Tacchini in doing something similar for them. I’d been surprised to see the suits. I knew that schneid designer clothing was big business, but it was the first time I’d come across it connected, however tangentially, to the Smarts’ business. I said as much to Richard.
“There’s a lot of it about,” he said, to my surprise. “I’ve seen all sorts of stuff on sale at gigs in the clubs. Anyway, I’m glad it worked out. Always happy to oblige the Sam Spade of Chorlton-on-Medlock.”
Poor sod, I thought. In reality, we live in Ardwick, one of those addresses that makes insurance companies blench. But Richard still believes the propaganda that the property developers came up with to convince us that we were moving somewhere select. “Ardwick,” I corrected him absently. He ignored me and asked what my plans were for the afternoon. “Work, I’m afraid. And this evening too, probably. Why?”
“Just wondered,” he said, too innocently for my liking.
“Tell, Barclay. Or else I’ll tidy your study,” I threatened.
“Oh no, not that!” he pleaded. “It’s just that I’ve got the chance of a ticket for this afternoon’s match at Old Trafford. But if you were free, I was going to suggest we went to the movies.”
The scale of the sacrifice made me realize he really does love me. I pulled up at the lights and impulsively leaned across to kiss him. “Greater love has no man,” I remarked as I drove off.
“So will you drop me at that pub opposite the ground? I said I’d meet the lads there if I could make it,” he asked.
How could I refuse?
Moira’s file made fascinating reading. The first interesting nugget came under the heading of “Referral.” The entry read, “Brought in by unidentified black male, who made donation of £500 and
Moira had apparently reached the point in her addiction where she realized that she wasn’t going to have too many more last chances to kick the smack and change her life. As a result, she’d been a model patient. She had opted to go down the hardest road, kicking the drug with minimal maintenance doses of methadone. After her cold turkey, she had been extremely co-operative, joining in willingly with group therapy and responding well in personal counselling. After a four-week stay at the project, she had signed herself out, but had continued to turn up for her therapy appointments.
The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.
That was unusual enough to raise my eyebrows. But a separate report by Seagull’s full-time psychiatrist was even more revealing. According to Dr. Briggs, Maggie and Moira had formed a highly charged emotional attachment while Moira was still at Seagull. Following her discharge, they had become lovers and were now living together as a couple. In the doctor’s opinion, this relationship was a significant contributory factor in Moira’s commitment to staying off heroin.
Jett was going to love this, I thought to myself as I made a note of Maggie Rossiter’s address. It’s one thing to know with your head that a lot of whores prefer relationships with women. I can’t say I blame them. If the only men I ever encountered were johns or pimps, I’d probably feel the same way. But when the woman concerned was your former soul mate … That was a whole different ball game.
I reluctantly called Colcutt Manor to give Jett an up-to-date report, but Gloria informed me gleefully that he was out. No, she didn’t know where he could be reached. No, she didn’t know when
I copied Moira’s files on to the disc where I was storing Jett’s information, then switched off the computer. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, not just because I was alone in it, but
“There’s a lot of it about,” he said, to my surprise. “I’ve seen all sorts of stuff on sale at gigs in the clubs. Anyway, I’m glad it worked out. Always happy to oblige the Sam Spade of Chorlton-on-Medlock.”
Poor sod, I thought. In reality, we live in Ardwick, one of those addresses that makes insurance companies blench. But Richard still believes the propaganda that the property developers came up with to convince us that we were moving somewhere select. “Ardwick,” I corrected him absently. He ignored me and asked what my plans were for the afternoon. “Work, I’m afraid. And this evening too, probably. Why?”
“Just wondered,” he said, too innocently for my liking.
“Tell, Barclay. Or else I’ll tidy your study,” I threatened.
“Oh no, not that!” he pleaded. “It’s just that I’ve got the chance of a ticket for this afternoon’s match at Old Trafford. But if you were free, I was going to suggest we went to the movies.”
The scale of the sacrifice made me realize he really does love me. I pulled up at the lights and impulsively leaned across to kiss him. “Greater love has no man,” I remarked as I drove off.
“So will you drop me at that pub opposite the ground? I said I’d meet the lads there if I could make it,” he asked.
How could I refuse?
Moira’s file made fascinating reading. The first interesting nugget came under the heading of “Referral.” The entry read, “Brought in by unidentified black male, who made donation of £500 and
Moira had apparently reached the point in her addiction where she realized that she wasn’t going to have too many more last chances to kick the smack and change her life. As a result, she’d been a model patient. She had opted to go down the hardest road, kicking the drug with minimal maintenance doses of methadone. After her cold turkey, she had been extremely co-operative, joining in willingly with group therapy and responding well in personal counselling. After a four-week stay at the project, she had signed herself out, but had continued to turn up for her therapy appointments.
The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.
That was unusual enough to raise my eyebrows. But a separate report by Seagull’s full-time psychiatrist was even more revealing. According to Dr. Briggs, Maggie and Moira had formed a highly charged emotional attachment while Moira was still at Seagull. Following her discharge, they had become lovers and were now living together as a couple. In the doctor’s opinion, this relationship was a significant contributory factor in Moira’s commitment to staying off heroin.
Jett was going to love this, I thought to myself as I made a note of Maggie Rossiter’s address. It’s one thing to know with your head that a lot of whores prefer relationships with women. I can’t say I blame them. If the only men I ever encountered were johns or pimps, I’d probably feel the same way. But when the woman concerned was your former soul mate … That was a whole different ball game.
I reluctantly called Colcutt Manor to give Jett an up-to-date report, but Gloria informed me gleefully that he was out. No, she didn’t know where he could be reached. No, she didn’t know when
I copied Moira’s files on to the disc where I was storing Jett’s information, then switched off the computer. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, not just because I was alone in it, but
Similar Books
