It was Monday morning. I arrived at my rented South London office space just after ten in the morning. One of the perks of being self-employed is that there's no one to give you a bollocking if you turn up late. Business had been a little slow lately, and I only had a little bit of filing, and to chase up a few outstanding payments I was owed.
I'm a private detective. Or at least I am when someone wants me to be, which isn't often nowadays. People don't have the money to spend on their paranoia anymore. So, a reworded ad in some local papers and a new (much smaller) office and fingers crossed people would want my services again.
The morning was the usual fare of some shouting down a telephone and daytime TV, and I was about to call it quits and head out for something to eat when the phone rang. The personal assistant was another victim of the economy, so I answered it myself.
'James MacFarlane,' I said into the mouthpiece, 'How can I help you?'
'Hello,' A posh, very feminine voice replied, 'My name is Veronica Hamilton, and I have a problem.' I recognised the name, but couldn't quite place it.
'I specialise in problem solving.'
'Good. I was hoping we could meet.'
'Certainly, let me check my schedule.' I stared blankly through the dirt on the window. 'I have a gap in my schedule this afternoon if you can make it down here.'
'That'll be fine.' I gave her the address of my office and she agreed to meet me at three. That gave me enough time to drive down to the nearest thrift store and buy a second chair for my office. I'd have to find a way to charge my new client for it.
At three o'clock precisely there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and without being invited a tall, slim woman strode in.
'Please, come in,' I muttered under my breath. Out loud I said, 'Ms. Hamilton I presume?'
'Mrs. Yes Mr. MacFarlane, please call me Veronica.' She sat. I rounded my desk and sat opposite her. She was in her mid-forties I would guess. Her hair was black, and had clearly come from a bottle. She had money, and had spent it trying to make herself looking young and attractive. She had succeeded.
'What is it that I can help you with?'
'My daughter, Carina. She has gone missing.'
'And you want me to find her.'
'Yes.'
'OK.' This was a new one. My clientele usually were after cheating spouses, or some form of debt collection. Missing persons was an area people didn't tend to trust on the self-employed.
'May I ask why you have chosen my services? Missing persons is usually the purview of the police force.'
'My husband is distrustful of the police,' I made a mental note of that, 'And they have had their chance. She has been gone more than a week, and they have not found anything. I need someone who will get the job done, and well, shall we say off the record?'
I nodded, inferring that she didn't want her husband involved.
'I have brought a photograph of her,' she continued, fishing it out of her bag, 'Her address is on the back.' The photograph showed a brunette, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, and stunningly pretty.
'Her address? She doesn't live with you?'
'No. She studies at Cambridge.'
'Well, that's some way away from here. I hope you are prepared to pay my expenses.'
'Mr. MacFarlane, money is not an issue. I just want my baby back.'
'OK.'
We spoke for another half an hour. We went through Carina's habits, friends, hobbies. Eventually, my new client stood up.
'I would like regular updates Mr. MacFarlane. I am sick with worry. It struck me that throughout the entire interview, she seemed very calm and collected. Not how you'd expect a mother to be in this situation.
'Thank you, Mr. MacFarlane.'
'I haven't done anything yet.'
'I have confidence in you. You have an aura about you.'
'Uh, thank you.' I opened the door for her. As she left she leant across, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I caught the strong scent of her perfume. We looked into each other's eyes for a second, and she was gone.
I arrived in Cambridge the next day, unsure what to expect. It took me a while to find the correct building, but eventually I pulled up outside. I climbed out, refixed the door lining, and locked it behind me. I walked up the path to the front door. The house was big. Three stories high, with large windows either side of the front door. It was a Victorian design, and I guessed had at least five bedrooms. I had been given a key, but I decided to knock anyway. There was no answer, so I let myself in.
The hallway wasn't very long, but had a high ceiling. I opened the first door on my left, and walked into what was clearly a living room. Gossip magazines were open on the coffee table, and a large flat screen television stood in the corner. The sheer quantity of cushions around the place indicated at least one woman lived here. I couldn't see anything pertinent at first glance, so I turned to leave, and as I did so, got a cricket bat in the face.