The Boss insists on meeting the prospective investigators.

“I know a thing or two about subterfuge,” he tells me.

“Is that how you made it to partnership?”

“Absolutely.  You don’t make it to where I am without being devious Helen,” he smirks, as if remembering his former glories. “It’s dog-eat-dog out there;  if you don’t out-wit the opposition, the opposition will out-wit you.”

I know that.   Because the opposition always out-wits me. 

“It’s a shame that the partnership has to be so Machiavellian,” I observe.  “I don’t think it’s a very good business model; being sneaky and stabbing colleagues in the back.”

He looks at me in astonishment. “There couldn’t be a better business model: competition; entrepreneurship; ruthlessness!  What better environment for nurturing those talents is there than a partnership?!”

If those are the talents you wish to nurture.  None at all.   No wonder so many politicians are lawyers.

“What about team work?” I persist.

His face takes on an appalled, pained quality. “Team work?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Surely it is better to work with your colleagues than against them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs. “Why would I want to cosy up to the bunch of cretinous imbeciles I happen to share a partnership deed with?”

A fair point.   I wouldn’t fancy getting into bed with the likes of Barry or Malcolm either.  But that’s not the point.

“For the good of the firm?” I offer.

“The good of the firm!” He roars, with laughter. “Do you think any of us really care about that?  No!  The firm is just a collection of like-minded individuals who happen to share an office.”

“We employees don’t see it like that.”

“And how do you employees see it?”  he mocks.

“As one entity.  We are not employed by individuals; we are employed by Craven Wiley & Sharpe.  We think of CWS as a team.”"

He roars with laughter.  “Wait til you reach partnership.  You’ll soon see things differently!”

I make a mental note never to reach that point.   The thought of becoming “one of them” appals and terrifies me.   

I contemplate this as I await the arrival of my first “detective”: Gary Grindman of Grindman Investigations.  He is due at ten o’clock; so at five-to,  I venture down to Reception, to catch him arriving. 

To my disappointment, there is no body there.

“Where is Mr Grindman?” I ask Val, who glances up from Marie Claire in annoyance.

“He’s in the Gents.”

“What does he look like?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs.  “Unremarkable.”

A few moments later a middle-aged man (of medium height, medium build with medium brown hair) emerges from the bathroom.  He is dressed in a black suit, blue shirt and blue tie.

“You must be Mr Grindman,” I greet him.

He flashes me a suspicious look.  “How did you know that?”

“I asked the Receptionist.”

“Oh,” he seems disappointed. “I thought you might have seen through my disguise.”

“You don’t usually dress like this?”

“God no,” he snorts. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in this get up, but you’ve got to go native.  Be a chameleon, if you want to succeed at this job.  This is my “City Lawyer” outfit – not quite as flash as my “Investment Banker”, not quite as dull as my “Accountant”.”

It’s remarkably accurate.   As evidenced by the succession of black-suited clones drifting in and out of the foyer.

“Do you always alter your appearance?”  I ask.

“Always.  If I’m investigating the military I wear a uniform; if I’m investigating the scientific community; sandals.  And so on.”

“Like method acting,” I observe.

“Exactly,” he nods.  “To properly investigate a person, you have to become them; wear their clothes, do their job; meet their friends etc etc.”

“I guess that might be tricky if they were Bunny Girls or lap dancers,” I joke. 

“I have female staff to do that side of things for me,” he explains.

Crikey. I thought my boss made unreasonable demands!   I shall never complain about pagination again.

“Ok, right, well, if you would like to follow me, I’ll introduce you to the partner, who is supervising this matter.”

“Mr King?”

“Yes,” I pause. “How do you know that?”

“I asked The Receptionist,” he smirks.

The Boss is, predictably, seated at the head of the table. 

“Do take a seat Mr Grindman,” he says, without getting up.  “Helen, can you get us all a coffee?” 

“None for me, thanks,” Grindman sniffs. “I don’t touch stimulants when I’m working.”

Good start: given that The Boss only touches nothing but stimulants when he’s working.  He would sniff toilet cleaner if he thought it would give him a kick.

“I thought detectives were supposed to smoke Woodbines and swig brandy?” He challenges.

Grindman gives a hollow laugh. “I think you’ll find, things have evolved a bit since the 1950s.”

“Pity…”

There is a pause.  Grindman is eyeing The Boss with a mixture of suspicion, annoyance and something else, which I can’t make out.  The Boss doesn’t notice. He’s too busy taking his caffeine fix.

