An Inch of Time (2 page)

‘Fresh turbot and asparagus.'

‘Pinot Noir and Vacherin cheese.'

‘Pilsner Urquell and Stilton.'

Painters hardly ever discuss art. They talk about money and the food they'd buy with it if they had any.

‘And you have no idea what they want you for?'

‘“A little matter”, I think, was the expression he used.'

‘I see.' Annis nodded sagely. ‘Another one of those. And you're meeting at the Olive Tree? Who's a lucky Honeypot, then? But don't go there on the Norton; the goggles leave rings round your eyes. Take the Landy.'

‘Ta, I will.'

Offering me the use of her fiercely loved 1960s Land Rover was a measure of just how much she wanted me to get the assignment and out of her hair. After the sad and sudden demise of my old Citroën DS 21, I had taken to two wheels. What had started as an emergency matter had turned into affectionate attachment to the ancient bike, despite its ludicrous credentials as a PI vehicle. Strictly speaking, the Norton too belonged to Annis, only she'd gone off riding bikes after crashing hers into a bridge over the canal due to a mysterious and complete absence of brakes. It's a long story.

Remembering that, unlike a motorcycle, you couldn't park a car just wherever you felt like it, I made sure I got into Bath with what I thought was plenty of time. I was wrong. It took so long to find a parking space within walking distance of the Queensberry Hotel that I only just made it in time and was once more out of breath when I was shown to a reserved table for two in a quiet corner.

From the outside, the Queensberry was Georgian, this being the predominant idiom in Bath; inside, however, the decor was contemporary simplicity. The restaurant was moderately busy. Large, cool abstract canvases punctuated the walls in the restaurant. Uncharitably, I concluded they had been chosen for their unobtrusive blandness so as not to distract the diners from the food.

John Morton didn't give me much time to contemplate the decor, however. He appeared at my table with a speed and energy that made the Olive Tree's first-class waiters look like sleepwalkers. He was about fifty, with close-cropped blue-black hair, and moved his six-foot-two and eighteen-stone body as though recently shot from a cannon. We shook hands and he took his seat opposite me. Immediately, a single menu arrived, together with bottles of mineral water and one of Pilsner Urquell. The glass that came with the lager was chilled.

‘I have very little time since I have a plane to catch at Filton Airport, which is why I took the appalling liberty of ordering starters for both of us. I could have let someone else handle this but I prefer the personal touch; that way I'm spared many disappointments.' His big expensive voice ran over me irresistibly like the tide. The starters arrived after a further minute. ‘I know you like fish, Mr Honeysett, so that is what I ordered; you are naturally free to order whatever you like as a main course. I myself can only join you for the first course. Regrettably, I'll have to complete my lunch over the Atlantic,' Morton said without any hint of regret. If he was flying from Filton Airport, then he'd most likely be using a private jet and I was pretty sure his food wouldn't arrive cut into squares or in a plastic tray. He took a sip of water, then tucked into his starter of pigeon breast and beetroot. His teeth were preternaturally white and his whole appearance so well groomed and slick that the few spare stone of gastronomic weight he carried were all but invisible. My own dish had been announced as pan-fried monkfish with lemon butter and I tried not to fall on it like a starved street urchin. ‘So what's this little matter you would like me to look into?' I said foolishly, while thinking
I wonder who told him to feed me fish?

My host had perfected the art of talking while eating delicately. And fast. ‘I want you to find someone for us. An employee of ours went missing and you know what the police are like, overstretched trying to deal with crime. Naturally, we're concerned and want you to make
discreet
enquiries as to her present whereabouts.'

‘Tell me what you know already.'

‘Her name is Kyla Biggs, she's thirty-three years of age, a valued member of our British team and she's based in Bath. She disappeared on holiday. She was travelling by herself. Should have returned eight days ago but didn't.'

‘Where did she holiday?'

‘Greece. Corfu, to be exact, but that's all we know. Find out what happened to her. We got little help from the British police and no joy at all from their Greek counterparts. The Corfu police appeared to be suggesting that she did a “Shirley Valentine”, as they put it.' His eyebrows lifted briefly in dismissal.

