The Mystery of the Elusive Fitness Instructor
Ita Ryan
Copyright 2012 by Ita Ryan
Disclaimer: This story is fictional and any resemblance to real people is accidental.
Dedicated to my ultra-supportive friends and family.
The Mystery of the Elusive Fitness Instructor
My name is Hegarty. Cynthia Hegarty. I’m a private investigator in the City of London. I used to be a computer programmer until someone killed my boss. That put me off.
I left my job at Airwolfe, wondering what to do next. I was due to be a witness at my boss’s murderer’s trial. The investigator running the case, the enigmatic Superintendent Foster, politely suggested I stay in London.
That ruled out Australia. I decided to exploit my newly acquired skills and open a Detective Agency.
I found a cheap office over a family-run café off City Road; two grotty rooms with dusty floorboards, frayed curtains and green walls. My ex-colleagues James and Liz made inexpert but enthusiastic decorators. We painted everything white and sanded the floor. I cleaned the tiny kitchen, dumped the curtains, bought a desk and invested in a super-fast computer. I had six months’ worth of living expenses saved. By then I’d have business – or not.
Cleaning done, I had an office-warming. Liz gave me a yellow smiley mouse-mat. James brought a half-bottle of whiskey for the bottom drawer of my desk. We drank wine and toasted idleness.
Next day I ran up a website and some posters. Then I went to the local library and borrowed a few vintage crime novels, for research.
I got a nasty shock when the doorbell rang on Day Four. I was reading Georgette Heyer’s ‘Footsteps in the Dark’ with my feet on the desk, drinking a cup of tea.
I went to the window (view: brick wall opposite). The top of a blonde head was visible two floors down. I lifted the intercom.
“Hegarty’s Detection Services”.
“Can I come up?”
I buzzed her in.
***
My first client had that well-groomed City look; beautifully cut suit, crisp understated blouse, slim figure and fabulous shoes.
Frankly, she was quite intimidating. I retreated rapidly behind my desk, whooshed Georgette Heyer into a drawer and did my best to seem quellingly efficient.
There was a silence which I knew from all my reading I should definitely not be the one to break.
“So, what’s brought you here then?” I asked.
“What sort of problems do you deal with?” Her voice was husky. She seemed ill at ease.
“Oh, em, general issues. I can’t elaborate; client confidentiality.”
“I’m afraid I’m an idiot. But I keep wondering what happened, and I can’t figure it out by myself–”
“Tell me.” I said firmly.
“I saw a course advertised,” she said. “Kick-boxing. At my local gym. Six weeks; two hundred pounds in advance. Quite a lot, but I paid.”
“But the course never materialised,” I guessed.
“No, it did. It was excellent. Hard work though; lots of press-ups.”
“So what happened?”
“Tom, the instructor, was gorgeous. You know what those gym guys are like.”
I nodded.
“Tall, red hair, a sprinkling of freckles. Amazing body. Very fit. Very, very fit–”
“So what happened?” She was wandering from the point.
“Nothing happened. The vibes were good. On the last day he seemed to be smiling just for me. But, nothing. Until, on my way out, he was waiting, looking fantastic. He said ‘Sally!’”.
So her name is Sally, I thought.
“I said, ‘Actually, my name is Molly. I’m sad the course is over.’ He said, ‘I’m not, because now I can ask you out.’”
“Cool.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We arranged to meet at eight last Monday at the Greek restaurant near Hoxton Square. He seemed keen, but he didn’t show.”
“Were you late?”
“No, ten minutes early. I stupidly never gave him my number. I asked the gym for his, yesterday. They said no.”
“Not surprised.”
“Why not?”
“You could be a stalker.”
“Oh. Oh yeah, I suppose.” She laughed. “Anyway, I left him a note but I suspect they binned it. Can you help me?”
“Probably,” I said, though I hadn’t a clue.
“Are you expensive?”
I told her my rate, which was low to reflect my relative inexperience.
“Can I pay in advance?”
How cool was that.
“OK,” I said, “let’s say four hours. Plus expenses, but anything high I’ll check with you first.”
“Yeah, don’t go flying off to Brazil. Do you take Visa?”
I so didn’t, but this delightful woman also had cash.
My First Case!
***
After Molly Summers left I was tempted to rescue Georgette from her drawer. I reminded myself sternly that I was now a detective, and found the gym’s number online.
“Active Body Fitness, Bracknell, here,” I said. “We’re ringing to inquire about the availability of one of your instructors. A Mr Thomas Naseby.”
I thought they’d have some high-tech internal telecoms system that would blow my cover, but within seconds I had Tom’s address and phone number.
My job involved more than simply getting his contact details though, I reasoned. Why had the lousy rat missed his date with Molly? A restaurant mix-up perhaps, but I decided to check; otherwise I’d owe her for three hours and fifty-seven minutes.
I emailed James and Liz, telling them I had my first client and asking if they had any idea how to approach a total stranger about a broken date with someone else. Georgette was calling, but I resisted. I rang Tom Naseby.
Voice-mail. I hung up.
***
I wrote a script and tried again.
“Hello, this is Janet at Bracknell Active Body Fitness. We need a kick-boxing instructor and you’ve been recommended. Call me.”
I was at an impasse. I liberated poor Georgette.
***
When the phone rang I almost said “Cynthia,” but remembered to say “Janet” in case it was Tom Naseby.
“Bracknell Active Body Fitness? I believe you need a kick-boxing instructor.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well I’ve never done any kick-boxing in my life.”
“Are you Mr. Thomas Naseby?”
“No.”
“I was given your number by ‘Active Body Fitness’ in Bunhill Fields.”
“That’s nice for you. I’ve never heard of them.”
He hung up. I checked the call length. Another billable 50 seconds; but what next?
