Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher Read online

  Morgan liked to find some kind of satisfaction in his work, however utilitarian his employers deemed it. He enjoyed pulling order from chaos, whether it was scanning a clutch of documents into one perfect pdf, or creating a filing system that lit up someone's' eyes because it actually made sense to them. Hunter needed all that Morgan had to offer in terms of filing and decluttering, but Morgan's end goal was grander: to leave Hunter with a beautiful work space. Somewhere spacious and airy where he could fit a proper computer. Morgan could imagine Hunter sitting at a big, real-wood desk, tapping at a sleek wireless keyboard. Stretching out his legs, muscles bunching in his thighs and-

  "Morgan! Are you going to take all day?"

  Morgan shook the thoughts out of his head, and a few dust bunnies fell out of his hair and landed in the sink.

  He put the cold tap on full and stuck his head underneath it.

  The venue for lunch was an artisan bakery two streets away from Hunter's office. It was called 'Sophie's Bakes'. Morgan had walked past it a few times and it always smelled good, but he hadn't realised that there was a cafe above the shop as well. It was surprisingly spacious: more than a dozen tables and plenty of space between them. The decor was simple, with scrubbed pine tables, white table linen and grey wicker chairs that matched the stylish wooden blinds at the windows. Hunter chose a table half way between the windows and the entrance. It was square, with a chair at each side. Morgan sat next to Hunter, rather than opposite, hoping it seemed less date-like.

  A waitress skipped up to them with menus. Her hair was braided close to her head in four neat rows, finished with metal beads that clattered together when they moved.

  She smiled at Hunter, and flicked a curious glance at Morgan. "Can I get you guys something to drink?"

  "Some water for the table, please, Grace," said Hunter. "Three glasses, we're meeting a client. Morgan?"

  "Water's fine," said Morgan.

  "Three glasses, gotcha," said Grace and clattered her way through a swing door which presumably led to the kitchen.

  "D'you come here a lot, then?" asked Morgan.

  "It's very handy. And the staff are discreet."

  Morgan felt a little thrill at the notion they were doing something secretive. He supposed it went with the territory for Hunter. "Is there anything I should know about whoever this is we're meeting?"

  "His name is Osbourne White. Or so he claims."

  "That seems an unlikely name."

  "People are often wary about giving their real names. It doesn't make much difference to me so long as there's a non-bouncing cheque at the end of the deal."

  "You get paid by cheque? Not many people do that anymore."

  "It's a figure of speech, Morgan."

  "Oh." Morgan fiddled with the corner of his napkin. "Anything else I need to know?"

  "I would rather keep you innocent," said Hunter. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to smile. "Anyway, keep an open mind. See what you make of him. Ah, speak of the devil, here he is now."

  Morgan looked eagerly towards the door, imagining someone tall and distinguished, perhaps with a trench coat and a shifty expression. But the person who came to shake Hunter's hand was short, with a bit of a paunch that threatened to pop the buttons on his stripy, pinkish shirt. He'd done that thing some men do when threatened by male-pattern baldness: he'd had his hair trimmed really close, almost shaved. As if trying to convince everyone that he'd lost his hair on purpose. But the overall effect was a salt-and-pepper shimmer that did nothing but highlight his smooth, shiny pate.

  "This is my assistant," Hunter said. "Morgan Kerry."

  "Pleased to meet you." Morgan shook hands and smiled his best customer service smile. "Mr White."

  "Call me Ozzie," said Osbourne White. Maybe he had used his real name after all. Morgan didn't suppose most people with false names thought up nicknames to go with them.

  Ozzie sat to Morgan's left, opposite Hunter, and picked up the menu. "Any recommendations? I don't often get to this part of town."

  "The falafel burgers are excellent," Hunter suggested. "Or the halloumi salad. If you're vegan, the quinoa–"

  "Oh no, I eat anything," said Ozzie. "Burgers sounds good. Do they do fries?"

  "I'm sure they do," said Hunter.

  Grace returned with water and three glasses, each primed with ice and lemon, and pulled a pad out of her apron to take their order. Morgan chose a goats cheese and beetroot sandwich, with a side of olives. Hunter went with the halloumi salad and Ozzie was delighted to find that they did, indeed, have fries, even if they were sweet potato ones.

