phone. He hung up, dropped the phone in his coat pocket and turned the corner.
It took a couple of seconds to locate them. A line of cars huddled in the shelter of a long block of tenement flats. Water dribbled from a first floor overflow pipe. A puddle had formed on the pavement and was now trickling down from the kerb onto the road, licking the front wheel of a two-year-old, white Ford Sierra with a taxi sign fixed to the roof. The woman sat behind the wheel. Edward Francis Soutar was snuggling into the seat beside her. Crouched in the back, Robin Greaves looked up as Soutar slammed the door shut.
Kennedy fumbled for his phone and dialled the office. The line was busy. He tried his boss's mobile.
After four rings his boss said, "Hang on. I'm on the land line."
"That's why I phoned your mobile." But nobody was listening. Kennedy lit a cigarette and waited.
As he stubbed it out his boss came back on the line. "What is it?"
"Can you check your report and find out if Greaves's wife is a taxi driver?"
"She isn't."
"You sure?"
"She's a temp."
"You absolutely positive?"
"I got my nose bashed up. My brain's fine."
"This is important. Would you mind double-checking?"
"Double-checking?" Kennedy heard chair legs scraping the floor as his boss stood. "Double-checking?" The clank of the filing cabinet's drawer opening. "If it keeps you happy, I'll double frigging check."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He sighed. "Okay. Here it is. Ready?" Kennedy said nothing. His boss cleared his throat and continued, "Carol Wren is registered with—"
"That her own name?"
"She uses her maiden name, yes. Some women do. May I continue?" His boss confirmed Carol Wren's recruitment agency. It specialised in office personnel. There was no indication that she owned, drove or had ever driven a taxi. "What's the significance?"
"Tell you later." Kennedy disconnected the call. He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall. He lit another cigarette. Inside the car there was very little movement. A few minutes later he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. Both hands were freezing now. He stamped his feet and winced as a hundred tiny knives stabbed his heels. Still nothing happening in the car. What were the bastards doing? They were sitting in the damned car, that's what they were doing. That's all they were doing. Not moving. Not speaking. Just sitting there. Listening to the radio or something. Soutar even had his eyes closed. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Carol was staring straight ahead. Greaves had slumped forward and was resting his chin on his chest, eyeing the knuckles of his interlocked fingers.
Kennedy looked at his watch and wondered once again why he was doing this, choosing to stand here in the cold while his extremities turned to ice. He'd become a PI for the excitement, the adventure, the danger. He blamed Hammett. Chandler, you could forgive. But Hammett? What a bastard.
PI novels had saturated Alex Kennedy's teenage years. From the moment he read his first Chandler he was hooked. He read all of Chandler, then Hammett, then Ross Macdonald. All the while he was amassing a stack of out-of-print fifties and early sixties PI pulp novels from charity shops and flea markets. His favourite PIs were Max Thursday and Johnny Killain. Men who thrived on danger and excitement. Men who thought two-to-one was pretty fair odds. Men who could take on a brick wall and before long have it begging for mercy. Kennedy blew into his cupped hands. Hammett had been an investigator himself and should have known better. He had no excuse for making this shitty job seem exciting. Nothing happened. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. In the office you made phone calls and surfed the net. You filed a report, made more calls and did a bit more surfing. Out of the office you sat in a car for hours on end watching zip. Occasionally, like today, you didn't even have the luxury of a car to sit in. You had to stand in the cold and watch very little turn into sod-all.
It took a couple of seconds to locate them. A line of cars huddled in the shelter of a long block of tenement flats. Water dribbled from a first floor overflow pipe. A puddle had formed on the pavement and was now trickling down from the kerb onto the road, licking the front wheel of a two-year-old, white Ford Sierra with a taxi sign fixed to the roof. The woman sat behind the wheel. Edward Francis Soutar was snuggling into the seat beside her. Crouched in the back, Robin Greaves looked up as Soutar slammed the door shut.
Kennedy fumbled for his phone and dialled the office. The line was busy. He tried his boss's mobile.
After four rings his boss said, "Hang on. I'm on the land line."
"That's why I phoned your mobile." But nobody was listening. Kennedy lit a cigarette and waited.
As he stubbed it out his boss came back on the line. "What is it?"
"Can you check your report and find out if Greaves's wife is a taxi driver?"
"She isn't."
"You sure?"
"She's a temp."
"You absolutely positive?"
"I got my nose bashed up. My brain's fine."
"This is important. Would you mind double-checking?"
"Double-checking?" Kennedy heard chair legs scraping the floor as his boss stood. "Double-checking?" The clank of the filing cabinet's drawer opening. "If it keeps you happy, I'll double frigging check."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He sighed. "Okay. Here it is. Ready?" Kennedy said nothing. His boss cleared his throat and continued, "Carol Wren is registered with—"
"That her own name?"
"She uses her maiden name, yes. Some women do. May I continue?" His boss confirmed Carol Wren's recruitment agency. It specialised in office personnel. There was no indication that she owned, drove or had ever driven a taxi. "What's the significance?"
"Tell you later." Kennedy disconnected the call. He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall. He lit another cigarette. Inside the car there was very little movement. A few minutes later he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. Both hands were freezing now. He stamped his feet and winced as a hundred tiny knives stabbed his heels. Still nothing happening in the car. What were the bastards doing? They were sitting in the damned car, that's what they were doing. That's all they were doing. Not moving. Not speaking. Just sitting there. Listening to the radio or something. Soutar even had his eyes closed. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Carol was staring straight ahead. Greaves had slumped forward and was resting his chin on his chest, eyeing the knuckles of his interlocked fingers.
Kennedy looked at his watch and wondered once again why he was doing this, choosing to stand here in the cold while his extremities turned to ice. He'd become a PI for the excitement, the adventure, the danger. He blamed Hammett. Chandler, you could forgive. But Hammett? What a bastard.
PI novels had saturated Alex Kennedy's teenage years. From the moment he read his first Chandler he was hooked. He read all of Chandler, then Hammett, then Ross Macdonald. All the while he was amassing a stack of out-of-print fifties and early sixties PI pulp novels from charity shops and flea markets. His favourite PIs were Max Thursday and Johnny Killain. Men who thrived on danger and excitement. Men who thought two-to-one was pretty fair odds. Men who could take on a brick wall and before long have it begging for mercy. Kennedy blew into his cupped hands. Hammett had been an investigator himself and should have known better. He had no excuse for making this shitty job seem exciting. Nothing happened. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. In the office you made phone calls and surfed the net. You filed a report, made more calls and did a bit more surfing. Out of the office you sat in a car for hours on end watching zip. Occasionally, like today, you didn't even have the luxury of a car to sit in. You had to stand in the cold and watch very little turn into sod-all.
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