A Realisation.
Greg was seriously starting to wonder if his days in the police were numbered. The excitement of solving puzzles, of helping put things to rights, of helping others, no longer left him satisfied. He was beyond exhausted these days, so tired he sometimes wanted to weep like a child. His life was little more than a daily churn as he lurched from one set of problems to another like some mad kind of pinball. Work was as frenetic as it ever got, with knife-crime going through the roof to the point that questions were being asked in Parliament about the state of youth violence. Bad enough in itself, but when people from his team were being beaten up and cut on the street in the course of their investigations, the top brass really started to worry. Despite all the drama however, it was all he could do to avoid lapsing into a state of inertia, finding it harder and harder these days to find the desire or motivation to begin anything. Nobody had said anything yet, but he'd caught a few odd glances.
And on top of the bedlam that was modern-day policing in London and a mental weariness he'd never experienced before, Greg Lestrade was feeling his age. Not so much in the sense of feeling old, but he was always so drained, and there was this never-ending list of things that needed to be done outside of work, that all adults needed to do. Bills, legal stuff, problems that needed fixing, people who kept demanding his time or attention or money. Things like the laundry for god's sake. Laundry and cleaning and the weekly shop and maybe even cooking the occasional hot pot. What was it the kids called it these days ... adulting? For a middle-aged man, you'd think he'd have got the hang of it by now.
But then, maybe that was part of a bigger problem. Maybe that was why his marriage of nearly twenty years had floated off down the Swanee. Maybe he'd never actually come to grips with the notion of being the responsible one in the room, leaving all that to the wife while he gave his energy and effort to his work. It was easier in the office where there was an established hierarchy of accountability and individual responsibility as well as a line between those who did the right things and those that didn't, but where did you draw that kind of line in your private life? When you were the only one doing the stuff, where did it say what you had to do and what could be ignored? But when it was all he could do to crawl home at night and fall into bed and then crawl out again when the alarm went off the next morning, it was easier simply not to think too hard about it. He had precious little time left to do anything else but simply exist from one day to the next. It was all a bit depressing. Was this what a mid-life crisis felt like?
On a chilly Saturday morning in early March, he'd woken in the grey dawn despite being half-knackered from the day before. Using the last dusty t-bag in the box, he'd made a mug of char and sat at the cluttered kitchen table, blinking himself slowly awake. It was becoming obvious, even to himself that things needed to change. Maybe he needed to go on one of those trendy work-life balance seminars everyone was rattling on about. Maybe he needed a break from things, from work, from his increasingly unworkable life.
Glancing around the kitchen, Greg noticed the near-squalor of unemptied bins and stacks of dirty china in the sink. The glass in the windows was dull with months of unwashed kitchen grime and, now he came to think of it, there was even a bit of a smell going on. His flat wasn't yet a wreck, but it wasn't far off. Not even Sherlock would want to live in a dump like this and that was saying something. Finishing the last swig of cooling tea, Lestrade sighed heavily. Clearly, he couldn't go on like this; something had to change. Closing his eyes in acceptance, he let his head slump back on his shoulders.
Right then. First things first.
Heading into the bathroom, he made himself take a thorough and more careful shower than usual, followed by a proper shave. He did everything slowly so that, even if this was all he managed to get done today, at least it would be done well. Eying his hair, he decided that a bit of a trim was in order. Not that anyone had said anything, but there were some personal standards one had to maintain, at least for work. Besides, a gentle stroll along to the barbers might be just the thing to clear his head. He could stop in the local Tesco on the way back and get some more tea.
Locating some relatively clean jeans and a t-shirt, he stuffed an ancient canvas shopping bag in his coat pocket and headed out into the cold morning air. Despite feeling the damp, Greg also felt a little better now that he'd actually got himself to do something, even something as simple as a bit of weekend shopping. Heading to his barbers in Greatorex Street, he peered in the window to see if it was busy or if he might get one of the three chairs without too much of a wait. As it was, Sam was just brushing up after the last cut and there seemed to be nobody else hanging around. The door tinkled as he walked inside, the steamy warmth a welcome change from the outdoor chill.
"Got time for a good cut?" he asked hopefully. Just because nobody was there didn't mean to say there wasn't a booking.
"Jeez, man," Sam Benares looked at him with a critical eye. "You been sleeping rough, hey?"