  There was a wine list and although Morgan couldn't drink anyway, what with his allergy pills and his sense of professionalism, he was mildly surprised that Hunter didn't offer alcohol to his client. It might have put the guy at ease. Little beads of perspiration kept appearing on his bald brow, and he twisted his hands nervously in his lap, fiddling with his wedding ring. But instead of plying him with wine, Hunter switched on a cool but pleasant smile and said, "Please don't worry, Mr White. I'm sure we can help you."

  Morgan wondered who the 'we' referred to. Was it a 'corporate we', meaning Hunter's firm, or was he including Morgan? In which case, was there a chance his contract might be extended?

  No. Of course not. He was getting ahead of himself. And anyway, Hunter had switched on the charm overnight. Who knew when he might switch it off again?

  "I'm not worried," said Ozzie, against all appearances. "I know this is the right thing to do."

  "Of course," purred Hunter. "So, what brought you to me today?"

  "I found you on 'Trust PI'. You had five stars. Quite a lot of them from people with my sort of problem."

  Hunter nodded, as if this was entirely to be expected. Morgan wanted to ask about Trust PI, but he was supposed to be observing. Nothing he couldn't look up later.

  Hunter said, "You'll find my reputation is well deserved."

  Ozzie nodded. Clearly whatever reservations he may have had, doubting Hunter wasn't one of them.

  "So," Hunter said. "What can we do for you?"

  Ozzie took a long drink from his water glass, and took a deep breath. "It's my daughter," he said.

  "Yes?" said Hunter.

  Ozzie's forehead wrinkled. His looked down at the lemon floating forlornly in his drink.

  Morgan leaned forwards. He was fascinated. What was it about the guy's daughter? Was she in trouble? A custody battle, perhaps?

  "She's my baby," Ozzie said, his voice cracking. "I can't bear to think of her out there all alone."

  "Ozzie." Hunter's voice was soft. Sympathetic. Patient. Morgan didn't know he could even make that kind of noise. It was so different from yesterday's barks and sarcastic comebacks.

  "She's been missing for three months," Ozzie said. "The police won't do anything because her mother told them she's okay."

  "Do you think her mother's lying?"

  "Put it this way. We have different ideas about what 'okay' might look like. It means she's alive, yes. But well? Happy? Doing her GCSE coursework? I doubt it." Tears welled and threatened to spill down Ozzie's cheeks.

  "Is she living with her mother?"

  "Her mother says so. Like I said. She has a very different idea of parental responsibility. That's a big part of why we split up."

  But he was still wearing his wedding ring.

  Grace arrived with their food. Ozzie withdrew into himself a bit, barely noticing the arrival of his burger and sweet potato fries. Hunter thanked Grace, turning his best smile on her, but he was keeping an eye on Ozzie too. Morgan followed suit.

  They began to eat. Morgan's sandwich was delicious. Ozzie took a bite from his burger and chewed, but he had the look of a man who was eating for sustenance rather than pleasure.

  Hunter didn't say anything, except to ask Morgan if his lunch was okay. Morgan gave him an enthusiastic affirmative.

  Eventually, Ozzie said, "She met someone."

  The daughter or the wife?
Again, Hunter didn't ask. He just created the space for Ozzie to talk.

  "He's older than her. She's only fifteen."

  Hunter paused, and rested his knife and fork gently on his plate.

  Ozzie continued, his burger abandoned. "I've got to find her. I've just got to. Please."

  "Mr White," said Hunter. "Before I take this case, I need to know everything. From the beginning. Please?"

  He caught Ozzie's gaze. They looked at each other across the table for a long time. Morgan discretely got his notebook and pen out. And then Ozzie told them his story. He'd split up with his wife a year ago, but they weren't divorced. His wife was the one to leave, and at first his daughter, Poppy, stayed with him. It made sense: her school was local, her friends were nearby and she'd always been a bit of a daddy's girl. But over the past year she'd changed. Got in with the wrong crowd at school, dropped her old friends. She would stay out 'til all hours and come home smelling of smoke and alcohol. Then one afternoon, he came home early from work to find her having sex with a man on the living room sofa. Ozzie recognised the man. He was a teacher at the dance studio she went to for lessons. She wanted to be a choreographer. She was very talented. Destined for fame. She wanted to study Performing Arts at University. He showed them a video of a show she'd been in with her drama school. She was wearing leg warmers and a leotard, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. She was thin, tall, long-legged. Morgan could imagine her being a dancer.

