If you get out of a van that says Plumber on the side, it’s reasonable for people to assume that you’re a plumber. I applied this logic to the Malone Security van I was now driving as I pulled into the driveway of the house in Marlborough Park. For additional effect I slipped on a Malone Security baseball cap I found lying on the floor. To completely bamboozle the woman who answered the door, I said, ‘Hello, I’m from Malone Security.’
To be fair, she gave me a healthy portion of bamboo-zlement in return. She had dyed raven hair, matching dark eyes with plenty of eyeliner, plumped lips, gleaming teeth and cleavage like the main waterslide at Seapark. And it was all very familiar. In fact it wasn’t that long since I’d had my hands on her chest. That was, in the form of a photograph, part of a session she and her husband had agreed to do for Belfast Confidential. Everyone in the office had also agreed that she had a wonderful chest. It stood out. It was a chest worthy of comment and appreciation. It was a Carry On chest in a PC society. But she was more than just a chest. She was Abagail Pike. She was a member of the Northern Ireland Assembly. Her husband was Professor Peter Pike, or 3P, or Threepike, as the tabloids sometimes called him. He was the Minister for Finance and Personnel at Stormont. He came from the Protestant heartland of Portadown, and brought with him a religious conservatism that fell just short of charismatic. He had a lot of support in that heartland. Very straight and narrow support. The fact that he still had that support was little short of a miracle, seeing as how he had once sworn never to even share the same building as ‘former’ terrorists, but now routinely broke bread with them. It was testament to his powers of persuasion, his rhetoric and bluster that he could perform such a volte-face and actually increase his majority at the next election. He was an austere man for austere times, and was looked upon by those who knew as a near-genius when it came to economics. Everyone expected that he would be First Minister one day. He was not a barrel of laughs. Most people thought that he would indeed sort out our finances, and that it was a good thing, but that there was a fair chance that if he came to power he might try and ban enjoyable things, like skipping, which was not. Peter Pike was a big, big man, with a booming voice. He had gone hiking once and been mistaken for the long-missing sixth Mourne Mountain. He was over eight hundred metres tall and had snow on top. When he smiled at you, you immediately changed your vote. Peter and Abagail were the glamorous power couple of Northern Irish politics. That said, they didn’t have a lot of competition.
It was just such a surprise to be standing in front of her. Forget for the moment the widespread bamboo-zlement, I was momentarily flummoxed. Of course, she did not know me from Adam. The photo shoot, which I recalled as being particularly stressful, was a few years back, but even if it had been yesterday, she probably still wouldn’t have recognised me, and not only because I was out of context. There is a particular self-absorption that comes with fame, an expansion of the ego that prevents the famous from recognising anyone they do not perceive to be on their level of importance. They are not necessarily rude or obtuse, and they will chat away quite happily. They just will not listen to a damn word you say. Gail Pike was like that. Or, as Trish would say, up her own arse.
Gail beamed at me and said, ‘I’ll get it for you now.’ She turned from the door to a telephone stand, picked up an envelope and gave it to me. It wasn’t sealed, just tucked in. I peeked inside. Cash. Five twenties. I looked up at her. She was still smiling. She raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said. Her brow furrowed. I was surprised that it could. ‘I’d also like a word, if I could?’
‘With me? I’m just on my way out.’
‘It’ll only take a minute.’
‘Is it professional or private?’
‘My profession or your profession?’
‘Are you trying to be smart with me?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Ma’am? Behind her, Marija crossed the hall from the kitchen, with the child attached to her leg, dragging him playfully along. She glanced at me, and then did a double-take. She hurried on into the lounge.
‘I mean, do you wish to speak to me in my capacity as an MLA, and you as a private citizen, or do you wish to speak to me in your capacity as a representative of Malone Security and mine as a householder who overpays you every month?’
She said it with a smile.
I gave her my smile in return. It wasn’t in the same league, but it has been known to melt the hearts of confused drunken women. ‘It was security I wanted to have a word with you about.’
‘If it’s the usual lecture about setting my alarm and informing you when I’m away on business, then I’ve heard it all before.’
‘It’s not that, Mrs Pike.’
She studied me. She must have liked the cut of my jib. She said, ‘This way, then . . .’
She turned and walked into the kitchen. I followed her. The kitchen had a stone floor and an island in the middle with half a dozen bar stools around it, though they probably had a different name for them. There were toys scattered about. From the lounge I could hear what sounded like Scooby-Doo.
‘Mrs Pike . . .’
