Free The Bursar's Wife by E.G. Rodford Page A

cap, was at the doorbell panel next to the gate, looking at the glow of names.
    “She’s got that job so you can be at college. She’d kill you if you left, you know that.” When I checked the driver was talking into the grill next to the buzzers.
    “It’s horrible though.” His voice went wobbly and he turned his face to his window. “I hate listening to it. I mean your own mother saying that…” Shit, this wasn’t the time for a heart-to-heart. The taxi driver got back into his car and waited. I glanced up at the top floor and saw the windows go dark. I turned to Jason.
    “Listen, Jason. You’ve got to suck it up, as you like to say. You could quit college, no one can force you to stay, but it would break your mum’s heart and the most likely outcome is that she would kick you out and refuse your money anyway.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His phone went whoosh but he ignored it. The gate opened and someone who could only be Quintin Boyd came out; even at this distance I recognised him from his photo online. He paused to close the gate behind him. He looked good in a black knee-length mac. He had no luggage or briefcase and carried himself with straight-backed confidence. I was too far away to see his face properly. He ran his fingers through his hair and got into the back of the waiting taxi. I started the Golf’s engine and watched the taxi driver do a three-point turn. I turned to Jason.
    “That stuff your mum says, on the phone, it’s just acting, she doesn’t mean any of it. You know that, right?” I was just repeating what little Sandra had told me about it. Apparently some of her regulars didn’t even want to talk about sex, they just needed someone to lament about what a shitty week they’d had. In fact the sex calls were the shortest calls and on a call by call basis made the least money. She’d laughingly told me that she was sometimes too good (not really a positive given the idea is to keep them on the line for as long as possible), and that it was amazing what some sound effects using a tub of yoghurt could achieve.
    “You know what else would break your mum’s heart?” I asked. He nodded.
    “Yeah. If she knew that I knew.” The boy wasn’t stupid, bless him.
    “Why don’t you invest in some noise-cancelling headphones,” I said, only half joking. He grunted noncommittally as I pulled out of the car park.
    “They’re expensive, boss.”
    “Well, you might be able to afford them when we’ve finished with this job,” I said. We eased into the last of the rush-hour traffic behind Quintin Boyd.

13
    IN THE OFFICE SANDRA WAS GETTING READY TO LEAVE , watering her plants and putting the computer to sleep.
    “I thought you weren’t in today?” I asked.
    “Just thought I’d put in a couple of hours.” She picked up some letters from her desk and went through them. “You need to renew your membership of UKAI or they’re going to take your entry off their website. There’s your share of the building maintenance that needs paying. The other tenants want a meeting next week and a John rang, something about your garden fence. Oh, and I’ve done the HPI check on the Mercedes, as well as getting an address from the DVLA.” UKAI are the UK Association of Investigators. They are supposed to raise the standards of the profession but for me membership means being in the online directory that potential clients look at – it was how Sylvia Booker had found me after all. They kept sending stuff through the post on the proposed arrangements for licensing private investigators. I never replied to these missives; licensing would probably mean the death knell for Cambridge Confidential. Sandra handed me the letters.
    “The DVLA really ought to tighten up their procedure for giving out details.”
    “You’re forgetting that I’m very convincing on the phone,” she said, winking at me. I smiled and looked down at the post she had given me. I considered telling her about