  Ozzie had been very angry to find her that afternoon. He'd shouted, she'd shouted back, the man had run away like the spineless coward he was. Ozzie had grounded her and sent her to her room.

  When he went to check on her an hour or so later, she was gone. Her bedroom window was open and she'd taken her school rucksack and some clothes, a few toiletries. Not much, especially for a teenage girl who loved her make-up and fashion. He thought she'd be back by bedtime.

  But she wasn't.

  The following morning he called her mother, who told him Poppy would be living with her for a few weeks. That was three months ago.

  He wanted Poppy to come home. He'd serve custody papers, if necessary. But he'd need evidence. He needed proof that her life was chaotic, that she was squandering her potential due to his wife's bohemian, permissive lifestyle.

  He wanted to see his little girl again. Tell her he loved her. That she could put the past behind her and come home. Forgiven.

  Hunter listened to all this very carefully, and his sympathy never wavered.

  When Ozzie had finished talking, Hunter said, "It would be my privilege to help. If my terms are agreeable to you?"

  Ozzie erupted with gratitude. He got up from his seat, clasped Hunter's hand in both of his and squeezed. Hunter murmured reassurances.

  "I have some paperwork with me," Hunter said. "But please. Finish your lunch first. I'll start work on the case as soon as I can."

  Once the floodgates had opened it seemed Ozzie had no idea how to stop them. He ate, enthusiastically, having apparently recovered his appetite. And as they ate, he showed them more photos of Poppy on his phone: kids birthday parties, dance recitals, first day at school, a holiday in Whitby. She looked like a happy kid, as far as Morgan could tell. It was hard to imagine the little girl in the tutu growing up into a stroppy teenager. But Morgan had worked in a lot of schools, and he'd grown up with six cousins, all younger than him. It happened to everyone: the rebellious phase; the narcissism; the moods. Even to him, if his mother was to be believed.

  Ozzie ate, signed the contract without reading it, and left Hunter with another warm handshake. He gave Morgan a polite 'goodbye'.

  Hunter ordered coffee. Morgan had peppermint tea. Grace cleared the table, smiled at Morgan when he thanked her, and put a mug of Americano in front of Hunter, and a steaming teapot, china cup and saucer and a little pot of honey in front of Morgan. The combined scent of rich coffee and light peppermint was surprisingly refreshing.

  "Thoughts?" said Hunter, when Grace had left them alone again.

  Morgan's first thought was 'God, you're magnificent'. What he said was, "He really misses his daughter." Which was too lame for words.

  "That's a given."

  "And she seems to like him. Or at least she used to. It's probably just a teenage strop."

  "And the boyfriend?"

  "Should know better."

  Hunter nodded approvingly, as if Morgan had just passed some kind of test.

  "But there's something off," Morgan said.

  Hunter leaned forward. "Yeah?"

  "Definitely something. But I don't know what."

  "That's where I come in," Hunter said. "Watch and learn, Morgan. Watch and learn."

  Morgan was humming to himself when he got back to the flat that evening. He'd had a very successful afternoon and cleared the whole north-eastern quadrant of Hunter's office. He'd hoped he'd get to discuss the ins and outs of Ozzie's case with Hunter, or at least offer some more of his observations, but Hunter had gone straight out again after lunch, given him a key and told him to lock up after himself. He'd barely been in the office long enough for Morgan to propose the beginnings of a filing system.

  It didn't matter. No harm in firming up his theories about Poppy White before he offered them to Hunter.

  He found Caleb in their living room, surrounded by what looked like the entire stock of a jumble sale. It was spread across both sofas, the coffee table and most of the carpet.

  "I'm going to regret asking, I know," said Morgan. "But what are you doing, exactly?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Caleb's hair was escaping its ponytail to form a halo of unruly waves around his face. He shoved it out of his eyes. "I'm trying to find something to wear. And I have nothing. Nothing, Morgan."

