Paparazzi by Jo Fenton (best free e reader .txt) 📕

we’ll be greeting clients; and maybe a desk for upstairs? Then we can go to B&Q and get the CCTV stuff. That can be my contribution, seeing as it’s down to my paranoia that it’s even needed.”

“Okay, thanks.” She relaxes visibly. “Let’s get this lot unpacked, then we’ll go shopping.” She finishes with a grin, and I have to repress a shudder, as I don’t want to dampen her enthusiasm. Shopping, particularly in anything resembling a warehouse, brings me out in a panic.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to quell the anxiety that is rising just at the thought.

***

The reality of shopping is even worse than the thought of it. Just driving into Bury, we have three near-crashes. By the time I park up next to the shop – on a side road half a mile from the town centre – I’m shaking like a jelly. Joanna untangles her fingers from the handle on the door. Her knuckles are almost as white as her face.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.” I give a wry smile and try to control my shaking hands. “I don’t always drive this badly.”

“We could have got a cab, Becky.” She looks at me. “Are you okay to come into the shop?”

I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. It calms me a fraction, but my pulse is still doing double time.

“Sure. Come on. Let’s go.”

Once inside, I try to view the scene impartially. The area is filled with sofas, chairs, dining sets and other paraphernalia, with a sign at the foot of a staircase stating that beds are upstairs. Compared to the warehouse where it all happened, this is completely different. In fact, apart from the high ceilings and faintly damp air, this could hardly qualify as a warehouse. My heart rate slows to near normality as I re-engage with the scene – a new definition of the place as ‘shop’ helps. It also helps that it’s empty apart from myself, Joanna, and a tall, dark-haired and moustached chap who’s drinking a cup of tea. He approaches us.

“Can I help you, ladies?”

“We’re looking for a suite. Probably a sofa and an armchair. Cheap, cheerful and comfy.” Joanna smiles sweetly at him, and I’m reminded of the charm she can turn on when she wants something. Seeing her use it now, I realise how much she’s got round me since she’s been in Manchester. Despite everything, she always seems to get her own way, and she succeeds before anyone’s had time to realise they’ve been played. On the plus side, it’s a useful skill in a detective.

Half an hour later, Joanna has ordered an olive-green suite (2-seater settee and 2 armchairs). The wallpaper in her lounge has an olive-green leaf pattern, so it should match nicely. They don’t seem to sell desks, and the sales chap suggests IKEA or Argos.

When we get back to the car, I give her a choice of ordering from Amazon, or going to IKEA without me. I don’t think I could handle another warehouse right now.

“I’m sure Amazon will be fine. You seem a bit calmer now. Are you happy to drive?”

“Sure. Let’s get back and see what we can find online.” My driving is now normal, and we return to Joanna’s house without incident. I’m turning the engine off when her phone rings.

“I don’t recognise the number,” she says, pressing the green Connect button. “Hello, White Knight Detective Agency?”

I sense her excitement as she listens to the person on the other end of the call.

“Yes, of course. Would three-thirty tomorrow afternoon be convenient? Great.” She gives out the address and some basic directions. “Wonderful. See you soon then.”

She ends the call and turns to me, her face lighting up. “We’ve got our first client.”

Chapter Ten

Because Joanna bought it from an independent store, the furniture should arrive tomorrow morning. So our client, whose name is apparently Penny Moore, will have something to sit on.

Joanna makes me an omelette in one of the frying pans we extracted from a box this morning, and we eat it at the small table in the kitchen, using plates and cutlery that we also rescued earlier.

“Are you up to B&Q this afternoon?” she asks.

I sigh and agree. It’s another shop in a warehouse-type building. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have flinched; now, the idea of going into any area remotely resembling that place reduces me to a quivering wreck. However, with the client coming tomorrow, we really don’t have time to wait around for Amazon orders.

I give myself a good talking-to before we get back in the car, and manage a better trip than the morning expedition. We then spend three hours battling with the newly-bought CCTV, the receiver and the various wires. The instructions that came with the kit are worse than useless, and it’s only thanks to the multitude of YouTube videos that we’re able to set up a system that works.

I arrive home at six, exhausted and too tired to cook. Cheryl orders pizza for all of us from an app on her phone, and I fall into bed shortly after eating, too shattered even to discuss the day’s events with Matt, or to wonder what he’s been doing.

It’s only the next morning that my curiosity returns.

“What did you do yesterday while I was out?” I hand him a mug of coffee, place another on the table, and sit down opposite him.

“Just rested mostly. Obeying doctor’s orders. I did a bit of reading. Watched daytime TV. Nothing unusual. Well, not unusual since I got out of hospital.” He’s gazing at me – perhaps a bit too steadily, as if trying not to look shifty. “How did your day go?”

Experience tells me he won’t tell me anything if pressed. I must be more devious. I launch into an explanation of my day.

“Why didn’t you call me to sort out the tech stuff? You know I’m better at that than you.”

“Last time you saw Joanna, you nearly died. I’m sure you can understand my reluctance.