so I could lose myself in other peopleâs lives. But maybe I was deluding myself when I talked about making the world a better place, providing some kind of truth.
Ideals.
Theyâre what people expect you to have. What you use to excuse your real motivations.
Wickesâs ideals were sound, maybe even a tad more romantic than Iâd expect from the burly man who sat across the other side of the table. He got into the investigation business to help people.
I couldnât sense guile or deceit, and he met my gaze straight on. Did I believe him? It was hard not to.
âTruly,â he said, and gestured, âHand on heart.â He straightened his back, closed his eyes, held the pose melodramatically for a moment before relaxing. âSounds like a bad joke, right enough. But we were all young and principled once. Right?â
That last word made me flinch, maybe even look away. Did he catch that? See past my composure for a moment? I would have, I knew it.
What Wickes found, the deeper he got into the business, was that he had a talent for finding people. He started working with another investigator in Glasgow, learned in a kind of unofficial apprenticeship. âA lot of security work. Iâve never been the wee man, you can probably tell. Guess I looked like a goon, whatever. He had me work the rackets. The kind of jobs I guess someone like you wouldnât even consider.â He smiled at me. Vaguely condescending. Did he mean it to be? I wasnât sure.
âThese days, you lads are minted and trained and shaped and moulded. Told right and wrong, what you can and cannot do. Back in my dayâ¦we had no national organisation. We werenât monitored by bastards like the Security Industry Authority. No, we learned the trade on the streets. Christ, why would you even think about organising a business like ours? Once it becomes respectable, the services people require are impossible to provide.â
There was a strange air of nostalgia to his voice. A pining for days long lost. Not for the innocence, but for a power and influence that had eluded Wickes in later years.
His early work was in enforcement. His word, not mine. He didnât seem to shy away from it or try and disguise the work as anything other than it was. He dissuaded abusive husbands, confronted philanderers, made straight up calls for debts that needed collection. As time went on, he started to demonstrate an aptitude for tracing the disappeared.
âI went into business for myself somewhere around 1997,â he said. â Wickes Investigations . Above board. Got myself registered with the local police. Didnât join the Association, but that was laziness more than anything, you know? I specialised in trace and debt collection.â He smiled. âAnd other jobs, off the record.â
Deborah came to him through a recommendation. He didnât give me the specifics, and honestly, I didnât ask. His past was his past.
Did it matter? Not for what I wanted to know.
We all have our sins. Our mistakes. Not all of them reach out to the present.
Chapter 15
âWhen she came to see me, I got that spark. You know the spark?â Wickes paused, fixed those wild eyes on me, looking for something. Nodded, more to himself than me. âAye, you know the spark,â he said, âCan see that, at least. Wife?â
I held up my hand. No ring. Said, âShe died.â
Wickes nodded, looking serious again. âWell, this lass, I guess you felt the spark with her. Electric. First time I saw her, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.â
I didnât want to disillusion him.
First time I saw Elaine, I was thinking, hereâs another drunk driver and then was glad to see someone sober roll down the window.
No sparks.
Maybe a connection, though. Tender. Fragile. Fleeting. One that would build, evolve, become something else entirely.
Iâm not sure I believe in love at first sight. I think