Joining Forces
"You'd have made a terrific teacher." Joanna handed him a fresh mug of tea as she took a seat across from the settee. "You had those three glued to your every word for over an hour. The only other person to manage that was Mary Poppins."
"At least they all know how to use the key in the lock now, even Max." Greg groaned as he eased his back, stiff from hunching over the low table. "I thought you said the boys were quiet?" He smiled. Once the lock had been re-keyed and replaced in the door with some ceremony, Jack and Max had been a mass of questions about other things you had to fix when you were a policeman.
"They are, usually." Joanna relaxed into the armchair. "Even Beth was giggling which is nice. As the eldest, bless her, she decided to be a mini me after her father died. She's much too serious for her own good so it was nice to see her having fun like that. Thank you for coming over and doing the lock, and for being with the children. It's very kind of you."
"Nothing kind about it." Greg sipped his tea. It was brewed perfectly to his taste and he sighed at the simple pleasure of a good cuppa. "They're good kids," he nodded to himself. "How are they doing at school?"
"They tend to keep to themselves; look after one another, the normal behaviour of children thrown on their own resources." Joanna's forehead pinched, as if the conversation was not one she wanted. "Now that the locks are changed, what next? The cleaning company itself was no real help when I asked about Rowan, and until you left that message for me, I'd no idea anyone else had even had the same experience. It was a surprise to discover the one person who had happened to someone in the same building as me. Got any ideas?"
"Where did you get to hear about the cleaning company in the first place?" Greg asked, drinking his tea. Maybe they could work backwards to a common denominator. "I was given the card and a recommendation from some friends of mine who run a pub. They told me the cleaning people had looked after them well, though they didn't say anything more than that. I can go and ask for details. What about you?"
"I was given a card too, by a nurse I know." Joanna nibbled her bottom lip. "She had to stop work to look after her ailing mother and she had it very tough for a while. I think she won a free houseclean in a lottery, though I don't know the ins and outs of the situation. It's all very strange, don't you think?"
"I'll say." Greg arched his eyebrows at the understatement.
"No, not the bizarre guerrilla cleaning, I mean the idea that you and I are the only ones it's happened to and we both work for the Met, even in the same building. What are the odds?"
"I don't believe in that much coincidence." Greg shook his head. "I'm going to keep digging, I think. There's too much here for me just to let this pass." Finishing his mug, he stood. "Thanks for the tea."
"Thank you for coming over and seeing to the lock," Joanna smiled gently. "I hope you didn't abandon your own family, just to help us out."
"Nah. Divorced a year ago and so I've only got myself to cater for." He rolled his shoulders. "It was good to get out of my flat for a change," he turned, heading towards the front door. "If you find out anything more about our mutual mystery, let me know. I've got a feeling about this. Something very strange is going on and I intend to find out what."
"You don't think we should just leave it go?" Joanna stood inside the half-open door. "Count ourselves fortunate that ... oh!" Her eyes went wide. "I completely forgot. Quick, come with me."
Almost dragging Greg back inside the house, she beckoned him to follow her through the kitchen to what was a tiny utility room at the back of the house, so compact he could touch the opposing walls simultaneously.
Except it wasn't a utility room anymore.
"This place was more of a big cupboard than anything else," Joanna gestured at the narrow sink and abbreviated benchtop by the window. "We used to keep the winter gear there," she pointed to a corner. "And there was a ladder against this wall and a broken bookcase and an old mattress from Max's bed right here," she said, touching the wall behind them. "But, as you can see ..."
Nodding slowly, Greg could indeed see very well. No longer a storage room, this minute space seemed to have experienced a similar transformation as had his own spare bedroom but whereas he got his dream home office ...
"Look like you've got yourself a proper little studio," he said, his eyes taking in the gleaming white walls, stone-flagged floor and the wide skylight above their heads. A solid-looking electric potter's wheel took pride of place, along with a small kiln in the corner that had once housed the Foys' spare blankets. There was a wire shelving rack behind them, home to a variety of what looked like professionally glazed and unglazed bowls and pots. "You didn't have this before?"
Shaking her head emphatically, Joanna looked serious. "I'd always wanted space to throw clay," she said. "It was something I did a lot of at college but, what with the children and then Steven ... I never seemed to have either the money or the space for this," she waved her hand around the room. "I was utterly dumbfounded when I saw it but I have to say, it's been the most wonderful experience having this here. I get to work a little with the clay at night when Beth's gone to bed. It's incredibly relaxing," she looked rueful. "It's probably the reason I haven't bothered to chase any of this up, if I'm being honest. I didn't want to lose this. The children are convinced it's magic but then they're right in the middle of the Harry Potter books."
