The Assistant

‘An early start?’

‘We seem to be firing on all cylinders,’ Patrick told her. ‘I think it must have been that brilliant supper we had last night.’

‘Oh? Couldn’t sleep?’

‘Slept like a baby,’ Patrick said. ‘Until about five o’clock this morning. And then my brain was racing with ideas.’

‘Ginger, chilli, and oily fish,’ Terry said. ‘Brain food. Works every time. So ... what can I do today? We have the Olympic shooting. What else?’

Patrick said that he needed a name and a bit of background on a top-drawer artist, probably late nineteenth century, early twentieth, who dealt in quality rather than quantity. ‘Someone whose work isn’t well known by the general population. Someone whose work doesn’t often come up at auction.’

‘For the switched out painting.’

‘Exactly,’ Patrick said. ‘I’d do it myself, but I realise that it’s just the kind of rabbit hole that could swallow me for a couple of days.’

Terry laughed. ‘And Henry would not be pleased.’

‘Sadly, no.’

Terry set up her laptop on the kitchen table and went to work. The next time that Paddy appeared in search of the coffee pot, it was gone eleven. ‘Progress?’ Terry asked.

‘Onto the sequel already,’ Paddy said with a broad smile. ‘And you?’

‘I have a couple of possibilities for you. When you feel like a break, I’ll talk you through them. But first, I should probably do something about lunch. How old is that bag of double-O flour in the pantry?’

‘Double-O flour?’

‘In the blue and white bag.’

Paddy shook his head. ‘Siobhan must have bought it.’

‘Siobhan?’

‘She came to stay for a couple of days last week. To make sure that I was eating and stuff like that.’

‘And are the eggs reasonably fresh,’ Terry asked.

‘Siobhan definitely bought those.’

‘Not really any of my business,’ Terry said, ‘but Siobhan who worries that you are eating ...?’

‘My sister,’ Paddy said.

Terry seemed relieved. ‘Your sister. Right. Well, perhaps I could make some pasta. Fettucine carbonara? I can duck out and get some bacon while the pasta is resting.’

‘I can get some bacon,’ Paddy said. ‘I’ve already put in five hours at the keyboard today.’

Terry frowned but then smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Thickly-sliced streaky would be good. If there’s a choice. And maybe smoked.’

When Paddy returned with the bacon (streaky, smoked, thickly-sliced), Terry had just started to roll out the pasta. ‘I couldn’t find a pasta machine,’ she said.

‘Umm ... no. I usually buy it ready made.’

‘No problem,’ Terry said. ‘Rolling pin works fine.’

While she finished preparing the lunch, Terry offered Paddy a couple of thoughts for the painter of the swapped-out painting.

‘Javier Perez, a contemporary of Picasso. Born 1885. Known -- briefly -- in some circles anyway -- as the Spanish Monet. Fancied himself as a bit of a bullfighter. In 1914, one of the bulls he fought won. He left behind quite a few highly-rated paintings, but most of them were destroyed during the Spanish Civil War when the gallery they were in was bombed.

Another possibility is Paul du Sais. French. A bit younger than Perez. Again, too many paintings in one place. In his case, most of his important paintings were nicked by a German general.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. And then the train they were on -- presumably on their way back to Germany -- was bombed. Probably accidentally, as it happens.’

‘Oh.’

‘From time to time, an alleged Du Sais surfaces, but, so far, they have all been adjudged to be fakes.’

‘Interesting,’ Paddy said. ‘Yes. I like the idea of intrigue on top of intrigue.’

‘I thought that you might,’ Terry said.

While Terry finished off the fettucine carbonara, Paddy poured a couple of glasses of Italian red wine.

Terry looked at him in mock disapproval. ‘Is that wise?’ she said.

‘Saturday,’ Paddy said. ‘Time and a half on Saturdays. And, anyway, I’m sure that any good Italian would insist on a glass of red with their fettucine carbonara.’

‘I thought you were Irish,’ Terry said.

‘On Fridays I’m Irish. On Saturdays? Whatever is convenient.’

The fettucine worked very well. Terry had kept the sauce very simple: just bacon and eggs, a hint of garlic, and a scrape or two of parmesan cheese.

‘I tried to make this,’ Paddy said. ‘It came out like lumpy scrambled eggs. This is much nicer.’

Terry smiled. ‘Did you use cream?’

‘Yeah. At least I think so. Was that wrong?’

‘I don’t think there’s any right or wrong. But if you use cream, and you get it slightly too hot or cook it slightly too long ... you can pretty quickly end up with scrambled egg. I like to keep it simple.’

‘I’m tempted to get another glass of wine,’ Paddy said. (The first glass had not even made it to the end of the fettucine.) ‘What do you think?’

