Death At Willows End Page 4

  “So, what's this office you're looking after then?”

  “I don't suppose you'll believe it, but my friend is a sort of private detective,” I answered, wondering if the whole idea sounded as silly to her as it did to me. “He's away on a case at the moment, and I'm holding the fort for him, so to speak. Not very exciting I'm afraid, but better than just sitting here getting bored. Thanks to his generosity I can sit in his office and get equally bored, except I'm getting paid for it.”

  I don't quite know what sort of reaction I expected, I suppose I half expected her to laugh or say something scathing and cast ridicule on what I was doing. I know that is what I would have done if the positions had been reversed; which just goes to show how wrong one can be in making assumptions.

  “Really?” she murmured as if to herself in a ruminative voice, “how interesting. Yes, very interesting.”

  Somehow, I didn't quite like the tone of voice she was using; it suggested trouble.

  Chapter Three.

  “Tell me,” Danny asked suddenly, “this office you're looking after; is it anywhere near some shops?”

  “It's in the main shopping centre; the office premises are on the first floor above an ironmonger’s shop. Why?”

  “Any clothes shops in the area?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good, then I'll come with you.”

  “What, dressed like that?”

  She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Look, I know it’s hot, but it isn't that hot!” she answered sarcastically, “I'll have my things out of your tumble-dryer, if you please they’ll probably look absolutely awful, but at least I'll be vaguely decent. If I'm going to stop here with you for a while I'll need a good deal more than I came with, and I've got my plastic with me, thank God!”

  “You're thinking of stopping for a while then?” I asked curiously, wondering just what was on her mind. “Do I take it you have some business here that needs to be attended to before you go home?”

  “Yes, you could say that; you don't mind, do you?” She leaned forward again as she was speaking and my eyes all but dropped down the cleavage exposed so dramatically exposed once again by the gaping dressing gown.

  “No, no,” I heard myself croak in a half strangled voice, “you stay here as long as you like.” I have to admit that by this time my brain had given up the unequal contest with my mouth.

  “Oh good,” she said, leaning back and allowing my blood-pressure to simmer back to something like normal once more, “I'll just fling a few clothes on then, and then we can be off.”

  “Oh, yes, whenever you're ready. What about footwear? You only had one shoe?”

  “Do you have a spare pair of trainers?”

  “Yes, but they'll be miles too big for you.”

  “They will have to do for one trip; I'll pad them out with paper, or maybe a pair of your old socks.”

  She went over to the tumble dryer as she spoke and proceeded to extract her clothing, looking at it with an ill concealed expression of disgust. “Most of this is only fit for the rag bag now,” she commented, “God, look at the state of these pants!” She waved a microscopic pair of flimsy ladies briefs in the air, and I promptly beat a hasty retreat in search of a spare pair of trainers.

  By the time I returned she had vanished into the bathroom again. Minutes later she re-appeared in her clothes once more, and although I diplomatically forbore to say as much, I privately agreed that her once smart clothing was now little short of being a sorry replica of its evident former glory. The material was all crumpled, and flecked with bits and pieces of stuff picked up from the water. In fact she looked like someone who'd fallen in a river and allowed everything to dry on her. I handed her the trainers and some cotton wool I'd discovered. She squatted on a chair, stuffed some of the cotton wool inside and slipped her feet into them. They made her feet look big enough to qualify her for an audition as a clown. Still, the cotton wool obviously did the trick, and she at least had something to walk in. She finally stood up and looked down at the trainers, and then across at me with a comical expression on her face.

  “If my feet were really this big,” she quipped, “I could go and join the police force.”

  Minutes later we were in the car and heading back into town. It was only a short drive, but she displayed a lively interest in what she could see, and it was evident to me that she had never been to Mudcaster before. I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised at that; not many people come to this benighted part of the world anyway. Not for the first time I wondered what on earth she had been doing hurtling down the road to Cobblers Bottom in order to try her hand at car-surfing. I had many odd theories, but I decided to leave questioning on the subject for later. She kept up a sparkling conversation on a variety of quite innocuous subjects, and I put in the odd comment just to keep conversation flowing whilst endeavouring to occasionally glance at where I was going as opposed to covertly ogling her. When we reached the parking bay that went with the agency I pointed out the door she needed to use when she wanted to come back from her projected shopping trip and needed to find me. With a cheery wave of her hand she plodded off in her outsize footwear in the direction of the shops, and I went back up to the office still wondering what had hit me.

  There was no queue of anxious would-be clients waiting outside the office door, (I would probably have collapsed with shock if there had been) and the post I'd been idly awaiting all morning was lying on the mat. It comprised mainly of circulars and a couple of enquiries from two anxious women wondering what their husbands were up to. I checked the answering machine and found messages from both women who had written wanting to know why their letters hadn't been answered. I was tempted to tell them to take the matter up with the Post Office, but in the event I phoned them, and booked both in for a private consultation appointment a few weeks hence. After I hung up on the last call it crossed my mind that the two addresses were very close to each other, and I wondered if in fact the two supposedly errant husbands were doing a bit of unofficial wife swapping? No doubt Pete would quickly find out, and present all concerned with a hefty bill for his services!

