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  S & S INVESTIGATIONS

  SQUIRREL & SWAN

  - DEVIOUS THINGS -

  M. D. ARCHER

  Published by M. D. Archer © December 2018 All Rights Reserved.

  Squirrel & Swan: Devious Things is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents, except those clearly in the public domain, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, names, places or incidents is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  1

  On the eighth floor of a building in Auckland’s central business district, Harry King sat in his cramped cubicle—he was one of the smaller cogs in the corporate machine—and blew out an exasperated gust of air. Leaning back in his chair, he ran his fingers through his greasy hair and considered the ceiling for a moment before returning his gaze to his computer screen.

  There it was. No doubt about it.

  Harry stared at the spreadsheet in front of him, chewing on the hangnail tormenting his left thumb until his phone jumped to life, throbbing with the drum and bass tune he’d downloaded for his ringtone.

  “Shit,” he whispered to himself.

  One, no two, annoyed faces popped up over their cubicles to glare at Harry.

  “Sorry.”

  Harry sent the call to voicemail then pushed back into a stretch as his stomach let out an angry growl. He dropped his arms to run sweaty hands along the legs of his pants, wondering if he should get something to eat or push through. If he didn’t eat he wouldn’t be able to concentrate, but home time wasn’t too far away. He returned to the spreadsheet. The rows of numbers and formulas gave him satisfaction, like they always did—a buzz; a nerdy thrill. They made sense, neat and ordered and behaving in ways that he could predict.

  At least they used to.

  Now, right in front of him, was a discrepancy that he couldn’t explain. Had his spreadsheet been corrupted somehow? Was there something wrong with his algorithm or had he made some other mistake? It had never happened before, but he’d been overdoing it a bit over the last few weeks. Maybe that was the problem. His phone vibrated, rattling on the desk almost as loud as the phone call had been. He picked it up quickly and read the message.

  Want 2 go out 2nite?

  Harry looked at his computer screen, the traitorous spreadsheet seemingly mocking him, then typed out his reply.

  Yes.

  He didn’t know what was going on but he knew it wasn’t good, and he needed to cast this worry off into the night as soon as possible.

  TWO FLOORS ABOVE HARRY, in the considerably nicer space that housed the heads of department, Josh Adam Spencer stood at his window and gazed out at his incredible view of downtown, as he liked to do when he was feeling masterful.

  Josh had made the unlikely move from Australia to New Zealand for work, and had done pretty well for himself, he thought. At only thirty-four years old he was the head of Human Resources for the New Zealand branch of a mid-sized international company, and the youngest head of department in the organisation’s history. Josh considered his success to be because, at least in part, he was a good guy who had the balls to tell it like it was. Josh prided himself on being the man you could count on to say the thing that everyone was thinking but no one was saying.

  In other words, Josh could be a bit of a jerk.

  But he was a jerk in charge of a departmental budget with a surplus, and he’d just decided how it would be spent.

  It had been a delightfully serendipitous coincidence that he’d been in Symonds Street today at all. He’d been taking a call before a meeting when the most beautiful creature he’d seen in real life walked past him. He’d watched her, captivated, as she stopped to adjust her bag, get a pebble out of her shoe, lose her balance and put a bare foot on the pavement to steady herself, grimace as she replaced the shoe, then straighten and turn abruptly into a doorway. As she started to ascend the narrow staircase between two buildings Josh had jolted into action and followed her up. He’d moved slowly, taking care to tread quietly, aware that he had no idea what lay ahead of him. At the top of the staircase he cast his eyes around to see three office doors.

  Luckily, only one of them had a light on and he was able to read, without having to move any closer, the sign on the window: S & S Investigations. There’d been a sudden movement behind the door and he’d quickly descended the stairs, breathing hard with both exertion and excitement. As soon as he’d returned to his office he’d shut the door and opened up a search engine. Would he be lucky enough to find her straight away? He was. There, on the main page of the S & S Investigations website was Dr Sophie Swanephol, the co-founder of the agency.

  And she was remarkable.

  Her unexpectedly blue eyes seemed to look directly into his soul and her dark hair tumbled round her shoulders, framing her perfect face. She looked wistful, vulnerable. Like she had problems that he could solve. Like she needed to be a rescued and he would be her rescuer.

  It had then taken him only twenty minutes to come up with a reason to hire S & S Investigations and it was quite brilliant, he thought. He would implement a psychometric testing programme for new hires. Organisations did it all the time. They should already be doing it, really, regardless of Sophie, Josh mused.

  But was it enough, Josh pondered as he moved away from the window to return to his desk. It would get his foot in Sophie’s door, but what if she needed a bit of time to succumb to his charms? Josh opened up the company’s intranet and tapped a few keys on his desktop computer. He saw with disappointment that they did not currently have any vacant positions to fill. But perhaps, he sat up, excited with the idea that had just come to him, perhaps he could integrate some aspect of psychometric testing into the corporate restructure they were about to announce. Yes. The guys upstairs would be on board with a way to shuffle people around and streamline operations. It was perfect. And he would get to work alongside her for weeks, if not months. He stared at Sophie’s photo again, getting lost in her eyes.

