Water's Edge

Chapter I

"Wade is not a god lost to the county, but rather one obscured by folklore, remembered in superstitions. Some still call him water-walker and claim him as son of man and mermaid, others say he was a son of the King-Under-the-Sea himself before his father murdered him."

C L Nolan, The Turning of the Year

It's Time for the Wasps to Die

The wasps gallivanted drunkenly around the window; the nest had been disturbed by a man in a thick anorak on the roof, but it was October, so it was time for the wasps to die. I sat rolling cigarettes – too thin for many a coppers fancy, lads used to call them prison rollies – from my half empty pack of Golden Virginia. Behind me, a man out of his time, peeled the plastic off the back of my name, newly affixed to the door. It was my office now, not much of one granted, but mine. For all the landlords I've had to deal with as a P.I., I was thankful mine let me smoke indoors. One of gods graces I presume. And the man doffed his flat cap to me as he finished the task, picking up a toolbox – not quite sure why he needed that – and trotted away. Felt proud of him. In all this tumult, he had not lost faith in his talent, of affixing names to peoples' doors.

I laid out the cigarettes side by side, and retrieved from my brushed ochre leather jacket the tin I used to keep them in. It was emblazoned with thistles, a relic of Scotland the antique dealer had told me. I liked it for the size of the tin. It fit exactly twelve fags, my limit for each day. I laid it down square and continued to watch the wasps die, clinging to the mucky glass in the hopes of respite. Their queen had deserted them. At this time of year, The Queens stop releasing their signals to tell the workers what to do. She had thrown them all to the breadline, and there was no Universal Credit for these poor souls. One fell on the outer windowsill and coiled up. I hadn't even set the phone up yet.

Black jumper, dark trousers, cheap shoes. Jacket stank of cigs but I hadn't the time to get it dry cleaned. The office seemed as bare as my pockets – wallet, phone, keys – with just a desk dragged from the skip downstairs, a filing cabinet that had come with the room—I wondered when Handsome would be round for the rent.

I thought about sitting down, realised I hadn't got a chair yet, perched on the windowsill. I felt like celebrating, so smoked a thirteenth rollie, pocketing the full tin, poking it in the corner of my mouth. I wish I had had time to light it, but the door was already opening.

"Are you Mr. Fields?" A woman, aged well, Thatcher's hair but a warm smile, had poked her head into my office. She tried to hide her displeasure at the state of the room and failed.

"I am." I replied. I could not be bothered to deal with an argument over the cigarette so let it hang in my fingers at my side.

"Private Investigator? You have your badge?" She seemed very nervous and let herself in. I didn't move, just watched her navigate her self-invitation and polite etiquette: her anxiety fuelled her. She was tense.

I did have my badge and opened the drawer in the desk with a heavy clunk; I removed the silver badge and threw it onto the table with a bang. It made her jump. I'd remember that. Poor lass looked like she had seen a ghost, but people in suits that expensive don't believe in such things. She inspected the silver square, the identifying number. If she really needed it, I had my papers in the next drawer down. She seemed convinced.

For a short while she just stood inspecting the cobwebs in the corners, wringing her hands as if she could dry them out from their sweat like a tea towel. I finally lit the cigarette. I couldn't wait any longer. She evidently had something to say and I'd let her say it in her own time.

"How many cases have you worked on, Mr. Fields?"

"Detective."

"I'm sorry?"

"Detective Fields." I blew the smoke out the corner of my mouth, as was my way.

"I am sorry, Detective Fields." She seemed put out she had to change her way of speaking, but I was used to that. Private Detectives were rarely seen as detectives until someone needed one. This woman evidently needed one, and I was beginning to recognise her from the papers, "I need a certain modicum of privacy is all, on this matter."

"Everything you tell me is confidential and all that."

"I see." She looked around again, "Nowhere to sit?"

"Just moved in."

"I see." Evidently, she hadn't, "I am sure you recognise me?"

"Only just."

This aggravated her, "I'm Edith Wharton—"

"Like the novelist."

"No." She had heard that before then, "Not like the novelist. I'm Barnaby Wharton's wife."

Now I recognised the name. Conservative MP for Beverly and Holderness – I tried to keep up with who ruled from where; you never knew who you'd get in trouble with in this line of work – and his name had cropped up a few times in the papers. Askrinstough was only just across from the Humber, his constituency, so we all knew about his mammoth undertaking: The Humber Dam.

"I see." It was my turn to have the gift of sight.

"Mr. Fields," I didn't correct her; she had become quite stern, frighted, "My son, Hector, has gone missing. And with everything my husband is doing at present I just—we can't afford a slip up." She clipped her words like wings, "But I need my son back, Detective Fields. I miss him. I'm scared."

I finished my cigarette and looked around for my ashtray. I hadn't unpacked it. Apparently, my office was emptier than I imagined, and it did inspire a certain surprise. I opened the window, snapping the dry paint, and flicked it into the swarm, "How did you hear about me?"

She shrugged and relaxed a little, out of her skin as a politician's wife and into the flesh of a grieving mother, "Your advertisements are all over the county Detective. I asked those I trust to find someone else we could trust."

"Why not get them to do it then?"

"Are you turning down work, Mr. Fields?"

"No. Just getting a lay of the land. You know how much I cost then?"

"That will not be of concern. And if you find him alive, I will make sure you are heavily compensated for your efforts." Again, the veneer failed her, "Find Hector. I love him."

"Of course you do."

"So you can find him?"

I made a noncommittal gesture, "I can't promise anything Mrs. Wharton. But I will certainly try."

For a second I thought she would never leave before she bade her adieus, left her card, and scuttled out the door. I told her I could drive us both back to Beverly if she wished, but she again commented on the privacy of this situation. Families in the need of public support cannot be seen to be losing their children. Only the working classes can be at fault for that, I suppose.

I looked out of the window again, alone once more. I couldn't smoke again, even though I wanted to. Another wasp had come to join the coiled desiccation on the windowsill, as if a lover coming to die by her partner. I'd drive in a few hours' time, when I was sure it wouldn't look like I was following Mrs. Wharton, whose son was almost certainly dead.