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Matt sat in the airless Balcon & Mora office and gazed at his screen. It was late Tuesday morning and he planned to leave by midday. He needed to catch the photographer at Utterly Academy. He’d already missed the Monday afternoon photo session and Tuesday afternoon would be his last chance to update his mug shot for his pass.
‘You don’t seem to be doing much,’ Damon said from his desk behind Matt.
‘Yeah well I’ve already worked through me list of names.’ He heard the creak, knew the moves. ‘You’re doin’ that arm stretch thing, aint you? If you’re stoppin’ for another coffee, can I have one them cans of Coke?’
‘Right, if we’re taking a break, you can tell me what you were doing with the translator programme yesterday. Leon Jansen? He wasn’t on the list of names to trace for the credit card company.’
‘Ah, well it were a bit complicated.’ How much to say, Matt wondered. He ran through his checklist of who he wasn’t supposed to tell and what he’d been told not to spill. Leon’s name didn’t feature.
‘I followed Maisie like you said, to check she were OK waitressin’ at the bowls club on Saturday. In Felixstowe.’
‘You really did it?’
‘Yeah, and see I took some photos of the caterin’ crew without them knowin’. One of them photos came up as Leon Jansen when I ran it on Google facial recognition.’
‘And he’s Dutch?’
‘Yeah, and the Dutch stuff I found with the translator were about cookin’ an’ fishin’. He were holdin’ a big fish he’d caught.’
While Matt talked, Damon moved quickly around the office, handing him a can of Coke and then returning to his own desk with a mug of coffee. Within seconds Matt heard him tapping on his keyboard.
‘Hey, it seems coarse fishing is big in Holland. Not surprising with all that water. They’re awash with canals in Amsterdam and this site keeps mentioning polders,’ Damon said.
‘Polders? What you lookin’ at?’
‘Here, I’ll send you the link. I think it’s a Dutch word.’
‘Polder,’ Matt read out, ‘a low-lying swathe of land enclosed by dikes and yeah, the dikes are filled with water. It’s... like flooded land reclaimed from the sea? Hey, there’s pictures of polders with windmills on the edge.’
‘It says something here about monstrous pike and big fishing around the polders.’
‘Yeah, and lazy chair anglin’ for roach, tench & bream.’
‘Well Matt, judging by the picture of Leon Jansen on this Dutch site, he’s more into big fishing than lazy chair angling. That looks a pretty vicious fish he’s holding.’
‘Yeah, accordin’ to this site, sport fishin’ is the third most popular sport in the Netherlands,’ Matt murmured as he scrolled through the search results. Would Kinver Greane have been into big fishing as well, he wondered.
Something stirred in the back of his mind. Pike. The memory came flooding back, just as it had on Sunday when he’d told Chrissie. There’d been an old man in a flat cap, the one he’d spoken to when he’d ridden his Vespa to the allotments in Bury St Edmunds on that fateful day. Matt remembered asking where Flodden Drive was and the way to Poachers, which had turned out to be John Brown’s shed. The old man had told him about a pike and a Mr Risotto before giving him directions. But the memory sequence didn’t freeze there. It rolled on so that he relived the shed and the nightmare played again.
‘Are you OK, Matt?’ Damon asked.
‘Yeah, just somethin’ you said set me rememberin’. An’ Chrissie did the same thing the other day when she talked about fishin’ and Alton Water. Funny, but I aint thought about it for a couple of weeks and then twice in a couple of days.’
‘You’ve thought about fishing?’
‘Nah the dead man. It’s like a kinda sequence. I aint s’posed to talk about the dead man. Seems fishing and pike are OK to talk about, but it sets me head off.’
‘OK, then let’s not talk about p-pi fishing. Tell me about following your girlfriend.’
Matt explained his strategy – the variations with his helmet full face visor up or down, the different jackets, sweatshirts, and backpack positioning. ‘See, there aint no number plate on the front of me scooter and I were real careful.’
‘I’m impressed. But your Vespa must stand out. Didn’t you say special edition?’
‘Yeah, blackberry bubblegum.’
‘Could you dull it down a bit?’
‘Hey, what you sayin’?’
‘If the colour was grey or black you’d be less noticeable.’
‘Yeah, well I like the colour of me scooter. It’s retro.’ He knew it stood out. It was his statement. Retro Italian. Cool.
‘Hmm, well you still managed to get those photos. It may be an area we should expand into. See how this one goes first, hey?’