***
I knew, really. Bite the bullet. Visit Tom’s address. Photograph him. Show the photo to Molly to check he’s the same guy.
Strange. Detecting was not as straightforward as I’d expected.
I went home and dressed in the black that’s customary for night surveillance. I considered wearing a balaclava but was afraid it might make me conspicuous on the Tube. Tom’s address in Clapham had no flat number. With luck it would be a single dwelling, making Tom easy to spot.
Sure enough, there was only one doorbell. I ran a practised eye over the roof (I once had a job failing to generate sales leads for a roofing company). The house was probably rented. Owner-occupiers with such well-tended gardens rarely allow their slates to get into such poor condition.
br /> After two minutes of loitering in Tom’s quiet residential street I felt more conspicuous than a cat in an aviary. Oh for a car. I went home. At least I’d assessed the location and notched up a couple of billable hours.
Back in my flat, I put on some pasta and opened my laptop on the kitchen table. I typed and printed an official-looking document, festooned with government logos.
I had a Plan.
***
Next morning I tried to achieve a trustworthy but frumpy look; an anonymous suit, thick tights, flat shoes and glasses. I rubbed baby oil into my roots for that faintly greasy air. I felt like a real detective when I looked in the mirror.
In the library, I checked the Electoral Register. No Tom Naseby. I noted his neighbours’ details, returned to Clapham Rd, and started a few doors from Tom’s, armed with a clipboard.
No-one answered my knock until I reached the house next to Tom.
“Yes, you have the right names: Mr. and Mrs. Brent,” said the smiling, dark woman who opened the door. “We’re here ten years. We voted in the last two elections.” I had struck detecting gold. A chatty neighbour.
“It’s terribly difficult,” I said. “Half the people have moved, the rest are out. It’s useless trying at this time. Do you happen to know who lives next door?”
“Em, Tom somebody? He’s new. It’s a rented house; tenants are always coming and going.”
“Oh, new neighbours are awful,” I sympathised. “They play terrible music or park in your space or their alarm goes off every night.”
“He’s not too bad so far,” she said, “but there’s something odd about him.”
I raised a gossipy eyebrow, leaning closer as she lowered her voice.
“He was no trouble at first, but last Monday he had a bonfire. My hubby went out to say a word, maybe check he wasn’t burning tyres or whatnot. Pass the time of day. He said, you know, ‘What have you got there?’ And that Tom chap looked at him, charming as you like, and said ‘Just getting rid of my wife.’”
“Blimey!” I said.
“I know!” she said. “And he gave quite a sinister smile. My hubby came straight back in for his tea. He told me to keep the kids away. You never really know who people are, do you, when they’re renting?”
“You certainly don’t,” I said.
“Then that night, pulling the curtains, I saw him lugging a big bulging black sack from his car. He kept looking around. No, I’m not sure about him. But of course it could be nothing.”
“Of course,” I said. On Monday night Tom should have been in the Greek restaurant with Molly. Had he been doing something sinister to his wife instead? Hang on, Tom was married?
We discussed Mrs. Brent’s other neighbours, then I made my excuses. No-one answered Tom’s door. I was relieved. He didn’t sound like the kind of chap I wanted to meet.
Back at the office, I failed to think of an innocent explanation. I paced. I vacillated. I dialled a familiar number.
“Cynthia. What can I do for you?”
Superintendent Foster’s comfortable friendliness grounded me, as always.
“Well it could be nothing but I happened to hear about a guy who sounds sort of dodgy, like he might have murdered his wife. Apparently he was carting bodies around, I mean black sacks, and burning stuff. It seems kind of weird.”
Silence. Then the Super said, “OK Cynthia, give me the low-down”
I read out Tom’s details, telling him about the fishy phone number and the neighbour’s suspicions.
“How did you become interested in this individual?” enquired the Super.
“Oh, well, em, I did his kick-boxing class and he asked me for a date,” I lied.
“I’ll investigate,” said the Super. “No doubt there’s an innocent explanation.”
***
Duty done, I put my feet up with ‘Footsteps’ until the phone rang.
“Cynthia.”
“Super. I mean Superintendent.”
“I’ve spoken to the soon-to-be-ex Mrs. Naseby. She says she’s not dead.”
“But what about the burning, and the bag, and the wrong number?”
“Marriage mementos, moving debris and transposed digits,” said the Super, “so you can go on your date. Do ring me again if you come across anyone else behaving oddly.”
“Thanks,” I said, crestfallen. He was laughing at me.
“You’ve had a traumatic few months. You’ll probably see murderers under every bush for a while,” he added gently.
I felt better.
***
I emailed Molly with Tom’s details, bought a bottle of champagne and invited James and Liz to my office after work.
Molly followed them up the stairs.
“Thanks, Cynthia.” she said. “I rang him. He spotted his ex-wife in the restaurant and he just couldn’t go in. He planned to ring and apologise, but the gym wouldn’t give him my details in case he was a stalker. We’re meeting on Friday.”
“What do you look like, Cynthia?” said James, “bad hair day?”
I’d forgotten my badly-paid government employee look.
Liz perched on the window ledge. James swivelled in my guest chair. Molly sat on my desk and told them about Tom as I poured the champagne.
“Here’s to Hegarty’s Detection Services,” said Liz.
“Indeed,” said a deep voice.
My heart gave a little jump. Superintendent Foster’s imposing bulk filled the doorway.
“Hey, that’s my poster!” One of my ads dangled between his finger and thumb.
“I thought as much, Hegarty,” he said, studying my office. His gaze halted at the desk.
“Is there a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded as though his worst suspicions were confirmed.
“I’m off duty,” he said, and smiled.
**********************
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Thanks for reading! Ita Ryan