Chapter 1

I’m a Private Investigator. My card reads ‘Max Force – whatever it is, we can move it for you. You have a problem; I make it go away. You need help, I can get it for you. You need protection, I can keep you safe.’ All you need is money to pay me for my services.

My name is Maxine Fawcett, and I was in the police for some years before retiring. Actually, I didn’t retire but was drummed out for inappropriate behaviour with a sergeant while on a stake-out. Well, the back seat was comfy and nothing else was happening until we were both about to climax. That was when the bandits ran past us with two uniformed in chase. It shows just how misogynous the force is as he just got a wrap over the knuckles and a few pats on the back for scoring.

I took the exams and got my PI license a year later. After a couple of years, I got an office where I’m now sitting at my desk, wondering what I was going to do. As far as offices go, this one was a good find. I had been able to afford it by having a rather lucrative job, not long ago. The only problem is that some clients don’t seem to be able to find it.

The address on the card is 13 Bateman Street, Soho. The door to the stairs is between the Crown and Two Chairmen on one side, and Regulation on the other. I’m up above Regulation, but clients don’t have to walk past the kinky stuff to see me.

Although they do have to negotiate my own bit of kinky, my receptionist and business partner, Lena Tsarina. Lena was once Sergeant Leonard Sergeant, late of the SAS and recipient of several medals during a Syrian offensive, a place where he was never officially sent. Lena is a cross-dresser, a side-effect of her PTSD. She is always impeccably outrageous, tall for a woman, but slim enough. Her voice is what you would expect from a heavyweight boxer from the East End, but she is my right arm, and my self-defence instructor. She taught me to fight as if my life depended on it, getting dirty if I had to.

The office is in a very handy place, with enough different eating places within five minutes’ walk. There were a couple of pubs within a couple of minutes, the adult shop downstairs, a post-production video place across the road and an audio studio across Dean Street. If people ask me how to find me, I just tell them to find Royalty House, then turn around and my street is across the road.

I had been busy, but this game was up and down like a yo-yo. I could probably slip around the corner and dance in Sunset Strip, but I couldn’t handle all the boozy punters, preferring more genteel boys. And it was certainly one that Lena opened the door for that morning.

“Toff to see you, Maxie.”

The man tried to avoid Lena as he passed by, but with her taking up most of the doorway it was almost impossible not to make contact. I pointed him to a comfortable chair which didn’t have a view of my legs and asked him what we could do for him.

“You may, or may not, recognise me. I’m Algernon Clifton-Crabbe, the Shadow Chancellor. I’m here because the Shadow Home Secretary died a few weeks ago, and I don’t think it was from natural causes. I believe that the government has put pressure on the police to just close the file.”

“Why would they do that?”

“It wasn’t until I saw the records of the speeches in the House. James was trying to lay some heavy stuff on the Home Secretary. He was insinuating that the supposedly perfect family man had skeletons in his cupboard. A week later, he was found in his pool, drowned, with a high level of alcohol in his system. James Harding was not a heavy drinker, not like others in the House.”

“So, what do you want me to do about it? If I step on toes at the Yard, they’ll pull my licence in seconds. I might have a couple of friends who can let me know if there was pressure, but the question is obvious. Do you want me to clear your friends’ name, so making it obvious that the police are dragging their feet; or do you want me to find the dirt on the Home Secretary. If he can get someone killed and get away with it, I’ll need to be paid danger money.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred a day, minimum of ten days, in advance. No refunds and no guarantee. Oh! those are working days; I cherish my weekends. I’ll supply my report then. Do I have permission to see the scene of the crime and talk to the next-of-kin?”

I sat and watched as he wrote out a cheque for five thousand as if he was buying a pack of cigarettes. He handed it to me, along with an envelope. I opened the letter which gave me the address of the crime scene, the name of the wife and a note of introduction. I could see that he may have paid even more to have me working on the case. I wondered why.

I thanked him for his business and walked him to the door. When he had left, Lena came into the office.

“Geezer’s right up himself, Maxie, luv. Something’s off about him, though. What have you dropped us into this time?”