‘Did a what?'

‘A cinematic reference, I believe. “Run off with a Greek waiter” is what they were trying to imply.'

Corfu. They want me to go to Greece
.
Somewhere warm
. ‘You think that's out of the question? Is she single?'

Morton shook his head in exasperation. ‘Kyla Biggs has a great future with our company and knows it. Even on her present salary, she could
commute
from Corfu if she'd fallen in love with someone there. She's also a highly responsible and considerate person. So, no, I don't believe she ran off with a local Adonis.'

‘Do we know who she booked her holiday with?'

‘Flight only.'

‘So we don't know where she was staying?'

‘I'm afraid not. The Greek police drew a blank.'

This could take some time.
Especially if it was sunny.
‘Corfu was a big island, last time I looked. But I do have a contact there who can assist me,' I exaggerated. Actually, I'd never been there, though an old college friend had made Corfu her home. I hadn't heard from her for years.

‘Go and find Miss Biggs for us. We chose you because we're told you speak fluent Greek.'

I nodded. Turkish, actually, but I didn't feel this was the moment to split hairs. Why cloud the issue? This was a terrific starter and the lemon butter worked well with the monkfish, so I'd be fine. ‘And whoever told you that also mentioned I liked fish?'

Morton had finished his starter, sipped water and smiled indulgently. ‘They didn't have to; we knew that already. I know quite a bit about you. You do eat a lot of fish, drink Pilsner Urquell, live with a lady and ride a motorcycle. You're also broke.'

You can go off people so quickly sometimes. ‘You don't need a detective, after all.'

‘You shop at our store, remember? You pay with plastic, so we know about every item you've ever bought. Our computers work this up into a customer profile. You also buy petrol from us and the amounts suggest you ride a motorcycle. You buy items of female hygiene and the rest is self-explanatory. Lately, you have spent more money on special offers and less on luxuries, suggesting you are feeling the pinch. Many do right now.' He had reached into his pocket and extracted a thick business envelope bearing my name in typescript. ‘You'll find a photograph of Miss Biggs and contact numbers inside, as well as a thousand pounds to speed you on your way.' He set it delicately next to my beer glass.

I parried his move by extricating a slightly crumpled sheet of densely printed A4 from my jacket pocket. ‘Standard contract; sign at the bottom.'

‘Of course.' He produced a Mont Blanc ballpoint pen and made a squiggle on the bottom without reading a line of it. ‘I'm afraid I must leave you to your main course; I have a car waiting. Please contact us as soon as you know anything at all.' He stood up to leave.

I rose too but hesitated when he offered to shake hands. ‘There's just one thing I should perhaps mention: I don't fly. I never use planes. Ever.'

Morton's expression changed from businesslike to mild amusement. He grabbed my hand and shook it. ‘Then I suggest you don't linger over dessert. Goodbye, Mr Honeysett.'

Ten seconds later he had disappeared and been replaced by one waiter who cleared away the plates and another who asked if I was ready to order my main course. I fingered the sealed envelope by my beer glass. Could this be an elaborate hoax? If this was full of bits of newspaper, then I would get a chance to put my considerable experience as washer-upper to good use. I dismissed the thought. Morton had judged me correctly: I was the performing seal of the private eye world and he had thrown me a fish.

‘Yes, I'm ready.' There was Cornish turbot on the menu, surely worth a shift of washing-up in any man's life. The food arrived so soon I wondered if the kitchen too had known what I would order. Only when the waiter had placed the dish in front of me and had retired did I run a casual fingernail along the length of the envelope exposing the joyous pink of a wad of fifties. The sight made me breathe more easily. I extracted the three-and-a-half-by-five-inch photograph of my quarry and propped it against a water bottle from where Miss Biggs watched me eat in black-and-white aloofness. The turbot was cooked to perfection; the herb risotto was sheer bliss.

