My
little cassette player played Move over Darling
by Doris Day. I sang along as I scraped jellied stinking meaty chunks of dog
food into a bowl. I held my breath, and added a handful of biscuits filled with
marrowbone goodness. Betsy lay on the floor nearby, her eyes tilted upwards at
me with her usual mealtime expression, which
meant, “You expect me to eat that?”
I
had bought Betsy, a King Charles Cavalier puppy, when Jim left. She was good
company (better than Jim) and did not mind Coronation Street too much. She also
gave me a reason to get out of the house and walk
without seeming weird.
I
plonked the bowl on the floor, and made myself a tuna sandwich. As I ate it,
Betsy sat by the chair. She used her hypnotic brown-eyed
stare to make me hand over her share.
I
handed over her share.
I
flicked through the Guardian. There was coverage of the riots in Handsworth and
Broadwater Farm. Social breakdown had spread across Britain. There was an
article about a pop singer called George Michael and his latest girlfriend. It
seems he is quite the ladies’ man.
I
threw the plates into
the washing bowl, walked into the living room and grabbed Betsy’s lead.
“Come
on girl!” I shouted, making my voice as light and encouraging as possible.
There was silence from the kitchen. “Come on! Walkies!”
I
had watched Barbara Woodhouse, but Betsy had not. Or perhaps Betsy
objected to Barbara’s dog coaching technique. I returned to the kitchen where Betsy lay next to the radiator, attached her lead and dragged her sliding to the
front door.
She
resisted to the end of our red-bricked terrace. Her head slumped, and claws clutched
the pavement. Then she
spotted a cat lurking under a nearby car, and after a moment of rabid barking, she forgot her
reluctance to walk.
We
cut along a path leading to the river’s edge. Despite my thick winter coat and woollen
hat, I was still frozen. Betsy had chewed my gloves the day before, leaving them
ruined beside her basket. The chill air bit at my
hand as I clutched the lead. I buried the other hand deep in a pocket.
When
we were away from the road, I unhooked the lead and Betsy raced through the
woods. We reached the river, swollen by the recent heavy rains. Hardly anything
remained, of the beach, which was her favourite spot for digging. The waters
raged and the wind moaned through the treetops. Darkness was already drawing
in.
A
man stood on the opposite bank. He wore an immaculate business suit but no
overcoat despite the cold. He stared from across the river, eyes fixed on me. I
smiled, but his face remained blank. I called Betsy and attached her lead. When
I looked up again, he was gone.
We
returned to the path and followed our usual route through the woods. We passed
the shell of an abandoned mill. This once thriving Lancashire town was now home
to these crumbling remnants. There was a growing population of the unemployed,
unskilled and unwanted. There was a sense that real life, life that mattered,
was elsewhere.
*
My
grandad was a copper for thirty-five years. He called me his “little Bobby”,
never Roberta,
despite my mother always correcting him. For as long as I can remember, he told me
stories about the criminals he claimed to have tracked. I doubted he had foiled a group of German
spies plotting to overthrow the British
Government. Much of his work must have
involved clouting kids for being cheeky to the Vicar.
By
age ten, I often placed classmates under citizen’s arrest for minor violations such as homework plagiarism and a black market in conkers. My
greatest case was in 1956, when I unearthed a gang engaged in coordinated
extortion of lunch money. As a member
of a police family, I felt a duty to protect the weak. It made me unpopular with
certain pupils in the school, but
the shell I constructed has helped me in the adult world.
After
my A-levels, I intended to leave education and apply to the force. My dad
insisted I give University a chance, and decide later what I wanted to do with
my life. I would be the first of my family to study for a degree, and it was
important to them, so I agreed.
After
three years of Medieval History, I walked away with second-class honours and an unhealthy tolerance for alcohol. I never read
another book on the subject.
Most
of my fellow graduates left with no plan
for their lives or any practical
vocational skills. I applied only to the Police Force, and walked the interview
and entrance tests.
*
I
was good at the job. Three years on the beat, and I became a detective. The
next stage was more of a struggle.
