Clocks Locks and Danger

by Lizzie Lewis

  My play acting seems to be working. He studies his hand briefly. “I’m not married. What makes you think that?”

  “Isn’t that mark where you normally wear a ring?” I can’t see any mark, but I’m sure it’s all right to say something like that, because I’m working for a client. And anyway, there’s no way I’m going to get romantically involved.

  Victor laughs. “Definitely no wife.”

  “A good-looking man like you?” I can feel my heart pounding. The next question is vital. “Steady girlfriend?”

  “Not really,” he says, and I can see a sort of hunger in his eyes. But I’m not done yet.

  “I can’t believe it. Your wife must have lost a real treasure when you got divorced.”

  Am I really saying this? Well, the worst that can happen is that he goes in and slams the door, and I have to give Mrs Miller a refund.

  But he doesn’t go indoors. “Are you interested?” he asks, with a smirk.

  I’ve been careful to keep my left hand out of sight. “I expect you say that to all the girls.” And I laugh. “We don’t know each other yet. You’re clearly a man of mystery.”

  I realise that the elderly woman who had been peeping from behind her net curtain has now come out. She’s fiddling with one of the ornamental bushes in her front garden. She’s obviously ear-wigging.

  Victor winks at me, and nods towards the elderly woman. “Why don’t you come in and we can get to know each other better?”

  I hear the elderly woman making a tutting noise. This is working out well. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I say. Then I add, “Today.”

  “That’s up to you,” he says. Now he’s playing hard to get.

  “Let me just try the engine again.” I jump back into my Micra and crank the engine. It fires first time. I get out to slam the bonnet shut, and smile at Victor Armitage. The elderly neighbour is glaring at me as though I’ve turned up here as the most scarlet of scarlet women, looking for customers.

  As I get ready to drive off, I wind down the passenger window and give Victor a wave. “See you,” I call out.

  Victor returns my wave. “Soon, I hope,” are the last words I hear. What a sleazy man. No wonder Mrs Miller is suspicious of him.

  The elderly woman lives at number eleven. I need to find out her name before I come back, without my car, wearing one of my disguises.

  Chapter 21

  I’m back at my office, sitting at my impressive desk with my less than impressive laptop. I really do need something with a brighter screen and a faster hard drive. This one’s almost five years old, and slow with it. My only concern is getting everything safely transferred to the new one. Some of my favourite apps may not even work. Phone shop guy seems helpful. If I buy a new laptop, perhaps he can transfer everything. I’ll have to check when I go to see if he’s run out of my business cards.

  I’m doing a search for number eleven Beechcroft Road. It’s an outside chance, because the resident’s name isn’t going to be on Google or any news channel unless they’ve done something noteworthy. Now, that’s an idea. I should have thought of it before.

  I should be searching for Victor Armitage’s name at number fourteen Beechcroft Road. He’s much more likely to have done something noteworthy, probably something dodgy. The local paper might even have mentioned his divorce. I’m only assuming he’s married, or was married once.

  I’m out of luck. Well, I can’t expect too much. Just finding Victor Armitage in and being able to chat him up – correction, letting him chat me up – has been an excellent start. My next port of call will be the main library in town. No, my next visit is going to be Button Up for a large cappuccino and an apple Danish. I need to revive my flagging spirits. The episode with Victor Armitage has drained me, but only temporarily. Plus, I’m still reeling from the distressing story from Tom and Daisy MacDonald with little Katie.

  What a day I’m having!

  Abi is there, and so is Melanie. Pete appears from the storeroom and the three of them make a beeline for my little table which now has a permanent Reserved sign on it. As Abi has already told me, the Reserved sign means it’s reserved for family and friends, and it’s great to be accepted so soon as a friend.

  “Well?” the three ask, almost in unison.

  I need to keep my voice down. The coffee shop is busy with shoppers recovering from their shopping trips. Button Up isn’t on the main high street, but it’s better than anything I’ve managed to find in the centre.

