He flicked through the file and then handed it to the younger woman with dark skin and barely restrained curly hair next to him. She opened it and folded over the file to read the contents before raising her sunglasses to see a bit more clearly. After a moment she sighed and closed the folder.

"Is this… I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say this-"

"If it's not kind BJ..."

"This girl's in love with a gay man." BJ flicked her finger against the folder and then waved her hand toward a man sitting on the steps of the building across the street, laughing with the man next to him. "Nothing we could do would make her his type. Short of sending her for a series of very expensive operations I don't think she wants… Much less could even hope to afford."

"BJ-"

"And even if she could afford those surgeries, she's not got the money and we've not got the time to make her the kind of man he wants."

He sighed and let his neck hang back a moment against the stone wall behind him. "Given the truth of what you've just said, could I implore you to please find a better way to break that information to her than how you just did to me.?" He turned to her, "We don't need anyone sobbing all over the office."

"I'm sure I could make it very British." She puffed out her chest and saluted, "Stiff upper lip and keep calm to carry on. He's a poofter, miss, and there's nothing to be done about it or you to change that."

"Don't make fun."

"Of the situation or of you?"

"Either, if you please."

BJ nudged him with an elbow. "Don't worry about it Dad. I'll be very compassionate and supportive during her time of trial."

"I don't get the biggest assurance of your empathy in this."

"I can be empathetic." BJ tucked the file into her bag as they moved up the street and boarded a bus. "I promise. I learned it when I did my military service."

"You don't even like the military."

"Well you did yours and Mom did hers so…" BJ shrugged, "It's the family heirloom."

"I'm sure she appreciated it when you told her that." He leaned back in his seat, "How is your mother doing anyway?"

"She just got promoted so she and Patrick are going on a celebratory vacation." BJ paused, I thought you two were emailing last week."

"We were but it wasn't about her personal life. Besides," He shrugged, "She tells you different things than me."

"Probably because Patrick knows she can't keep a secret to save her life and would like a bit of privacy in their life." BJ crossed her legs. "He's a good guy."

"You mother's never been interested in fools."

"That's a self-serving statement."

"Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No."

"Then my point is proved." He tried to say but BJ raised a finger. "What?"

"Not in general but you've made some foolish decisions in the past."

"Such as?"

"You married Vera."

He shuddered, "Okay, fair point."

"And there was the way you and Patrick almost 'came to blows' at my graduation-"

"That was about something completely." He put a hand on his chest. "He insulted Man U and I won't stand for it."

"All the same." BJ insisted, "We've all done our foolish things before."

"We have."

"Which is why we need talk about what we tell Daisy Robinson… Other than refund her down payment."

"Maybe we could think about offering her another match?" A buzzing in his pocket stopped him and he dug out his phone. "I've got to change buses."

"Is it your 'other job'?" BJ gave a little laugh.

"Why do you always use air quotes when you say that?" He typed something quickly on his phone before sliding it back into his pocket. "It's my main job and it's an important meeting honey."

"You do realize that 'image consultant' these days is only code for one or two things." She ticked off on her fingers, "Babysitter for adults who can't behave or social perception adjustor for adults who've already misbehaved so badly that people want to hurt them on a permanent basis."

"Is that what you think about what I do?"

"At the end of the day it's not about what I think about what you do it's what others think about what you do." BJ shrugged, "Besides, an adult who can't dress themselves should probably seek other help."

"You must think you're very funny."

"I know I'm very funny." BJ elbowed him as he hit the button and stood from his bus seat. "Tell me about your meeting when you're through. We've got a couple customers to meet with tomorrow and I'd like to talk about them before we do our face-to-faces."

"Why don't you meet me here instead." He flipped a card from his pocket and handed it over. "I've been meaning to try it out and I don't want to go alone."

"I do like me a good restaurant." BJ tucked the card away as the bus slowed. "See you later Pops."

"Goodbye BJ." He waved at her, stepping down from the bus and rubbing at his right leg for a moment before walking up the street.

He reached the building and, after showing the man his card, entered to take the lifts. One of them emptied their contents, forcing him back a moment to avoid being swarmed by the crush, and he entered it a moment later. The doors almost shut when he heard someone's voice calling out for mercy and to hold the door.

Jamming his hand in the way, he managed to force the sensors to keep the doors open as a small woman, with carefully contained blonde hair, practically slid into the lift. She breathed out her thanks, leaning her head back against the wall at the dors shut.

"In a hurry?"

"I'm a little late and it's not a good look on me." Her fingers pinched the front of her shirt and she flapped it to send air toward her chin and down to her torso. After a second, her breathing more or less equalized, she smiled at him. "Thank you, by the way, for holding the door for me."