‘Do you have another scene or two in that head of yours?’

‘Probably.’

‘In that case, up to you. But ....’

‘I hope that Henry’s paying you well,’ Paddy said.

Terry smiled. ‘Now I know that we’ve barely finished lunch, but I should probably go and find something for supper.’

‘Or we could go to the pub.’

‘Don’t you like my cooking?’

‘I love your cooking. But I think we should celebrate.’

‘Celebrate?’

‘The fact that I’ve written more in the past two days than in the past two weeks. And The Spotted Toad does brilliant steaks.’

‘OK,’ Terry said.

‘Tell me ... when you were trying your hand at being a novelist, did you work seven days a week?’

‘Eight,’ Terry said.

Paddy nodded. ‘Yes. I feared as much.’

‘Is there anything you need me to do for you this afternoon? Or shall I just leave you in peace?’

They agreed that Paddy would return to his keyboard, and then they would meet up again at six o’clock.

‘Although, if you feel like it, you could cast your eye over what I’ve written so far. And then later, when I’ve had a large glass of something, you can tell me what you think.’

Terry laughed. ‘I could do that,’ she said.

‘I’ll make you a thumb drive.’

Terry tidied up the kitchen, packed her laptop into her satchel and, with Paddy’s thumb drive in her pocket, headed back to The Crown, stopping along the way to purchase a large bottle of chilled acqua minerale.

The manuscript began with Chapter One: The Garden Party. Terry paused, took her yellow-covered exercise book from her satchel, and placed it beside her on the table. And then she began again. Chapter One: The Garden Party. Ten or twelve pages later, she wondered if Paddy had given her the wrong thumb drive.

Hoglen Hall, its origins, its style, its influences, and its later additions and alterations, was described in a manner that might have made Sir Nikolaus Pevsner proud. This was followed by a similarly-detailed description of the vista from The Grand Terrace. And then it was time for a digression into the origins of The Saint Herrick’s Restoration Society. And, finally, a once-over-lightly account of a fund-raising garden party, hosted by the Restoration Society, and held on The Grand Terrace of Hoglen Hall. ‘Why do I need to know all of this?’ Terry asked herself. A few pages later, she came to Chapter Two: Where’s Gainsworth?

Terry poured herself a glass of the sparkling water. Yes. Where is Gainsworth? She tried to put Chapter One out of her mind and went back to reading.

‘Why are you walking like that?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Hosking asked.

‘Oh, just something I inherited from my father,’ Oliver Gainsworth said. ‘Rather a lot of pirates in my family. For generations we have specialised in wooden legs and parrots. I should be getting my bird any day now.’

John Hosking shook his head. ‘I have a case for you,’ he said. ‘A bloke’s been doing the rounds of the precious-metal scrap dealers trying to sell of a bag of silver. Some of it looks as though it might have come from a spate of country house burglaries.’

‘Recent?’

‘No, no. Cold case. About five years ago. The bloke reckons he’s been buying up the silver from various car boot sales.’

‘One piece at a time?’

‘Yeah, pretty much. He claims the people selling didn’t realise what they had.’

‘Hallmarks?’

‘Don’t know.’ Hosking handed Gainsworth a sheet of paper. ‘These are the reference numbers for the original cases. See what you think.’

‘And it was just silver?’

‘Nicked? No. The silver was a side show. The headline acts were paintings.’

‘Which haven’t been recovered?’

DCS Hoskin shook his head.

‘Now that’s more like it,’ Terry said.

Shortly after five, Terry had a shower and put on the one girly dress she had brought with her. Paddy had said that he would come and collect her from The Crown at six o’clock. ‘The Toad is just around the corner from there.’ Terry went downstairs just before six, and Paddy arrived ‘on the dot’.

‘Gosh, you scrub up well,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Terry said. ‘I think.’

The Spotted Toad was a modern gastro pub. At street level there was a tiny bar with a prominent espresso coffee machine, bright red machined enamel and lots of flashes of chrome. The main part of the pub -- including the dining area -- was down a broad flight of stairs.

‘Not what I was expecting,’ Terry said.

‘And it gets better,’ Paddy assured her. ‘Now ... where shall we start? A glass of pink?’

‘Thank you. A glass of rosé would be nice,’ Terry said.

Paddy ordered a glass of La Dame Rousse Rosé for Terry. For personal consumption, he ordered a pint of Jack Tar IPA. ‘Just to lay the dust.’

Terry nodded. ‘Just to lay the dust,’ she echoed. ‘Cheers.’

‘Yes. Cheers. Here’s to assistants.’

‘I thought you didn’t hold with assistants,’ Terry said. ‘I thought they just got in the way. Stopped you from working.’

