Harry’s first client was the pastry chef from Patrick’s. Alvin was in his thirties and had been unable to hold down a long-term relationship. He wanted to get married and have kids, but every time he got engaged, it never lasted more than a month or two before he broke it off. He’d been engaged five times.
When Harry asked how things had been, beginning the session, Alvin’s eyes closed – and then opened again.
‘Things are difficult at the moment,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve got massive credit card debts.’
‘What have you been spending your money on?’
Alvin’s face brightened. ‘I’ve met someone wonderful. Sakiya. She’s a fashion designer. She’s really pretty… She likes nice things, you know? We’ve been dating for a while. I’ve been taking her out to nice restaurants. Actually, top restaurants. Michelin-starred… and I’ve been buying her gifts. We’ve been making plans for the future. Talking about what our lives are going to be like, together.’
‘Did you do this with Paula?’ Harry referred to Alvin’s most recent fiancée.
‘Well, yes. But this is different.’
‘Different, how?’
Alvin tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling. ‘It’s new. She’s a unique person. I’ve never known anyone like her.’
‘Didn’t you think the same about Paula? That she was unique?’
‘I may have done.’ He shifted uncomfortably.
‘How about with Helen? The fiancée before?’
‘Of course I wined and dined Helen. Took her on trips abroad. She was terrific. But she wasn’t the one.’
To Harry’s satisfaction, a clear picture was beginning to emerge. He just had to unpeel another few layers and hopefully Alvin would come to the same realisation: that he wasn’t commitment-phobic, he was simply addicted to falling in love; the romance of sending roses; the gifts of jewellery; gazing deeply into his lover’s eyes over a candle-lit table. But once they’d said yes to his marriage proposal, once he’d won their love, he lost interest. To achieve the same emotional impact he had to repeat the whole process with another woman.
Before he left, Alvin handed Harry a bakery box. Harry peeked inside to see a large, beautifully made pie.
‘Venison and red wine.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You have to, because I can’t pay you until next time.’
Knowing how important it was psychologically that clients paid for their sessions in some way, he accepted the pie and put it on his desk. ‘You will come?’
Alvin took the question seriously. ‘Yes. But if I can’t pay you next time, can I pay you in kind again?’
When Harry hesitated, he said, ‘I could teach you how to make a pie like this. It’s easy, you know. But you must use lard. It makes such a difference, I can’t tell you.’
Harry was sorry when he had to refuse. He’d like nothing more than to learn how to make a cracking pie, but he needed to keep things simple.
‘Look me up on YouTube.’ It was as though Alvin had heard Harry’s thoughts. ‘I’ll show you how.’
Harry was typing up his notes on Alvin’s session when Jagoda buzzed him. ‘Your policeman friend. He is here. He wants to see you.’
He was used to Jagoda’s bullet-point announcements. She’d come from the Ukraine eighteen months ago, looking for temporary work, and had taken up the job to be the Centre’s cleaner cum receptionist with alacrity. Although they hadn’t been able to afford to give her much of a pay rise since she’d started, she’d stayed.
‘I like how it smells,’ she’d announced brightly. ‘And where else can I get a massage at lunchtime?’
The Wellbeing Centre offered acupuncture, aromatherapy and shiatsu as well as clinical psychology (which is where Doug and Harry came in) and Jagoda took regular advantage of the staff discount. Trisha’s oils and lotions permeated the atmosphere most days and although Harry couldn’t tell the difference between bergamot and boronia, he agreed with Jagoda; it smelled nice.
‘Tell DI McCannon I’m busy,’ he told her.
‘But Harry…’ She dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. ‘I already tell him you have a cancellation.’
‘Oh, Jagoda.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You really must ask me first.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ She was still whispering. ‘What shall I tell him?’
Harry groaned. ‘I guess you’d better send him in.’
‘Oh, thank you. So sorry. Thank you.’
When DI Theo McCannon tapped on his door, Harry closed the lid of his laptop and called, ‘Come in.’
He swivelled his chair around as Theo stepped inside. His friend, three years younger than Harry at thirty-six, was wearing a suit and tie and a pair of smart-looking lace-up shoes.
‘No,’ Harry said.
He was surprised when Theo didn’t respond. He’d expected Theo to try to persuade him to join the murder team but instead the DI stepped to the window and looked left down Margaret Buildings, a pedestrian street lined with pretty boutique shops, then right to study the square, the cherry trees draped in blossom, the clumps of vivid yellow daffodils. Like Harry, he was broad-shouldered, but where Harry had a fair complexion – light brown wavy hair, brown eyes – Theo had dark, brooding looks with thick black hair and stubble that looked as hard as the bristles on a scrubbing brush. His profile was tense, Harry noticed, his mouth narrowed. Finally, he turned to Harry.
‘I’m afraid I’m here about something else.’
It was Theo’s sombre expression that made Harry alarmed. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry… but one of the people attacked was Lorraine Brown.’
‘Not the Lorraine who was Nicole’s bridesmaid?’ Harry was horrified.
Theo’s expression softened. ‘I’m sorry.’
Harry could picture Lorraine now, her narrow face mischievous, unapologetic when he’d caught her snogging the head waiter in the kitchen after their wedding. Gavin Brown. Harry always maintained it must have been a fantastic snog since Lorraine and Gavin ended up getting married eighteen months later. He and Nicole had gone to their wedding and, six years after that, Nicole became godmother to Lorraine’s daughter, Esme.
‘Is she all right?’
When Theo cleared his throat and looked at the ground, Harry’s heart squeezed. ‘No,’ he breathed. ‘Please. Not Lorraine…’
‘I’m sorry. She died last night. Drowned in the canal. She was pushed.’
After a long silence, Harry said, ‘Libby told me someone drowned but she never mentioned a name.’
‘She didn’t know you knew her.’
‘She mentioned a tweed coat…’
‘It was full-length. Weighed a ton. Even if she could swim, she would have really struggled.’
Gavin, Harry recalled, had bought it for her one Christmas. Poor Lorraine. Poor Gavin.
Theo held Harry’s gaze. ‘Don’t you want to catch the people who killed her?’
Harry thought of Nicole mourning her best friend. And what about poor Esme, Lorraine’s daughter? She was a good kid, two years younger than his own daughter Lottie, but they were still friends of a sort, in spite of the age difference. Could he really stand by and not get involved?
‘What do you want me to do?’ Harry relented.
‘Meet me at the station first thing tomorrow for an eight o’clock briefing. I’m the SIO.’
‘But you’re in Bristol,’ Harry protested. Theo had been transferred from Keynsham last month. Keynsham had been dead handy being barely seven miles west of Bath, but Bristol? It may look like no distance on a map being another seven miles on from Keynsham, but the traffic on the A4 was, invariably, awful. A lot of people forwent the A4 to drive three times further on the motorway because it was less hassle.
‘It’s not on the moon.’
Harry sighed. Checked his online calendar. ‘I can reschedule most of my morning but I have a client at midday.’
‘We’ll be done well before then.’ Theo walked across and briefly gripped Harry’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, pal.’