Death At Willows End Page 2

  I thought of all the 'private eye' programmes I'd watched on television, ranging from 'Randal and Hopkirk', through 'Poirot', 'Sherlock Holmes', 'Rosemary and Thyme', to 'Midsomer Murders' as well as all their myriad American counterparts. It was all non-stop excitement, fast cars, gorgeous blondes, harrowing escapes from God-knows-what, and never a dull moment. In direct contrast, the most exciting thing that had happened so far on this particular Monday was an enquiry about locating a lost tortoise! Like I said; money or no money, it was a pretty stupid idea ever accepting his offer! I stared at the phone for about the tenth time, wondering if it had been disconnected. I eventually picked up the receiver and found that it wasn't, but the excitement engendered by that not-so-startling discovery quickly waned. I went across to the p.c. that sat on a small desk next to a filing cabinet on the other side of the room and played with that for a while until I became even more bored. Eventually I decided that I couldn't stand it any more. I grabbed the keys, went out, locking the door and hanging the 'out on a case' sign on it as I went. I knew that if I didn't get away for a while I'd probably scream. What I didn't know was that if I hadn't chosen just that time to leave the office, it is quite likely that the whole course of my life would have been unbelievably different.

  My car was parked round the back of the building, and I climbed into it without any clear idea of where I was going; only knowing that I needed to get away, even if only for an hour or so. It wasn't much of a car, being an elderly Vauxhall Cavalier that had already been around the clock once, and giving ample evidence of having had a bit of a hard life. The bodywork may have been a bit suspect, and I admit that the interior had definitely seen better days, but at least it was mechanically sound, and possessed of a valid m.o.t. Tinkering with cars was a hobby from way back, and in spite of its looks I knew my old banger wouldn't let me down. Well, not that often anyway. The engine fired up first time, I backed out of the parking space at the rear, and eventually nosed my way out onto the road. With no clear idea of where I was going, apart from a vague notion of going for a drive with the aim of finishing up at a country pub somewhere for a spot of extended lunch, I just blended in with the traffic and headed out of town. It was a nice summer's day, not too hot, with the odd bit of 'fair-weather' cloud to break up the azure blue of the sky. I flipped the radio on for a bit of company and settled down just to cruise along for a while as my feeling of boredom and general frustration slowly leached out of me.

  Not for the first time I wondered just where I was heading in life. 'The clock was ticking', as some would say, and I wasn't getting any younger. In the current economic climate a decent job seemed a bit like a pipe dream, and pretending to be an 'ace private eye' wasn't helping. Not only were my career prospects pretty dismal, it also appeared to me that I was destined to remain single, for without even the suggestion of a decent female companion on the horizon, bachelorhood looked fair to becoming an unwelcome but permanent status. Taken all round, and without labouring the point unduly, I seemed to be simply drifting aimlessly through life with no clear objective. The obvious question was, what should I do about it? Not for the first time I considered emigrating to some exotic land where a man could be a man, and women would hopefully fall over themselves to welcome him. After all, I had no ties to hold me back, and I'd heard that there were great opportunities in New Zealand or in Canada or somewhere like that. One or two of my friends had already taken the plunge, and by all accounts were doing pretty well, but at the same time the thought was there at the back of my mind that if one emigrated, all one took with you were your problems. If, as I had of late come to strongly suspect, I was a complete failure here, would I be any better there? This was the question I sought to avoid because I feared the answer.

  I wondered, again not for the first time, if I should try a totally different career in my own backyard? Certainly not as a Private Eye; I'd only been in the 'job' a week, and was already bored out my few remaining wits. Perhaps I could be an up-market Sales Rep? The thought of a shiny new car and an expense account was certainly attractive, but the corollary of trying to sell anything with a recession on was a bit daunting. (And selling was now inevitably related in my mind to ill-tempered dogs.) I wouldn't mind being a politician; from what I gleaned from the media you only had to really work once in every four or five years. That was almost as good as being a Vicar in my book, and only work a one day week! (An idea I'd been firmly disabused off by my last girl-friend but one, but still clung to.) Or maybe I could be a pop-star? I've no ear for music, but then apparently neither had some of the more recent so-called singers I had listened to. One of my friends had tried Franchising, but as he was now completely destitute I didn't consider that too seriously either.

  Still musing over various likely and unlikely possibilities, I turned off the main road and motored happily down a twisty minor thoroughfare that meandered deep through the countryside. It was a route I'd been along more than once over the years, and rather liked because it was seldom used by anyone other than the few people that lived in the odd farm house and the like that were scattered along its length. It was all bends and turns, sometimes with open fields on either side, and sometimes meandering through spinnies and cuttings. It certainly wasn't the sort of road that one could do any speed on, being generally too narrow for that. There were a number of bends that were a good deal tighter than they looked, and there was always the chance of meeting the odd tractor or something equally exciting half way round almost any of them. There was a quaint old country pub in a sleepy little hamlet called 'Cobblers Bottom' (I imagine the locals were well inured to all the jokes about their little village) about a couple of miles down, and that was where I decided I would stop and have a snack lunch, thereby saving me the effort of having to cook anything when I got back home. I should mention that I am a passable cook, (so long as it is very plain cooking we are talking about!) but it isn't something I do from choice.

