There was a van parked outside the Dobsons’, a white Transit with the words ‘Swift Deliveries – Swinton’ emblazoned in vivid red along the side and an arrow in flight underlining the message. A man sat in the front seat, reading a tabloid and smoking. He flicked his eyes from the paper to me as I turned to walk up the drive. A black guy with a serious haircut. A precisely honed wedge.
He wound down the window and called to me, ‘Kilkenny’s?’
‘What is it?’ I asked. I hadn’t ordered anything, no deliveries due. Swift or otherwise.
‘I rang you.’ He cocked his head towards the house. ‘The answerphone.’
Aahh! Of course, the young man with no name. ‘Yes. Come on in.’
He locked up the van and followed me up the path. In the office he agreed to coffee and introduced himself as Jimmy Achebe.
It was hard to judge his age, though he had a very young face, unlined coppery skin, black hair. Closer to I saw the sides and the back were shaved and the wedge section glistened with oil or gel. He wore gold rings in his ears and a gold wedding ring. He was drenched in eau de nicotine. I wondered whether he’d light up without asking. I don’t keep an ashtray in the office. It’s a deliberate policy to prevent people smoking there. You’d be amazed how many chronic smokers still try, offering desperately to ‘use the bin/cup/saucer if you haven’t an ashtray’. Jimmy Achebe wore a pale blue nylon zip-up boiler suit with the legend ‘Swift Deliveries’ embroidered on the back in red.
‘So, how can I help? I gather you were interrupted yesterday.’ I brought the mugs over to the desk.
‘Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. My wife.’ He took the coffee from me.
I sat down opposite him. Fished out a pad and pen.
He looked away, shrugged, fidgeted and sighed.
‘Is it about your wife?’
He nodded, rubbed his nose with a broad palm. ‘Yeah, I think there’s something going on. She’s out when she should be in. I’m not saying it’s anything wrong, you know, but there’s something going down.’
‘Have you asked her about it?’
He sighed again. ‘She gets all defensive, tells me I’m paranoid, that I’m going to ruin things between us. Says I have to trust her. She’s been that moody, flies off the handle and that.’ He frowned, at a loss how to deal with the situation.
‘Tell me about her,’ I suggested.
‘What?’ He glared as though the idea were somehow improper.
‘What’s she like? How did you meet her? When did you get married? What’s her job?’
He groaned. ‘She’s called Tina. She’s a fashion designer. She makes her own gear – jackets and that – tries to sell it on to the buyers. It’s hard though. She’s tried for a few jobs in the trade but…’ He shrugged. ‘It gets her down sometimes. We’ve been married eighteen months. She’s epileptic – that makes it harder to get the work. People think she’s gonna have a fit every five minutes. I tell her not to say anything but she wants to be upfront about it. She’s proud, you know, doesn’t want to hide it but people just freak out.’