“He wants me to prove that the Home Secretary had the Shadow one murdered, because the Home Secretary has things in his cupboard that he doesn’t want aired.”

“Wouldn’t be difficult for the Home Secretary to arrange that. He is the oversight of the police force and the security services. He’s also in charge of immigration, lots of opportunity to bring in an assassin there.”

“Thanks, Lena. You’ve made me feel so much better about taking the case on. He paid five grand to take the case. You’d better pay the outstanding accounts before I end up like the victim, only in somebody else’s pool. Now, I have to ring the grieving widow and start to earn the cash.”

Lena took the cheque, and I heard her heels on the landing as she went off to the bank, the only place not within a five-minute walk. I rang the number on the letter. When it was answered, I asked to speak to the widow, telling the maid that I was ringing because I had just spoken to the Shadow Chancellor.

The woman who then talked to me was one I had seen in fashion magazines. She had been a model before she had married into politics and a titled family. I asked if I could see her this afternoon and talk to her about her husbands’ death. She agreed and gave me the address, their London town house. I asked her if it was possible to see the scene of the crime and she said that she would give me the keys to the country manor when she saw me, as she was finding it hard to go back there.

I rang Hassam, my usual Uber driver, booking him for the afternoon and telling him where to find me. Then I locked the office and put a sign on the door that I was out. Down on the pavement, I walked around the corner to Dean Street and the nice pizza place a little way along. Hassam joined me there, as some of his payment was a meal. We spoke about the state of the world as we ate, and then he drove me to the address I gave him, just off of Grosvenor Square.

“Going up in the world, Maxie. This area is Toff Central. I expect that the plod will be moving me on if I wait for you. How long do you think you’ll be?”

“Possibly an hour or so. You shoot off and earn some real money and I’ll wait outside for you to come back. If I’m not there, you can tell any inquisitive plod that you’re waiting for a visitor to Helen Harding, her of the boobs and blonde loveliness.”

“Her! I have pictures of her from that Vogue shoot, years ago, where they didn’t give her a lot to wear. She’s a cracker!”

I went up the steps and rang the bell. A little while passed before the woman herself answered the door. She invited me in and led me towards the back of the place. As we walked, I saw us reflected in a huge mirror. It looked like a black and white negative.

She was a stunning blonde who wore white as if it was made for her. I matched her in height and my usual colour was black, to match my raven hair. I thought that my legs were better, but then realised that she had two children since her modelling career.

At the back of the house we walked into a sunny entertaining area, with a bar, small kitchen, and plenty of easy chairs. She pointed to one while she took one opposite, a low table between us with a bunch of keys on it.

Before we got serious, she wanted to know about me and my work as a PI. She was genuinely interested as we sipped at the drinks that the maid had brought us. When we got around to her husband, she had tears in her eyes as she spoke about his last few weeks of life. She told me that he had been withdrawn and curt with her but had confided that he was looking at something serious.

“Where did he do that.”

“Here. He was frightened, I think. He kept muttering about the ‘Sect’ and would tell me that the country was being run by perverts. Although he had said that before he was withdrawn as well.”

“Is there an office here where he may have kept things?”

“It’s up on the second floor. You can look there if you want. It still makes me mad if I go in there, thinking of the people who took my husband from me and their father from our children.”

“You’re sure that he was murdered then?”

“Yes, I’m certain of it. There was no need for him to go near the pool without the kids, and he would never have got himself drunk. He was too upper crust for that. He would often complain about the drinkers in Parliament, that it was impossible to govern while sozzled.”

The maid led me to the office, and I unlocked it with one of the keys on the bunch. Inside, I stood and took it in for a few minutes. It was typical for a rich politician. The desk was antique but the computer beside it wasn’t. The screen on the top of the desk was big, and the mouse and keyboard were wi-fi. The two filing cabinets were made of mahogany to match the desk, but the chair was a very comfortable gaming chair.

I walked past two comfortable armchairs and sat at his desk. Either he was a clean freak, or the maid had been in. Then I went and looked in the filing cabinets. They were locked, but I had the keys on the ring. When I pulled the first drawer out, I just stood and wondered what was wrong. Then it struck me. All the hanging files were pulled to the front, several with corners of papers poking up. That is how they would be if you were looking for anything hidden behind them. I looked at all the drawers and they were similar. Someone had gone through them and had just closed them up when the search was unsuccessful.

