Gas Man and the Nazi

By Pete Goldsack

The double yellow lines were pissing me off.

A double yellow river meanders through Inverness, pooling in the part of town known as the Ferry. The lines make it a great place to commit adultery if you're worried about being followed.

I'm double parked so far away, I need opera glasses. I haven't brought any – the line between stalker and private detective is a fine one. I suspect a stalker wouldn't spend as many hours in his car. They have more class. I've started keeping some odd things in there. Deodorant. An electric razor. Audio books.

Two hours in, he skulks out. Glances left. Glances right. Alone. I wonder if he's had as good a time as I have. I'm enjoying Madame Bovary. I know who he's been enjoying. He walks around the corner to his car. I don't think I need to follow him home.

I phone his wife - listed as Client on my mobile to preserve anonymity.

"Yes?"

"He's just left the flat. Should be on his way home."

"Did you see her?"

"I didn't really see anything. Same as two nights ago."

"I need more, Jim, I need more. I can't just tell him that I know he's been to the Ferry."

"I'll get more. These things take time."

I hang up, hoping I sounded professional, not just stuck. How can I get the all important in flagrante photograph if they aren't going to leave the flat? And without the photograph, she says, I don't get paid. She's watched TV too and knows the score. Probably better than I do. Next time, I'm claiming daily bloody expenses. Four days of work and all I have is a surname and phone number.

My wife laughs as I get in. She must have had a laugh ready, cached in her mouth, because I'm barely in the door and she's laughing.

"Did you get him?"

"No."

I frown at her sternly. We stand off with frowns. Eventually we both end up laughing. Deep down, she is still laughing. Deep down, I'm frustrated. Bloody hell, I'm frustrated.

I have an idea.

Madame Bovary has inspired me. She wouldn't put up with this kind of inaction. Madame Bovary would come up with a plan. But she's dead and fictitious so she's not getting specific. So I decide to go old school. I decide to go for a disguise.

When he heads down the Ferry the next night, I presage him. I'm at the buzzer before he is. I have possibly three minutes lead.

Bzzzzzzz.

"Yes?"

Her.

"Here to read the meter, love." I try to sound like a workman. I channel Bob the Builder.

"Ok." It's early. It's credible. I'm in.

Three flats to a floor. Hopefully her name is on the door. I dig out the ancient PDA that is my one prop. I'm tapping away at it when I ring her bell.

She opens the door. It's my first sight of her and she's not what I expected. So young. Is she even twenty? Is he even screwing her?

"Meter, love." I'm succinct. Workmen are succinct aren't they? I try to look like I've read many, many meters and this is just another hundred meter hurdle. I look bored. I yawn.

"This way."

I follow her into the kitchen and she opens the walk-in cupboard, which holds the meter and all her food. Bzzzzzzz. She pauses, not quite sure how to do two things at once. I pretend to be absorbed in my PDA. Politeness dominates and she goes off to answer the door. Now what? Get a photo of the two of them?

And then I see them, hanging on a hook. Spare keys. A bunch. Without thinking, I pocket them and walk down the hall towards the two of them.

"I've only got an hour," he says, "I've got to get back to her." She looks sad. And then they kiss and it's lips and there's no doubt that they are screwing.

The left buttock of my half-assed plan. Copy the keys, return when she is out and seed the bedroom with small video cameras. The Client only wanted a photo – she's going to get Paris Hilton.

It's still early, so I stop by a small newsagent that cuts keys and sells flowers.

My wife is in the lounge, her laugh curtailed by the look of success on my face. I wave the flowers at her. Flowers. Look at these.

I fill her in. She's neutral on my gas man disguise, impressed at my parking in his usual spot and absolutely bloody horrified at my key theft. Contrary to my understanding, it appears my plan is crap and I am a bloody idiot.

"What makes you think the keys are her spare bunch? She'll need them tomorrow."

"They were just hanging on a hook. Not in a bag or pocket."

"No. They were just dumped somewhere random were they? Just like I do."
Shit. She's right. They're her main keys.

What have I done? She'll notice first thing tomorrow as she leaves for work. I feel awful for her. She'd know it was the Gas Man who stole the keys. And with the fear that I would come back, there would be changing of locks and an endless nagging doubt over whether I was a burglar, a rapist or a serial killer. She'd never feel safe in her flat again. I have to get them back there. I have to get them back there.

We find three viable options.

My wife champions Option A. "Just leave it. You won't get caught. It's a big enough city." She's ever the pragmatist.

Moral high ground Option B was revealing why I'd stolen the keys in a heart to heart with the woman and about how I really was a nice person. B could involve bribery to keep her quiet. B had the possibility of jail time. To hell with that.