"Feels like," Greg managed a lopsided grin. "Work is crazy these days. No time for anything else."
"Take a pew," Sam waved him towards the empty seat. "Be right with you."
Hanging his coat up near the door, Greg sighed with relief as he sank into the worn red-leather chair, its seat and arm rests pummelled soft by the passage of many bodies. The fug of warmth, the clean smell of shampoo and shaving oils and the quiet murmurings of a distant radio relaxed him almost at once. Closing his eyes he felt the gentle movement of air around him and the vague sounds and low murmurings of other people in the room. With a sudden jerk, he pulled his head back as he almost fell asleep where he sat.
"You been burning the candle at both ends by the look of things mate," Sam swirled a black nylon cape around Greg's shoulders, snapping the studs tight at the back of his neck. "Work, hey?"
"Something like that." Greg rubbed a hand over blurry eyes and wondered when he'd last had a proper meal and a pint. Maybe after he'd done some shopping, he could treat himself to the images in his head. A nice pub lunch and a pint of bitter could be exactly what he needed. Closing his eyes again and letting Sam move his head around with gentle tugs and tilts, in less than fifteen minutes the deed was done. The sharp tang of skin tonic on his freshly razored neck made him sit up and blink himself awake yet again.
"You need to get your head down for a bit," Sam sounded mildly concerned. "It's not good to get yourself so tired," he grinned. "Spoils the good looks for the ladies."
"Chance would be a fine thing," Greg stood, reaching for his wallet. "Just getting enough kip these days is a big deal."
Shaking his head as he took Greg's twenty, Sam bounced on the balls of his feet and laughed. "Nah, man. Got to get yourself a lady. Get yourself some proper lovin' and things will be better, I promise."
Giving the younger man a sour sideways look, Greg nevertheless felt more invigorated than he had for a while. Perhaps Sam wasn't that far off the mark. Maybe he did need to take a bit more care of himself. Not that he necessarily needed female companionship; that boat sailed off into the sunset with Angela and her sports teacher over a year ago. He was too old and too tired to think about women right now.
Crossing back over Whitechapel Road, he wandered around to Tesco, the early morning shopping crowd directing trollies and small children in equal numbers. Finding a gap in the entrance, Greg grabbed a basket and headed for the bakery aisle. Choosing a couple of crunchy loaves, some of his favourite biscuits and a couple of ready-made meat pies, he picked up a bag of frozen vegetables, a large bundle of mixed fresh fruit and a bottle of milk. Finding the beverages aisle, he paused as he reached for his usual tea and instead stretched a shelf higher. There was no real reason for him to keep using the cheapest products; he had plenty of cash to support himself these days, so why not get the better stuff? Choosing not just a selection of more expensive teabags, he also pulled a small box describing itself as 'first-flush Darjeeling'. This meant almost nothing to him but a close sniff of the packet pleased his sense of smell and into the basket it went. A jar of decent honey followed with the final purchase being a vacuum packet of ground coffee. He knew he had a coffee press stashed away in one of his cupboards, so why not? He was in the mood to do things a bit differently for once.
Fifteen minutes later, he was filling the fridge and freezer with various bits and found he was whistling. He stopped, frowning. When was the last time he had whistled at anything? Shrugging, Greg put the rest of the shopping away and made a serious attempt to wash the dirty mugs in the kitchen sink. With all his new tea and stuff, he'd need something to drink it out of. Drying his hands, he caught sight of the clock on the oven. Half-twelve. Perfect timing for a quick visit to the pub. Checking that his t-shirt was acceptable enough for the lunchtime trade, Greg left his flat again, heading this time in a southerly direction towards Commercial Road. Turning the corner into Nelson Street, he caught sight of the timeworn swaying sign The Admiral's Arms. An old, independent pub, it lacked any pretensions to gastronomic delights, trendy ciders or microbrews and therefore was patronised by an older, more understated crowd which suited him just fine. There was a TV in one corner with the football on; a banged-up dartboard over the unused fireplace and a couple of antiquated slot machines standing in front of a line of cheerful stained-glass windows. The place was already half full and Greg waited at the bar.
"Pint of Best and one of your steak and kidney pies, my good man," he grinned across the shining wooden bar at the host and owner of the pub, Colin Linesmith.
"We'll have less of that bourgeois nonsense in this establishment if you don't mind, Inspector Lestrade," the tall publican glared back theatrically as he pulled Greg's pint. "Only signed-up proles get fed in here."
