Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose

by Peter Lovesey

  Gary practically gibbered, “It was a scam, Jay, it was only meant to be a scam. We never agreed no violence.”

  Jason took pity. He’d had his fun, and other people in the train were starting to look at Gary. “I bet you still believe in the bloody tooth fairy and all. I never touched her.”

  Gary’s breathing subsided. “Honest?”

  “Honest. How could I? I was humping these cases to the station.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Get real, pal. We’re on our way.”

  Their flight was due to take off at 23.10 from Terminal Four. They had plenty of time in hand. After checking in their cases and going through the passport control, they had a leisurely meal and a few drinks and started to get into the holiday mood.

  “How long do you reckon it’s going to take before old Cronk finds out he’s been ripped off?” said Gary.

  “Week. Longer,” said Jason. “He might smell a rat when I don’t come into work, but he’ll think I’m ill, or something.”

  “And he can’t do sweet f.a. about it. It’s neat, Jay. Real neat.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Their flight was called. They walked to the departure lounge and showed their tickets and passports. One of the officials in suits said, “Would you come with me, gentlemen?”

  “What for?” said Jason.

  “This is your passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are Jason Richardson and you, sir, are Gary Morton? You won’t be boarding this flight. We’re police officers with orders to arrest you.”

  After a scuffle, the pair were handcuffed and led away to the airport police office. They were cautioned and then questioned about their movements.

  “You’ve got nothing on us,” Jason said.

  “We opened your luggage,” the inspector said. “Almost five grand in twenties?”

  “It’s a long holiday,” said Jason cleverly.

  “Don’t waste your breath, lad. We heard about you from Mr Cronk, getting yourself invited to his place and sussing it out for a robbery, knowing how scrap metal merchants have to handle large amounts of cash. That’s naughty enough, but beating an innocent woman to death is evil.”

  Mrs Cronk dead?

  Jason went cold. Suckered. He couldn’t believe Mr Cronk had it in him.

  Gary whimpered.

  “Take their prints. See if they match up to the prints on the sledgehammer found at the scene. I’m confident they will. Armed robbery, murder and conspiracy to murder. Yes, it will be a long holiday, gentlemen.”

  THE MIGHTY HUNTER

  George Blackitt sniffed the bottle suspiciously, poured some of the stuff on his finger-tips and sniffed again. This would be the first time in a life of seventy years that he had used aftershave.

  He took another look at the label. Surfaroma for Roughriders. It certainly smelt rough, he thought, wondering how he had allowed himself to be conned into buying a product so overpriced. Embarrassment, really, he admitted. He wouldn’t easily live down the giggles of the two young girls in the village shop when he’d given them his prepared speech. “I want it for my nephew in London actually. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, wears the latest clothes and drives a sports car. Do you get the idea?”

  Having sold him the bottle of Surfaroma, the pert little miss had caused a fresh eruption of mirth from her workmate by asking pointedly if his nephew required anything else from the shop. George had reddened deeply and fled.

  In his day, it would have been unmanly to have used aftershave. Or the other things. He dabbed Surfaroma on his face and winced. It stung.

  A large black tomcat stirred in his favourite armchair across the room, opened his eyes and changed position. Catching a whiff of the aftershave, he raised his head just enough for a more informative sniff, then buried his nose under his tail.

  “I don’t blame you, Nimmy,” George confided to his cat.

  “However, needs must, old friend. Can’t expect a lady like Edith Plumley to entertain a gentleman smelling of soap, oh no. She’s used to certain standards from her admirers. A sophisticated lady, Chairperson of the Darby and Joan Club, Queen of the formation dancing, Treasurer of the village fete committee. Quite a good catch, if she’s willing to be caught, as I believe she is.”

  Nimrod had fallen asleep.