  This enchanting creature, this angel, was bound to fall for him by then.

  SOPHIE LET OUT A LITTLE burp, then pushed her tongue around her back left molars.

  There was something stuck back there. She opened the top drawer of her desk and eyed the bag of trail mix inside. It was supposed to be good for keeping blood sugars balanced, but if Sophie was honest with herself she couldn’t stand the taste, and its tendency to get stuck in her teeth was more than a little off-putting. She shut the drawer with a sigh and continued prodding at the alien object for another minute before giving up and resolving to deal with it later tonight with dental floss. After turning her attention back to her computer and her half-completed crossword, Sophie saw the page was now unresponsive. She checked the internet icon. There was an angry red cross.

  “Paige?” Sophie craned her neck so that she could see where Paige was sitting in S & S Investigation’s second office. It was supposed to be a meeting room for clients, but it had become where they ate lunch,
chatted about TV shows, and sometimes took naps on the basic two-seater couch they’d recently purchased from TradeMe. Right now though, Paige had a newspaper spread out on the table and was looking for articles that had the potential to be turned into cases. When Sophie had asked Paige why she didn’t look online—her laptop was right beside her—Paige had mumbled something about there being more in the print newspaper; but Sophie knew that Paige wanted to do it this way because it made her feel more like a private investigator.

  It was four months ago now that Paige Garnet, tenacious and confident to the point of occasional delusion, had convinced the naturally cautious and more realistic Sophie Swanephol that they should open S & S Investigations. The agency name came from a faintly ridiculous premise—in grad school Paige and Sophie had been known as Squirrel and Swan—but they could claim rather impressive psychological expertise: Paige understood the mechanics of the mind and Sophie could read human behaviour like a book. Plus, according to Paige at least, they made the perfect detective duo, because no one noticed Paige but everyone noticed Sophie.

  Despite Paige’s assurances and their recent successes—The Case of the Remuera Pet Napper and The Disappearance of Polly Dixon—however, Sophie still felt fraudulent calling herself an actual investigator. Nonetheless, she allowed Paige’s confidence to propel her through the might of her own doubt. At least, she had so far. And there wasn’t anything else that Sophie could imagine doing. The alternatives of either returning to the fraught world of academia, or venturing into a new, foreign environment, were equally distasteful.

  Sophie eyed Paige, currently drumming her fingers loudly on the table as well as jiggling both her knees, then repeated, “Paige? Can you access the internet?”

  Paige stood up abruptly then bobbed down to check her laptop. She tsked with irritation. “Nope.” She darted back to the main office and jiggled from foot to foot as she picked up the Wi-Fi modem. “I’ll try re-setting it.”

  Sophie suppressed a smile as she watched her friend, now wiggling her bottom slightly. “Do you need to go to the toilet or have you had too much coffee?”

  “Neither... Both.”

  It was Paige’s appearance—large, almond-shaped brown eyes, frizzy brown hair, and a small, rather twitchy physique—that had initiated the squirrel moniker, and Sophie, being an obvious beauty and with Swanephol as her surname, was of course the swan, despite her being anything but graceful.

  Sophie returned her gaze to check the internet icon. Despite a few optimistic flashes and beeps from the modem, the red cross remained. “I wonder if it’s just us, or the whole building.”

  “Okay, I’ll go to the loo then go downstairs and ask,” Paige said, scampering toward the door. “Ooh. There’s a light on in 2C.” She looked back to Sophie with excitement. “Someone must have rented that place.”

  So far, S & S Investigations had been the only tenants in the second floor of this heritage building in Symonds Street. It was only a stone’s throw from downtown, but this city-fringe suburb had more than its share of vacant buildings, and the area had the distinct air of a small business that could go under at any moment—much like S & S. Their office was a little dusty and dingy, and at the very least needed a fresh coat of paint if not a complete design overhaul, but it suited their imaginings of a detective agency perfectly. There was even a neon sign from a nearby building casting its light inside to complete the whole detective noir vibe, and sometimes Paige would stay there until it got dark so she could enjoy how authentic she felt with neon flickering across her desk.

  Sophie’s cell phone rang. She eyed the display warily. “It’s a private number.”

  Paige watched Sophie blinking nervously at her phone. “Soph, we’re trying to run a business, you can’t ignore phone calls, no matter how much they scare you.”

  “I’m not scared,” Sophie said, but didn’t move.

  “Answer it. I’ll see who’s in that office and ask if they’re having internet issues.”

  “Fine,” Sophie said, biting her lip.

  AS PAIGE EXITED THE single-stall bathroom, a familiar but unexpected sound floated across the landing. Was that a piano she could hear?

  Paige continued past the door of 2B—the vacant office at the top of the stairs—and stopped outside 2C, the office directly across the stairwell where inside, someone was most definitely stroking ivories. She peered through the unmarked mottled window and could make out a desk facing the door and a couch against the wall to the left, the mirror of where her own desk was, upon which a fuscia blob with blonde hair waited for whoever was butchering Chopin in the other room.

