Episode 16 : Mr. Tax Man
1301 Words
Heather had to admit, Galgorm knew its clientele. Steam drifted off hot pools in silver ribbons, the air tinged with eucalyptus and prosecco. She floated between thermal suites and stone loungers, her auburn hair pinned high, a white robe knotted around her like armour. Liam’s treat, he’d called it, though “bribe” felt closer to the truth.
Her phone buzzed from the pocket of her robe. She didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.
“Haversham,” she said, answering with a smile.
The investigator’s voice was a gravelly burr. “Heather. Always a pleasure. What sort of dirt am I digging up this time?”
She leaned back, one leg stretched across the lounger, toes painted a sharp red that clashed beautifully with the spa’s cream tiles. “A man called Raphael Hartmann. Care assistant. German national. Been here three years. But I’ve got reason to believe he’s got… attachments back home.”
A pause, the scratch of a pen. “Attachments?”
“Wife. Two kids. Whole domestic spread. Baking cupcakes and writing Welcome Home, Papa signs. I’ve got the screenshots if you want them.”
Another pause. “And you want me to…?”
Heather plucked a grape from the fruit bowl, bit down, and let the sweetness linger. “Corroborate. Timeline, finances, travel records, the works. I need to know when he was where, and who knew what. Liam doesn’t pay for guesswork.”
“Does Liam know you’re calling me?”
“Oh, please. Liam booked me a spa day and told me to call you between mud wraps. If he could outsource breathing, he would.”
A dry chuckle came down the line. “I’ll have something for you in forty-eight hours.”
“Make it twenty-four. If I have to endure another of Liam’s romantic tantrums without ammunition, I’ll drown myself in the hot tub.”
Another scratch of the pen. “Twenty-four it is.”
She ended the call, slipped the phone back into her robe, and let her head tip against the warm stone. Outside, rain tapped on glass skylights, soft as fingers on a drum.
Heather closed her eyes, a smile tugging. Mud therapy and espionage. Champagne and dossiers. Only Liam could mix the two and call it strategy.
And only she—God help her—would make it work.
Liam’s phone vibrated on the mahogany desk in his temporary Belfast office. The subject line of the email was as blunt as the man who’d written it:
From: Haversham Investigations
Subject: Hartmann — Initial Findings
He opened it with a flick of his thumb.
Raphael Hartmann.
Born 1985, Frankfurt. Married: Anna Hartmann (née Vogel), civil ceremony 2012.
Two children: Lukas (9), Greta (7).
Residence: Bad Homburg, Germany. Apartment owned by Anna’s parents.
UK employment: Care assistant, Malone Hall Care Home, since 2020.
Travel records: Multiple trips to Germany, all logged around school holidays. No record of divorce proceedings. Wife’s social media accounts active and public. Frequent references to Raphael as father/husband.
Screenshots attached.
Below were photographs pulled from Anna’s f*******:: birthdays with balloons, school concerts, Raphael seated at a kitchen table helping Lukas with homework, Greta holding a lopsided cupcake tagged #backtoschool. Another: both children holding cardboard signs—Willkommen zurück, Papa!—their smiles wide, Raphael standing proudly behind them.
Liam’s jaw tightened until it ached.
A message pinged across his screen—Heather. Enjoying my mud wrap. Hope you like your bedtime reading. Try not to throw your phone across the room.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he scrolled through the photographs again, each one a nail hammered into his chest. Paris with Raphael at Belfast Castle replayed in his mind—the tea, the laughter, Raphael’s arm draped too easily around her chair. And all the while, this man had a wife and two children smiling for him in Germany.
The fury came cold, not hot. Controlled. That made it worse.
Liam closed the email, slipped the phone into his pocket, and turned toward the rain streaking the glass. Heather’s voice echoed in his head, equal parts mockery and warning: Obsession makes smart men stupid.
Maybe. But obsession also made men thorough.
The rain came down in a steady silver blur against the tall windows of Liam’s Belfast office, turning the city beyond into smudged watercolour. His corner suite sat a short walk from the Titanic Quarter, the angular silver hull of Titanic Belfast looming through the mist — a monument to ambition and disaster both. On his desk, a folder stamped with the crest of Arrion Atlantic lay untouched, expansion plans forgotten.
What held him captive was Haversham’s dossier glowing on his laptop: photographs of Raphael Hartmann in domestic perfection. Lukas with a crooked birthday crown. Greta clutching a balloon shaped like a seven. Anna, smiling warmly, her hand resting on her husband’s shoulder. Raphael grinning wide and unguarded in a way Liam had never seen at Malone Hall. A man rooted, settled, adored.
The sight curdled his stomach.
On impulse, he pressed Paris’s name and lifted the phone to his ear. It rang twice, then clicked.
“Hello?” Her voice, scratchy with flu.
“Paris,” he said, his throat tight.
Silence. Then a muffled laugh. “Oh God. It’s… ‘Tax Man.’”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
“You’re saved in my phone as ‘Tax Man.’” She giggled, her laugh ragged but warm. “With a picture of the Monopoly guy in his little top hat and mustache. You know, so I don’t forget who’s always collecting.”
Liam’s jaw hardened. “That’s how you think of me?”
“I could’ve gone with ‘Dictator Deluxe,’” she said between coughs, “but I thought that was unkind.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unkind?”
“Mmhm. You’d be surprised how many nicknames I tried before I settled. ‘Mr. Brood’ was a frontrunner. ‘Iceberg Ahead’ nearly made it too, but that one was a bit dramatic.”
He glanced out the window at the Titanic’s sharp silhouette through the drizzle. “Dramatic?” he echoed flatly.
“Don’t sound so wounded, Tax Man,” Paris teased, her voice faint but still carrying a spark. “It’s only so Raphael doesn’t think I’m sneaking around with some ex every time you call during dinner. Safer this way.”
“Safe. Boring.”
She laughed softly, but it turned into a cough. “Exactly. You ring, a little cartoon man flashes up, and Raphael doesn’t blink. Problem solved.”
“I am not boring,” Liam muttered, almost to himself.
“Tell that to your contact photo,” Paris said. “Every time you ring, I get a cartoon man with a monocle scowling at me. Honestly, Liam, it’s kind of endearing.”
His grip on the phone tightened. “Endearing?”
“Yes,” she admitted, her tone dropping softer.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then, from the background, Raphael’s voice drifted in, warm and familiar: “Paris? Alles gut?”
Her breath caught. “I have to go,” she whispered, and the line went dead.
The office was too quiet after. The rain too loud. Liam stared down at his screen, at the smirking Monopoly man in his ridiculous top hat.
His jaw locked, fury curling through him like smoke. He hated Raphael — hated the sound of his voice, hated the idea of him close to her. For a flicker of a second, the violent thought returned, raw and unfiltered: God, I’ll kill him.
Outside, Titanic Belfast loomed immovable in the rain. Liam’s reflection stared back at him in the glass: jaw tight, eyes cold.
He hated Raphael. And the hatred wasn’t fading.
- Writer