‘Well ... you know ... once you get them trained ...,’ Paddy said.

‘And do you have me trained?’

‘We’re getting there.’

‘So ... how was your afternoon?’

Paddy grinned. ‘I think I’m there,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got a toe over the finish line. Of course, I will need to go back and make a tweak or two. But, yes, I think I’m ... well ... almost there.’

‘Well done you,’ Terry said. And she raised her glass.

‘And I think you were right about readers wanting to know what happens next. Good writing doesn’t necessarily pay the grocer, does it? Perhaps when I’ve made my first million, I can take a year off and write something arty. Get it out of my system.’

Terry laughed.

‘And how was your afternoon?’ Paddy asked.

‘Time well spent,’ Terry said. ‘Yes. Although I do have a couple of questions.’

‘Oh?’

‘The first chapter. The Garden Party. Talk me through why you chose to open with that.’

‘Oh ... umm ... set the scene. Paint the backdrop of the country houses. Asset-rich, cash-poor. Having to scramble -- as decorously as possible -- to turn every penny-making opportunity. And, of course to introduce the reader to Copperwood Catering. Show how easy it is for them to come and go with their familiar vans and their ever-changing cast of cooks and servers and riggers. Does it not do that?’

Terry half-frowned. ‘It does,’ she said, cautiously. ‘But I just wonder if a reader who was looking forward to the next adventure of a very clever detective might wonder if they had wandered into the wrong book. It’s a nice bit of writing. A very nice bit of writing. But is it the right scene in the right place?’

And then if was Paddy’s turn to frown. ‘I was mindful of the old adage: it’s not a surprise unless the reader is expecting something else. And I was trying to throw the reader off the scent even before the scent was laid. Did I not succeed?’

‘I don’t think that’s the issue. I think the problem is: you may have just given the reader an information dump before they needed it. Or am I a really lazy reader?’

‘Far from it,’ Paddy said. ‘Where would you have started?’

‘The scene with Gainsworth and his boss. It tells the reader who Gainsworth is -- if they don’t already know. It tells the reader what he does. It shows the reader that he is ... well ... quirky. But his boss can live with that -- providing that Gainsworth delivers. And it gives the reader an overview of what the case is all about. As a reader ... that’s all I need to know. Oh ... and then: what happens next?’ And Terry smiled.

‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ Paddy said. ‘And your other questions?’

‘They can wait,’ Terry said.

The steaks were, as Paddy had promised, brilliant: crusty on the outside, rare in the middle.

‘How do they do that?’ Terry said.

‘You’re asking me?’ Paddy said.

When the waitress returned to see if everything was OK, Terry asked her.

‘Probably the hibachi grill,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit time-consuming, but worth it. At least I hope it is.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Terry said.

The steaks were served with hand-cut potato chips, crisp and golden on the outside and fluffy on the inside. There was also a small bowl of bearnaise sauce, smooth and buttery with a sharp lemony edge and a distinctive hit of tarragon. It was perfect. As was the bottle of Bordeaux-like Gimblett Gravels red that Paddy and Terry shared.

It was only just after 8:30 when Paddy walked Terry back around the corner to The Crown. ‘Are you planning to work tomorrow?’ Terry asked. ‘Or will it be a day of rest.’

‘While I seem to be on a roll, I think I should probably keep going.’

Terry smiled and nodded. ‘I don’t know what Henry was worried about,’ she said.

When they reached The Crown, they paused in front of the open doorway and stood facing each other. A passer-by might have thought that they were about to kiss. But they didn’t.

Terry glanced at her watch. ‘I suppose we could have a small nightcap,’ she said. ‘If you felt inclined.’

‘Yes. Why not?’ Paddy said. ‘It’s hardly late, is it?’

The small lounge bar, just off the reception area, looked as if it hadn’t changed too much in fifty years. Some of the chairs had probably been re-upholstered. But the carpet had that pizza look from the 1970s. The white-haired bar steward, dressed in a white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat, and a burgundy bowtie, looked as though he might have been there the day that the carpet was laid. ‘What can I get you, folks?’ he asked, directing his question clearly in the direction of Paddy.

Paddy turned to Terry. ‘What do you think?’

‘A small brandy perhaps?’ she suggested.

‘Yes. Why not? Make it two. Thank you.’

‘A gentleman’s measure for yourself, sir?’ the steward said. He didn’t wait for an answer.

‘I’ve never been in here before,’ Paddy said when the steward went off to get their drinks. ‘I’m not sure why. It’s quite good in a rather old-fashioned way, isn’t it? I can imagine Gainsworth popping in. To do a bit of quiet thinking. I think he might park himself at that table in the corner. And Sally would sit in the chair to the left; give herself a clear view of anyone coming through the front door and into reception.’