‘Call me Gail. Excuse me while I . . .’ She had her mobile phone in her hand. She glanced at it, shook her head, and quickly began to pick out a text. While she did it she said, ‘That’s the problem with mobiles, you’re never unreachable. There.’ She sent the text. ‘Do you want a coffee? I’ve been in politics a long time; when people say it will only take a minute, it never does.’
‘No – thank you, Mrs . . . Gail.’
‘Please yourself.’ She pressed the switch on the kettle. Her hand was bony, the skin loose, big, expensive rings. Hands and neck, you can’t do much about them. I knew she was mid-forties but her tits were still toddlers. She said, over her shoulder, waiting for it to boil: ‘So what’s going on?’
‘There was an incident a few days ago at the house immediately behind you. Jack Caramac’s place?’
‘Really? A burglary?’
‘Someone enticed their son into a car, took him away for approximately one hour, released him unharmed.’
‘That’s awful.’ She poured her coffee and turned with it. ‘I didn’t hear it on the news.’
‘Mr Caramac wanted it kept quiet. We’re just warning the neighbours, particularly those with children, to be extra careful.’
‘And have they been caught?’ She sat on one of the stools.
‘No, ma’am.’ I cleared my throat and sat opposite her. ‘You haven’t noticed anything or anyone unusual, out of place, suspicious in the area?’
‘Nope, but then I’m hardly ever here. My husband’s the same.’
‘Professor Pike.’
‘That’s him. We’re very busy people. If anyone’s seen anything it would be Marija . . . our nanny. Do you want me to . . .?’
‘In a wee minute. Marija . . . she’s not local, then?’
Gail glanced towards the living room, then leaned a little closer. ‘No. She’s . . . European.’
‘And has she worked for you for long?’
‘A few months.’ She came even closer, leaning in. I averted my eyes. ‘Why, is she . . .?’
‘No, no . . . just checking, I’m sure she’s . . . just fine.’ Gail sat back again. She sipped her coffee and made good solid eye contact with me over the rim of the cup. ‘Do you . . . mind me asking how you came by her? An agency, or personal recommendation?’
‘It was . . . I’m not sure. I think my husband handled it.’
‘You’re aware that she also works for the Caramacs?’
‘She does? Ah – maybe I did know. I just can’t recall. I deal with so many people every day . . .’
‘Are you not close to the Caramacs?’
‘Close? No. I wouldn’t say that. They’re actually quite distant, I mean physically; what with the length of our garden and the fences and hedges, we wouldn’t really see them at all, especially now with the new house going up.’ She set her cup down. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re asking an awful lot of questions for someone from Malone Security.’
‘Just trying to be thorough, ma’am.’ There it was again. Get a grip. ‘You don’t have a CV or references from . . . Marija, is it?’
‘Marija, yes. And no. Now that I think about it, maybe she came to us through the church. We do a lot of outreach work in some of the poorer countries. Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s it.’
‘You haven’t noticed any unusual behaviour? Maybe people you don’t recognise calling to see her at the house?’
‘No. She’s been perfect. Really.’
‘Does she have a husband, boyfriend? Involved in a lesbian relationship?’
Gail almost choked on her coffee. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘It’s just something the Caramacs mentioned. They have, ahm, suspicions. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. This day and age. Just with children around . . . formative age . . . well, you know what I mean . . .’
She was watching me very closely. She flicked at her hair. She set her cup down. ‘What’s your name, Mr Malone Security?’
‘My name? Paddy. Paddy Barr.’
‘Well, Paddy Barr, you’re very thorough. I’m impressed.’
‘Just trying to keep the area safe, Mrs Pike.’
‘Well keep it up, you’re an absolute inspiration.’ She hopped off her stool. ‘Now I must fly.’
‘Understood. Thanks for your help. Can you let yourself out?’
She nodded and started to turn away. Then swivelled back. ‘Can I what . . .?’
I slipped off my own stool. ‘Only rakin’,’ I said.
She laughed.
I laughed.
She could have my vote, any time.
Abagail Pike issued instructions to Marija through the open living room door, then led the way out of the house. I pulled the front door closed behind me. I had to back out of the drive to allow her to get the Porsche out. When she straightened it, I waved my hand, indicating that ladies should go first. She wiggled her fingers thanks in the mirror as she sped away. As soon as she rounded the bend, I reversed back into the driveway. I’d made sure to leave the front door on the latch. Marija was suitably surprised, not to mention terrified, when I strode into the lounge. So surprised, not to mention terrified, that she let out a scream and dropped the baby.
But it was okay.
Babies bounce.