  Whistling through my teeth to the tune on the radio, I eased down a tad as I approached a long dipping right hander with high hedgerows which I knew gave suddenly onto a ford over a fairly wide stream before swinging off to the left onto a brief straight leading to the aforesaid 'Cobblers Bottom'. In the summer months this ford was usually little more than a puddle stretching across the road, but there had been a fair amount of rain in recent weeks, and I correctly guessed it would be a good bit deeper than usual, and most certainly not a good place to drive at any speed if one wished to emerge safely on the far side. Over the years I had seen a couple of people come to grief at this ford simply by hitting it too fast; it was the sort of thing a driver only normally did once. When the water level was high, it was undoubtedly a highly successful car-trap for the unwary because there are comparatively few fords in this part of the world. A lot of people who have never come up against one just don't realise what happens if you take them too fast, particularly if they lie quite unsuspected at the end of a long sweeping bend! People instinctively panic, slam on the brakes, and then take up a strange form of water-skiing. I was still decelerating as the ford came into view, and almost at the last minute I realised that once again this particular hazard had claimed yet another unwary victim.

  I braked to a standstill just short of the ford itself as I saw the car a few yards downstream, partially submerged in the fast flowing water. It was a newish-looking bright-blue Ford Focus, and it was stuck fast with the bonnet nose-down as the rear-end reared up drunkenly as if in a gesture of despair. The accident appeared to have happened only moments before I arrived on the scene because I could see the driver beating his fists in irate frustration on the steering wheel. As far as I was able to tell there was only one occupant of the vehicle, and he didn't appear to have come to any more harm other than a soaking. No doubt he was in the process of becoming a wiser, if somewhat wetter driver as a result of the experience. Being a true knight of the road, I got out of my car and walked along the bank ready to offer assistance. The driver's door was facing me and I calle
d out to attract his attention.

  “Get out the other side,” I called out, “It's shallower, and you can reach the bank easier.”

  I might just as well have saved my breath. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than the driver thrust the door open and stepped out. I knew it was quite a bit deeper on that side, and before I could shout a further warning the driver took a step towards me and promptly disappeared under the surface of the racing waters. Before I even had a chance to panic in the belief that somebody was at risk of drowning a head broke the surface, and with a flurry of powerful strokes the driver made it back to the side of the vehicle and pulled himself partially up out of the water, so that it only reached to waist level.

  I say 'his' waist, because seconds later, as the water gushed off the figure that had had such a complete ducking I suddenly realised that it wasn't a man at all, but a young woman.

  Chapter Two.

  Up until the moment the penny dropped it hadn't crossed my mind that the car would have been driven by a female, young or otherwise. I'm not an MCP where female drivers are concerned; I'd seen enough stupidity on the roads to learn that in the main women tend to drive a bit more cautiously then men. When I had seen the car in the middle of the stream I'd just assumed that some young would-be rally driver had come unstuck, because it wouldn't be the first time. As the figure reared up, spluttering and dashing water from her face there was no doubting that it was a very shapely female; unless of course I was looking at an extremely odd-shaped fellow indeed.

  “Well, don't just stand there gawping!” the driver shouted in an understandably irritated but undeniably feminine voice, “How the hell do I get out of here?”

  “Hang on,” I called back. “I'll come round the other side, stay where you are for the moment.”

  There was no answer, and I jumped back in my car, drove it slowly across the ford, and on reaching the far side I jumped out again and stepped over to stand opposite where her vehicle was stranded.

  “Make you way round the back of your car,” I called out as I approached, “it’s fairly level just there. Whatever you do, don't step away from it, the bed of the stream shelves down quite a bit just past where you are standing now.”

  “Now he tells me!” she responded sarcastically, but she immediately turned as I had suggested and moved gingerly round the back and towards me.

  As she cleared the back of her car I reached out from a protruding part of the bank and extended a hand towards her. Within moments she grasped it firmly and I assisted her up onto the bank where she stood oozing water in an ever increasing puddle. Allowing for the fact that at that exact moment she resembled a drowned rat more than anything else, I deduced that she was maybe twenty five or so years of age, lightly built with small features and good teeth. (I always tend to look at teeth for some reason; must be a fetish I suppose.) She was slim, and possessed of a good figure, which was strikingly revealed by the way her sodden clothing clung lovingly to every single curve. I noticed in passing that she appeared to have lost one of her shoes, and judging by her expression, her temper had likewise been left somewhere in the swirling waters behind her. She may have lost her shoe, but she still clung to a shoulder bag that seemed to contain more water than anything else.

