggrieved. Is that how people see me, as a receptacle for pieces of scrap paper?

“What’s the form?” I remembered to ask, “I imagine I can’t just turn up and ask for Danny.”

“Sorry, I forgot. He’s calling himself Maurice. Heaven only knows why. I mean, well, obviously he can’t use his own name but…Maurice? Do me a favour. But, yeah, turn up and ask for Maurice.”

“Just like that…?”

“Yeah, just like that. Oh, and don’t forget to mention you’re a punter and you’ve got money to burn. I mean to say, you wouldn’t expect someone called Maurice to come cheap, would you?”

My blood ran cold. “Danny would never, never…” But a lump in my throat would not let the words pass.

“Stoop to rent? Heaven forbid.” She laughed, leaned back and regarded me with undisguised contempt. “You know what they say…once a scumbag, always a scumbag. Look at me. Ain’t I the living proof? Ain’t I just, eh?” She swivelled on the chair and lit a cigarette. Despite the hard expression and fierce glitter in the eyes, I couldn’t help feeling, as I had once before, there was more to Ginny Sharp than met the eye. “You can see yourself out can’t you? If you need a pee, Janice will tell you where to go,” she added with giggle.

There was nothing more to be said. As I pulled the door behind me, I heard her speaking to someone on the phone in a low, harsh whisper. I paused, but couldn’t make out what was being said.  Suddenly aware of Janice’s scowl, I shut the door.

Am I being set up, I wondered? 

On the way back to May Finn’s house, I stopped on impulse to dive into a florist’s and buy her a bunch of flowers. Lilies, I knew, were her favourite. She was thrilled to bits and Andrew Bolton remarked, gruffly, that I was a good lad. Since I was on the wrong side of forty, that gave me as much a well-needed fillip as the widow’s pleasure.

Marc was not answering his phone again so it was on spec that I turned up at the flat later. I put my ear to the entry phone and an unfamiliar voice asked who I was. “Press the buzzer and come right up,” said the voice. Could this be the mysterious Jackie, I wondered as I climbed a single flight of carpeted stairs.

An incredibly good-looking woman was waiting for me at the door of Marc’s apartment. She was tall and big boned, with an ivory skin that oozed a passionate sexuality. She held out her hand as I approached and gave me a dazzling smile. “Hello Laurence. I’m Jackie. I’m afraid Marc is out so I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me.”

“My pleasure,” I said and meant it. The smile broadened and eyes like sapphires conveyed genuine pleasure.

“Will Marc be long?” I asked as we sat chatting over glasses of an excellent Merlot a little later.

“He didn’t say.  Is it urgent, whatever it is you need to see him about?”

“It’s sort of personal,” I hedged and saw that she had taken offence.

“I was only asking, not prying.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out the way it sounded. It’s just that…well…I don’t drive, you see, and I was hoping Marc might take me somewhere in his car.”

“Oh, where, or is that personal too?”

“A place called Sawbridgeworth. It’s just past Harlow and a bit of a pain to get to by public transport.”

“In that case, problem solved. Marc hasn’t taken the car and I’m not doing anything special so I can drive you.”

“I couldn’t impose,” I protested.

“If I thought you were imposing, I wouldn’t have offered. I’d have sent you head over ass down the stairs instead.”  Jackie’s wide blue eyes twinkled, if only half jokingly. I began to see what Marc saw in her.

We were well on the way to Sawbridgeworth before Jackie asked me the question I had been expecting. “Marc has told you all about me?”

“All he thinks I need to know, yes.”

“And…?”

“And, what…?”

“Don’t be coy Laurence. There’s really no need. How do you feel about your kid brother shacking up with a transsexual?”

“If he’s happy, I’m happy.”

She glanced at me in genuine surprise. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

“Love, happiness, peace of mind…at the end of the day, these are the things that really count. You have to grab what you can get while you can. It’s just a pity most of us have to find that out the hard way.”

“Amen to that,” said the woman beside me with feeling. “Now, where’s this house you were telling me about?”

I read from the piece of paper in my hand.

The car screeched to a sudden halt. Jackie was staring at me as if she had seen a ghost. “You are joking? What do you want to go there for? Do you know what kind of place it is, what goes on there? And here am I thinking you’re the original mister nice guy!”

“You know it?”

“Sure, I know it. “I used to…work there.”

“You were a prostitute?” I was more surprised and curious than shocked.

Jackie shrugged. “I needed operations. They cost money, a lot more than freelance journalism pays. And before you ask, yes, Marc knows. And, no, it doesn’t make a jot of difference to the way we feel about each other. How about you? Does the idea of your brother shagging a transsexual ex-prostitute bother you? Or maybe it gives you a buzz?   You’d be surprised how many people I have that effect on.” The voice was quiet, calm…and as cutting as a razor’s edge.

“You’re very bitter.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

We have a lot in common then,” I commented dryly before I even realized what I was saying.

It was my companion’s turn to look surprised. “But I thought…Marc told me you had a partner…Philip?” I nodded. “He says you’re both very happy.” She hesitated. “He told me about Harry too. It’s never easy to put hard times behind us and learn to be happy again. And, yes, I have the tee shirt, a whole bloody wardrobe full. But I suppose that goes without saying,” she added with a rueful grin.

I grinned back and told her (almost) everything.

“It’s possible Danny may be at the house, Teresa too. Your friend Agnes meant well, I’m sure. I can’t say the same for Ginny Sharp.”

“You know her?”

“We’ve met.” The full lips tightened and the fingers of one hand clenched into a tight fist.

“Do you think it’s a trap?”

“I think you’ll need to keep your wits about you more than you seem to have the faintest idea.”

“You’ll take me then?”

“As the actress said to the bishop, we’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.” She drove on. We didn’t speak again until she pulled up in a leafy avenue that struck me as quintessentially English. “The house is about a ten minutes walk from here. Go to the end of this road. Turn right, then right again.” 

“Will you wait for me?”  She nodded grimly. I tried to swallow my nerves but they were having none of it. “If I’m not back in two hours, will you call the police, anonymously, of course? You never know, I may need rescuing.”

“If you’re not back in two hours, all you’ll need is a body bag,” Jackie observed with a tight smile.

Her words haunted me all the way to a wrought iron gate. Beyond it stood an impressive white house in compact but beautifully kept grounds.

I began to panic.

Perhaps Danny was right and I shouldn’t interfere. Before I could further entertain the idea of changing my mind, however, the decision was taken out of my hands by a disembodied male voice demanding I identify myself. Unable to see where it came from, I spoke my name.

“Your business?” the voice enquired curtly.

“Maurice,” I said in much the same vein.

After a long pause, the gates opened and I walked up the path to the front door, wishing the bishop had been made of sterner stuff.

To be continued on Monday