  “Progress,” and that’s all I’m going to tell them for now. But then again, as long as I don’t mention names, the customers may ask Abi and Melanie who I am when I’ve left, and they can hand them one of my flyers which are now prominently displayed on the service counter – assuming they haven’t picked one up already. “Excellent progress,” I add loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “There’s very little to tell you at the moment,” I say quietly, and Pete immediately loses interest and goes to rescue a toasty.

  “I can’t discuss it here, but I need to visit a little old lady. I think she’s the eyes and ears of the neighbourhood.”

  Well, I can visit the little old lady once I know her name. I don’t want to turn up unannounced. Anyway, Victor Armitage might well be looking from his window. I think he might also fancy himself as the eyes and ears of the neighbourhood, even if it’s only to spot local talent. Oh, am I really that cynical about men?

  The main library will have what’s called the Electoral Roll, which lists every house and resident over the age of eighteen. There’s just one drawback to this. By law, it’s possible not to have your name included in the public copy of the Electoral Roll, although the council are obliged to keep a secure record of everyone’s names. One reason to keep your name secret is if you don’t want canvassers and doorstep salespeople turning up and addressing you by name, or sending you personally addressed junk mail. Or even trying to track you down.

  Fortunately, the little old lady at number eleven has no reason to conceal her name from public gaze. She is Stephanie Cooke, with an e. As soon I’m outside the library I try directory enquiries on my phone. Not only does Stephanie Cooke have no objection to keeping her name on the public Electoral Role, it seems she’s happy to have her phone number listed.

  I’m not going to phone her here in the street. I have to go back to Button Up to make the phone call in the privacy of my office which is only a ten minute walk away. I also need to prepare myself for the visit. What colour wig shall I wear?

  I sink into one of the small leather armchairs by the window with my phone. Being a private detective is exhausting, emotionally as well as physically. Mostly emotionally so far.

  “Mrs Cooke, my name is Janika Jones. I’m a private investigator and you saw me this morning talking to your neighbour, Victor Armitage.”

  A loud voice says, “I’m sorry, I don’t want‒‒‒‒”

  “Please hear me out, Mrs Cooke. You’re not going to get involved at all, but I represent a mother who is very concerned for her daughter.” Maybe that will loosen the old lady’s tongue.

  “What do you want to know ... exactly?”

  “It will be better if I can call in and see you. It’s easier to discuss things face-to-face.”

  I get the impression that Stephanie Cooke has plenty of things she’d like to share about Victor Armitage, and merely needs a bit of encouragement. If I’m talking to her in her house rather than on the phone, I feel certain she’ll tell me things I want to know. Also, she won’t be able to put the phone down if she feels she’s said too much.

  “No, no, that won’t do,” she says. “I don’t want Mr Armitage thinking I’m gossiping about him. If he recognises you, he’ll guess why you’re here. I don’t like him, but I have to live here. Sorry.”

  I’m losing her. “Mrs Cooke, I’m a private investigator. I will come in disguise. You won’t recognise me, and nor will Victor Armitage. And I won’t bring my car. I’ll come in a taxi, and I’ll bring a la
rge bunch of flowers as a gift. You can ask me in and I’ll let the taxi go. Please, I can’t give my clients name, but she is a mother who is seriously concerned about a relationship her daughter is in with Mr Armitage.”

  Phyllis Cooke says, “Ah, that will be the blonde girl with the black sports car who sometimes spends the night. And her already married as well. Yes, if you really are a private investigator, there are certainly things I would like to tell you. When can you come? You can come now if you like. Mr Armitage is out, and he never gets back until after four thirty. I don’t like to gossip, but he’ll be at the betting shop.”

  The “blonde girl with the black sports car who sometimes spends the night” doesn’t sound like Mrs Miller’s Laura, which could be good news for Mrs Miller, but not for her daughter. And “her already married as well” implies that Victor Armitage is also married.

  Knowing that people who “don’t like to gossip,” are the very ones who do, I’m certain I’m on a winner here with Stephanie Cooke. Time to phone for a cab.