‘Yeah.’ Matt let his eyes drift back to his screen and the scenic shot of glassy water-filled dikes and a windmill. How, he wondered, could John Brown have been into big fishing and he not find a single reference to any kind of fishing when he’d searched about him? Even his foodie blog hadn’t been particularly heavy with fish.
‘Why are you rushing back to the Academy this afternoon?’ Damon asked.
‘What?’ Matt dragged his mind onto Damon’s track.
‘Why the Academy today? I thought you said you were helping in the practical sessions on Thursday mornings?’
‘Yeah, well I am. Today it’s me ID pass photo.’ He could also have said he was meeting Maisie mid-afternoon. She was working a short shift in the retro-clothes shop in the centre of Stowmarket and she’d wanted to meet him for a bit of a talk, afterwards. He hadn’t liked to ask what it was about.
He fumbled around his neck and tugged on the blue lanyard. The plastic card on its end appeared at his throat. He flipped it outside his tee-shirt and let it drop and dangle like a giant pendant from the 60s.
‘Let’s have a look.’ Damon held out his hand.
‘Err... yeah, OK then.’ Matt slipped it over his head and tossed it at Damon. He hadn’t wanted to take it off. It was like a talisman, a badge of honour: Matt Finch, Utterly Academy, Computing & IT Department. Assistant Demonstrator. It also had a face shot of a serious eighteen year old fresher caught with unblinking gaze and smooth skin. It was the most important thing he’d ever worn around his neck.
‘Hah! You haven’t got a beard on this. It makes you look kind of different. If they give you a new one, keep this. It could be useful if you’re going to do more of this real world tracing,’ Damon said.
•••
Matt rode into the centre of Stowmarket. He was making good time. It seemed to him that fate intended he meet Maisie, mid-afternoon, three thirty, just as she’d instructed. He’d half hoped it would take longer to be photographed at the Academy. It would have given him an excuse to be late. He’d assumed there’d be a re-run of when his mug shot was taken in 2009, but of course he’d partly forgotten. Back then he’d been a fresher, too shy to ask the way. It had taken him hours; a journey of discovery around the Academy site. Unfortunately this time he’d had his photo taken quickly and efficiently. He reckoned it was fate playing with him once again.
And why did Maisie want to have a bit of a talk with him? And about what? She was always talking. It seemed odd to tell him in advance she was going to talk.
He parked his scooter along Church Walk, behind the market place. It was a tranquil spot, tucked away from the thoroughfare and where a narrow road, barely the width of a car, encircled shady grass. He guessed it had once been a busy graveyard to the imposing old flint church, but in more recent times cleared of headstones for ease of mowing. It struck him as more like a pocket-handkerchief of parkland than a graveyard. He pulled off his helmet and inhaled the immediate sense of calm.
He sauntered towards the John Peel Centre, once the old Corn Exchange. The afternoon sun warmed its pale old Suffolk clay bricks, bringing it to life as he paused to gaze up. Footsteps echoed from the alley close by, an ancient shortcut threading behind buildings fronting the main shopping area.
‘Hey Matt!’ Maisie’s screeching call was unmistakable.
‘Mais? What you doin’ walkin’ along there?’
‘It’s a shortcut? Why shouldn’t I?’
She hurried to join him, her heeled gladiator sandals clipping the stone. ‘Hey, let’s find a spot nearer the library. I don’t fancy sittin’ on any of them dead people.’ She tilted her head at the park-like graveyard, then linked her arm with his and together they ambled back along Church Walk.
He knew he couldn’t rabbit on about this ’n that, not while at the back of his mind he knew she wanted to tell him something. There were too many trains of thought to follow; park one, drive the other, he decided. It was something he’d heard Damon say.
‘So what you want to talk about, Mais?’ he asked, biting the bullet like a superhero in his comic-strip books.
‘You aint said nothin’ about them chocolates, Matt. I could’ve lost me job gettin’ them and you aint even said thanks.’
He stared at her, panic gripping his guts.
‘And don’t look at me all innocent like, an’ say you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.’
He saw the lines creasing both ways on her forehead.
Her voice hardened; ‘Hey Matt! You gotta remember. Saturday? You picked me up after the lunch do at the bowls club in Felixstowe. I were on the back of the Vespa. I said I’d got you some chocolates and slipped ’em into your backpack.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I think they must’ve fallen out, Mais. You can’t ’ve put ’em in proper.’