  George gave up talking to the cat and talked to himself instead. He picked up his clip-on bow tie and stood in front of the mirror to adjust it. “You haven’t seen action in a while, George Blackitt, but things are about to change.” His reflection looked silently back, smart but strained, not totally impressed by this bravado. He turned away and reached for the jacket of his dark suit. “Well, you haven’t worn this since Ivy’s funeral.” He sighed as he put it on. “Three years last month. Ivy, old girl, you wouldn’t have wanted me to stay lonely for the rest of my life, would you?”

  If a response had come from across the great divide, George wouldn’t have heard it because he immediately started talking to the cat again. “Nimmy, old pal,” he said, “it’s time for another funeral. My own.” He leaned over the chair and stroked the glossy, warm fur.

  “This is goodbye and R.I.P. to George Blackitt, the wretched widower. And welcome to George Blackitt, debonair, superbly groomed and shortly to cause a flutter in the heart of one Edith Plumley. Stand by for an announcement.” He scratched Nimrod’s head. “Come on, old fellow, I’d better get you fed. Who knows, it could be a long night. I’m not saying what time I’ll be back. Come on, Nimmy. Nimrod.”

  Nimrod stood, arched his back and stretched. His name had been called in the proper tone, though the time was earlier than usual. At ten years old, the big, black tom had one companion he would never leave: the blue ceramic feed bowl just behind the door.

  “Here we go, old chum,” George said whilst filling the bowl with brawn. “This ought to keep you going till I get back.” A fleck of meat jelly landed on one of his highly polished black brogues. The cat pounced on it in an instant. George looked down fondly. “I named you well, didn’t I? ‘Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord.’ ” No small mammal was safe within range of the cottage. In the summer Nimrod would be gone for hours, checking the hedgerows and the little wood across the meadow. Sometimes he went without processed catmeat for a week. He brought back what he couldn’t consume and left it by the front door, birds, mice, voles and sometimes baby rabbits, hopeful always that when he went back and prodded one of the small corpses it would revive and test the reaction of his right forepaw.

  George sang a line from an old song from years past. “Wish me luck as I go on my way.”

  Nimrod had his head in the feed bowl.

  Two hours later, George was sitting uncomfortably in a rocking chair in Edith Plumley’s cottage, regretting having agreed to a second helping of the steak and kidney pie. The meat had been tough and the pastry only semicooked. He sipped the tea she had given him and tried to wash away the after-taste.

  “Biscuit, Mr Blackitt?”

  “Well—”

  “Do have one. I like a man who can eat.”

  George took a digestive. He bit with concentration lest the damned thing disintegrate into a pile of crumbs on his lap. “It was a meal to remember, Mrs Plumley.”

  “I’m so pleased you enjoyed it, Mr Blackitt.” Mrs Plumley lookedradiant and George noticed that she, too, had made an extra effort.

  She’d had her hair done and she was wearing a lace blouse. She had some kind of slip underneath, so it was perfectly decent.

  He said, not untruthfully, “First class cooks are hard to find.”

  “I’ve had plenty of practice. You like steak and kidney?”

  “You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

  She smiled. “Most men seem to like it.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. The grandfather clock in the corner was ticking audibly.

  “Nice weather for the time of year,” said George.

  A twinkle came to Edith Plumle
y’s eye. “Next thing you’ll be asking if I come here often. Please, just relax. I suggest it would help if we used first names.”

  He felt himself blush. “If you like.” He still found her attractive, even if she couldn’t cook. She was young in her manner. He guessed she was about sixty-three, but she could have passed for less.

  “George.”

  “Yes . . . Edith?”

  “I want to tell you something now, and I want to be sure I’m understood. I’m not in the habit of entertaining gentlemen in my home. In fact you are the first since . . . since I parted from Gregory.

  If I seem a little eager to be friends it’s just that at our time of life I believe we have earned the right to dispense with—for want of a better word—the foreplay.”

  “Oh,” said George, and accidentally set the chair rocking and slurped tea into his saucer.

  Edith continued, “There isn’t time for all that pussyfooting. Let’s dispense with it, George. Let’s admit that we’re human beings with needs and impulses.”

