Bayerleck & Sons

Foreward

Tel’s POV

It was impossible to connect the broken, timid, shadow of a woman sat before me as the same individual that had penned the cutting email I had received earlier that day.  In my minds eye, I had clearly pictured Ms Gabriella Rossi as being beautiful and self assured, strong and precise in her mannerisms. However the person that introduced herself at the reception desk appeared the polar opposite. The preliminaries were out of the way, coffee had been offered and declined, and the usual discussion about the difficulties of finding the office were exhausted, with no other topic available to me to prolong the inevitable, I felt the need to press on despite, or perhaps due to, my visitors clear discomfort.

"Ms Rossi. Your email was quite precise, it was imperative you meet with me today to-" I glanced at my laptop for clarification on the wording, "draw some recent unpleasantness to a close." The wording was deliberately left hanging. Silence summons response, a valuable technique which I rely heavily upon in opening meetings such as these. Clearly it seemed that Ms Rossi hadn’t received that memo. Sighing, she reached into a black leather handbag, rummaging for a tissue that she proceeded to go to painstaking lengths to first wring, then shred.

Conscious of time, I pressed her again. “There is clearly something bothering you, Ms Rossi, perhaps if you were to tell me a little bit about what has been happening, I might be able to help you in some way?” Baby steps. Like talking to a child. There was always the risk of coming across patronising, however fear had an uncanny ability to shrink even the most courageous of men down to whimpering children, a morsel of their previous selves. I have seen it happen countless times.

"I- I don’t know what to tell you. Nothing has happened. Nothing concrete anyway. Just feelings really, feelings and well- It all started, I think, with the house suddenly becoming- well, damp.” Her voice was so quiet, I had to lean in close to hear. “Well that sounds as good a place to start as any. Do you mind me jotting down a few details, it just saves time having to go over things later?”

I listened as the woman told her story. Poring over the details as though painting a picture, she seemed as though she was elsewhere, not in my modern, impersonal, rented office space. Her voice monotone, she appeared trance-like, carefully reciting clearly rehearsed details. She described the warm, south facing room with views over the estuary becoming mildewed overnight then developing puddles of stinking, putrid water, professionals not being able to ascertain its origins. Her terminology spoke of a desperation to be believed, not the usual ramblings of a fantasist. When she fell silent, I posed the usual question, expecting the usual response. “What do you think it is Ms Rossi?” For the first time since she had arrived, Gabriella Rossi appeared animated and excitable, her words falling over themselves in a race to be heard. “Oh I know exactly what it is, Miss Mannering, it’s my Victor, he’s come back to me.”