  “Thanks” she spluttered, pushing lank hair out of her eyes, “What the hell do I do now?”

  “Simple,” I replied gallantly. “It being patently obvious that your car isn't going anywhere for quite a while, except maybe out to sea, bearing in mind that it is a bit of a hike to the nearest habitation of any consequence, and as I doubt you will walk far in one shoe anyway, you will either have to accept my offer of free transportation, or sit here and wait for someone else to pass by. I take it you are not injured?”

  She didn't reply for a moment, taking her first good look at me, and I judged from her expression that she wasn't over-impressed by what she saw. Not that I was particularly surprised or offended in any way; I'm quite used to people looking at me like that. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was ugly, but then neither would I win any prizes in a male beauty competition. She looked around, no doubt seeing if there were any houses in the vicinity, which of course there weren't.

  “What about the car?” she asked suddenly as she glanced back at the half submerged vehicle.

  “It isn't going anywhere for the time being,” I observed, no doubt stating the obvious. “If you want to wade back in and lock it up before leaving, that's up to you.”

  “Ho-ho, very funny,” she remarked sourly. “So, where's the nearest garage?”

  “About two miles up that way,” I responded, pointing vaguely over my shoulder. “Of course, you've only got my word for that. Look, if you don't want my help, that's fine by me, only I reckon that, summer or not, you'll catch pneumonia if you stand around soaking wet like that for too long. I can take you to the nearest garage if that is what you would like to do; or the nearest cop-shop if you prefer, or, if you are feeling particularly adventurous, you can even come back to my place and dry off. And before you ask the obvious, no I'm not a rampant sex-maniac on the prowl desperately seeking another innocent victim, but of course I don't carry round proof of that fact. Oh, and you can use my mobile if you wish?”

  She stood there dripping water all over the place, first looking at me, then her car, and then at mine. I confess that I fully expected her to either ask me for the use of the phone, or to tell me in no uncertain manner to get lost. Her reply, when it came, wasn't at all what I had expected.

  “Ok,” she said at last. “A chance to dry off sounds quite attractive, but if think you're on to a good thing, forget it; I've eaten bigger men than you for breakfast!”

  Assuming hopefully that that was a slight exaggeration I didn't answer but turned and walked back to my car, and she squelched along a pace or two behind me. I went to the boot where I had a piece of plastic sheeting. I spread this over the front passenger seat as she watched, and then I gestured for her to get in. It was one thing giving someone a hand, but I didn't want the well-worn remains of the Cavalier's upholstery finally ruined for good. She upended her bag so that the worst of the water could run out, squeezed half a gallon of water out of her sodden clothing, and then climbed in without a word, water still oozing everywhere. I went round the car and got behind the wheel.

  “Seat-belt,” I said.

  I turned the car round as she duly belted-up, and then headed back the way I'd come. Frankly, I didn't quite know what to make of my unexpected passenger, and as I concentrated on getting back to my home as quickly as I could I started to wonder just what I was getting myself into. I'd set out for a spot of lunch in the countryside because I was bored out of my mind, and I certainly hadn't anticipated anything like this. One half of my mind was saying, 'offload her as quickly as possible, she's trouble', and the other half said, 'whack-o, mate, you are on to a good thing here'! Certainly she had a nice figure and a pretty face, that much was obvious, only what little converse I'd had with her so far was enough to indicate that she was certainly no push-over. I decided to play it by ear.

  “You're not from round these parts,” I ventured after a couple of minutes.

  “No.”

  It wasn't a very helpful start to what I had hoped would lead into a meaningful conversation. I decided to try again. “Look, the phone I mentioned is in my pocket; help yourself if there's anyone you want to contact?”

  “Later maybe,” she said tersely, “Look, how much further have we got to go?”

  “About five minutes.”

  She relapsed into silence, and I concentrated on my driving, already beginning to regret the whim that had talked her in to my car. It was one thing to fantasize about rescuing a damsel in distress, and what such a thing might lead to, it was quite another when the unlikely situation occurred in real life, particularly when said damsel didn't seem to be at all fazed by what had happened, and at the same time sounded well able to look after herself. I started to think about what would happen w
hen we reached my humble abode. There were pretty strict rules in my tenancy agreement, and I just hoped that no one would spot me taking a half-drowned woman into my solitary bachelor quarters. Maybe I could claim I'd rescued a stranded mermaid? Somehow I couldn't see Mrs Axeman, the formidable dragon who masqueraded as a building superintendent, buying that. Thinking about what would happen once I had reached my destination reminded me of the state I'd left my home in before I'd gone off to work. The more I thought about it, the less of a good idea the whole business seemed. Oh well, I was committed now, I just had to make the best of it.