“So,” I say, brightly, “We wanted to have a brief chat with you to see if you can assist us with a case we’re working on.”

“You should be aware that you’re not the only detective we are speaking to,” The Boss interrupts.

Grindman says nothing. 

“But, even if you are not be suitable for this particular job,” I add. “We will, of course, keep you in mind for any future work. ”

Still nothing.  Except a curious, flicker of amusement.

“Anyway, the case is quite straightforward,” I continue. “An employee is bringing a claim against her former firm and her former boss and he, or, rather, they, want someone to….” I don’t know how to say this, delicately.

“Discredit her?” he finishes.

“That’s one way of putting it, yes.”

“I see.”

“Is that the sort of thing you could do?” The Boss enquires.

Grindman sets down his glass of water.

“I don’t do the discrediting.” he replies. “You do.”

The Boss lets out an enormous snort.  “Semantics!   The point is: are you able to provide us with information which we could use to discredit her?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether there is any.   Not everyone has a closest full of skeletons…. Alistair.”

‘Alistair’? He gives The Boss a pointed look.  I am struck by the thought that he knows more about us that he’s letting on.

“It’s a rare person who doesn’t have a couple,” The Boss continues.  “We are not asking you to invent anything, just poke around a bit.  I’m sure you’re used to that.”

Grindman gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Indeed I am.  In some very grubby places…..”

“Good, now we have established that, kindly tell us what your rates are.”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds an hour.”

“Two fifty?!”

“Special rate.”

“For what?”

“Repeat business.”

‘Repeat business?  What on earth does he mean?   I glance at the Boss, who seems almost as confused as I am.  

“Repeat business?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand, we haven’t instructed you before.”

“You haven’t.  But associates of yours have.”

“Malcolm?”

“And others.”

“I see.  Well, if that’s your special rate, what’s your normal charge?”

“Four hundred.”

FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS AN HOUR!  I am in the wrong game. I should be stalking adulterers and tracing stolen assets. 

“And what do we get for that?”  

“Full background check, references, contact information, surveillance; whatever you like.”

“What does surveillance entail?”

“Following; observing; surveying..…..” 

“How?”

“On foot.  Usually. With a camera.”

“Have you ever been caught?”

“Never.”  He pauses.  “Not even when I’ve staked out hotel bedrooms.”

The mention of this makes The Boss turn a funny shade of grey.  He glances at Grindman.  Then at the desk.  Then back at Grindman again.

“I’ve heard enough,” he snaps. “Helen, take him through the files.  I have a meeting to go to.”

“But – ”

“No buts, just do it.”  He thrusts back his chair and strides out of the room.   

Grindman takes a long, satisfied sip of water.   He seems very pleased with himself.  

“What was that all about?” I demand.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why are you smirking?”

“I think I’ve encountered your boss before,” he says, still smirking. 

“Where?”

“I’m a professional, Ms Bailey. I can’t divulge that sort of information.”

A professional, who stakes out hotel bedrooms and stalks young girls?  I know what sort of ‘professional’  that is.

“We do have other detectives to interview,” I remind him, “If you could provide that information, I might be able to persuade my client that you are the best man for the job.”

He weighs this up. 

“The Savoy,” he says, at last. “Or maybe Claridges.  It’s hard to recall, but I don’t think he was wearing quite so many clothes, last time.”

Oh my god!   This is better than I’d bargained for.

“Alistair was one of your investigations?”

“Indirectly.   He was having an affair with a married woman.   Her husband hired me to find out who his wife was seeing.”

“And she was seeing Alistair?” I can barely contain my excitement.

“Oh yes.  It was a long time ago, mind you, when I was still a junior.   And took me a while to remember.  But I never forget a face.” He pauses. “Or a backside!”

It’s hard not to laugh.  Images of The Boss’s naked bottom flash through my head.  Jane will have a field day with this. 

Then a thought occurs to me.  A thought The Boss himself would be proud of.  ”You don’t still have the photos, do you?” 

“No, sorry,” he shakes his head. “It was twenty years ago.”

My face falls.   I need more than circumstantial evidence.

“Is there anything else?”

“I might be able to dredge up the name of the client or perhaps wife…………” he offers.

“That would be something.”

“If your client decides to instruct me with this new case,  it might jog my memory.”

I fix him with a long, penetrating look. “Providing this remains confidential between us, I think I can persaude him.”

“I look forward to doing business,” he agrees.

We shake hands and, with that, I take my first steps towards Partnership promotion….