  "The dark grey jeans are nice."

  "They're not. They make my knees look knobbly."

  "Ah." Morgan began to pick his way through piles of t-shirts towards the kitchen. "What's the occasion?"

  "I told you. I have a date with Jennifer and Dave."

  "Oh. Your orgy."

  "It's not an orgy. Just dinner."

  "Would you like a cup of tea?"

  "Of course I don't want a cup of tea. I want a bottle of vodka."

  "That's probably not a good idea."

  Caleb squealed his exasperation. Morgan put the kettle on.

  "This was a terrible idea." Caleb leaned in the doorway of their tiny kitchen, pouting.

  "So cancel."

  "How's your stupid boss?"

  "He took me to lunch."

  Caleb made a stupid 'oo-er' noise.

  "It was work. He needed help with a case."

  "Seriously? That sounds exciting."

  "It was really interesting. I don't suppose I should discuss it."

  "Don't be boring, Morgan."

  "It was a guy looking for his daughter."

  "I hope you're sure it really is his daughter and not the victim of a really creepy stalker."

  Morgan was sure Hunter had checked it all out.

  Wasn't he?

  The kettle boiled.

  Caleb drifted back into the living room and his piles of clothes while Morgan made them both cups of tea. He picked up his iPad from the kitchen counter where it had been charging and tucked it under his arm. He gave Caleb a mug of tea and cleared a space on the sofa from the piles of abandoned shirts.

  "Dinner is so complicated," Caleb said.

  "I think it mostly involves food." Morgan fired up his iPad and took a sip of tea while it demanded his fingerprint. "At least you're not cooking."

  "It would be so much easier if I was. The person who's cooking sets the rules. The guest has to negotiate a veritable minefield of social expectations."

  "You're good at this stuff. You're the most expertly social person I've ever met."

  "Every situation is different, Morgan. Fraught with niceties and conventions and the ever present Damoclean sword of inadvertent transgression."

  "It's possible you're being a bit of a dram
a queen about this."

  Caleb snorted theatrically and threw a shirt across the room.

  Morgan typed 'Trust PI' into Google and tapped return. "Grey jeans," he said. "Blue shirt. The one with the tiny doves on it. The thin belt with the buckle shaped like a Celtic knot and your clubbing shoes. The ones with the ridiculous pointy tips."

  "I… Oh. Well, I could try that on, see what it looks like, I suppose."

  Morgan didn't know anything about fashion. But he knew a lot about Caleb.

  TrustPi.com was a website about Private Investigators, approved by the The Association of British Investigators - Hunter had the ABI logo at the bottom of his contracts, so presumably he was a member. Morgan bookmarked the site and swiftly scanned its contents, while Caleb went off to his bedroom to change. There were advice pages on topics from 'How to Choose and Investigator' to 'Why not go to the police?' and 'How to make a complaint'. There was a section on personal safety and links to agencies for just about anything, including missing persons, the AA and the Citizen's Advice Bureau. It left Morgan with the impression that there were all kinds of lost souls out there hoping, in moments of dark desperation, that someone like Hunter might solve all their problems.

  Finally, he went to the tab marked 'Discussion' and found a forum. He tapped quickly on the topic called 'Reviews', and was faced with over three hundred pages. Then he realised they were organised alphabetically, with a thread for each PI company. A few taps and he'd found Hunter's reviews.

  He'd expected the reviews to be a mixed bag, the Internet being as it was. But they were amazing. No score lower than four out of five, and the vast majority were five stars. He read the first few that appeared. Caring. Supportive. Meticulous. Fearless.

  Those weren't words he'd have instantly associated with Hunter, although he suspected that 'fearless' could well be true; he just hadn't witnessed it yet. Caring? Supportive? Well, Hunter had treated Osbourne White that way, certainly. But meticulous? Morgan recalled the endless piles of dusty papers and shuddered.

  "Okay, so you were right." Caleb returned, wearing exactly what Morgan had suggested and looking fabulous. He'd left his hair loose, just whispering over his shoulders, and he was wearing eyeliner. Caleb wasn't technically Morgan's type, but Hell, Jennifer and Dave were in for quite a night.