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Davies Street, in the city centre, had all but been forgotten. Apart from the Crash Recording Studio with its rehearsal rooms, the only people who appeared to use it, judging by the smell, were drunken pissers. Even the binmen weren’t keen.
At the base of the old warehouse, Nicks found the door. Peeling black paint complemented a battered little intercom. A rusting sign declared, ‘Clive Benson Private Detective’.
He pressed the button. A tinny voice responded. “Yeah! Who is it?”
“It’s Nicks, I called you this morning.”
“Come on up, third floor.” The door buzzed and he pulled it open, climbing the narrow stairs. Two empty landings later, rooms long deserted, papers lying in doorways, he arrived.
Benson stood behind his desk, pale blue striped shirt, white collar, navy blue braces, matching tie, dark grey pants, greying hair slicked back, crystal tumbler in hand. He either liked dressing up or he was going somewhere. “I’m just having a livener, care to join me. It’s Irish.”
Nicks nodded. “Just a small one.” He watched him pour. “Why the third floor?”
Benson passed him the glass. “Couldn’t be arsed climbing any further. Besides, it gives me enough thinking and reaction time if any unwelcome guests turn up.” He waved him to a hard-backed chair then sat down. “So, what can I do for you or have you come to practise your throttling techniques again?” A smile.
Nicks removed two envelopes from his inside pocket and laid them on the desk. “I want you to keep this for me.” He leaned forward and tapped one of the envelopes.
“If you don’t hear from me by three months today presume the worst and deliver it to the person named in the other one. The instructions are all there. I prefer you use my parents as the go-betweens, in the first instance. If they’re no longer available, there are alternatives.”
Clive picked the envelopes up, scanned them and dropped them back on the desk. “And what do I get for this?”
“Two hundred pounds down, eight hundred when you complete the job.”
He flashed a sceptical smile. “So, whoever I deliver this to is just going to have eight hundred quid on them?”
Nicks almost allowed a smile to escape. “No, your money’s in a safety deposit box I’ve set up for you. Don’t bother steaming anything open. All the relevant instructions are concealed in some word squares. The person you deliver to will give you a phone and reference number. Use them and someone will talk you in. The money’s waiting for you, but if you try accessing it before three months, it’ll be forfeited.”
Clive took a mouthful of whiskey, “What’s to stop me just opening them in three months and trying for the money?”
“The person you deliver to has to confirm delivery using an alpha numerical code. It’s all in their letter. You just have to know how to decipher it and you only get one chance. Fuck me about and you’ll be getting a visit from a colleague and I can assure you the stairs won’t save you.” It was a bluff but Benson wasn’t to know that Simon wouldn’t win any medals when it came to stair racing events.
He stood up and finished his drink then produced his wallet, dropping £200 on the desk. “You’ll note, I’ve been nice and given you it in twenties. Count it.” Benson did.
Nicks looked around the office. It was basic but he’d worked with less: a couple of filing cabinets, a bin, a desk and swivel chair. Two hardbacks provided client comfort. A coat rack, screwed to the wall. There wasn’t even a carpet or kettle. “Cheap is it?”
Clive nodded, putting the money in his drawer. “Why else do you think I’m here?”
“No secretary?”
He received a scathing look. “Yeah, and I’m Bill Gates.”
Nicks couldn’t contain his curiosity. “You always done this?”
“No. I used to be a Bizzy.”
“What happened?”
“What didn’t. The old story. Arrived home one morning and I’d been binbagged. Divorce, sleazy bedsit, oddball tenants, motorcycle of dubious origin in bits in the shared kitchen.” He poured himself another drink, raising the bottle towards Nicks, who handed him his glass.
Clive was happy to talk. He didn’t get many visitors, at least not ones he felt empathy with. There was something about Nicks that made him feel they’d shared a past of some sort.
It turned out the divorce hadn’t gone well and he’d lost everything, including his job when, having run out of booze in the early hours, he’d gone in search of more and drove his car into a telephone box. He blamed no one but himself: too much work, too much booze and too many women.
“I was the world’s biggest arsehole.” He stared into his drink.
A little smirk crossed Nicks’ lips. “But, you’re ok now?”
Benson looked back at him with a deadpan face. “Well, it’s a definite improvement.”
He checked his watch and downed the whiskey. “If you don’t mind, I have to go shortly. Got to hang around some business types and serve these papers.” He placed them in the worn briefcase he’d dragged from the floor.
Nicks nodded. In the doorway, he turned. “With a bit of luck, I might see you again.”
Clive shovelled his arms into his jacket. “Don’t take this the wrong way but ... I hope not.” He smiled, sadly.