Read Online When The Devil Drives by Christopher Brookmyre - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Brookmyre
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doubt I’d have it written down anywhere after all this time.’
‘That’s okay. I really just want to know where she went after she left home.’
‘Glasgow,’ Mrs Petrie replied. ‘That’s why I came here to hire somebody. That and …’
She looked sheepish, clearly feeling a little stupid and slightly embarrassed by this, which was far more self-conscious than most of Jasmine’s previous clients.
‘That and the fact that I’d read about you. Well, rather, a friend of mine did. When I mentioned I was thinking of hiring an investigator she told me about what you’d done.’
‘Cornwall is a long way to travel on spec. You could have rung ahead.’
‘Oh no, it’s not like that. I’m staying here for a few days. My son lives in Paisley. I was visiting my friend there at the weekend. I think the cowardly part of me was hoping you wouldn’t be in, so that I could dismiss the idea, but now that I’m here I realise I should have done this years ago, done everything in my power.’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ Jasmine said, trying to head off any further self-recrimination. ‘And you were telling me Tessa was living in Glasgow.’
‘Yes. She went to college there, and stayed on when she got a job.’
‘What did she do for a living?’
‘She was an actress.’
Jasmine skipped a beat, hoping her moment of mild gaping passed unnoticed. It was a daft reflex she couldn’t quite shake. Whenever she heard about someone being an actress, she felt this unsettling mix of envy and curiosity: what kind of work, how did she get there, where did she train?
Mrs Petrie could have read her thoughts.
‘She studied drama in Glasgow, at the SATD. Sorry, that’s the Scottish Academy of Theatre and Dance,’ she explained, assuming Jasmine would never have heard of it. ‘Then, after that, she got a job in the Pantechnicon. I remember when my mother told me, I thought she meant a part, but it turned out the theatre was something called a rep, which means they put on several plays a year and so the same people act in each show.’
Jasmine said nothing, nodding politely as Mrs Petrie so helpfully explained the practice of a repertory company.
Straight out of the academy and into a job in rep. It was a dream as common as it was unlikely, such that a friend from the Academy once referred to harbouring such a fantasy as being like masturbation: nobody would admit to it, but everybody did it. It was so improbable as to be a joke, yet for this Tessa Garrion it had apparently been a reality; not just any old rep either, but the Pantechnicon, which begged a number of questions, most of them deeply unworthy.
Catch a grip, girl, Jasmine warned herself. Here she was, impugning the three-decades-past sexual integrity of an actress she’d never even heard of just because she’d got a part in a company. It told her that, for all she was starting to settle into her new career, she still wasn’t quite ready to admit to herself that she’d given up on her first choice. It happened every so often, something that would precipitate a glimpse of her old dreams, enough both to keep the flame burning and to torture her a little over whether she was making the right choice by sticking with Sharp Investigations.
Most recently, the cause had been a chance meeting with Charlotte Queen, whom she bumped into in the Tron Theatre bar when they were both there to see a revival of
Swing Hammer Swing!
Jasmine had feared it would be an uncomfortable encounter: that at best Charlotte would make play of ignoring her, or that she would be subject to much faux-polite sneering with regard to their respective career trajectories. The last time their paths had crossed, just before Jim disappeared, Jasmine was eyeball on a foot-follow of a surveillance subject when she passed Charlotte having coffee at a pavement table outside a West End café. Even though they had seen each other and Charlotte called out to her by name, Jasmine could neither stop nor
‘That’s okay. I really just want to know where she went after she left home.’
‘Glasgow,’ Mrs Petrie replied. ‘That’s why I came here to hire somebody. That and …’
She looked sheepish, clearly feeling a little stupid and slightly embarrassed by this, which was far more self-conscious than most of Jasmine’s previous clients.
‘That and the fact that I’d read about you. Well, rather, a friend of mine did. When I mentioned I was thinking of hiring an investigator she told me about what you’d done.’
‘Cornwall is a long way to travel on spec. You could have rung ahead.’
‘Oh no, it’s not like that. I’m staying here for a few days. My son lives in Paisley. I was visiting my friend there at the weekend. I think the cowardly part of me was hoping you wouldn’t be in, so that I could dismiss the idea, but now that I’m here I realise I should have done this years ago, done everything in my power.’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ Jasmine said, trying to head off any further self-recrimination. ‘And you were telling me Tessa was living in Glasgow.’
‘Yes. She went to college there, and stayed on when she got a job.’
‘What did she do for a living?’
‘She was an actress.’
Jasmine skipped a beat, hoping her moment of mild gaping passed unnoticed. It was a daft reflex she couldn’t quite shake. Whenever she heard about someone being an actress, she felt this unsettling mix of envy and curiosity: what kind of work, how did she get there, where did she train?
Mrs Petrie could have read her thoughts.
‘She studied drama in Glasgow, at the SATD. Sorry, that’s the Scottish Academy of Theatre and Dance,’ she explained, assuming Jasmine would never have heard of it. ‘Then, after that, she got a job in the Pantechnicon. I remember when my mother told me, I thought she meant a part, but it turned out the theatre was something called a rep, which means they put on several plays a year and so the same people act in each show.’
Jasmine said nothing, nodding politely as Mrs Petrie so helpfully explained the practice of a repertory company.
Straight out of the academy and into a job in rep. It was a dream as common as it was unlikely, such that a friend from the Academy once referred to harbouring such a fantasy as being like masturbation: nobody would admit to it, but everybody did it. It was so improbable as to be a joke, yet for this Tessa Garrion it had apparently been a reality; not just any old rep either, but the Pantechnicon, which begged a number of questions, most of them deeply unworthy.
Catch a grip, girl, Jasmine warned herself. Here she was, impugning the three-decades-past sexual integrity of an actress she’d never even heard of just because she’d got a part in a company. It told her that, for all she was starting to settle into her new career, she still wasn’t quite ready to admit to herself that she’d given up on her first choice. It happened every so often, something that would precipitate a glimpse of her old dreams, enough both to keep the flame burning and to torture her a little over whether she was making the right choice by sticking with Sharp Investigations.
Most recently, the cause had been a chance meeting with Charlotte Queen, whom she bumped into in the Tron Theatre bar when they were both there to see a revival of
Swing Hammer Swing!
Jasmine had feared it would be an uncomfortable encounter: that at best Charlotte would make play of ignoring her, or that she would be subject to much faux-polite sneering with regard to their respective career trajectories. The last time their paths had crossed, just before Jim disappeared, Jasmine was eyeball on a foot-follow of a surveillance subject when she passed Charlotte having coffee at a pavement table outside a West End café. Even though they had seen each other and Charlotte called out to her by name, Jasmine could neither stop nor
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