‘What? How’d you mean not put ’em in proper?’
‘Well, I don’t remember findin’ any.’
‘So why didn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t like to.’ He dropped his gaze. It was difficult to lie but at least the not-remembering bit was partly true.
‘Oh, Matt – that’s sweet.’ She slipped her arm around him.
He tried to read her face, focussing on her eyes, then her mouth.
‘C’mon, let’s sit on the grass,’ she squealed.
They found a patch of grass on one side of the library. Matt flopped down on his back, hands behind his head so he could see Maisie’s face. She sat, cross-legged beside him.
‘You said you could’ve lost your job. No one saw you take them chocolates, did they Mais?’
‘I don’t think so. But they noticed they were missin’ because Gacela asked me about ’em when we were drivin’ to Framlingham on Sunday.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Well, she asked if I knew anythin’ about a box of chocs goin’ missin’. See, the box I took were small. I spotted it with the cool boxes in the van, not with the caterin’ sized cartons of them ones to eat with the coffees. I reckon she were tryin’ to catch me out. So I said, “What? One of them huge great boxes went missin’?” like I didn’t know about them smaller ones in the van.’
‘An’ she swallowed it?’
‘I don’t know. She looked at me funny, but when Leon asked if I’d been in the van, I knew to say no, I’d just carried stuff what were handed me, and I weren’t involved with loadin’ it inside.’
‘Were there lots of them smaller boxes of chocolates in the van, then?’
‘Why you askin’? You want a box?’
‘Bloggin’ hell no, Mais. An’ I don’t want you in no trouble either.’
‘Hmm, well I aint sure they’re the same as the ones in the cartons. I don’t do no Dutch, but I reckon the name on the outside don’t look the same.’
Matt let her words settle in his mind before he tried a different angle.
‘So what’s this Leon bloke like? You said he can slice a tomato, but what else?’
‘Well he don’t say much, but when he do he looks at you like he’s....’
‘Fishin’?’ Matt finished for her.
‘That’s a weird thing to say. So what kind of a look is a fishin’ look?’
‘I don’t know, maybe kinda mean if you’re a big fish?’
‘Mean? I don’t know ’bout big fish. It were more like he suddenly noticed me.’
‘What? Like he fancies you?’
‘Nah, it were spooky.’
‘Spooky? Is he always there or are there other chefs round?’
‘I’ve only waitressed three times so far.’ She counted off on her fingers, ‘Bank Holiday Monday lunch at Wickham Market; this last Saturday, Felixstowe; and Sunday in Framlingham. That’s three. Yeah, he were the only chef at all three, but Sophie said see you in a week to him when we were clearin’ up.’
‘So you reckon he’ll be away for a week?’
‘Yeah, and Sophie don’t do no cookin’ so there’s got to be another chef fillin’ in. Gacela said he does this regular like – you know, going off for a week at a time.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘How’d I know?’
‘Has Sophie got a bloke? Maybe he can do the cookin’?’
‘That’ll be Lang, I reckon. He don’t have anythin’ to do with the business.’
‘Yeah, too busy watchin’ birds, more like.’
‘Watchin’ birds? Where’d you get that from?’ A gust of wind caught a tendril of her bleached hair. She straightened her back.
‘I-I don’t know,’ he lied.
Bloated malware, had he fragged it?
He watched her rigid back, toyed with the idea of sneaking his arm around her waist, and then changed his mind. He figured it was time to bite another bullet.
‘I reckon I must’ve read somethin’, Mais. See, when you said you were workin’ for Hyphen & Green, I searched ’em online. It’s what I do.’
‘So if you know everythin’, why you askin’ all them questions?’
‘There weren’t no Leon on their website.’
‘Yeah, but you knew Sophie’s bloke were called Lang, and he’s into bird watchin’. So why ask if Sophie’s got a bloke, like you don’t already know? What else aint you tellin’ me, Matt?’
‘Nothin’,’ he lied and then added, ‘honest, Mais.’
He was uncomfortable. All this obfuscation was on Clive’s order, and it made him feel uneasy. Should he tell Maisie he was following her? He wanted to, but did he have the guts? He closed his eyes and tried to shut it all out.
‘Hey, Matt,’ Maisie wheedled, ‘let’s get a pizza later and watch a DVD. One of the girls at the shop lent me The Sapphires. It’s about a girl-singin’ group back in the 60s. Come on, it’ll be fun. We can go back to your place. What you say?’