"And what do you think?" Greg watched her face. "Logically?"
Her hands lifted, palm up. "Truthfully? I haven't really processed it. But all of the work that was done here and, I suspect, at your place, must have cost a fair bit of money, especially getting everything done in the space of a few hours." Joanna shook her head slowly. "I have no rational account for any of this."
Saying nothing, Greg drew a deep breath. "Even though it looks like we've both been visited by Santa, there has to be a logical explanation," he said. "I got a swanky home office, something I've always wanted, and you got ..." He paused, a terrible thought dawning on him.
"You don't think we're part of some bloody awful TV show where they change our houses around and wait for us to go slowly mad as we try and work it all out?"
"They'd have let us know by now if it was," Joanna shook her head. "There's a difference between pranking someone and stalking. If anyone did this to somebody else's house without permission, they'd be in real trouble, I assume." Cocking her head, she looked at the police officer in the room. "Besides, how would they know what we wanted? I never told anyone I wanted this."
"Yeah," Greg pursed his mouth judiciously. "And if they somehow knew that about us, then they'd definitely know our employer and the last place they would have chosen to mess about with are a copper's digs, let alone two people who work for the police. Nah," he scowled, narrowing his eyes and chewing the inside of his lip. "It's got to be something else. Something we're not seeing. There has to be some sensible, rational reason for all this."
"So what's the plan?" Joanna rested her hands on her hips. "Between the two of us, we should be able to get all the information there is to be found."
About to suggest that she leave the detecting to him, Greg looked at her ... really looked. There was nothing mousey about Joanna Foy right now; the way she stood, the resolute expression on her face. He imagined this was how she looked when the kids played up. The thought made him smile a little.
"Can you get back to that nurse who set you up with the cleaning company and I'll contact the people who gave me their card. That way, we'll at least have traced this thing back another step, see if we're the only ones to get the magic wand treatment, or if it's a bigger concern. See if you can find out how your friend got involved and if she knows anything about anything. Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes."
"You got that from the Matrix!" Joanna accused, laughing.
"Probably," Greg grinned. "That's what a lifetime of dodgy sci-fi will get you," he paused, realising. "How did ..?"
Lifting a hand, Joanna looked mildly superior. "Before you ask, in the interests of complete transparency, I must tell you that Jack is an avid fan of anything with spaceships, aliens, robots and most especially, special effects. We have a wide and varied collection of DVDs the children get to watch on wet weekends," she laughed again. "He'd have tried to stay awake to talk to you even longer if he'd known."
"Maybe next time." Greg headed back out of the front door. It was full dark now and the night was chill. "At least the lock's safe," he said. "Don't let anyone else have a copy just yet."
Her thoughtful look travelled with him all the way back to Whitechapel.
###
As it was still relatively early, there was no time like the present. Leaving his car in its usual place, Greg walked down to Nelson Street, calling into the Admiral's Arms just as the place was picking up with the evening crowd. Colin Linesmith gazed askance as he strolled up to the bar.
"Looks like Lestrade, walks like Lestrade, even dresses like Lestrade, but it cannot be so," he said, enunciating each word very carefully. "Lestrade of the Yard was in here only two days ago and it is unheard of," he paused, leaning on his side of the polished bar. "Unheard of, for Inspector Lestrade to come to this pub twice in the same week," he stopped, a quizzical look on his face. "Who are you and what have you done with my friend?"
"Yeah yeah, very funny. I'll have a pint of Best please, Col."
"Yeah, okay, but what's the deal, eh Greg? Birthday or somethin'?"
"I'm actually here on what might become official police business, Mr Linesmith," Greg took the cold glass and enjoyed a long sip. "I'm making inquiries, you might say."
"Oh yes? Something nefarious going on in the shadowy lanes of Whitechapel, eh?" The publican teased.
"Actually, it's more of a personal matter between you and me," Greg leaned in until the space between them was confidential and relatively intimate. "It's about that cleaning company you put me onto," he said. "I would appreciate a word in your shell-like ear," he added. "In private."
His expression turning blank, Colin Linesmith frowned slightly and nodded. "Gimme a sec," he said, disappearing behind the tall refrigerated cabinets.
Taking his pint, Greg leaned against the bar and thought thoughts. The fact that Colin hadn't laughed in his face suggested there might be more to this than he'd first imagined.
"Greg? Through here if you would." Linesmith held open a door at one end of the bar, leading into a small private room which obviously did service as the pub's office. Invoices lay piled across the desk and plastic-wrapped cases of soft drinks and specialty mixers were stacked high against the walls. A banged up steel filing cabinet stood in one corner. The space smelled vaguely of beer. There were two chairs. Colin took one and gestured Greg to its twin.