  The digestive snapped. His crotch was covered in crumbs. He moved his hand there to cover his incompetence. He managed to say, “I wouldn’t argue with that, Edith.”

  “Good.” She gave him a long, expectant look.

  George swallowed hard. Why had she stopped talking? Why did her eyes beg his for a response? Why was a little drop of sweat rolling down his spine? Why hadn’t he met her forty years ago?

  “If you’d like to know,” said George, “I really fancy you, Edith.”

  He jerked his leg and set the chair going again. He was horrified. The statement sounded so crude. Where had it come from?

  Edith laughed heartily. “You’re a smooth talker, George, and an old rogue, too. I suspect you’re making fun of me.”

  “No, Edith. Absolutely not. I didn’t mean it. I mean I did mean it, in a way, but not in another way, if you know what I mean.” He was no better than a tongue-tied schoolboy on his first date.

  Like a lifebelt, Edith’s command rescued George from his sea of embarrassment. “Come with me. You’ve been frank with me, and I don’t mind admitting that you took me by surprise. And now it’s my turn. After what you said, we should definitely hold nothing back. Put down your cup.”

  Without a word he got up and followed her ample form through the door beside the stone hearth. They entered her bedroom.

  It was all so sudden. George felt a confusing mixture of guilt, elation and panic. Up to now he had always believed in the afterlife.

  As he stepped onto Edith Plumley’s pink carpet and saw her double bed with its muslin canopy elegantly draped above the pillows, he told himself that atheism might, after all, be more appealing as a philosophy. He didn’t want dear Ivy’s immortal soul watching the witless ease of his seduction—on one glass of Australian sherry and a half-cooked pie.

  And he wasn’t entirely confident of satisfying Edith Plumley’s expectations.

  She turned and said, “This is the only way to get to it.”

  He said manfully, “I’m game for anything.”

  She crossed the room and opened another door. The en suite shower-room, he guessed. Fair enough. He, too, would be happier undressing in private.

  She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Come on, then.”

  He hesitated. “Both at once?”

  She said, “There’s room. Come on in.” She giggled and disappeared inside.

  George took a deep breath like a diver and followed her into the darkened room. It had a curious smell for a shower-room, a dry, musty aroma, vaguely familiar. George couldn’t place it, but he didn’t care much for it.

  Edith felt for his hand and gripped it. Then she turned on the light. “Meet my little ones,” she said. “Now everyone say hello to my friend George.”

  This wasn’t a bathroom after all. It was a small dressing room, but instead of a wardrobe there were two shelves stacked with glass cages.

  “You keep mice?” said George, too obviously in the circumstances.

  He knew the smell now. It was that of the local petshop where he bought Nimrod his supply of brawn.

  “That’s my secret,” said Edith proudly. “Thirty-nine at the last count. All selectively bred over the last two years.”

  “Pedigree mice?”

  “Well, of course! Look.” She pointed to the back wall, a mosaic of rosettes and certificates. “One more win and I’ll be a lifetime member of the National Fancy Mouse Society. That’s my ambition, George.”

  George discreetly put a handkerchief to his nose and tried breathing through his mouth.

  “I may have given you the wrong impression just now,” said Edith, “bringing you through my bedroom, but that’s the only way in, you see.

  I just loved the expression on your face.”

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted.

  “You wondered what the invitation amounted to, didn’t you, and I dare say you’re heartily relieved,” she said. “Heavens, we’re too old to get up to things we shouldn’t. I think I’d die if anyone saw me in bed.”

  “I can’t think why,” George gallantly said.

  “Well, someone I hardly know.”

  “We could remedy that,” said George.

  “Given time, perhaps,” said she.

  “Not too much time,” he said, feeling bolder now that the immediate challenge had been deferred.

  “Any friend of mine would have to get used to the mice,” said Edith. “And the smell. It all comes with me, I’m afraid. I keep them as clean as I can. Come and look at these.” She indicated a cage set apart from the rest.

