Confessions of a Private Dick. Timothy Lea
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a desk – I mean, of course, that he takes a seat behind a desk – and I try and work out what makes him so certain that we have made it. I am not so sure myself and I should be one of the first to know. At least he is being very reasonable about the whole thing. A lot of people would react very badly if you charged into their office in full knee tremble. Teresa pulls down the shutters over her knockers and I sweep the remains of percy into my Y-fronts. I will have to hold the autopsy later. The geezer in the blue pin stripe leans forward on his desk and places his fingertips together.
‘Of course, that’s all very gratifying,’ he muses, waving a hand in the direction of his left earhole. ‘But how are we to know it’s not just a flash in the pan? It’s when you’re waiting in the anteroom that you really get to grips with it, isn’t it? You realise what you’re letting yourself in for.’
This bloke is leaving me behind fast. If he is handing out a mild bollocking, I don’t get it. And why is he smiling at us like that? He reminds me of the bloke who came up to me when I was having a gypsy’s kiss in the gents at Piccadilly Underground – not a pursuit I recommend, incidentally.
‘We’d better be going,’ says Teresa.
‘But you’ve only just come,’ says Pin Stripe. There he goes! Jumping to conclusions again. ‘I know it’s awkward talking to a complete stranger about intimate matters but don’t worry, we’ve all been through it.’ He smiles at Teresa when he says this and I wonder if he means what I think he means. She was certainly very friendly when you come to think about it. The bloke unscrews a fountain pen and pulls a pad towards him. ‘How long have you two been together?’
‘Since about ten o’clock this morning,’ I say.
The smile drops faster than a pair of lead knickers. ‘Ten o’clock this morning and you’re here already?’
‘It wasn’t very far, was it?’ I say, turning to Teresa. ‘We wasted a bit of time trying to park but —’
‘You can’t expect things to work out right from the beginning,’ says the bloke. ‘There’s got to be a period of acclimatisation. You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘It’s what you have to do before you get out of a diver’s suit.’
Pin Stripe does not seem to hear my remark and helps himself to a couple of pills from the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘God knows, we live in troubled times and the whole fabric of society as we understand it is threatened – but really! You have to give it a little more time than this! What makes you think you have problems when you’ve only been married four hours – Good God!’ He strikes his forehead with his clenched fist. ‘You made the appointment yesterday – before you were even married!’
Before we can say anything, the door behind us has burst open and a bloke with a black eye and scratch marks down his cheek is revealed dragging a screaming woman by the hair. ‘Sorry we’re late, guv,’ he says. ‘We had words on the way here.’
While the couple trade punches in the doorway and Pin Stripe slides beneath his desk with a strangled croak, I am busy reading the sign stencilled on the office door. It says: ‘J. Bugstrode, Marriage Guidance Counsellor.’
‘Not much happening, is there?’ says Sid.
It is three days after my first visit to the building which now houses the N.I.B. (Noggett Investigation Bureau) and Sid and I are well and truly ensconced – as El Sid chooses to call it. This means that we have straightened out all the paper clips and folded them again, and watched Mr J. Bugstrode taken away by a couple of men in white coats. I have not said anything to Sid about Mr Bugstrode and Teresa Bradford. I don’t feel that it would help anybody, somehow.
Sid picks up the telephone and holds it to his ear. ‘It’s working,’ he says.
‘Don’t worry, Sid,’ I say. ‘The word’s got to get around, hasn’t it? We’re not in the book or anything like that. Those leaflets we dropped off in the Co-op are going to take a few days to get around. We’re competing against a special offer on dried figs.’
‘Funny about that bloke next door,’ muses Sid. ‘I wonder if there was more to it than the job. It might be blackmail, you know. He could have had a go at one of his patients.’
‘Unlikely, Sid,’ I say. ‘These geezers are very prone to mental disorders and nervous breakdowns.’
‘Exactly,’ says Sid. ‘He might have found that he was giving the helpful advice from inside some bloke’s old lady. The job getting on top of him in fact. Then, the door bursts open and—’
‘I don’t think it was like that,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Do you fancy a cup of cha?’
‘Not from that bleeding machine, I don’t,’ says Sid. ‘That’s not powder they have at the bottom of those cups – it’s rust.’ He glances at his watch and picks up his new raincoat – the one which has epaulettes, panels, brass rings, restraining straps at the sleeves and is three sizes too big for him. Alan Ladd wore something like it in ‘This Gun For Hire’. ‘I’ll leave you to look after the shop. Don’t do anything stupid. Take down any messages and try to get some of that pigeon shit off the windows.’
‘Where are you going?’ I ask.
‘I’m going round to the public library to look at the footprints.’
Before I can decide whether or not it would be wise to enquire further, Sid has gone. Opening time is not many seconds away and no doubt he has nipped off to get a bit Chopin before Lilley and Skinner. (Chopin and Liszt: pissed. Lilley and Skinner: dinner. Ed.) What can I do to while away the weary hours? I could write a few letters if I had anyone to write to, or try to unclog my biro. It has also been a long time since I pushed back the cuticles on my toenails. It hurts but at the same time you get a funny electric feeling which I quite fancy. You must know what I mean. I have not cleaned my belly button for a few months, either. My spirits rise as I see a whole programme of personal hygiene beginning to take shape. I will start on my toes and work upwards, skipping the most difficult bits until I get home.
I have just got my shoes and socks off and one of my feet on the desk when a shadow falls across the frosted glass. It does not do any damage but the shock makes me whip my tootsie off the desk and kick the telephone into the wastepaper basket. Before I can shout ‘goal!’, the door opens and a large, worried looking guy comes into the room. I would have preferred a beautiful blonde reeking of expensive perfume but you can’t have everything.
I advance round my desk to meet him and then shuffle back as I see him looking at my bare feet.
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘What can I do for you, Mr—?’ ‘Brown,’ says the bloke. ‘You handle divorce business, don’t you?’ His eyes follow me as I replace the receiver on the phone in the wastepaper basket.
‘We’re getting a new one,’ I explain. ‘Yes, Mr Brown. We handle divorce business. We handle anything. What’s your problem?’
The man looks round and lowers his voice confidentially. ‘It’s my wife,’ he says.
That’s a relief, I think to myself. Nothing too complicated to begin with. ‘Playing around, is she?’ I say.
Mr Brown looks impressed. ‘How did you know that? I only dropped her off at the golf club on my way here.’
I wave my hand airily. ‘Just call it instinct, Mr Brown. What do you want us to do for you?’
Mr Brown buries his face in his hands. ‘I can’t take any more. It’s too humiliating. The men – her lovers. She’s insatiable.’
‘In where?’ I say. ‘That’s the Indian Ocean, isn’t it? I had a mate who went there for his holidays.’
‘I believe you’re thinking of