I checked the desk drawers. The pens, pencils, and other stuff in one was as if someone had pulled them all out and just thrown them back. Nowhere had anything that a Shadow Home Secretary wouldn’t have kept. There was copies of his speeches, paperwork that I wasn’t allowed to see but read through quickly. No secret bottles of booze but a bottle of sherry and glasses on a side table.

I looked behind his pictures and certificates for a safe, then sat in the chair and looked for any signs that one may be under the carpet. Near the filing cabinets, I saw that the corner of the carpet was slightly raised, so went and pulled it back to see scuff marks in a circular pattern. They matched one of the corners of the filing cabinet. That made me look more closely at the two cabinets. Both looked as if they were fitted and screwed to the wall.

I opened the top drawer of the one with the scuff marks and put my hand in, right to the back. I felt a small lever, which I pulled, hearing a distinct click. The whole filing cabinet was able to be swung out on hidden hinges. It was ingenious. When I pulled it away from the wall, I saw the safe that I had expected. It was an old one, with a tumbler for the code and a rather large keyhole. I hadn’t found the key anywhere.

Taking one last look, I returned the cabinet to its normal position, smoothed the carpet down and locked the office before going back to the wife.

“Tell me, did anyone come and look in his office after his murder?”

“The police just looked in when they were pretending to make enquiries. Then someone from the House came by to pick up his old Cabinet papers. Funny chap, that one. He looked like someone from one of those old fifties movies, a proper gentleman. He had a bushy moustache and an accent that was hard to understand. Somewhere from the rural north, I think. Terribly cold and bleak places. Never been there and never want to.”

We had a little small talk, and I was shown to the front door by the maid. I took that opportunity to ask her if she had cleaned the masters’ office and she told me that was only done under his supervision, and she hadn’t been inside since his death. Outside, I saw Hassam waiting for me, a parking inspector watching suspiciously from along the street.

I smiled at the parking inspector as I walked to the car, getting in, and giving Hassam the address of the manor house. We went north, into Buckinghamshire, and I was deep in thought most of the way. At the manor house, I had to speak into a grill by the gates before they opened to allow us in. At the front door, a butler was waiting for me.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fawcett. I’m Jackson. Madam said that you have the run of the house should you need it. Your driver can wait here, I’ll get a maid to bring him a drink. Now, where do you want to start.”

“Thank you, Jackson. I would like to look at where the master was found, and then I would like to look at his study. Was there anywhere else he would sit to do his work?”

“He would sit in the conservatory and read, but he mainly kept to the study.”

“Did he keep it locked?”

“Not normally but did start to lock it some weeks before his death.”

“Has anyone been in there since then?”

“Only a man from the House, to check if he had Top Secret papers. Funny chap, very upper crust with a moustache like an old cavalry officer. Can’t say I liked him, nor could I understand much of what he said.”

He showed me the pool and I took a good look around it. There were no obvious signs of a struggle, so I wondered if he had been force fed the alcohol and then just carried out of the house. That meant either a strong man or two moderately strong men.

The office was locked, so I opened it with the keys. Jackson left me to work my powers of observation, saying that he would come when I pressed the buzzer on the desk. Now knowing that the office had already been searched, I didn’t bother with any of the desk drawers or filing cabinets. I was looking for just one thing, somewhere hiding a large key.

There was a safe, which one of the keys on the ring opened. If I could do that, so could the other guy. There was a few bundles of money and jewellery boxes in it which the other guy had left behind. That made me sure that he had been an agent from one of the security services or ordered not to take anything for himself.

I turned my attention to the desk. It was another antique, in oak, this time. The filing cabinets were metal and sitting proud of the wall, so not the same as the other office. I took a flashlight from my bag and examined the desk, front, sides, and in the knee well. I had to pull the chair further back to look in there. Something about the chair bothered me. It was a heavy oak one, on four legs with small casters. It was nicely padded but a long way from the gaming chair in the town house.