  With nothing much else to do, I sat back in the chair, but instead of twiddling my thumbs or doodling, or indulging in any other of the various intellectual pastimes I had recently become addicted to, I started to think about the enigma posed by Danny. Because that is exactly what she was, at least as far as I was concerned. I mean, in books and on TV, husky heroes often rescued gorgeous girls from raging torrents, but not in real life, or at least, never in a place rejoicing in such a romantic name as Cobblers Bottom. OK, so it wasn't exactly a raging torrent, nor am I even remotely the 'husky-hero' type, although she did get pretty wet as a result of her injudicious driving. Be that as it may; how many nubile maidens caught up in such a situation happily agree to go home with their rescuer, and equally happily dispense with their clothes,(no matter how wet!) and then agree to stay in said rescuer's bachelor domicile? She was gorgeous enough to send any red-blooded male's blood-pressure soaring, (and I guess mine went up near the roof when I saw her in that dressing gown) and although in one sense she seemed to be giving me all the 'come-on' signals, I still had a strong instinctive feeling that if I made one wrong move I would very quickly be joining the queue behind her ex-boyfriend at the local A & E. She certainly wasn't a local, although judging by her accent she hadn't come that far. She had admitted that the car wasn't hers, and I felt just a shade guilty about not letting the police know what had happened. Heaven knows what sort of forensic furore was going on up by the ford by this time. Quite aside from all that; what about the owner of the drowned vehicle; she claimed to have incapacitated him in a particularly painful manner, and although I only had her unsupported word for it, I had an uncomfortable feeling that she was telling the absolute truth. Yes, enigma was the only word for her. Maybe the police had more than the usual reason for looking for the missing driver!

  To my way of thinking, people only get into c
ars and go somewhere because they have a reason. I mean, I was going out because I wanted to go to a pub and have some lunch, and later I'd set out again because I needed to come back to the god-forsaken hole that masqueraded as an office within which I was currently squatting. As far as I had been able to discover Danny, as she insisted on being called, hadn't been going anywhere in particular, nor had she seemed interested in letting anyone know where she was or what had happened to her, and that to me was odd. She seemed quite keen to wish herself on me, yet there had been no direct suggestion, however faint, that she wished more than just bread and board. (I didn't count the gaping dressing gown) She seemed quite blasé about the whole business, and obviously didn't have any serious money worries if she could happily wander off and buy a complete wardrobe. Taken all round, yes, Danny, if that was her real name, was certainly what I would call an enigma.

  It was at that point that the telephone rang, and I nearly fell off the chair with shock. All thoughts of Danny and the riddle she presented vanished as I picked up the receiver and announced in my carefully rehearsed 'you wish to retain my services because I'm such a charming fellow' tone; “Piers Larsen, private Detective agency, how may I help you?”

  “Hi Neil,” announced a familiar voice, “It's Pete; how you doing, my old son?”

  “Oh, Hi, Pete,” I responded. “Everything is in order, booked in a few for you to see when you get back next week. Two or three straying husbands, couple of missing cats, a secret goldfish-nicker, probably a hungry heron, and a suspected relative of ET lurking out somewhere in some old lady’s garden shed.”

  “Well, it's the quiet time of year,” he said expansively. “You wait until the kids get back to school.”

  “By the time that happens I hope to have a meaningful job,” I replied in a slightly snooty tone. “Frankly, it beats me how you make this business pay.”

  “The trick is picking the right clients to concentrate on, and giving them everything they ask for.” he responded sagely.

  I recalled one or two of the clients he told me he had 'concentrated' on, and I didn't doubt he had given them everything they'd asked for, but I didn't feel inclined to go into details with him right there and then. “Well, you've obviously got the knack,” was all I said.

  “Yeah, well, that's as may be,” he agreed airily. “Anyway, the reason I'm ringing you is to give you some really good news.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I exclaimed, recalling how he had promised to keep his ear open for a suitable position for me. Not that I'd thought for a minute that he would ever come up with anything, but he had always been a great, if at times highly unpredictable, mate.

  “I'm getting married.”

  “You're WHAT?”

  To say that my 'flabber' was exceedingly 'gasted' would have been a complete understatement. 'Pete' and 'marriage' never went together in any sentence I'd ever heard used before. If anyone else had said that it was going to happen I would have laughed like a drain. Pete was one of those men who just loved to, shall we say, 'spread it around', and to hear him utter those fateful words without warning came as a considerable shock to the system.

