Read Online Others by James Herbert - Free Book Online Page B

later.’
    The line went dead and I switched off the mobile. Because of my hump, my face was only inches away from the steering wheel and I leaned even further forward, resting my forehead against the warm, hard plastic for a moment or two. What the hell was Shelly Ripstone playing at? Why waste my time and her money? I straightened again - that is, I straightened as much as possible - and lit a cigarette. I could end the assignment there and then, call her with my apologies and close the case. But something - I didn’t know what: instinct, intuition, I had no idea - prevented me from doing so. It was an odd reaction at the time, but it makes sense to me now.
    The first thing I had to do before making any final decision, I told myself, was to find out more about Shelly Ripstone herself. And there was one particular person who could help me with that.
    I tapped numbers into the mobile.
    Early that evening we met at Brown’s, one of the seaside town’s trendy eateries, where the waiters and waitresses were hip and friendly. Etta was a few minutes late and stood briefly by the door, searching the tables for me. I gave her a wave and she returned a smile.
    Etta Kaesbach was slim, almost skinny, with long brown hair and intelligent eyes. I’d always be grateful to her for helping me set up business in the first place, giving me the chance to do work for her firm of solicitors after I’d bombarded her with letters, mailshots and phone calls. She’d been the first solicitor - and it was from this profession that most private investigations agencies got their work - to provide me with the opportunity of proving my worth, not, she once told me when we’d got to know each other better, because of my obvious disabilities, but because of my overwhelming enthusiasm (yes, I had been over-anxiously keen in those early days, eager for the work, desperate to show I could do a difficult job as well, if not better, than the best of my particular trade).
    She sat opposite me at the round table, her face a little flushed from her obvious dash from her office to meet me. Etta’s hair was held back from her forehead by a child’s hairgrip, not a slide, and her hazel eyes were encircled by round, wireframed spectacles, somewhat like ancient National Health specs, but which were Armani and probably cost well over two hundred quid. Perched on her fine, straight nose, they actually softened the intelligence of her face rather than enhanced it, and the absence of lipstick on lips that were already a pretty shade of pink, as well as nicely defined, combined with the neat-but-dated hairstyle, gave her a fresh attractiveness that was easy on the eye (literally in my case). She wore a deep-brown soft velvet jacket over a flowing maroon skirt, the collar of her beige shirt/blouse overlapping the jacket lapels. Etta was in her mid-thirties, although she looked ten years younger, had one disastrous marriage behind her - it had only lasted eighteen months, due mainly, she admitted, to dedication to her own career (although I knew there was more to it than that; she’d chosen a real bastard for a partner) - and had suffered poor on-and-off relationships since. As far as I knew, there was no man in her life at the moment and, I have to own up, I’d often dreamt of playing a larger part in her life myself, but had never had the nerve, nor the encouragement from her, to make a move in that direction. I was too scared of spoiling things between us. And too afraid of rejection.
    A young girl in white shirt and black leggings was at the table before Etta had placed her briefcase by her chair.
    ‘Hi,’ greeted the waitress, all sleeked-back hair and stunning smile. What can I get you?’
    ‘Just coffee, regular.’ Etta smiled back, then glanced at my brandy glass. ‘One of those might be useful too.’
    ‘You’ll need to order some food if you want alcohol,’ I said, indicating the remaining half of my chicken salad sandwich, brown bread, no