"Yeah yeah, you and the rest of the Capitalists, mate," Greg laughed. Ever since he'd accidently watched a documentary on Marx, Colin was determined to do away with the ruling classes. The fact that he'd been having an ongoing battle with a local brewery for the last couple of years didn't help things. "How's Maeve these days?"
"The baby's got colic, our eldest has discovered what boys are for, and Maeve's been reading the riot act," Colin rolled his eyes. "Fortunately, the dads of most of the boys Kelly likes drink here, so we've been able to keep a lid on things for the time being. Hang on a tick." Scribbling a menu order, Colin shoved it through a wooden hatchway into the kitchen area beyond the bar. Turning back, the publican scanned the bar to see if anyone else was waiting on an order before turning his attention back to Greg. "You been sick or something?" he asked. "Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays and you look like you've not seen daylight since last summer. You okay?"
"You're the second person to ask me that today," Greg sipped his pint with pleasure. He had been too long away from such simple indulgences. "Anyone would think I'd been in gaol."
"You haven't, have you?" Colin tweaked an eyebrow. "You hear all sorts of stories about bent coppers these days."
"Not from me, you've not." Greg put his glass down and wrinkled his nose. "It's just been really busy, is all."
"Found yourself a girlfriend yet then?" Colin's face was the picture of innocence.
"Christ what is it with everyone today?" Greg's eyebrows compressed into a flat line. "I've got no time for women in my life right now. I've barely got time for me in it, let alone anyone else."
"Just asking, Greg," Linesmith smiled mildly in a noncommittal way. "Just making conversation."
"Yeah, sorry. It's me. I'm feeling a bit on edge of late. Maybe I need to take a break, get away for a holiday or something, though holidaying by yourself is pretty miserable." Staring down into his beer, Greg realised that he was speaking the unvarnished truth. He really did need a break, if not from work, then from whatever it was that was grinding him down.
"Got yourself into a right rut, by the look of things," Colin wiped down the stretch of bar top between them. "Maybe you need to give yourself a rest. Get someone in to do a spot of cleaning and housekeeping for you while you bugger off to Ibiza or somewhere warm for a few weeks. Get some sun on your skin; chat up a pretty local. Put some lead in yer pencil."
His lunch arrived and Greg escaped with the plate and the remainder of his beer to a small unoccupied table in the corner. He didn't at all fancy going anywhere on holiday right now, least of all by himself. But the idea of getting someone in to take over looking after the flat for a while might not be that bad an idea. He knew several people at work and not just senior staff, who had weekly cleaners ... maybe it wasn't an unreasonable idea. He could afford it, after all. The flat was relatively modest, only a two-bedroom place in one of the less affluent areas of the city. His share of the profits after he and Ange had sold the house had been more than enough to buy the place outright so all he had to worry about was living costs, and a single man with no social life and little in the way of expensive habits could live fairly well on a DI's salary, especially now the London loading had gone up again. How long would it take a professional cleaner to go right through his humble flat and how much did they charge per hour?
Enjoying the crispy golden pastry of the ridiculously tasty pub lunch, Greg had half made up his mind to do it. People all over the place did it; hard-working professionals who simply didn't have the time to take care of domestic things. Yeah. Though how to find a good one?
Pulling a copy of the previous day's newspaper across, Greg turned to the classified ads in the rear pages. Tidy choice cleaning ... Just Helpers ... Cleaning Express. None of the names really caught his eye. Maybe he needed to look online where there could even be some reviews from previous customers.
"I thought you might be thinking about what I said." Colin Linesmith walked over with a tray to take Greg's used plate and empty glass. He held out a small white card. Here you go; the wife swears by this mob. They really did well by her after what she went through with the baby."
Nodding, Greg recalled that Maeve's late and unexpected pregnancy had left her with all sorts of problems, physical and emotional. He glanced down at the neat script.
Charmed Cleaning. Domestic cleaning done in a flash.
Taking the card, Greg nodded his thanks. "Good to know" he said, still undecided. "I'll let you know if I ... y'know," he offered, vaguely, sliding the card into his jacket pocket.
"Give it a go," Colin called back over his shoulder. "You'll never know if you never try."
Strolling back to the flat, wondering if having a bit of an afternoon snooze meant he was turning into an old man, Greg took out his mobile and rang the number on the card. What the hell. If it didn't work out, it would be easy enough to stop.