  I ask the driver to stop at the filling station where I spot a range of floral arrangements in buckets outside. I’m not going to go to a florist and spend a fortune. I’ve no idea how fruitful Stephanie Cooke is going to prove to be. But I’ll buy one of their better bunches, and peel the garage sticker off the cellophane packaging.

  I’m wearing a long ginger wig that comes to my shoulders. Thinking about it now, perhaps I should have waited and brought Liam with me. We’d look like mother and son visiting a relation. But Liam isn’t back from school yet, and I certainly don’t want a young boy listening to what might be a rather sordid conversation.

  It’s a warm day, so I’m wearing a mid-length floral skirt instead of the jeans I was wearing earlier, and a fawn jacket and high heels. As I totter up the driveway towards Stephanie Cooke’s house wearing a pair of spectacles with thin black frames and plain glass, I can see her standing in the window. And she’s frowning. She obviously doesn’t recognise me. Brilliant.

  Even now, when she’s come to the door, she’s still frowning. She looks at the flowers. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house, dear?”

  I smile. “It’s me, Janika Jones. We spoke on the phone just a few minutes ago.”

  She’s peering at me. Either my disguise is amazing, or her eyesight isn’t that special. It doesn’t matter about her eyesight, as long as it’s been good enough to keep an eye on Mr Armitage.

  She looks at my business card and smiles. “Yes, of course you did. And what lovely flowers you’ve brought me, dear. I’ve been expecting you, and the kettle is on. I’m sure you’d like tea.”

  I’m not sure if she means a cup of tea, or what some elderly people call afternoon tea, consisting of sandwiches and cake. I’m happy for either. It’s all in the cause of duty. So I say, “Yes please.”

  “I’ll just put these in water, dear,” Mrs Cooke says, and disappears into the back of the house, leaving me standing in the hallway.

  I can hear the sound of running water, and guess she’s filling a vase. After a moment there’s more running water, and this sound has an echo with it. My detective brain tells me she’s now filling a kettle. Well, it’s just a guess.

  It seems I’m right, because Stephanie Cooke reappears with the flowers in a vase and she tells me the kettle is on. She’d like me to follow her back into the kitchen.

  “Sorry to leave you standing, dear. Thoughtless of me. Now, why are you here? It seems to have slipped my mind.”

  Fortunately, I’m not going to need Stephanie Cooke as a court witness. She’d be totally at sea, and probably unable to remember anything about what she had earlier claimed to have seen. But I’m not after a robust court witness who won’t break down during aggressive cross examination, just someone who doesn’t mind indulging in a bit of gossip.

  Chapter 22

  “I’m so sorry to hear you have a neighbour like Mr Armitage,” I say, opening the conversation as soon as we’re sitting down with a tray containing a fancy teapot, two delicate cups in matching saucers, a milk jug and the sugar bowl. Plus an assortment of rather plain looking biscuits. It seems that elderly people love their delicate china, as well as their biscuits. I don’t think a delicate tea service like this would last long with my rather rough and ready washing-up.

  “I never want to speak ill of anybody,” Stephanie Cooke says quietly, as though afraid of being overheard by her neighbour on the opposite side of the road. “It’s just that I don’t like to see women getting hurt.”

  “Nor do I,” I say, with some emphasis. Been there, done that. Bruno nearly ruined my life in Poland. Six slow and deliberate blows to my stomach. I counted every one. The bleeding started almost immediately.

  “Here’s my business card, Mrs Cooke. Are you Mrs Cooke?” I can see a ring on her arthritic fingers, but there’s no sign of a man in the house.

  “Mr Cooke passed away three years ago,” she says, a sad look in her eyes. “I’m not here for much longer.”

  What’s the right response? I say, “I’m sorry to hear that. I have to say you look well.”

  Stephanie Cooke laughs for the first time. “I’m not joining my husband just yet,” she says, “but this house is too big for me. My daughter insists I go to live with her, but I don’t want to impose. Anyway, enough of me. So you’re investigating Mr Armitage?”

  “I am. It is all right if we record this conversation? It will only be between us and my client.”

  “Yes of course, dear, if you need to. It’s quite like playing detectives.”