We're both surprised when I tell her I've chosen C. Option C combines all the downsides of A and B. If it goes wrong, I'll really seem like a serial killer and it could end in jail time. I'll be known as the Gas Man. However, it could also result in getting away with it and leaving no long term psychological damage.

4 am. That's the time. She'll be asleep – unless she's like my insomniac mother, in which case she'll be waiting in the kitchen with a shotgun, ready to blow away the Gas Man, scourge of Inverness.

I keep the gloves and mask in my pocket, until I'm halfway up the stairs. Wearing my best tennis shoes – regrettably white, but quiet. Quiet. I am impressed by my own silence. A little worried about the breathing.

I'm in front of the door. This is the moment of no return. This is the somewhat late moment when I put my phone on silent, in case my wife calls.

I slide one of the stolen Yales, knuckle by key knuckle into the lock. I'm presuming it isn't double locked. I'm presuming it's not on the chain. Tiny, tiny turns and I feel the movement of the lock all the way down my arm and into my heart. Holding my breath. I push the door, willing the hinge to be silent.

I'm in the flat. The bedroom isn't next to the door but I feel like I should be able to hear her breathing in her sleep. I stand absolutely still and listen. Nothing. Ok, let's just do what I came to do. Return the bloody keys.

Slow motion along the edge of the hall carpet. The floorboards are kind to me – I owe them. Endless minutes pass. Into the kitchen. I put the bunch of keys back on the hook, where I found them.

Option C is panning out well. Climbing a mountain is half getting to the summit and half getting back down. Just got to get back down the mountain. Then I can come back tomorrow and rig up the place with hidden video cameras with equanimity, like a professional pervert.
The hook comes out of the wall and the keys hit the kitchen counter with a broken glass landing.

Shit.

Shit.

These old flats make noises all the time don't they?

For a moment, silence. Then a noise from the other end of the flat. A noise between me and the front door. Her. I've woken her up. And the disturbed night's sleep is going to be the least of her worries when she meets the Gas Man.

There still remains the option of barging past her and escaping. But I want to keep that one in the bag. My gas meter cupboard beckons. I slip in and close the door behind me, nestling in with the boxes of cereal.
Barge past? Hide? Is she calling the police? I can't barge past them.

Movement in the hall. Slow creeping – partially because she's afraid of being heard, but partially because she's afraid. Fifty per cent fear of what I am – an intruder. Fifty per cent fear that the girl from "The Ring" is going to appear to her. Think. Fast. Think.

I pull out my phone. Scroll down to the entry marked Other Woman. Dial it. A phone rings at the other end of the flat. Loud as hell at this time of night. The creeping stops. A phone is a normal thing. I hope it's chased her fear away. Loud walking. And the phone is answered.
"Yes?" Hard to detect anything from a voice, but I know she'll be worried someone has died.

I don't even know her first name.

"Miss Wilkinson?" Sotto voce, to avoid being heard twice.

"Yes?"

"I'm James Sutherland. I'm a private detective."

"What do you want?" So polite.

"And I can't sleep."

"Why are you phoning me?"

"I can explain. But it has to be this morning. Early. Could you meet me in the Ferry Café for breakfast at 6.30?" I need to keep her away from her cereal.

"You still haven't told me what this is about."

"You're sleeping with a married man, Miss Wilkinson. You know what this is about. You know why a private detective is calling you in the middle of the night."

"Yes." Guilt.

"You know the café?"

"Yes."

"Ok then."

I hang up. There's pacing. There's a toilet visit. There's a cup of tea. In my cupboard, I wait for morning. I text my wife a lie that it's all going well.

She leaves the flat early, at 6.15. I'm a few minutes behind her. One stop on the way. I still look like the Gas Man. Only one thing I can do with no notice to make myself look different. I leave hair all over my car and my impromptu skinhead makes me look like a Nazi.

She's already at a table, with a cup of coffee when I arrive. I order a cup and walk over.

"Miss Wilkinson?"

She furrows her brow at me, wondering what a Nazi wants.

"I'm James Sutherland."

"Why did you phone me in the night? Couldn't you wait till morning?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I, after that."

I gloss over. "You know why I called. You're sleeping with the husband of my client."

She doesn't say anything. Just looks at me and my stupid haircut, nervously, as if she's in trouble.

"You know what my job entails. I get some photos of you and him together. My client pays. They divorce."

"What kind of job is that?"

Ignore the question. I stare. I pause.

"But here's the thing." I get out my wallet.

"What?"

"That's what you want too."

When I get home, my wife is up, getting ready for work. She looks startled at my new appearance. I glare at her, like the best Nazi skinhead in the world.

"Case closed. But I'm only going to make half the money."