"Charmed cleaning. Lily speaking."
"Hi Lily. I, ah, I would like to arrange for someone to clean my flat. Please." Greg frowned at his own hesitancy. The receptionist sounded very young.
"Certainly sir. We're able to handle every type of domestic situation for you. How big a property is it and how often would you like it cleaned?"
"Ah, it's a two-bedroomed, second floor flat. I'm in Whitechapel, Myrdle Street. Um ... once a week, maybe?"
"Not a problem at all sir. May I have your name, address, phone number and a contact email address so I can send you our services brochure? I'm sure we can provide any cleaning or domestic management service you might need."
"Sure." Greg spoke slowly to ensure his details were taken down correctly. Despite her obvious youth, Lily was doing a grand job.
"Excellent, Mr Lestrade. I'll have the necessary details emailed to you in a jiffy. If you have any questions about anything, feel free to call us at any time."
"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks." Shoving the phone back in his pocket, Greg made a face. Well, he'd done it now. He'd give it a try for a few weeks and see how things went, and if it didn't work out, well at least he'd be no worse off than he was right now. Heading back to his flat, he wondered what they'd think of the mess he lived in and thought he might try tidying up a bit before anyone came over.
A silvery-haired woman dressed in grey dungarees and a warm jacket stood outside the main front door of the building which housed his flat. She was obviously waiting for someone and turned to meet his eyes when he approached.
"Mr Lestrade?"
Greg had no idea who she was; he'd never seen her before and he'd certainly not expected anyone to be visiting him at home on a Saturday afternoon. The woman produced a small card, identical to the one Colin Linesmith had given him. Charmed Cleaning. Domestic cleaning done in a flash.
"I wasn't actually expecting anyone to come around until I'd gone through your brochure," Greg collected his thoughts as he glanced between the writing on the card and the woman's face. Her hair suggested a certain age, but her face was unlined and she couldn't have been more than thirty-five at most. Clear grey eyes gazed out from a pale smooth complexion. She was smiling.
"Rowan Good," she offered her hand. "I apologise for this impromptu visit, but I'm only down the road and Lily wants to get this arrangement finalised quickly," she said, pulling a glossy paper brochure from her capacious bag. "I thought I'd bring an information sheet for you and, if it's not too much trouble, have a look around your flat to be able to give you a specific quote for cleaning services. Would it be convenient for me to come in?"
No, it wouldn't. Not really. Apart from washing a pile of fermenting coffee mugs, Greg hadn't touched the flat or much of his laundry for several weeks. It was a total pit and there was no way he'd want a complete stranger being put off by the slovenly disorder that awaited upstairs. The woman seemed to read his thoughts and smiled again.
"I was in a house last week with thirteen cats, three toddlers and a teenager deconstructing an old motorbike engine in his bedroom," she sounded perfectly calm. "Do you have thirteen cats?"
"No," Greg found he was smiling too. "Just the untouched mess of a very busy Metropolitan police officer."
"You're a policeman?" stepping inside the main door as Greg opened it for her, the woman seemed impressed. "With all the demands put on your shoulders it's no surprise you're hardly at home these days," she said. "Is this you?"
Without realising he'd done it, Greg had brought them to the front door of his flat, the brass door key already in his hand. "Er, yeah, it is," he smiled fleetingly as he let them inside, closing his eyes in instant shame. If his mother could see the state of the place, he'd never have heard the end of it. "It's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid."
"What lovely light you have from these windows," Rowan Good looked around, taking in the respectable size of the rooms, the height of the ceilings and the freshly painted bathroom. The several piles of cardboard boxes in the unused bedroom obviously prompted her next comment.
"Just moved in?" she asked, walking to look out of one of the lounge windows.
"About a year ago," Greg puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. "There's just no time these days or, at least, I've not found it in me to make the necessary time to do more than the basics."
"Not to worry," the Charming cleaning lady met his eyes and she was still smiling. "You clearly want to make a fresh start and I can help you with that," she said. "I charge twelve pounds per hour and your apartment would probably take me ..." pursing her lips, Rowan scanned the room around them again. "A major clean of around four hours on the first occasion, with weekly follow-ups of between one and two hours each," she added. "That would mean your entire flat from top to bottom. You would have a home your mother would be proud of." Rowan's smile was calm and assured and somehow restful. Greg felt better simply listening to her.