  George peered politely at the two mice inside.

  “Long-haired black and white hooded. The classic breeding pair,” whispered Edith, her eyes rooted on the feeding mice. “The final show of the year is in Warminster in September. Only a short-haired silver-hood could possibly beat them. And there haven’t been any shown at Warminster since 1985.”

  “You can see they’re special,” said George. He’d told white lies about the steak and kidney pie, so why not about these pesky mice?

  Edith turned from the tank to look at George, her eyes shining. “You probably think I’m dotty, but these are my life. Would you really like to be part of it? Would you come with me to the Warminster show? I want someone to share my proudest moment with me. Then, who knows?”

  “Edith, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” said George. Confident at last, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Their worlds collided gently amongst the sunflower seeds and sawdust.

  He was home before eleven. Nimrod was out, enjoying his night life.

  Ten days later, new neighbours moved into the empty cottage next door. George watched from his window in a fatalistic way as an immaculate Land Rover drew up. The place had changed hands several times in the past few years and he’d never got to know the people properly. They had been young couples from suburbia with unreal dreams of living in the country. One winter was usually enough; the familiar red and white ‘For Sale’ board would go up again and the garden would get overgrown until the new owners came in. Mind, the long grass made a happy hunting ground for Nimrod.

  This time the young lady seemed friendly, knocking on George’s door to introduce herself before the removal van arrived. In her middle twenties, with what used to be called a ‘county’ accent, but vivacious and attractive, she said she was Hannah from Dorking and her ‘man’ was Keith—which George took to mean that they were not married. He didn’t object. The world had changed, and his own views on morality were changing too. He offered Hannah tea. They worked in television, he learned. She was a freelance researcher (whatever that meant) and Keith was a floor manager, which Hannah seemed to imply was something more exalted than keeping the floor clean, which was George’s first assumption. Hannah said she had travelled on ahead of Keith who was with the removal gang to supervise the handling of some of the more precious items.

  The van arrived and Hannah ran out to
unlock for them. George settled down to watch the activity from the window. He was rather less obvious about it than Nimrod, who was sitting in the road gazing steadily into the back of the removal van. The Sutton boys from two doors up were out there as well, gaping. George had nothing but contempt for parents who allowed their children to be so blatantly nosy.

  Keith, it appeared, was one of the four hefty fellows in T-shirt and jeans unloading the van. George had difficulty guessing which of them was the most likely to be the live-in lover of the elegant Hannah. She looked far too classy for any of them. But in mid-afternoon the van left, taking three in the cab and leaving one sitting on the drystone wall smoking a cigarette. He had cropped hair and a silver ear-ring.

  George remarked to Nimrod, who had come in to be fed, “She’s all right, but I’m not so happy about having him next door.” He put on the kettle again, preparing do the neighbourly thing and take them both some fresh tea and biscuits.

  “Into the fray, Nimmy, old friend,” he said as he ventured out of the door, tray in hand.

  Keith didn’t even get off the wall. “For us? Nice timing, squire,” he said without removing his cigarette. “Go right in, mate.”

  “George Blackitt, from next door,” said George still holding the tray and therefore unable to offer his hand as he would have wished.

  Keith shouted in a voice the whole village must have heard, “Han, are you there? Guy here with some Rosy Lea.”

  George stepped gingerly into the cluttered living room. Furniture and boxes stood in disorder everywhere.

  “Mr Blackitt, what a marvellous thought!” said Hannah, appearing from the kitchen. “This is so generous.”

  “I’ll leave it on the piano, shall I?” said George. “There’s no hurry for the things. Tomorrow will do.”

  “Please don’t rush off,” she said. “Stay and have some with us. Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare mug somewhere. That’s one thing we have unpacked.”

  “Moving is a pain in the arse, ain’t it, George?” Keith’s voice said from the doorway. “Park yours on the chair, mate. Han and I don’t mind squatting on the floor.”