‘Perhaps in your next book,’ Terry said.

‘Did Valiant publish your book?’ Paddy asked.

‘No. Hartford.’

‘And how did that go? How did you get on with your editor?’

‘I think we got along quite well. He was a bit school-master-ish at first. But then it was my first novel. Perhaps he felt that he had to educate me. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t think that Diana and I are right for each other.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Something’s not quite right. We don’t ....’ And Paddy interlocked the fingers of his right hand with the fingers of his left hand.

‘Perhaps you should talk to Henry,’ Terry said.

Paddy nodded. ‘Yes. Perhaps I should.’ And then Paddy seemed to be about to say something else, but the steward arrived with their drinks.

How did they end up upstairs? Thinking about it later, Terry couldn’t really remember. She remembered that they had been talking about short stories. And Paddy had suggested that it might be fun to write a short crime story set entirely in The Crown -- although he would probably need to give the place another name. The King’s Head perhaps.

‘Two separate Eastern European drug lords choose The Crown -- The King’s Head -- as a base for a regional distribution centre. Handy to the sea routes. Handy to the Channel Tunnel. But neither realises that the other is a drug lord. They think they are competing to establish a bridgehead for their agricultural equipment businesses. The King’s Head’s owners can’t believe how popular the place has suddenly become. People coming and going. Food and bev receipts suddenly going through the roof. And the only person who seems to know what’s really going on is Arnold, the elderly bar steward -- who only deals in gentleman’s measures.’

‘Is that his name?’ Terry said. ‘Arnold?’

‘It should be. He looks like an Arnold,’ Paddy said. ‘Arnold, but never Arnie.’

Terry smiled and nodded.

‘What are the bedrooms like?’ Paddy asked. ‘Could a drug lord run an operation from one?’

‘If they were reasonably tidy. The rooms aren’t big, but they’re comfortable. You can come and have a look at mine ... if you like.’

‘Mmm. Yeah. Good idea,’ Paddy said. ‘We’re just going upstairs for a few minutes,’ he called out to the man who should be Arnold. ‘We’ll be back.’

The man who should be Arnold smiled and nodded, and went back to his book.

They went upstairs, Terry placed the key in the lock, turned it, and then threw open the door to her room. It was light inside. She had left the curtains open and there was a full moon.

Blame it on the moonlight, perhaps?

Terry stepped into the room and Paddy followed. ‘Pretty,’ he said.

‘The moon?’

‘Well ... that too,’ Paddy said. ‘But I was thinking of you.’

For what seemed like ages, they both just stood there. Looking at each other. And smiling. And then they kissed.

‘Well, that’s the tricky bit out of the way,’ Terry said.

‘The tricky bit?’

‘The will-we-or-won’t-we bit.’

Paddy nodded. ‘I’m thinking that we will,’ he said. And then Terry nodded. And they kissed again.

‘How are we going to do this?’ Paddy said.

‘Well, Henry did say that I should help you in any way that I could. Perhaps I could start by helping to unbutton your shirt.’

Paddy nodded.

There was no rush. Little by little -- and amid many kisses -- various items of clothing found their way onto the floor or onto the elegant stickback double-bow Windsor chair (probably a reproduction, but a very good one nevertheless) that stood in the corner.

Paddy’s fingers found the warm, soft, furry patch at the junction of Terry’s upper thighs and stroked it gently. ‘Nice,’ he said.

Terry adjusted her feet slightly and Paddy’s fingers fell into the crevice that was already beginning to open up. ‘Yes. Nice.’

And then, in the moonlit room that might, one day, become the south-eastern regional headquarters of a dastardly fictional drug lord, Paddy eased Terry back onto the bed and positioned himself between her surprisingly toned thighs. ‘You really are very beautiful,’ he said.

Terry giggled a girlish giggle, raised her knees slightly, and did what she could to assist Paddy to do what Paddy was already determined to do anyway. After all, Henry had said that anything she could do to keep Paddy focussed on the job at hand would be greatly appreciated. And Paddy’s current job at hand was the application of the tip of his tongue to Terry’s labia and clitoris.

‘Oh. Fuck. Yes!’ she said. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

And then after Terry had reached a suitably-noisy climax (Paddy imagined Arnold who was never Arnie glancing up at the ceiling and smiling knowingly), it was time to give the dog a bone (as Paddy so colourfully put it).

Paddy didn’t make it back to the cottage that night.

‘So, what are your plans for today?’ Terry asked the following morning.

‘I suppose that just staying here with you is out of the question,’ Paddy said.

‘You did say that you wanted to work.’

Paddy smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. I sort of regret saying that, but ... while you have me motivated, I suppose I should re-jig the opening and start tidying up Sally’s scenes.’