I made slow progress, pushing against the
glass ceiling and misogynistic
colleagues. I worked twice as hard as
most. There were a few decent souls, but
the culture was a macho one in the sixties. It still can be, even in our
enlightened times.
John
Bell was the main source of the trouble. He had been a detective a couple of
years longer than I had. His
idea of a joke
was “make us all a cup of tea love, while we solve this case”. One year, at the
Christmas party, he tried to stick his hand
under my skirt. I smacked
him. He did not like women who fought back and became more vicious, undermining my work.
At
times, his attitude risked jeopardising
investigations. I raised it with DCI Wilmott, but Bell was a mate of the
Assistant Chief Constable. It came to nothing.
*
It
was tough, but I was good at what I did, and after cracking some high profile
cases, I applied for promotion. Bell applied at the same time, but I got the
job. You can imagine how well he took it. Over the next few years, he ground me
down, recruiting other colleagues into his witch-hunt.
Then,
two year ago, my husband Jim pissed off with a
twenty-year-old nail artist. A profession with a wide definition of art. She was no
Frida Kahlo. I did not miss him, but returning home each night to an empty house
does not help your self-esteem. Not when all your
friends have married. Not when they all have delightful (though annoying) and
intelligent (though obnoxious) children.
I
spent most of my evenings mulling over arguments from work. I would replay difficult conversations, or
worry about where my life was going. It was going nowhere.
Earlier
this year, there was an opportunity to take
redundancy. Margaret Thatcher had
claimed to believe in law and order. She did not want
to pay for more coppers though, unless
they were rounding up striking miners. At first, I did not consider taking redundancy. Then, after a day on which
everything went wrong, I changed
my mind. There would be a large payment,
enough to tide me over while I decided what to do with my life.
I
wish I could say I felt sadness the day I left the Force, or that there was a
wonderful send-off. In reality one day I was a copper and the next I was not.
Ken
Wilmott bought me some flowers and a box of Black Magic, his running joke for DI Roberta Black. He was one of the few colleagues who
made my life as a detective bearable. I miss him. John Bell smirked in the corner and whispered jokes to his pals. I went for a
drink with Alice, my best friend and colleague, and that was that. Twenty year of my young life had
gone. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
*
I
walked to the Spar on the main road and tied Betsy to a lamppost outside. As I
entered, I spotted my neighbour Stan by the freezer section.
Before I could disappear, he spotted me.
“Roberta!
Hang on love.” He waved and limped towards me, clutching a packet of Smash. “Have
they emptied your bins? It’s been three weeks. There’ll be rats all over the place
if they don’t come soon.”
I
shrugged. “I’m not sure; it’s only me in our house now, so it’s never full.”
“I’ve
phoned the Council, but they don’t listen to me. I am just an old codger to
them, and the councillors don’t give a toss unless there is an election on.
They’ll be glad when I’m dead and they don’t have to bother with me anymore. I reckon if
you gave them a ring it would help.”
“I’m
not sure Stan; I’ve got a lot on.” Long empty days walking the dog and waiting
for work. “You can use my bin though if you’re struggling.”
“That’s
kind of you love, but it’s the principle. It’s a health hazard, with the rats.
What about the little ’uns playing down the back? I’m the only one bothered
about those little ’uns. Their parents are in the pub all the time. Have you
heard the language that Louise uses shouting at them? It was
different around here years ago.”
“Ok,
Stan, I’ll give the council a ring if it will put your mind at rest. I’d better
get on though.”
I
bought salad and fruit. Recently I had indulged in too much cake. I must have put on a few pounds, but refused to have scales in the house since the
Weightwatchers incident. The less said about that the better.
*
I
unlocked the door and walked into the living room. I had filled
the house over the years with a variety of mismatched second
hand furniture. Piles of books sat on every available surface. I glanced at the
answering machine and its pale unblinking light. I pressed the button.
“You
have no new messages.”
It
was three months, since I had first placed the ad in the Reporter, offering my
services as a Private Detective. The only calls had
been a few cranks and a man who asked me to follow his
wife. He wanted me to check if she was having an affair. She was having an affair,
and who could blame her, married to a whining slob like him. He had cried when
I told him, and then asked me if I fancied a drink. I told him to get lost.