  “You heard me, I'm getting married.”

  “Tell me this is some sort of sick joke?”

  “Neil, my son, I've never been more serious,” he assured me solemnly. “I have proposed to, and been accepted by, the most wonderful woman in the world, and my days of carefree dalliance with the trivia of life is now most definitely over.”

  “I assume the lady in question is well endowed?”

  “Physically or financially?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Well, if you must know, she is extremely well endowed in all senses.”

  “I can't get over it, there has to be a catch somewhere?”

  “No catch, Neil my old son,” he said as if I was at least ten years his junior, “she is the one for whom I have been seeking ever since I realised that women were somehow different from men. Believe me, I have sought long and diligently, (I could vouch for that, he had reputedly slept with more women than I'd had hot dinners) and at last I have found her, the most beautiful wonderful warm-hearted woman in the world, the only one I have ever met who possesses the three G's in abundance.”

  “Three G's?” I asked stupidly.

  “Good looks, good temperament, and good bank-balance.”

  “I see, and no doubt the last one was what clinched matters for you?”

  “What do you take me for, a mercenary?”

  “Yes, a damned cold-blooded one at that!”

  “I rather prefer to think of myself as a bit of a hot-blooded one, but no matter, the lady assures me that for her, life without me would be intolerable, and having given all of her assets my serious consideration I am of the opinion that without her at my side my own life would have but little meaning.”

  “Well, I suppose if you are that set on things, the least I can do is offer congratulations,” I said as the shock wore off a little. “So, when will you be back?”

  “Ah, that's why I rang you.”

  Suddenly, alarm bells started ringing loud and clear in my brain. “Oh no, you don't want me stuck here for another week do you?”

  “Well, no, not exactly.”

  There was something in his tone of voice I definitely didn't like. “Look, if you expect me to sit here for another month while you prance about the world on your honeymoon you can think again!”

  “Calm down Neil,” he said soothingly. “I told you I had good news for you.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that,” I interrupted. “You've struck it rich and you're hanging on to it, meanwhile, you expect me to-”

  “Neil, for once in your life, will you shut up and listen?”

  I shut up.

  “Good, as I keep trying to tell you, the reason I phoned is to give you some really good news. Well, here it is; I'm not coming back.”

  “Not coming back?” I echoed stupidly.

  “That's right, part of my, shall we say, pre-nuptial agreement with my bride-to-be is that I no longer deal with any clients other than her good-self. That being the case, I am giving the agency to you!”

  For the second time in a couple of minutes the wind was completely sucked out of my sails.

  “You're doing WHAT?”

  “Lock, stock, and a half empty barrel I’ve left lying around somewhere; the whole shebang is yours, and before you start getting hot under the collar, this is all above board. If I can't find time to drop them in personally, I'll be sending all the necessary papers to you to make the whole thing legal. There's enough loot in the current account to keep you going comfortably until the end of the year, and there's petty cash in the tin in the bottom left hand drawer of the desk. Lawson's in the high street are the accountants, the rent on the premises is paid up until the end of the financial year, and council tax is taken care of by direct debit. The advertising account is also paid up to the end of the quarter, so there you have it; a ready-made business.”

  “But I don't know the first thing about being a bloody private detective!” I wailed, “For God's sake, Pete, you know I'm a design engineer, how the hell am I going to-”

  “Oh quit whining,” he interrupted. “The one thing that life has taught me is never to look a gift horse in the mouth. Stop for a moment and consider the facts. You're out of work, and with a recession on there's not a lot of hope of you getting what you want in the foreseeable future. Money's tight, and getting tighter, and you are stuck in your flat slowly going up the wall with nothing to do but twiddle your thumbs. Here you've got an established business for nothing, and with no strings attached. If you want to wind it up at the end of the year you will still be quids in, believe me. Just get it through your thick skull that for 'auld langs syne’ I’m doing you a favour.”

  “But-”

  “No 'buts', you've always been a good mate to me when I needed one, and through no fault of your own you are down on your uppers. Ju
st get it through your stuffy fat head that I'm giving you a chance to be your own boss. Look, I haven't time to argue with you, I've got to dash now; maybe I'll give you a ring some time, or look in to see how you’re getting on. Bye.”

  Before I could protest any further he hung up, and I sat there staring at the phone as if it was something that would spit in my eye at the slightest provocation. I was still sitting there gawping at the thing when the door opened and a gust of fresh air supported on two of the nicest legs I’ve ever seen came blasting in to the office.

  Danny had returned.

  Chapter Four.

  “Mission accomplished,” Danny announced as she breezed in. “Too much for poor little me to carry so if it’s ok with you we can look in for it on the way back to your flat?” She paused as she reached the centre of the office and looked round with a critical expression on her face. “If you don't mind me saying,” she added, “or even if you do, this is a pretty crumby looking place for an office.”