"What's a good turn if we don't do one for each other now and then?" He gave her back the smile as he noticed the overly large binder under her other arm. "Could I ask…"

"Yes?"

He pointed at the binder, "What is that for?"

"Options." She arranged it in her arms so he could see the cover. "I'm helping a friend of mine cater an upcoming event and since she wants to know exactly what she can choose from I had to bring the choices."

"How kind of you." He read the cover. "May I assume that you're the 'Anna Smith' whose recipes are up for offer?"

"Yes." She carefully situated the binder under one arm again and extended her other hand to him. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing the name of my savior?"

"John Bates." He shook her offered hand and pursed his lips a moment. "You… You wouldn't happen to be a chef, would you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"It's the typeface, on the front of your binder." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card identical to the one he handed BJ on the bus. "I'll assume this is your restaurant… Or, at least, where you work."

"You're right on both counts." Her eyes narrowed, "But I don't think I've ever had someone pinpoint me with that level of detail before."

"It's my business to invest in details." John shrugged, "It's part of my profession."

"Are you a spy?"

"I'm…" John gave a little laugh. "No, I'm a clothier and consultant."

"You consult about clothes?"

"Sometimes." John pointed toward the ceiling of the lift. "I help people in positions of authority and power learn how to portray themselves so they become their role."

"Sounds prestigious."

"It pays the bills." John noticed the way she flexed her jaw. "What?"

"It's…" Her shoulders see-sawed a moment. "It's a bit pompous too, isn't it?"

"You think so?"

"From the outside, and having only just learned that such a thing even exists, I'd say yes." She gave another shrug. "But I don't know."

"You're not totally wrong." John adjusted his footing, wincing slightly as his right leg twinged again. "My father was a tailor. Inherited the dying end of a vanishing business at the end of the fifties when his father passed and so he had to adjust."

"And he invented being a 'clothier'?"

"Oh no." John shook his head, "Things like that have existed for a long time. It's all in the training and the experience."

"That your family, as former tailors, had?"

"It takes skill to dress someone so the clothing fits them instead of them fitting into their clothing." John allowed a small smile to come to his lips. "And it's not just about putting clothes on rich people."

"What else is it?"

"It's about knowing how to wear clothes. How to be confident." John moved as the lift doors opened. "And that's a skill I teach people who don't need a clothier."

Anna exited the lift and waited as he joined her. "Was that you offering to teach me how to wear clothes?"

"No." He looked around the corridor before he crooked his finger at her. Moving to an alcove that gave them a modicum of privacy he gently removed the binder from her grip and set it on a low table. "First, roll your shoulders back."

"What?"

"Roll your shoulders back." He demonstrated and watched Anna, despite the skepticism written all over her face, follow suit. "Now, don't stick out your chest but hold yourself at the top of your spine."

"Feels like I'm standing at attention."

"No, just taller." He put his hands near his diaphragm and demonstrated the pose with his hands sweeping up his torso as he rolled his shoulders back. "It's a posture of confidence. Slumping or hunching tells you, through your body, that you don't belong in a room. But this-"

He demonstrated the pose, lifting as if rolling his spine straight. "This is an automatic reaction to instill confidence."

"And you do that with clothes?"

"You'd be surprised what I can do with a tailored suit coat." He bent to get the binder, wincing again as his right leg twitched. Handing it back to her, John noticed the curiosity of Anna's expression. "Old injury."

"Hurt often?"

"Often enough to be frustrating." John checked his watch. "I'm so sorry but I have to make an appointment and I probably already made you a little late for yours."

"If you did then I'll enter the room more confidently." Anna stuck out her hand to him again. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bates."

"And you Ms. Smith." John shook her hand firmly. "I do hope I get the chance to try out your restaurant."

"I'd like to see what you think if you do." Anna nodded at him, her hands going back to holding the binder between them, and hurried away.

John smiled to himself as he watched her leave before turning, a bit gingerly, on his heel and heading down the corridor in the opposite direction.


Hauling a large camera out of her bag, she jammed her shoulder into the brickwork and checked the angle. With a sigh, she lowered the camera and shook her head. "It's no good. The angle's all wrong."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

She leaned over the railing to look down at the black man craning his neck to look up at her. "No, I was yanking your chain because I enjoy getting myself into impossible to reach places just for the fun of wasting your time."

"You Americans always think you're so witty."

"I don't think I'm witty. I know I am." She straightened and tucked her camera away, her voice still raised to call down to him. "Big difference."

"And there it is, the American arrogance they warned me about."

"Hey," She climbed over the railing and skidded down the ladder, landing solidly in front of him. "You called me, remember?"

"I'll remember regretting I called you." He shook his head, "This case is already a headache and a half."