"That sounds great," he admitted, relieved. "When could you start?"
"I have tomorrow morning free, as it happens," Rowan pulled out her own phone and began typing something. "I can be here when you leave for work," she said. "Eight-thirty?"
It was a good guess. He usually left around that time which got him to the Yard just on nine. She'd need a key.
"I'll need a key so I can lock up after I've finished," she said, still peering at her phone. "Lily will email you a standard contract so that everyone involved is insured in case of mishaps. It makes sense not to take any risks," she added. "If you could complete the form and email it back to her, then we'll be good to go. Don't worry," she said, watching his expression, seeing a faint indecision in his eyes. "I've done this many times."
There was something about her confidence that engendered immediate belief and calm acceptance, Greg realised. Not only had he completely stopped being worried about the shocking state of the place, but the idea of this woman working in his flat each week seemed nothing less than completely normal. Walking into the cluttered kitchen and pulling open a drawer, he lifted a ring of spare keys into the light. Squinting, he found the twin to the front door key and wriggled it free of the metal hoop.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow, first thing?"
"First thing," Rowan agreed, waiting for the cold metal to fall into her hand.
###
There was a grey sky and a light drizzle when Greg awoke the following morning. Though it was a Sunday, it was his turn on the duty roster though hopefully, it would be a quiet day and he could focus on his paperwork. Immediately, his brain started to roil with all the things he knew he had to do today at the Yard. Prepping for interviews and meetings, the charge sheets he had to review and sign off, the monthly stats report, the endless, endless updates on standing investigations and then and only then, would he be able to find time for any new stuff waiting for him at the threshold of his office. It was a nice office, with great views across the Thames but he was usually so bogged down with work that he almost never lifted his head these days. The only thing that made this particular morning a little better was the knowledge that he'd taken the very sensible step of exerting control upon his living conditions. The new cleaning lady would be arriving this morning and, one way or another, he'd hope to see some sort of improvement in his living conditions by the time he returned later tonight.
After taking a few minutes to put the clean mugs away and with a piece of cooling toast in his teeth, Greg was on the verge of closing his front door on the way out when the lift several doors down the passageway pinged open. Bang on eight-thirty, Rowan Good rolled out of the lift pulling a substantial but efficient-looking trolley behind her.
"Right on time," Greg grinned around his toast. "I was just on my way out."
"Don't let me keep you then." Her grey eyes smiled at him again even though the rest of her body was fairly well wrapped up in overalls and a tightly tied scarf wrapped around her head, keeping all but the wispiest of hairs under wraps. She looked ready for action.
"I'll be off then," he said, backing off towards the lift. "Let me know if you hit any snags."
Standing by the open front door of his apartment, Rowan Good smiled her calm smile. "Have a wonderful day."
Waving, Greg took the lift down to the basement carpark. For better or worse, he'd set things in motion and he may as well get on with it. Reversing his BMW from its parking spot, he headed along Whitechapel Road before turning towards the Embankment and Scotland Yard. Though most of his focus was already on the trials ahead, he allowed a stray thought to wonder what would greet him when he returned home.
###
Closing and locking the door behind her, Rowan brought her trolley into the kitchen. Bless the man; he'd tried to put the place to rights before she came in this morning. Her heart went out to him. He'd been through a lot in the last year or so and it was of little surprise that he'd slumped down into a trough of malaise and apathy. Still, now that he'd found it within himself to at least hope for a fresh start, she was able to step in and help him along. It was all part of the job. Staring around the kitchen, Rowan Good decided this was as reasonable a place to kick off as any. Starting from the top of the room, she walked around opening every single cupboard door she could see. Then all the drawers. Then the microwave, the oven and even the fridge. Satisfied she'd done her bit to get things moving, she sat on one of the kitchen chairs and opened the top section of her trolley. It was completely empty except for a small silver thermos flask which lay next to a pristine bone china cup and saucer. Beside that was a tiny lidded sugar bowl with a small pair of silver sugar-tongs. Unscrewing the thermos, she poured herself a cup of fragrant tea, adding one crystalline lump of sweetness. It was going to be a long morning.
Sitting back and tasting the steaming liquid with obvious enjoyment, Rowan closed her eyes and composed her thoughts. Sipping the tea she smiled into the empty air. "Begin."
Instantly, the sink started filling with hot soapy water.