Chapter 37: The Private Investigator
Julian hired the private investigator at 11:40 p.m., which was the hour desperate men preferred because darkness made shame feel less witnessed.
The man’s name was Patrick Sloan, though his website used only Sloan Investigations and a black-and-white photograph from ten years and three hairlines ago.
Former police consultant. Discreet family matters. Corporate intelligence. Reputation risk.
Each phrase was designed for rich men who needed something ugly performed without fingerprints on their cuffs or language they might later regret.
Julian met Sloan in a hotel bar where nobody looked poor enough to be curious and nobody looked sober enough to remember details.
The lights were low, the music soft, and the staff understood that empty tables were often more profitable than full ones.
Sloan arrived with no briefcase, no coat, and no visible phone.
That impressed Julian, because men in trouble often mistook theatrical secrecy for competence and competence for loyalty.
“I need evidence,” Julian said.
“Of what?” Sloan asked.
“Adultery.”
Sloan did not blink. “Do you have reason to suspect adultery?”
Julian thought of Serena stepping into black cars, Martin Vale opening doors, Derek sending messages, clients choosing her calls over his.
Reason had become a luxury, and suspicion was cheaper, faster, and much easier to purchase after midnight.
“I have reason to need proof.”
Sloan’s face gave nothing, which meant the distinction had been heard, understood, and priced.
“Proof can be found,” he said carefully.
Julian leaned forward. “Or arranged.”
The word sat between them for one second too long, heavy enough to change the flavour of the whisky.
Sloan stirred his drink once and did not drink it.
“Arranged proof is fragile.”
“So make it less fragile.”
“I charge more for less fragile.”
Julian almost smiled, because corruption sounded reassuring when it sent an invoice first and avoided moral vocabulary.
He slid a photograph across the table: Serena leaving Martin Vale’s office, her face half turned from the street.
“This man?”
“Her solicitor.”
“Bad choice.”
“That is why I do not want him as the man.”
Sloan looked at the photograph again. “You want someone plausible, near her, seen but not obvious.”
“I want something a court dislikes and newspapers understand.”
Sloan’s eyes moved back to Julian.
For the first time, the investigator looked almost interested, as if Julian had finally stopped pretending this was ordinary surveillance.
“Custody angle?”
“No children,” Julian snapped, then regretted sounding too sharp.
“No,” he corrected. “Reputation. Divorce. Control.”
Sloan placed the photograph face down.
“Control is expensive.”
Julian thought of the twenty-million loan, the frozen reserves, the board call, and Ivy crying in a bedroom that belonged to Serena’s contract.
“Everything is expensive now.”
Sloan named a figure so high it should have embarrassed both men and somehow embarrassed neither.
Julian did not negotiate, which told Sloan more than any confession could have told him.
They agreed on surveillance, staged proximity, hotel-camera access, and a witness who could be useful if paid correctly and forgotten immediately.
Julian left the bar believing he had finally moved from defence to attack, because men losing control often confused dirt with strategy.
Across the lobby, a woman in a red coat placed her phone into her handbag and walked out through the rain without looking back.
At 12:16, Martin Vale received one image: Julian at a hotel bar with Patrick Sloan.
The message beneath it was shorter.
He is trying adultery.
Serena read it at 12:19 from her temporary flat, standing barefoot beside a window dark with rain.
She did not look surprised, only attentive, the way her father had looked at markets before they broke.
“Good,” she said to the empty room.
False evidence needed builders, and builders could be watched before they learned who was watching them.