"Don't be such a pessimist Shipton." She nudged him with her shoulder. "It could always be worse."

"How so?"

"They could've assigned you to the Wester Drumlins case. You know, the one with all those abandoned cars out by that creepy manor."

"And instead I get a regular-old kidnapping and a frustrating American sidekick." He put his hand in the air, dragging it across as if displaying a marquee over a theater. "Shipton and Pickering, partners in crime."

"It's not a bad title." Pickering checked her phone. "Oop, that's me late for dinner."

"What, got a date?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"It's why I asked." He winked at her, "We could always get dinner together and you could blow off whoever's on the other end of that text."

"You're still on duty and it's my father, so no need to get all weird about it." Pickering paused, "Why, would you want to go to dinner with me?"

"I don't usually extend invitations like that as a joke."

Pickering sucked the inside of a cheek before smiling at him. "How about you tell me all about whatever leads you find on this kidnapping over breakfast tomorrow instead? Give yourself something to look forward to."

"You'd do that to me?"

"The alternative is that I miss out on the chance to have my father pay for dinner at a rather upscale restaurant that he wants to try." Pickering flipped out the card and showed it off. "Just so you know what kind of competition you're up against."

"I'm on a copper's salary." Shipton took the card and shook his head before handing it back to her. "I'd not be able to afford this if I saved up for a whole year."

"Hence why I'm going to refuse your spur-of-the-moment invite to what would've been a 'cracking fish-n-chips' stall and go out to dinner with my father." Pickering turned out of the alley, smiling to herself at the sound of Shipton following her. "I don't think he'll pay for you if you tag along."

"That's not what I'm doing." He hurried up to step in front of her. "I'm wondering if you're serious about breakfast."

"Are you worried I'd set you up just to not have you buy me ridiculously unhealthy doughnuts at some awful hour in the morning?"

"I thought you'd be busy with your other job." His fingers made air quotes. "Your consulting business."

"I do have that but it doesn't mean I can't still continue the consult I'm doing for you, right now, as your PI." Pickering pivoted and pointed back into the alley. "And the angle of your photo has the Peeping Tom from that window. Second from the right."

"But that's-"

"See you in the morning." Pickering waved as she raised her other hand for one of the passing cabs.

"Wait!" Shipton put his hand on the door as Pickering had herself halfway into the backseat. "What's your take?"

"About?"

"The angle of the photograph." Shipton pulled it out while his other arm failed back in the direction of the alley. "Why do you think they took it from there?"

"It's the best vantage point." Pickering debated a moment before stepping out of the cab. She waved off the insults and walked Shipton back to the alley. "It's a lookout post."

"That suggests at least two people."

"It could still just be one person."

"But it's still planned." Shipton shook his head, "We were working off the assumption this was a sudden snatch-and-grab… If it was anything at all."

"It was something." Pickering took the photograph and cringed as the phone in her pocket vibrated. Ignoring it, and turning a slow circle, she stopped when she found the window she wanted. "It's that one."

"What?"

"Look." She showed him the photo again. "Little Tommy Amir plays in this alley when he's not supposed to. He's under the not-so-watchful eyes of all of his neighbors. His old neighbor, Mrs. McCreedy is having none of it and constantly complains to the Amir family because just last week Tommy's cricket ball almost smashed her window. But Mr. Amir works eighteen-hour days driving cabs and Mrs. Amir has two other children and a mother-in-law so she's just happy for some peace and quiet because the cricket's not being played in her apartment."

Pickering pointed at the relevant windows as she spoke. "But no one's noticed Mrs. Bartholomew, two floors up, who just lost her twin boys last year to a car accident. And she's desperate for the sounds of children's play but it's almost too much for her. So she watches from the window until it hurts until, one day, she gets the idea that maybe…"

Pickering shrugged as Shipton stared at her. "Don't tell me you didn't notice that the cricket bat Tommy Amir was last seen holding is propped just inside the door to Mrs. Bartholomew's apartment."

"And you did?"

"Of course I did." Pickering handed back the photograph. "I think you and yours should have a training about observation skills."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

"Because it's only been since we were in this alley that Mrs. Bartholomew's looked out her window at us no less than five times and she's been crying." Pickering nodded her head in the direction of the relevant window. "I think you need to have a talk with her… After you call a constable or two to help take Tommy Amir and his cricket bat back to his family and their apartment."

"I…" Shipton whistled, "You are either very good or you're having me on and I'm going to look an idiot if I go up there with a story like that."

"That's between you and whomever else you get out here to help you." Pickering grabbed for her phone as it started vibrating again. "I'm off."

She jogged for the road, holding her bag to her side with her elbow as her free hand flagged down a cab. Her other hand put the phone to her ear. "Sorry, I know, I'm late."