"You've been in touch with the cleaning people then?" the publican's tone was carefully neutral.
"You could say that," Greg contemplated his glass.
"Any ... problems?" Linesmith's eyebrows lifted casually.
"Not problems as such, Col." Putting his drink down, Greg leaned forward on the desk. "Just some strange things happening to me and a colleague of mine at the Met," he said. "She was given a card to that cleaning company too. We both had a visit from a woman named after a Salem witch." He fixed Linesmith with his 'I am a policeman, tell me everything' expression. "The results were very ... odd."
"Odd?" Colin Linesmith was not normally known for such reticence. Greg arched an eyebrow of his own and stayed silent.
"Ah bugger it." Linesmith slumped back in his chair, exhaling heavily. "Maeve told me I shouldn't have given you that card. She said it might cause trouble."
"What kind of trouble, Col?" Greg relaxed slightly. He was getting somewhere. "Why didn't your wife want me to have that card? It's only a cleaning company, after all. Where's the wrong in that?"
"Look Greg," Linesmith rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not trouble in the way you think of trouble."
"Then explain what you mean so I can understand, but I tell you now, it had better be a bloody good story given the experience I've just had."
Taking a deep breath, the publican met Greg's eyes squarely. "You know Maeve and I weren't expecting a baby to come along so late?" he said. "Maeve's already forty-six and when she started feeling a bit funny, we thought at first she was starting the change. Imagine how shocked we both were when we found out she was pregnant! Anyway, what with one thing and another, she was having a really rough time, with all sorts of medical issues and then she started getting depressed and even after the baby was born, there were lots of things that just weren't right. I was at my wits end, I swear I was, Greg. I had no idea where to turn for help." Reaching over for a can of lemonade, Linesmith cracked it open and gulped half of it. He looked haggard.
"Anyway, there we were. Our two eldest were being neglected because all we could think of was the baby and Maeve's health, which really wasn't the best. Just when I was thinking of trying to get the pair of them into some sort of nursing home, I sees an advert for this company what specialises in home care services, childcare and cleaning and shopping and whatnot. I had the idea that if I could get someone in to look after everything else, then me an' Maeve could maybe relax a bit and work our way through all the problems a bit at a time."
"Hmm." Greg thought for a moment. "Where did you find out about the company? You say you saw an advert? Where was it?"
Colin frowned, looking down at the can in his fingers. "Y'know, I'm not really sure. It could have been in one of Maeve's magazines or in the local rag. I can't say for certain, sorry mate."
"And that was the same company you recommended to me?" Greg frowned. "The card you gave me just said it was a cleaning organisation, not a home-services supplier."
"Yeah well, that was the card she left with us the last time she came in," Linesmith sagged in his seat. "Sorry. I didn't think it would cause that much trouble."
"Wait a minute," Greg leaned forward again. "When who came in for the last time?"
"Dawn," the publican looked up. "The woman from Charmed Cleaning."
"Her name was Dawn? Describe her."
"Tall, big-build. Caribbean, I'd say. She certainly had an islander kind of accent to her, especially when she got to singing."
"You were around when this woman came in to do her work?"
"Oh yes," Linesmith nodded. "Had to be really; Maeve wasn't up to doing much the first couple of times Dawn came over."
"Wait ... wait," Greg held up a hand. "The woman that came here to do whatever it was she did was a big Jamaican woman called Dawn and she was here several times and you both met her and spoke with her?"
"Well ... yes, of course we did. Why?"
"You never saw a medium-sized woman with silver hair dressed in grey?"
"Nope. Never. Only Dawn."
"And what exactly did this Dawn do when she was here?" Greg sat back, folding his arms.
"Mostly she walked around singing and tidying the flat up." Colin shrugged. "The place was always a little bit tidier and more organised after she left, but it was her singing that we all remember the most. Lovely voice she had, Very soothing. Put Maeve and the babe right to sleep every time."
"So let me get this right," Greg blinked, looking up at the ceiling as if the words he wanted lurked up there. "You hired a woman called Dawn to come and clean your flat upstairs so that Maeve could relax and look after herself and the baby, and this, possibly Jamaican, cleaning lady went around tidying up and singing? Is that about the size of things?"
"Yeah, and she got Kelly and Derek to do their homework and use their headphones when they watched the TV or listened to music so that everything stayed fairly quiet up there," Linesmith tipped his chin toward the flat above them. "It was just good to have her around the place. It was as if ... nah," he wrinkled his nose and looked embarrassed.
"What? Tell me." Greg leaned forward again.
