“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 Plumley’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.”