Neon Madman Read Online Free

oldest story in the world: he thought his wife was playing around with other men behind his back.
    I’d looked at him as evenly as I could and asked him if he was sure he wanted me to follow her around and check her out. Perhaps things were better left as they were. Or maybe he should confront her with it himself.
    But no, his mind was made up. He took out his wallet and passed the inevitable photograph across the desk. You know, the one that was taken a few years back when they had that wonderful holiday together. It had been just like when they’d first met, both of them so happy. And then … and then what?
    He was sitting here in the office of a private detective asking for his wife to be treated like a suspected criminal. I took the photo from him and passed him a card with my charges on it in exchange. I always felt a certain embarrassment talking about money. In those situations, anyway.
    It wasn’t only the coppery hair that made Marcia Pollard a good-looking woman. She had a figure that wasn’t about to allow anyone not to notice it and a way of standing and holding herself that suggested a good deal of pride, even arrogance. When she wanted a thing, she looked as though she’d do her damndest to get it.
    I looked quickly at the man with thinning fair hair and the definite beginnings of a paunch. I guessed he wasn’t getting in quite as many games of squash as he used to. Marcia had wanted him once and she had got him. It looked as if she didn’t want him any longer: not just him.
    My eyes went back to the photograph. She was in her early to middle thirties—the classic age for infidelity. The time when you needed reassurance so badly you would make all kinds of fool of yourself to get it. And never count the cost until it was too late.
    â€˜Your fees are not cheap, Mr Mitchell,’ Pollard had observed.
    â€˜If you want to shop around, go ahead. You could get someone to do it for less. Only don’t come squawking to me if they hold out on you or try to put the squeeze in for themselves.’
    I knew that I wasn’t sounding very sympathetic but I didn’t care. Pollard wasn’t the kind of man I found it easy to be nice to. He rubbed me up the wrong way without even trying.
    â€˜No, no. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of going elsewhere. I am sure that your charges are—er—commensurate with your expertise.’
    I wasn’t impressed by the words or the vestiges of a public school accent that spoke them, but the sight of the man’s cheque book coming out of his pocket did a lot to reassure me.
    I handed him back the photograph of his wife.
    â€˜Don’t you want to keep it?’ he asked, surprised.
    I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not likely to forget her now that I’ve seen her.’
    I was on the point of adding, maybe that’s the trouble, but I decided against it. There didn’t seem to be any fun in hitting anyone as down as he was.
    And that had been four days ago. Bowed down by his job and the heat and the nagging weight of suspicion. Tomorrow I was going to deliver a little package of reports and photographs which were going to drive him right under. Possibly for good.
    For an instant I wished he had taken my advice and left things as they were. With the kiss at morning and evening and a lot of doubts. That would have been better than …
    But then I realised I would only have been talking myself out of a job. And I had already banked the first cheque.
    To hell with it!
    I got up and went out of the office, locking both doors as I did so. It wouldn’t stop anybody who was half-way serious, but it might discourage ten-year-old kids and little old ladies but to supplement their pension.
    Once on the street, I turned left and headed for some coffee. I went down the stairs and smiled over the top of the coffee machine. The girl smiled back. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I