"It was as if Dawn ..." Linesmith hesitated, hunting for the words. "As if she brought something peaceful and calming with her," he said. "As if Maeve and the baby got whatever it was they needed just by being in the same room as her." He made a face. "It's hard to explain but whenever Dawn was around, everyone felt happier."
"So there wasn't any spectacular cleaning work going on, or rooms being changed, just a Jamaican woman going around singing a lot?" Greg wanted to be absolutely sure he had the gist of the situation.
"Yeah, that's about right," Linesmith sounded more cheerful now he'd shared the story. "Once the baby started teething and Maeve bucked up, that was the last we saw of her. When I phoned the number on the card she left us, the one I gave you, they said she'd moved onto a new job, so we didn't think any more about it."
It was Greg's turn to heave a sigh. This wasn't at all what he'd expected to hear and certainly Colin and Maeve's experience bore no similarity to his and Joanna's.
"Well, okay," he picked up his glass. "It sounds like you got a good deal out of it all."
"Yup," the publican sounded altogether more cheerful. "We got what we needed even though we didn't know we needed it. Can't really complain about that, can I?"
Sipping his beer, Greg shook his head slowly. No, he supposed they couldn't, not really.
###
Late the next morning, he was on his office phone agreeing to sort out a staffing problem, when one of the other lines flashed red. Excusing himself momentarily from the payroll discussion, he stabbed a finger at the flashing light to see who was calling and ask them to call back. It was Joanna.
"I'm on the other line," he said after she told him she had information. "Look, it's almost lunchtime. You want to nip out and grab a sandwich or something so we can talk privately?" Agreeing to meet thirty minutes later at a small cafe on Parliament Street, she was waiting, having already organised her own food before he arrived. A large plastic bag sat on the seat beside her.
"I have a counselling session in forty-five minutes and I can't be late. I hope you don't think me rude for ordering."
"Not at all." Greg looked down at her plate of stew and dumplings which on a cold grey March day seemed a terrific idea. "I'll have the same as she's having please." He nodded to the waitress. "And a cup of tea." Pulling out a seat, he searched her face for potential bad news but Joanna seemed composed. "You said you had information?"
Laying down her fork, Joanna nodded. "I called my friend last night after you'd left," she said. "She's a nurse at Guys. We met at college and kept in touch as we were living close by each other here in London."
"And?" Greg paused as his steaming hot lunch was set in front of him.
"And I was right," Joanna sipped her own tea. "Trish came into nursing because first her dad died and then her mother developed a serious illness. She had to leave work for a while when her mum became too ill to look after herself properly and she said it was all a bit too much to have do the nursing and everything else as well, though because she had to leave work, there were all sorts of scary financial problems which meant she was over the moon when she found out her mother had won some sort of lottery where the first prize was three months' worth of financial advice and home help."
"Financial advice?" This didn't sound like something a cleaning company would do. "Not cleaning?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I thought," Joanna waved her fork. "But apparently, they were really good and sorted out all her mother's old annuity insurances and sickness benefits and tax relief and widow's pension and everything. Turns out Trish was able to manage things fairly well after that, especially having a weekly clean on top of everything else, not to mention having someone else to talk to about her problems gave her a bit of a break every now and again, as well as someone to help out when her mother eventually died."
"So Charmed Cleaning provided what was needed," he murmured thoughtfully, chewing a piece of beef.
"Yes, you could say that," Joanna nodded, pausing. "I have a thank-you present for you," she said, lifting the plastic bag onto the table.
Shaking his head, Greg smiled. "There's no need for any of that," he said. "It was fun being with your kids and got me out of my empty flat for a night, so if anything, I should be the one thanking you."
"I told Beth you'd say no, but she insisted we give you this for fixing our lock and for showing everyone how to make sure they use it properly and safely," Joanna widened her eyes, amused. "You cannot possibly offend my children by refusing," she added, pushing the bag closer to him. "It's home-made, if that makes you feel any better."
Tweaking an eyebrow, Greg threw her an expressive look as he pulled the plastic open. Inside was a piece of Joanna's pottery, a wide open bowl, tapering down to a smaller base. Superbly made and beautifully glazed in shades of grey finely laced with black, it was a stunning bit of earthenware.
"I can't take this," he protested. "This is worth a lot of money. You see these kind of things down the borough market for forty quid or more," he said, lifting and tilting the dish to catch the light. It was a solid but elegant piece.
"It's for your kitchen table to put fruit in. Or potatoes, or whatever else you keep on your kitchen table," Joanna smiled, clearly pleased by his reaction. "Seriously, you'd be doing me a favour by taking it. I need the room for new pieces."