In her head-and-shoulders picture Kyla Biggs wore short and stylish hair, a business suit and fashionable glasses. She looked as if she knew where she was going and the gaze she directed at the camera was one of energetic confidence. Shacked-up with some hairy Greek waiter she wasn't, unless she had suffered a breakdown due to a moussaka overdose.

I attracted my own waiter's attention – not at all difficult – and asked for the bill. ‘That has been taken care of,' he informed me neutrally. Did I care to peruse the dessert menu?

It was painful, but Morton's advice on not lingering seemed sound since I had a trip to plan which I'd find difficult with a dessert spoon in my hand. I managed an almost decent tip without having to pull out a wad of fifty-pound notes and walked back to the car feeling quite the
bon viveur
and at one with the world. They were
paying
me to go to where the sun was hiding, I thought jubilantly; just how good was that?

And they say fish is good for the brain.

‘G
reece? Even jammier.' Annis stirred the cauldron of soup I had left on the stove and tested the pasta for
doneness
, which, according to her,
was
a word. ‘Of course it's a word, I just used it, and anyway, it's done, so there.' She heaved a steaming ladleful into a shallow bowl, broke a hunk of bread off a crusty loaf and smothered it in Somerset butter. Real
Good Life
stuff. I followed her example.

‘You unbelievable glutton – you just had lunch at the Olive Tree.'

‘I deliberately skipped dessert to leave room for this.'

‘And they pay you to go to Corfu. I can't believe it. I went there, years ago; it was brilliant. So that's your prayers answered; what about mine?'

‘Perhaps we're praying to different deities.' I shrugged. ‘Come with me, of course.'

‘How? What with? Your thousand pounds won't last us long.' She shook her head, but with a certain reluctance. ‘Anyway, I've just started a painting. If I leave it now, it'll never happen.'

‘True. But the cheque from Simon Paris would do it. You could always get a cheap flight out when it comes.'

‘It's an idea, anyway. Perhaps once I've finished the painting, but by that time you'd long be on your way back, wouldn't you?'

‘All depends on what I'll find when I get there.'

‘Are you going to look up your old painting pal while you're down there? Does she still live there?'

‘Morva? As far as I know. I haven't heard from her for a couple of years. I'll see if I've still got a phone number for her. She might be able to help. Especially if she's learnt a bit of Greek. Someone told Morton and Co. I spoke Greek.'

‘Did you tell them you didn't?'

‘Forgot to mention it.'

‘Wise move. Did you mention your fear of flying? And the fact you haven't – still haven't – any transport of your own? How are you going to get down there, then?'

‘Good question. First I thought train, but that would leave me without transport once I arrive.'

‘You could rent a car or a bike down there, but they'll charge tourist rates. It's bound to cost you a bomb, especially if it takes a while to find her. Unless they'll forward you more money, you could be in trouble there.'

Driving down was the obvious answer, yet neither of our antique conveyances would make it that far.

There was always Tim, of course. Tim Bigwood was the third leg in the shaky tripod that propped up Aqua Investigations. He helped with all things locked, anything to do with computers or gizmos, since I'm useless with those. (I can just about fiddle a lock open but I always make sure to take sandwiches.) A reformed – or so he said – safe-breaker and now IT specialist in the employ of Bath University, he completed our triangle in more ways than one. It was about three years ago now that Tim and I found we shared more than just an interest in strange ways of making a living, when we discovered that Annis bestowed her favours on us in more or less equal measure. For reasons that may have less to do with our broad-mindedness than with her persuasiveness, this triangle still survived intact. Since Annis lived with me at Mill House, it was hardly an equilateral one, so I wasn't complaining. Much. And it did seem to work, most of the time.

I called Tim at work. His shiny black Audi TT would, of course, make short work of the journey to Greece. Tim made short work of my delusions. ‘There's a really good reason why you haven't got any transport, Chris, and that's because anything you drive tends to disintegrate beneath you.'

‘That's only because they're usually ancient to begin with.'

‘True. But if anyone can turn a three-year-old Audi into something ancient, it's you. You didn't really expect to borrow the TT, did you?'

‘Not really. You don't fancy a trip to Corfu, then?'