Free Stranded by Val McDermid Page A

my job get really frustrated,’ Sarah says. ‘There’s a bunch of us get together for a drink now and again, and we’ve been talking for a long time about how we’ve stopped believing the law has all the answers. Most of these blokes are bullies and cowards. Their women wouldn’t see them for dust if they had anybody to stand up for them. So what we’re proposing is that we’d pay you to sort these bastards out.’
    I can’t believe what I’m hearing. A brief offering me readies to go round and heavy the kind of toerags I’d gladly sort out as a favour? There has to be a catch. ‘You’re not telling me the Legal Aid would pay for that, are you?’ I say.
    Sarah grins. ‘Behave, Terry. I’m talking a strictly unofficial arrangement. I thought you could go and explain the error of their ways to these blokes. Introduce them to your baseball bat. Tell them if they don’t behave, you’ll be visiting them again in a less friendly mode. Tell them that they’ll be getting a bill for incidental legal expenses incurred on their partners’ behalf and if they don’t come up with the cash pronto monto, you’ll be coming round to make a collection. I’m sure they’ll respond very positively to your approaches.’
    â€˜You want me to go round and teach them a lesson?’ I’m still convinced this is a wind-up.
    â€˜That’s about the size of it.’
    â€˜And you’ll pay me?’
    â€˜We thought a basic rate of two hundred and fifty pounds a job. Plus bonuses in cases where the divorce settlement proved suitably substantial. A bit like a lawyer’s contingency fee. No win, no fee.’
    I can’t quite get my head round this idea. ‘So it would work how? You’d bell me and tell me where to do the business?’
    Sarah shakes her head. ‘It would all go through Chrissie. She’ll give you the details, then she’ll bill the legal firms for miscellaneous services, and pass the fees on to you. After this meeting, we’ll never talk about this again face to face. And you’ll never have contact with the solicitors you’d be acting for. Chrissie’s the cut-out on both sides.’
    â€˜What do you think, Tel?’ Chrissie asks, eager as a virgin in the back seat.
    â€˜You could tell Kimmy you were doing process serving,’ Sarah chips in.
    That’s the clincher. So I say OK.
    That was six months ago. Now I’m on Chrissie’s books as her research assistant. I pay tax and National Insurance, which was a bit of a facer for the social security, who could not get their heads round the idea of me as a proper citizen. I do two or three jobs a week, and everything’s sweet. Sarah’s sorting out Kimmy’s divorce, and we’re getting married as soon as all that’s sorted.
    I tell you, this is the life. I’m doing the right thing and I get paid for it. If I’d known going straight could be this much fun, I’d have done it years ago.

A Wife in a Million
    T he woman strolled through the supermarket, choosing a few items for her basket. As she reached the display of sauces and pickles, a muscle in her jaw tightened. She looked around, willing herself to appear casual. No one watched. Swiftly she took a jar of tomato pickle from her large leather handbag and placed it on the shelf. She moved on to the frozen meat section.
    A few minutes later, she passed down the same aisle and paused. She repeated the exercise, this time adding two more jars to the shelf. As she walked on to the checkout, she felt tension slide from her body, leaving her light-headed.
    She stood in the queue, anonymous among the morning shoppers, another neat woman in a well-cut winter coat, a faint smile on her face and a strangely unfocused look in her pale blue eyes.
    Sarah Graham was sprawled on the sofa reading the Situations Vacant in the Burnalder Evening News when she heard