Curious, I laid the chair on its side and looked at the underneath. It had a wood cover to the base, with a keyhole on one side. One of the keys on the ring opened it to reveal a hiding place. Inside was the large key I was looking for, as well as some other papers. I took the lot, putting them into my bag along with the light. Closing and locking the door, I righted the chair and pushed it back into place. Then I pressed the buzzer and went into the corridor, locking the study door.

Jackson came to guide me out, asking me if I had found anything, to which I answered in the negative. I told him that I would drop the keys off with the mistress of the house and then Hassam drove us back to London. I got him to stop near the office and bought us dinner at Gopal’s Indian Restaurant. I waited until he had left before walking across the road to the office door. I went up to the landing but didn’t stop to go into the office. I carried on up the stairs to my own living quarters on the upper floor.

Opening the door to my flat, I shucked the heels and padded into the lounge area, which overlooked Bateman Street below. I stood a bit back from the window and examined the crowds below. Soho is a very busy place in the evenings and someone just standing still stood out from the rushing punters looking to tittivate their jollies. The man who was standing at the corner of Dean Street stood out. He was trying to look as if he was waiting for somebody, but it was the chunky stature and the cavalry moustache that gave him away.

I got my phone and took a picture of him as he looked at the door to the office stairs for the tenth time. Then I rang one of the friends that I had made while still in the police. He was now working as a desk sergeant at the Soho nick.

“Joe, sweetie. It’s Maxie. There’s a guy standing on the corner of Dean and Bateman who looks like he’s casing a joint. Chunky bloke with a big mo. The boys can’t miss him.”

“Right, I think he’s following me. He could be five or six. Might be good to give one of them a fright. Thanks.”

A few minutes later, a Panda Car pulled up in Dean Street and a couple of uniformed got out and spoke to Mo Man. He showed them an ID and they obviously told him to move on, with him walking down Bateman Street and into the Canwood Coffee House on the corner of Frith Street. The boys in blue got back into the Panda and drove away. Ten minutes later, a car pulled up and Mo Man got in.

It wasn’t long before he got out and walked back to the corner with Dean and his original vantage point. Ten minutes after that, my phone cheeped, and I answered.

“Maxie, the boys said that he showed them a Vice Squad ID in the name of Inspector Clifton Waters. I’ve checked with Head Office and there isn’t anyone of that name in the force. Then, just a few minutes ago, I got a call from someone saying that they’re from the Yard, telling me that they have an operation going down in Soho. I’ve been told to lay off.”

“He went to the corner of Frith and waited for a car to arrive. He spent a couple of minutes talking to someone in the back and he’s back where your boys spoke to him. Thanks for your help, Joe.”

I went to my bedside table and pulled a burner phone from the drawer. Turning it on, I waited until I had a signal and called Hassam.

“Hassam, it’s Maxie. While you were waiting for me that that town house, did anything happen that was odd?”

“Only some geezer who looked like he was a Guards officer dropped his wallet. He couldn’t be in the Guards, though. Too short.”

“Hassam, luv. Take your car in for a service tomorrow and let them find the tracker he put under the wheelarch. Don’t call me on your normal phone unless it’s just normal chat. Someone followed us today, and I only took a job this morning.”

I went back down to the office level and set the special alarms that buzzed me upstairs. Then went down to the street door to set the big bar across it. I would have to open it in the morning to let Lena in. Then, back upstairs, I double locked my flat door and closed the curtails, seeing Mo Man still waiting for something to happen.

I undressed and had a shower, cleansed, and prepared for bed. I had a cosh under the pillow and an extendable baton just under the mattress. I tried to relax but could help thinking that by taking on this job, I had kicked over an ants nest. They were probably watching the widow and picked me up then. The only thing that was odd was that I had been given two descriptions of the man outside who had searched the two offices.

I thought about what I knew about the secret services. If they were watching me, I would never know it. They used a lot of technology and usually remained invisible. Mo Man was working for someone who was either very stupid, or else they wanted me to know that I was on their radar. If the intention was to frighten me, it was working.

Marianne Gregory © 2024