Confessions of a Private Dick. Timothy Lea
Читать онлайн книгу.
so crowded these days you have to be early to be sure of a chair.’
‘I know,’ says Sid. ‘It’s hard work, isn’t it? They ought to send it to you through the post. Think of all the clerical staff it would save. One bloke could probably do the whole thing.’
‘Yes, but that would make the others redundant,’ I explain. ‘Then they’d all go on strike, wouldn’t they?’
‘If they were redundant, it wouldn’t matter, would it?’ says Sid. ‘They couldn’t do anything.’
‘They’d probably picket the place so the one bloke who was doing all the work couldn’t get in,’ I say.
Sid’s face contorts in anger. ‘Bastards!’ he says. ‘No wonder this country’s going to the dogs when bloody bolsheviks can prevent you getting your unemployment benefit. What’s the ordinary working man expected to do?’
Further discussion on this interesting point is interrupted by the arrival of a taxi outside the front door. Out of it gets my sister and Sid’s wife – only one person as regular readers will recall – in a soaking wet condition and wearing an expression that would be rejected by a voodoo mask maker as being likely to frighten off prospective customers. Since we are both well acquainted with her vindictive nature and could be accused of having contributed to her bedraggled condition (she fell in the marina when the SK498 went berserk) it is a matter of seconds before we are letting ourselves out by the back door.
‘A taxi,’ says Sid. ‘That’s marvellous, isn’t it? Even if I had a million quid I could never travel in a taxi. I’d feel awkward somehow. But it doesn’t worry her, does it?’
‘I expect she’s more adaptable,’ I say diplomatically. I could also say that, thanks to the success of the boutiques and the wine bars, Rosie is a blooming sight nearer to a million quid than her old man and therefore able to afford the odd taxi, but I deem it inadvisable. There is no doubt that Sid’s half-baked schemes to make money at any cost are a direct result of Rosie’s successful moola-making activities.
‘Hello, Dad Dad.’ The appealing waif fondling his ferret through the bars of its cage with a length of bamboo cane is my nephew, Jason Noggett – or ‘The Child Piranha’ as he is known in some circles.
‘Don’t poke him like that,’ says Sid. ‘He doesn’t like it.’
‘When you buy Jason rabbit, Dad Dad?’ says the little fiend, looking up towards the house thoughtfully.
Sid opens the back gate. ‘I’ve told you! You’re not having one until we get another cage.’
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘We don’t want Mr Ferret to gobble bunny up, do we?’
Jason flashes me a quick ‘Piss off, Uncle Timmy!’ look and continues to address his father. ‘Mummy home now? Daddy go boozer?’
‘I’m having a word with your uncle,’ says Sid irritably. ‘Where’s Jerome?’
‘We play Red Indians,’ says Jason, giving his ferret a last affectionate poke. ‘He staked out on ant hill.’
In fact, it is only the manure heap next door but the child is in a very anti-social condition.
‘I don’t know what’s got into that child,’ says Sid when we have handed over some ‘sweety money’ blackmail and been allowed to continue on our way. ‘He’s never wanted for anything – except that alligator he’s always on about – and yet he’s a real handful.’
‘Kids today,’ I say in my best ‘old codgers’ manner.
‘That’s right,’ says Sid. ‘Sometimes I think we’re cruel when we try to be kind. You give them too much and they miss out on the simple things.’
‘Still, it’s a violent age, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘That’s got to have an effect on them.’
‘Must have an effect on all of us,’ says Sid. ‘Still, it’s always been like that, hasn’t it? Look at that film on the telly this afternoon. Every time that bloke stuck the brim of his fedora round the frosted glass somebody bashed him over the nut.’
‘And it wasn’t just “The Mob” was it?’ I say. ‘Those Bay City cops were really mean, weren’t they? You needed a paper bag to put your teeth in if you went round to report that your cat was missing.’
‘Yet all the time he preserved a kind of simple dignity, didn’t he?’ says Sid admiringly. ‘One man against a corrupt society – and pulling all the crumpet on the side. Can’t be bad.’ He suddenly clutches my arm. ‘Timmo! I’ve just had an idea.’ Strong men – and ones with brains – run when Sid says that but I stand my ground bravely. ‘You know he worked out of that office above the launderette?’
‘You need capital to set up a launderette,’ I say. ‘Anyway, all the best sites have gone.’
‘I didn’t mean that!’ says Sid. ‘I was referring to the simplicity of the operation. All you need is a telephone. You could do it from home.’
‘Mum wouldn’t stand for it,’ I say. ‘All that washing everywhere. Where would you hang it?’
‘Forget about the bloody washing!’ shouts Sid so loud that an old lady wheels her shopping basket into a lamp post. ‘I’m talking about becoming a private detective. Don’t you see? It’s perfect. No overheads, no partners, no qualifications. Crime is the only growth industry in this country at the moment and more people are getting divorced than get married. We can’t go wrong. What’s more, it’s legit.’
‘Yeah,’ I breathe, buying my imagination a one-way ticket to romantic places. ‘I can just see it: “Timothy Lea, Private Dick”.’
‘I find it very unsavoury,’ says Mum.
‘So do I,’ says Dad pushing his plate away. ‘I think it was a mistake to fry it. I never heard of anybody frying spaghetti.’
‘I thought it would make a change,’ says Mum. ‘It seems wicked to throw food away these days. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about that. I was referring to this detective business. I don’t like to think of Timmy getting mixed up with a lot of criminals.’
‘You’ve left it a bit late to express concern in that direction, haven’t you?’ sneers Dad. ‘It’s the criminals you ought to start feeling sorry for. Get your precious Sidney amongst them and they’ll be asking for police protection. He’ll be in his element with a load of Bernards.’ (Bernard Dillon: Villain. Ed.)
‘Do you want your father’s spaghetti?’ sniffs Mum. ‘There’s some more gravy.’
I decline gracefully and wonder how Mum manages to get that distinctive roasted flavour into the tea.
‘I hope the neighbours don’t get to hear about it,’ says Dad. ‘You remember what it was like when Mrs Brown’s boy became a copper. Nobody would speak to the family for three months. Even when he got busted for nicking the Doctor Barnardo’s box, people were slow to forgive. It won’t be easy for your mother and I if the news gets out. We’re well thought of in this neighbourhood.’
‘Only because people think you’re a fence,’ I say. ‘All that stuff you nick from work. It’s no wonder we had that bloke round with the rings.’
Dad’s habit of knocking off items from the lost-property office where he works has not gone unnoticed by the neighbours. Probably because he has an unhealthy leaning towards large stuffed animals that do not fit snugly into any of the suitcases he has nicked. Talking of suitcases, I remember how when I was a kid I used to think he was a conjurer. He brought home this blooming enormous suitcase, opened it, took out another suitcase, opened it, took out another suitcase, opened it, took out— in the end he had six suitcases and a set