  She’s right. This is just the sort of role playing we did at my residential course. But now I’m doing it for a living. I’ve already switched my recorder on. That’s important, in case the person being interviewed denies you ever asked for permission. If they say no, then I can just switch it off. No harm is done, and they won’t know they’ve been recorded for just a few seconds.

  “As I said on the phone, I can’t give you any names, but a mother is concerned about her daughter’s relationship with Mr Armitage. From the description you gave of the visitor with the dyed blonde hair with the black sports car who sometimes stays the night, we’re not talking about the same woman.”

  “Well, that’s the only one I’ve seen here. Could you describe your client’s daughter?”

  Actually, I can’t. All I know is her name and age. “She’s in her early twenties. Does that help?”

  Mrs Cooke shakes her head. “I knew it, I knew it. I always suspected he had several women on the go. This visitor is at least the same age as Mr Armitage. She is what we used to call mutton dressed as lamb. Flashy. I don’t know what she sees in him, or what he sees in her.”

  “My client is concerned that Mr Armitage may be discussing marriage with her daughter. I want to be honest with you, Mrs Cooke. What I did this afternoon was part of a ploy. My car didn’t really break down. I wanted to get into conversation with Victor Armitage to see if I could get him to admit he’s married. My client’s daughter believes he’s single.”

  “Do drink your tea, dear,” Mrs Cooke says. “Definitely married. I don’t listen to people’s conversation, of course not, but I was in the garden and I couldn’t help overhearing that brazen hussy with the dyed hair and dark roots asking him when his divorce is going to come through.”

  I take a delicate sip of tea from the delicate bone china cup and return it safely to the saucer. “And what did he say?”

  “The man said he still hadn’t done anything about it, but it didn’t bother him if it didn’t bother her. And then they both laughed. What sort of people are living in the world nowadays?”

  Probably the same sort of people who have always been living in the world, but that’s only my thoughts, and I make a suitably sympathetic noise. Like Wilfred Chadwick’s tea in the village, Mrs Cooke has put far too much milk in my cup. I’m sure I won’t do this when I’m old. I prefer tea black to tea that’s unnecessarily milky.

  “His wife left him three yea
rs ago, dear. I do know that.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Trish. Something like that. Yes, Tricia. She’s still in town, so Mrs Markham says. Living in the Lister area. I expect Mrs Markham will know her address. She knows everything and everyone around here. Would you like me to ask? She lives next door but one.”

  I shake my head. I expect Mrs Markham has net curtains, too. “Not at the moment thank you, Mrs Cooke. I’m employed by a concerned mother. I have to ask if she requires more information. In that case, I’ll definitely come back to you. You’ve been so helpful. But please don’t say anything about my visit to Mr Armitage.”

  I can be on my way. Two cases in twenty-four hours. Actually, my only two cases, but surely those flyers will bring in more work. It’s not proof, but I’m hoping Mrs Miller will be able to convince her daughter she’s dating a loser when I write my report on what I’ve seen and heard today, and I won’t need to trawl through marriage and divorce records for proof.

  What is proven is the result of the surveillance of Tom McDonnell’s grandmother and little Katie.

  I’m just about to leave, when Mrs Cooke says, “That brazen hussy will be here today. She’s always here on a Wednesday at five. If your client wants to come round, she’s welcome to sit here in my lounge and watch. She’ll be quite safe behind my net curtains.”

  I think Abi would say spying on neighbours is exactly what curtains were designed for, and why they still sell well in certain neighbourhoods. I say I’ll pass the offer on.

  Mrs Cooke suggests it might be unwise for my client’s daughter to come as well, if she and Mr Armitage know each other. “Unless she enters my house secretly. I can leave the back gate open if your client likes. It’s no good coming by the front door. If Victor Armitage is looking out of his window, he’ll know the game is up.”

  “That’s really good thinking, Mrs Cooke. Anyway, my work here is done for now. I need to report back to my client. Is it all right if I give her your phone number? I expect she’d like to take up your offer of sitting here later to watch the lady arrive.”