Another case solved for Roberta Black PI.
Poirot
never had these problems. All he had to do was herd aristocrats into dining rooms
and deliver lengthy expositions from beside the mantelpiece.
*
I
flopped on the sofa and turned on Corrie.
Betsy joined me, her chin rested on my knee, looking
with scepticism at the TV screen. Mavis had no regrets about jilting Derek, and
to be honest she could do better. I always believed Mavis would be more suited
to Victor,
the poet always hanging around the Cabin. I said this to Betsy, but she
appeared doubtful. Betsy could be right, Derek had a certain doggy reliability
lacking in flighty Victor. The Duckworths and Ivy won £500 at Bingo. They all
got drunk and Jack was about to drive them home, but a policeman was watching.
Cue the theme tune. Now we had to wait two days to find out what happened to
Jack. Poor Vera, if he loses his license they will be struggling again.
Brookside was on the other side next, but I did not watch that rubbish. I
turned off the TV.
*
The
house was silent and the rain hammered against the window. I pictured the river
rising further. There would soon be floods again.
I
read for an hour, Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner. I read a wide range of
genres. It is
an escape, to try other lives. It is important to me to be able to see the world from different viewpoints. Not to be too rigid, not to imagine I had stumbled upon the correct answer
to every question. Understanding other perspectives is a useful ability for a
detective.
One
of the promises I made to myself when I took redundancy, was to spend more time
with books. There had been plenty of time during the past few months and I had
made my way through most of Brookner’s work.
At
9PM, I felt my eyes closing and decided it was time for bed. I went upstairs
and put on my thickest thermal nightie.
This is the life of your modern
independent (and beautiful) private eye. Betsy was already asleep by my feet
when I climbed into bed. It cannot have been ten minutes before I too was
snoring.
*
An
hour later, the phone rang. For a second, I thought it was someone from the
station, and turned over to go back to sleep. As I dozed, my half-awake mind
pieced together the facts. Number one, you are no longer a member of Her
Majesty’s Constabulary. Number two, you have no job and a dwindling redundancy
pay-out. Number three, nobody ever calls you so late. It could be a client.
I
leapt from bed, rushed down the stairs two at a time into the living room and
answered the phone.
“Black
Investigations.” I panted like a pensioner completing a marathon. “How may I
help you?”
“I’m
calling about your ad in the Reporter.” The voice on the other end belonged to
a nervous woman trying to sound posh. “Sorry to call so late. I’ve been going out of my
mind.”
Her
voice broke. She sobbed.
“It’s
ok,” I replied, sitting on the sofa. “Take your time. When you are ready, tell
me.”
“Thank
you.” There was silence, as she collected herself. “It’s my daughter Helen;
she’s been missing for weeks now. I am worried. Nobody seems to care. The
police aren’t interested.”
“How
old is Helen?”
“She
is seventeen. She’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. I had a big celebration
planned. We have never been out of touch for so
long before. She always rings daily when she stays
with friends. It’s not like her.”
“And
you want me to find her?”
“If that is something you do. I can pay you well. My
husband is a wealthy man.”
“Let me check my diary,” I said. Holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, I
flicked through Hotel du Lac. “We are pretty busy this week, but there was a
cancellation earlier. I have a slot first thing in the morning, if that is ok
for you?”
“Wonderful!
Thank you so much Mrs Black. If you give me the address of your office, I can
come to see you whenever is convenient.”
“Our
offices are being renovated at the moment,” I lied. I did not bother correcting
the Mrs either. “It’s best if I come to see you anyway. With missing youngsters,
it is always useful to get a sense of where they live. Is ten o’clock tomorrow
morning ok for you?”
I
took the woman’s details. Her name was Mary Campbell, and she lived in one of
the most expensive parts of town. This could be a lucrative piece of work if
all went well. It could help build my reputation.
I
returned to the bedroom.
“Betsy!”
I woke her, ruffling her big floppy ears. “The game is afoot!”
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