Dirty Business

It isn’t Olivia’s usual line of work, but it seems her investigative talents might well come in useful…

Olivia Wolfe watches a tall well-dressed woman in high-heeled boots and long black coat peer nervously down an alley at the back of a gym housed in a crumbling warehouse.

The woman is as out of place among the graffiti, litter and hoodies as ballet is at a boxing class. A red Audi Cabriolet is parked around the corner, the roof up; toys on the back seat suggest she has a son and daughter between six and ten.

Olivia guesses this woman is the client that private investigator Jerry Butcher wants her to meet. But why ask for her help? He’s never done so before.

The client looks behind her, as if worried she’s being followed, then disappears through the first door on the right. Conscious of her torn jeans and scuffed biker’s jacket, Olivia tidies her black, pixie-cut hair that’s been flattened by her motorcycle helmet, then follows the woman into Butcher Investigations. Jerry runs his business from a room that was once used to store gym equipment.

Three people just about fill the space. Jerry sits behind a cheap pine desk, the woman on a plastic chair. Olivia sits next to her. “Olivia Wolfe.” She shakes the woman’s hand. “You must be Anne Kincaid? I’m going to be helping Jerry with your case.”

Anne is in her early forties, with dark bags under her eyes. She wrings her hands in agitation.

“I don’t understand,” Anne says. “You’re an investigative journalist. I’ve read your articles. This isn’t what you do.” Her eyes dart from Olivia to Jerry.

Jerry replies, “I asked Olivia to help. She has skills I don’t.”

“This has to be confidential. No Press.” Anne shakes her head. “No, no. This is a bad idea.”

Olivia gently touches Anne’s arm. “I’m not here as a journalist. I’m working a private investigation. Everything you say here is completely confidential. I promise.”

“If Daniel finds out, he’ll have me certified. I’ll never get custody.”

“We won’t let that happen,” says Jerry immediately. The husband’s name rings a bell. “Is Daniel the managing partner of Kincaid & Stanton?” Olivia asks.

“He is. Which makes him difficult to divorce. No lawyer wants to go up against him.”

Olivia has heard rumours about the law firm’s “whatever it takes” approach

“He’ll TWIST THINGS. He’s spiteful. He’ll go out of his way to take MY KIDS”

to winning, which includes intimidating witnesses. Nothing unlawful has ever been proved, of course.

“He’s having an affair,” says Jerry, filling Olivia in. “For a year. He’s refused a divorce, threatening to take custody if Anne tries.”

“But don’t the courts usually award custody to the mother?” Olivia asks.

“I’m on antidepressants. Have been since I found out about it…” Her voice tails off, her eyes watery. “He’ll twist things. Claim I’m an unfit mother. But he’s the unfit parent. He never sees Sam and Jody, he’s always with… her.” She takes a deep breath, and continues. “He’s spiteful. He’ll go out of his way to take my kids.” Olivia gives her a hug. “He won’t. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.” She glances at Jerry. “Why doesn’t he want a divorce?” “Doesn’t want a scandal.” Jerry hands Olivia a paper file. Inside are photos of Kincaid with another woman, chatting and laughing. But none are truly incriminating. “Who is she?” Olivia asks. “Works at his firm,” Jerry replies. “I couldn’t get anything categorical to prove the affair. And I couldn’t find any other dirt, either. He’s very careful.”

This is going to be tough. If Jerry can’ t find anything, how am I going to? “You’re sure about the affair?” “He’s admitted it. Said I just have to put up with it.” Anne hangs her head. “I can’t bear to stay with him. But I won’t lose my children. I’m trapped.”

“Don’t worry,” says Olivia firmly. “We’ll find a way.”

That night, Olivia reads an internet article on Kincaid that gives her an idea. She knows the journalist, so she phones him to double-check the facts. By the end of the call she is smiling.

The following morning, she’s on Twitter and finally finds what she’s searching for.

“Got you!” she says, tapping Kincaid’s photo on her laptop screen.

Six weeks later, Olivia waits in the opulent reception area of Kincaid & Stanton Lawyers on the tenth floor of a glass and steel fronted building.

Polished oak floors, an imposing semi-circular reception desk, a mirrorbacked waterfall, opaque glass panel doors that swivel to reveal a corridor of meeting rooms, and a Lorna Wilson red and orange painting are all designed to tastefully flaunt the firm’s status.

Olivia wears a strawberry-blonde wig, a Karen Millen suit and carries a Saint Laurent faux-croc leather briefcase. She’s announced herself as Catherine Fforde, the general counsel of an American construction company establishing operations in the UK.

They wish to engage local counsel, and with fees likely to run into the millions, it wasn’t hard to get a meeting with Daniel Kincaid.

The company is real, as is Catherine Fforde, whom Olivia has taken great pains to look like. She arranged the meeting using a fake email address which is only one letter different from the real one.

Olivia only has to be convincing long enough to get into Kincaid’s office. It’s a risk. If Kincaid smells a rat, she could be in serious strife. But to catch a man like Daniel Kincaid out, she’ll have to play him at his own game.

Olivia is shown into a meeting room behind Reception.

“This won’t do,” Olivia says. “I wish to meet Mr Kincaid in his office.”

