Page 62 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
You don’t like to think someone’s changed you, do you? Either it means you’re not the bloke they fell in love with, or it means they took you on as a fixer-upper.
Course, if I asked Phil about it, he’d just think I was being daft. Still, maybe I could sort of edge around the subject . . .?
Sod’s law, the decision was taken out of my hands, at least for now, seeing as I’d barely got in the door before it opened again behind me. “Alban Investigations?”
I turned to see a woman in her thirties wearing a frumpy business suit and frazzled hair. “Yeah, you’re in the right place,” I told her with a smile.
Hey, it’s in my vested interest to keep my bloke’s business ticking over nicely. Someone’s got to pay for the champagne and caviar.
Or beer and bacon butties, as might be.
“Are you Phil Morrison?” she demanded.
I gestured to the man himself, who’d stood up behind his desk. “Mrs. Quinn? What can I do for you?”
“You can stop bloody spying on me, that’s what.” Her fists were clenched by her sides. They were also shaking just a little. I didn’t reckon we were in any danger of her throwing a punch.
“Mrs. Quinn, I was asked to investigate your claim of identity theft. I’m happy to say the issue has now been resolved in your favour.”
That caught her on the hop. “Oh,” she said, in a small voice. “You mean . . .”
“You should be getting a letter in the post in the next day or so confirming debt collection proceedings have been cancelled.”
“Oh.” The wind was so far out of her sails, I grabbed the client chair and shoved it in her direction before she totally deflated and collapsed in a heap on the carpet.
“Cup of tea, love?” I suggested once she was safely sitting down.
“No . . . No, I’m fine. Thank you. So I’m off the hook? Completely?”
Phil nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “You might want to have a word with your ex-husband, however.”
“Colin?”
“Or Christian, as he’s been going by lately. Well, whenever he takes out a credit card, that is.”
“I don’t believe it.” The tone she said it in called her a liar, and she stared at her hands, busy playing cat’s cradle without any string in her lap.
“Divorce can be bitter,” Phil said diplomatically.
Mrs. Q. looked up at that. “Bitter? I’ll tell you what’s bitter. First, having a name that makes everyone think you’re a man, especially after that bloody book that’s had everyone making bondage jokes the minute I introduce myself, and second, having someone bloody well steal it. Have you got any idea what that’s like? I could kill that bastard.”
I coughed. “Not a great sort of statement to be throwing around, just saying. You never know what’s gonna happen.”
“I wish it bloody well would.” She looked up at me, her eyes teary with anger. “I don’t expect you to understand. A name’s more than a name. It’s a symbol. It means me. He took my name, and he made it mean something . . . something less. Made it mean someone who doesn’t pay their debts, who orders things they never intended to pay for. He ruined it.”
I crouched down by her chair. “Look, love, you’re more than just a name. Anyone who knows you would know you’re not like that.” Not that I’d know, to be honest, but after all she’d been through, she deserved the benefit of the doubt. “You could change your name tomorrow and you’d still be the same person. In fact, why don’t you do that? Go back to your maiden name and forget about that bastard.”
She gave me a trembly smile. “Should have done that a long time ago. Not so easy, though, is it? Even after everything the bastards do to you, you just keep hoping it’ll all go back the way it was. You’re right, though. Sod him.”
She did stay for a cuppa after that, then we bid a fond fare-thee-well to the newly christened—or rechristened—Ms. T.
When I turned round after closing the door behind her, Phil was smirking at me. “So, names don’t matter, then, Mr. Patschke stroke Paretski stroke Nowak-with-a-w stroke—”
“I’ll stroke something in a minute, and not in a good way.” I glared at him.
The smirk didn’t fade.
Oh, fuck a bloody duck. I gave in and slumped down on the client chair, my head thrown back. “Fine,” I told the ceiling. “Maybe, just maybe I was making a mountain out of a bloody molehill over this whole Mike Novak business.”