"That kiln of yours has to chewing up the electricity though," he said, holding the bowl admiringly. "You shouldn't be wasting your money on gifts like this."
"Well, actually ..." Joanna looked at him carefully. "I checked the power usage the first time I fired a batch of pots and the electricity consumption is very low. Really, very low. Negligible, almost."
He always heard the almosts.
"How low?" His copper's intuition sat up straight.
"No more than a standard lightbulb," Joanna shrugged. "What can I say? It's a magic kiln."
"There seems to be a lot if it going around at the moment," he sighed, returning to his lunch, chewing reflectively. "My friends got a singing home help who somehow managed to help a sick woman and her baby. Your friend got help with financial arrangements and you and I got a magical house-clean. Why? Why us? Why did we get something different than the others?"
"It's like you just said," Joanna finished her tea. "The company provided what was needed. Clearly, what you and I both needed was a clean place to live," she frowned at the idea. "I'm not sure I'm entirely happy with that judgement to be honest."
"Yeah, but we didn't exactly get an ordinary kind of cleaning, did we?" Greg rested his arms on the table. "Yes, our places were cleaned, but there was something else, something extra, wasn't there? You got your little dream studio and I got the office I'd been after for years. I still have no idea how any of this hangs together, or how it was done or even why, but you have to admit, it seems we all got something we very much wanted or, in the case of my mucky kitchen, desperately needed," he grinned briefly. "It was in a pretty bad way before, I have to admit. My work-life balance is about ninety-ten."
"Well it's hardly surprising given the number of hours all you investigations people work," Joanna linked her fingers and met his gaze with calm eyes. "Without speaking out of turn, I can tell you that someone from the fourth floor having a well-balanced life would be the exception rather than the rule, not that I can really talk," she matched his brief smile. "I have to be there as much as I can for the children, but I can't afford to drop my hours because they tear through shoes and clothes at a rate of knots. All three of them are growing faster than I can keep up. I blink and Beth's up another inch."
"Why don't you try selling some of your pottery?" Greg asked quietly. "If your other stuff is half as good as this," he patted the plastic bag beside him. "You'd make a killing at the markets. Or even online. Set up a little website. You could do everything by mail, if you wanted. Get some decent photos up or maybe even a little video about each piece, I swear you'd have a ton of orders."
Shaking her head, Joanna made a face. "Maybe. Perhaps somewhere down the line," she said. "Not that I'd know about the prices or anything, apart from what the clay costs, and the glazes aren't that much. I don't even have a computer. Beth's using my husband's old tablet for school but I wouldn't have a clue about setting up a website. Or organising the payment side of things. Steven handled all the technical things," shaking her head again, Joanna checked her watch, getting ready to walk back to the office. "I wanted to give you this as well," she said, digging a small slip of paper out of her pocket. There was a phone number on it. "In case you find out anything more and we're too busy to talk during work hours."
Taking the paper, Greg also stood, wondering why she was so adamantly against the idea, at the same time as realising he had to get back to work too. "I'll get you some info about sole trading," he offered as they headed for the door. "It's about as easy a set-up as you can get." He patted the bag with its precious contents. "Seriously, you should think about it."
###
There was a shelf-full of used laptops and computers in a big cabinet in the evidence room. Once a year the criminal exhibits services put all confiscated items, be it a Lamborghini or a lawnmower, up for sale to the public. There were always a few things that nobody wanted and the handful of old computers Greg was now examining fell into that category. None of them were current though nowhere near as ancient as his own venerable beast.
"How much for this one, Rob?" He held up an ASUS. The outer casing was scratched and scraped but the inside looked untouched. "And what's under the bonnet?"
"What's the sticker number?" Senior Constable Rob Harris was more comfortable dealing with the aftermath of crimes than meeting it on the streets. He enjoyed the minutia of evidentiary administration, as well as curating new items into the Black Museum whenever possible.
"471."
"ASUS Vivobook Intel Celeron, two-point-four gigahertz turbo processor, two gig of RAM, 32 gig storage, wiped and reloaded with Windows Ten. That the one?" Harris looked up from his computer screen. "Thirty quid."
"It's for one of us," Greg added.
"Then let's make it ten quid." Rob's heavy black spectacles appeared around the door of the cabinet before he did. "Someone trying out some dodgy software?"
"Nah. A friend upstairs needs a cheap laptop to set up a webpage," Greg peeled off the sticker, handing it to his friend. "I thought I'd have a look and see if there was anything down here. This should do nicely," he added, digging out his wallet.
"And you're gonna show them how it works?" Rob's eyebrows edged upwards. He walked away with the money, laughing.