“I’m sorry, all our meetings are conducted here in our conference rooms,” the woman says.

“Please tell Mr Kincaid I’d like our conversation totally private, and therefore I wish to see him in his office. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”

The receptionist stares, but rushes off to phone Kincaid’s assistant.

Minutes later, Olivia is led into an office the size of a tennis court, with stunning views across the City’s skyline, with its comic-book building names like the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie and Cheese-grater. Leather-bound case law volumes adorn an entire wall. Behind Kincaid’s monolithic desk is a four-foot tall portrait of himself.

Olivia deliberately pauses in front of it, keeping her briefcase steady. Hidden inside is a video camera.

“Welcome to the UK, Catherine. I may call you Catherine?” “Of course.” Kincaid is dark-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a bespoke suit that serves to accentuate his fit body, along with a colourful Paisley tie and pocket square. His smile is warm as he shakes her hand; she can see why women fall for him.

“I’m so sorry about the mix-up. The receptionist is new. I must apologise.”

He lowers his head just a fraction so he looks remorseful and gives her a winning smile. Wow, he’s good!

“Please take a seat. You must be exhausted after your flight.” He gestures to a wing-back leather chair. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” “We’re delighted you’re considering our firm –” She cuts him off. “That portrait was auctioned eighteen months ago. The Kincaid Trust bought it for forty thousand pounds, as I recall?”

She nods at the portrait. The same artist has been commissioned to paint one of Prince William.

“Er, yes, that’s right. Are you an art connoisseur, Catherine?”

Olivia is careful to ensure the camera hidden in her bag points at Kincaid.

“If a charitable Trust buys such a work of art, should it not be used for charitable purposes?” Kincaid’s smile disappears. “And it has been, naturally.” “Not true. The painting hasn’t been seen since. None of the charities your Trust claims to support has received a penny from its sale. I’ve checked.” “I’m really not sure –” “I am. What you have done is illegal, Mr Kincaid, as is your use of Trust funds to cover the costs of your private jet.”

Olivia tosses a document onto his desk. He looks at it and turns pale. “You should leave.” He stands up. “Not so fast, Mr Kincaid,” says Olivia, blocking his path. “You and I both know that if this information fell into the wrong hands it would cause quite a scandal. Not good for the firm. I can’t imagine your clients would like to be represented by a fraudster. HMRC would also be very interested. There are some things you can’t just talk your way out of.” His eyes narrow with fury. “What do you want?” “I want you to agree to a divorce –” “Who the hell are you?” “You will divorce your wife, quickly. Agree a fair settlement. Anne gets full custody.” Kincaid tries to butt in but she continues. “And the Kincaid Trust donates eighty thousand to charity.” “Eighty?” “Call it interest. If you don’t agree, or you make Anne’s life difficult, this document and the video I have just filmed will end up in the tabloids.”

Kincaid takes a step closer. Even in her heels, he towers over her. “You won’t get away with this.” “Enjoy your jail time, Mr Kincaid.” She walks to the door. “Wait!” Kincaid glares. “I’ll do it.”

The boy and girl bickering over whose turn it is to walk the fivemonth-old black Labrador puppy are oblivious to Olivia’s approach. Their mother, however, waves at her.

It’s a cold but clear day and the park’s grass is frosty in patches.

“Sam, let your sister have a go,” says Catherine Kincaid to her son.

The boy, who looks to be six or seven, is about to argue when his mother nods to the adventure playground, complete with fortress, towers and tubular slides.

Sam hands the lead to his sister and runs for the playground, waiting eagerly for his mother to open the gate.

“Can I let him off the lead, Mummy?” asks Jody. “I want to throw his ball.” “Watch he doesn’t run away.” Jody tosses a tennis ball. The Labrador scampers off, retrieves it, then drops it at the girl’s feet. She squeals, showering the puppy with praise.

“Thank you so much for everything,” Catherine says to Olivia, leaning on the playground railings. “You look well,” Olivia says. Gone are the bags under her eyes and the slouched shoulders of a woman weighed down with worry.

“I’m off the pills. Now we’re in our own place, I can build a new life.” “The divorce was finalised last week?” “Yes, thanks to you.” “And Jerry.” Catherine nods. “How did you know about the painting?”

“When I looked into your now exhusband’s background, I came across an article on an auction two years ago that raised money for the Trust. There was a

“There are SOME THINGS that you can’t just TALK your way OUT OF”

photo of him and his portrait, one of the auction lots. A local paper later reported the painting hadn’t been seen since.

“Jerry phoned every single charity supposedly receiving donations from the Kincaid Trust, asking if they’d received any funds. The answer each time was no. In the meantime, I tried to find where the painting had gone.” “What made you think of his office?” “An ex-employee had a rant on Twitter about Kincaid’s vanity. It seemed like a good lead to follow.”

Jody tugs at her mother’s coat, the puppy at her feet chewing the ball. “Can we have ice cream?” “Too cold. How about doughnuts?” “Yeah!” The girl cheers. “Let’s go.” “Fancy tea and cakes?” Catherine asks Olivia. “It’s the least I can do.”

“I’d love to,” Olivia replies, smiling.