  Abruptly, the music stopped and was replaced by faint sounds of murmuring. Then in a flurry of activity, the door opened and a woman, clutching a somewhat defeated-looking child, walked straight past Paige toward the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” a voice said from somewhere behind Paige.

  Paige turned to find herself facing a woman in her seventies. She had brown hair cut to just below her ears, and bright hazel eyes.

  “Oh, Hi. I’m Paige, uh, Dr Garnet, from 2A. Our internet has gone down. I was going to see if you... but...”

  The woman raised one eyebrow until it made an impressive arc above her eye and regarded Paige knowingly. “But since I’m old, I couldn’t possibly be able to help with something to do with the internet?” she finished.

  Paige opened and then closed her mouth. Yes, exactly, but weren’t old ladies supposed to be nice? As sweet as custard? Although, the more she looked at this woman, she doubted old lady was an appropriate description, despite what her birth certificate might say.

  “The younger generation, honestly, the arrogance of you,” she continued, but then said, “Never mind.” She waved her hand. “If I let all the indignities that people my age suffer bother me, I’d never get anything done.” She opened the door wider. “Come inside and let’s have a look. I haven’t been online today—I haven’t even had a chance to stop for lunch. I’m Hazel, by the way.”

  Paige followed her inside. “You teach piano?” she asked, poking her head (uninvited) into the second room and finding that it housed a piano, a couple of chairs, and two large pot plants.

  “No, I’m a nuclear physicist,” Hazel replied, leaning over the PC on her desk.

  Paige snorted. She was beginning to rather like this woman.

  She continued to wander around the space, noting that it was a mirror of their own office. In the corner where Paige and Sophie had their beloved coffee machine, Hazel had a blender, a kettle, and a mini fridge. Ooh, a mini fridge, Paige thought, making a mental note. Summer was just around the corner. On the small bench next to the sink the ingredients for a smoothie patiently awaited blending. A packet of protein powder, chia seeds, something green (kale, Paige suspected), and berries. Paige shuddered. How did people drink that stuff? Sophie intermittently would arrive at the office armed with similar supplies for some sort of cleanse, but it never lasted very long.

  “My lunch. Every day, if possible. It keeps me young, healthy and trim,” Hazel said, noting the direction of Paige’s attention. “Studies have shown that being thin extends your lifespan.”

  “Mainly experimental work with animals though,” Paige said.

  Hazel eyed Paige, seeming impressed. “Perhaps, but it has worked for me.”

  “You weren’t here when we set up our office,” Paige said, finishing her tour of nosiness at Hazel’s desk. “But it doesn’t look like you’ve just moved in.” While it was tidy, the office looked very much like it had been here for a while.

  “I’ve been teaching piano here for years, but for the last few months I’ve been away.”

  “And they let you keep the lease? Or did you pay rent while you were away?”

  Hazel straightened and regarded Paige for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not to indulge her nosy questions. “I own the building,” she said finally.

  “How did you manage that? Did you inherit?”

  “
Do I not seem capable of owning property myself?”

  “I just thought...”

  But before Paige could offend her with the reasoning behind her curiosity, Hazel answered her question.

  “My sister and I inherited money from our parents and... well, it’s a long story but John and I made a good investment in the eighties... and from there we had the capital to purchase further properties. Such as this one. John passed away several years back, so now this is my retirement plan.”

  Paige nodded. “Right. Well, I’m your tenant.”

  Hazel’s mildly irritated expression suddenly turned into a smile. “Yes. The investigations agency. I was rather surprised when the property manager told me about you. Or, impressed, I should say. An unusual endeavour for two young women... And I know first-hand how challenging it can be to open your own business, so... Good on you. In my opinion there aren’t enough women going into business for themselves.” She nodded. “I can already tell you’re made of the right stuff to succeed.”

  Paige’s chest felt weirdly tight. Even with her seemingly endless optimism, she could admit to herself that all this hadn’t been particularly easy, and it often felt like the whole world was waiting for her to fail. Hazel was possibly the first person to congratulate her.

  She gulped. “Um. Thank you.”

  “And since the renovations might be a little disruptive, I’m giving you a short-term decrease in the rent.”

  “Great!” Paige beamed. “Wait, what renovations?”

  “Simone didn’t tell you?” Hazel tsked. “I’m going to fix a few things here and there. Spruce it up a bit.”

  “Why now? You’re not selling it are you?”

  Hazel eyed her for a moment. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Paige folded her arms. She loved their office.

  “Don’t worry, even if I did sell, I can build in your tenancy with the sale. It’s usually more attractive to buyers. It’s a historic building so it’s not as if they can tear it down,” Hazel added, anticipating Paige’s next question. Her eyes flicked down to her computer then back to Paige. “My internet is working fine,” she added. “You’ll have to call your provider.” Hazel raised her eyebrows. “Okay?” She moved away from the desk and walked toward the second room, seeming to be dismissing Paige, but then suddenly said, “Wait. You’re an investigator in the normal sense, correct? You investigate—”