"Where are you?"

"I had a consultation with a DCI. Child kidnapping case."

"Did you solve it?"

"I'll know by tomorrow morning." Pickering slid into the backseat and flailed around for the card to the restaurant before passing it to the driver. "But I'm pretty sure I got it."

"Good girl."

"Thanks Dad." Pickering settled back into her seat. "How'd your meeting go?"

"Well. I'll be doing some shadow work on him for at least three days."

"Standard contract then?"

"I think so." Pickering was on the edge of her seat at the pause in her father's voice. "I… Are you sure we could handle the additional work?"

"You almost make that sound like you don't trust our skills."

"We've got five meetings tomorrow."

"Two of them are follow-ups."

"What about the investigative work you're doing?"

"I…" Pickering dug out her wallet and swiped her card as she got out of the cab at the destination. Taking the business card back with a smile and nod toward the driver, she balanced her phone between her ear and shoulder until she could stand up straight. "I think we'll be just fine but… Give me a minute I'm almost inside."

"I'm already seated."

"Awesome." Pickering ended the call and hurried through the doors of the restaurant. The host almost raised an eyebrow at her but Pickering waved her down and hurried over to the table where John sat. "This is pretty fancy."

"It's got a good feel to it." John passed her a menu as Pickering tried to divest herself of her bag and sat straight in her seat. "Interestingly enough, I actually met the chef of this place in the lifts today."

"Good or bad?"

"She seemed rather impressive." John gave a little smile, "I did a posture demonstration for her after holding the lift."

"That was sure to win all the ladies." Pickering snorted, looking over the menu.

"Now, now, don't make fun BJ."

"Why not?"

"Because it's impolite." John sighed, "And she seemed to take it well."

"Or she took you well." John made a face. "What? Aren't I allowed to hope that my father will find someone good for him?"

"At least you grew out of the phase where you thought your mother and I would get back together and we'd live happily ever after."

"You make it sound like a bad thing." Pickering shrugged. "A girl's got to have dreams… Especially when my grandmothers both seemed adamant that you and Mom made a terrible decision."

"I think it would've been worse had we married and then divorced." John nodded at Pickering, "I'm sure you remember how it worked out with Vera."

"She wasn't my mother." Pickering shuddered, "And thank goodness you divorced her. I always wondered what possessed you to marry that woman in the first place."

"We were in love." John winced, "Or I thought we were."

"She tried to hit you with a plate." Pickering shook her head, "She was the devil and I still can't believe it took you until I was sixteen to kick her to the curb."

"The laws for divorce are different here."

"And yet here is where you married someone you couldn't stand." Pickering opened her hands at John's expression. "All I'm saying is that if you'd married my mother and divorced her in America then you could've had a no-fault divorce."

"The result would be the same but I'd be out more money." John shook his head, "Besides, I could never marry you mother after she admitted to me she was a Leeds fan."

"She's not a Leeds fan."

"She told me-"

"She told you she's a Leeds fan because she doesn't even like soccer." Pickering formed air quotes, "Sorry, 'football'."

John gaped at her, "Your mother doesn't like football?"

"Not your football anyway." Pickering leaned back, "She's a Kansas City Chiefs fan, but that's not the same thing."

"It's like I don't even know the woman." John went back to the menu, "And, as to your involvement in my romantic affairs…"

"Yes?" Pickering looked up from her menu.

"I don't want you fretting about it." He reached out and put a hand over hers. "For now I'm happy with it just being the two of us."

"That's sweet." Pickering squeezed his hand back, "But you need to find someone you can stand, that I can also stand, and marry them because I refuse to tote your tottering old ass around before dumping you in a senior center when you have to wear adult diapers, okay? It's not for me."

"And to think I was going to pay for your dinner." John clicked his teeth at her.

"No, I can take it back." Pickering pleaded, "I take it all back."

"Too later." John shook his head but she noted the hint of a laugh. "You'll have to wash dishes to get them to let you pay for your meal."

"We've actually got an opening for dish washers," They both turned as a red-headed woman approached their table with a small tablet. "If you're looking for work."

"He's joking." Pickering insisted, "We're all good on the check here."

"Perfect. Then I'm Gwen and I'll be your server this evening." She tapped something on her screen as she smiled at them again, "What can I start you off with?"

"It'll be bread and water for her and I think I'll take-"

"I'm doing a mojito to start and he'll do a Guinness." Pickering scowled at John. "And I think we'll do the bread and oil selection you've got with your meat and cheese board."

"Excellent choices." Gwen jotted them down, "And will you be paying in hours or dishes tonight? Since we're short-staffed in the kitchen?"

John almost choked on his laughter and Pickering resisted the urge to kick him under the table.