by Keith Dixon
*
WHEN I WAS certain that she was OK, I decided it was best for me to leave. Laura walked me out of the office and we found Eddie Hampshire standing in reception, being greeted by one of the women consultants I’d seen on my first day. His black hair curled over his white shirt collar and his neck bulged under the constraint of his tie. The consultant murmured something softly, then turned and headed towards the part of the building where she and her colleagues were holed up. Hampshire turned and gave me a white-toothed grin, then reached out to shake hands with Laura and then with me. He clasped my hands with both of his, his huge paws smothering my fingers and crushing and holding them for a long moment, until finally he relaxed his grip and I took my hands back. His eyes glittered with recognition.
‘You’re the sod who asked me lots of impertinent questions while I was driving through that armpit they call Leicestershire.’
‘You’re still drumming up work, then.’ I said, nodding past him into the consultancy division, where the woman was standing waiting.
He looked briefly uncomfortable. ‘I had a phone call—“We need you desperately”—who am I to resist? Now that some tosspot’s seen fit to take Rory and Tara out of the picture, the company needs lots of warm bodies to put in front of clients—sorry, that’s an unfortunate turn of phrase.’
‘You don’t feel embarrassed about coming back, after the way you were treated?’
‘That was Rory. As I told you, I was looking for an excuse to leave. Rory was his usual insensitive self and I took the opportunity to walk away. Things are different now.’
‘Why—because Rory’s not around?’
‘No, because the company’s in trouble. I still have some friends here. If there’s something I can do to help out, then I’m willing.’
‘For a fee.’
‘Well nobody does anything for free, do they? I’d be a stupid sod if I did, wouldn’t I?’
I let the silence hang for a moment. Laura looked at me as if she were wondering how she could throw a bag over my head.
I said to Hampshire, ‘Is that your BMW in the visitors slot downstairs?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was out at Rory’s house to see Tara, not long after he’d been found dead. Someone driving a BMW had a row with her and left at full pelt.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Just asking.’
Hampshire smiled his toothpaste smile. He looked at Laura to share his amusement.
‘Good god, man, don’t be such a tosspot. Look around—this is Waverley, spiritual home of the BMW. You’d be more in line looking for someone who wasn’t driving a Beemer.’
‘You might have a point. Colour’s the same, though.’
‘I don’t know what all this is leading to. I already told you I was in London the day Rory was murdered. Can’t be in two places at the same time, can I? Listen to me! I’m talking like I’m a suspect.’
I turned to Laura. ‘What do you think, Laura? Is he a suspect?’
‘Well he’s always suspicious, if that’s what you mean.’
Hampshire took this as an opportunity for a hale-fellow-well-met bout of laughter, during which he bent to pick up his briefcase. I saw again the leverage in his shoulders. He leaned forward and gave Laura a dry kiss on the cheek.
‘Not my car,’ he said to her with a grin. ‘Came by train today. Much simpler.’ He turned to me. ‘Nice to meet you again, Dyke. Especially in your true colours. I’ve never met a private detective before. You’re not half as seedy as I expected.’
‘I have my moments.’
Another bout of laughter and he was gone, following the woman consultant and laughing jovially with her as they moved out of sight. I watched him vanish and wondered why he made me feel uneasy.
Laura asked, ‘What was all that with the car?’
‘Trying something on, that’s all.’
‘Is there even a BMW down there?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
She smiled grimly.
‘And what are you going to do about the swipe cards?’
‘I’ve got an idea, but I’ll need some help from an unlikely source.’
