Wednesday
Cleo and Dorothy finally met a day or two late for their
weekly breakfast consultation. Frank was busy, so he could not attend. In a
week or two he would be taking over office duties while Cleo concentrated on her
expanding family.
***
Frank sent a text to Cleo to tell her where he was. At ten
o’clock on Wednesday morning Dorothy arrived at the office with some bara brith
(made from her Welsh recipe for currant loaf) straight from the oven for their breakfast.
The two sleuths were soon enjoying thick slices of the bread dripping with
butter and accompanied by the excellent espresso that Cleo had made in her
state-of-the-art coffee maker.
“Sinful soul-food”, Cleo commented. “I’ll have to skip lunch.”
“No you won’t, Cleo? You’re eating for three.”
“That old wives’ tale went out with old wives, Dorothy.”
“OK, but let’s not waste my baking.”
Dorothy was tall and sinewy and had never gained weight in
her life once she had reached adulthood, she said. That may have been the
reason she was so adept at not counting calories even when they were extremely
visible..
***
One of Cleo’s jobs had been to phone the primary school to
find out if any children were missing. Twins named Scott, she had been told,
had been missing for a few days, but no one seemed to have done anything about
it. Another day’s truancy and Miss Digby would have phoned the parents herself,
Cleo was assured.
“Don’t bother,” Cleo had told her. “Mother and kids are dead
and the head of the household has absconded.”
“I’ll believe that when I hear it officially,” Miss Digby
had snapped.
“This is official, Lady,” Cleo had said, and hung up, disgusted
at the woman’s reaction. Rumours about her being unfit to supervise kids came
to Cleo’s mind.
“That woman is abominable,” she told Dorothy. “But I should
not have lost my temper.”
“Miss Digby deserved it,” said Dorothy, who had listened in
to the conversation over the speaker. “She has a record for removing teachers
who don’t employ her kind of discipline, which is straight out of the nineteenth
century. But it’s the parents who should complain. We can’t do anything.”
“Yes we can, Dorothy. Such women often have dark pasts. When
we have time, we’ll look into hers. I’m not having any child of mine at the
mercy of such a dragon.”
“I can’t imagine what sort of a past that woman could have had,”
said Dorothy. “I think she simply has a grudge against humanity. She won’t last
in that job.”
“Don’t bet on it. Old-fashioned teachers get away with their
antiquated methods. If parents protest, those kinds of teachers are sent to a
different school rather than being fired.”
”Well, nothing can help those poor boys now, so what’s
happening in the Spencer case?”
“Gary hinted this morning that he would get Greg to talk to
Mrs Spencer with a view to finding out where she was on that fateful Friday
evening.”
“So I won’t need to go there,” said Dorothy.
“No.”
Dorothy was disappointed.
“But there will be work for you, Dorothy. We’ll just have to
wait until Gary is a bit further along in his questioning. I think he’ll want
you to look into Polly’s social life, but he is not good at delegating.
Sometimes I think his strategy is to tell us not to investigate something
knowing that we’ll do just that.”
“Don’t send me to a disco, Cleo. I’d feel out of place.”
“No. I have a new girl on the books, straight from college.
I’ll phone her, shall I?”
“Do that.”
***
Cheryl Archer was between university and starting her new
job teaching at the comprehensive school in Middlethumpton. A former student
friend of Colin Peck, she had been introduced to Cleo as a talented young
teacher. She helped out at the disco in Middlethumpton, so she was an ideal
person to find out about Polly’s friends. Middlethumpton has only one disco so
all the young people go there, Cleo was sure. Another advantage was Cheryl’s
knowledge of the area since she was born in Middlethumpton and still lived with
her parents there. She would be able to help Frank, who was a stranger, and
could stand in at the office if necessary. By the time Cheryl started teaching,
Cleo would be back at work. What Frank would do then remained a mystery unless
the agency became busier, but Cleo decided to cross that bridge when they came
to it.
***
“Don’t do anything about the Spencers until I you hear from
me,” Cleo told Dorothy. “I’ll have to wait for Gary to tell us what Greg has
done.”
“Then I’ll do some planting in the garden for the rest of
today and visit Flora Snow tomorrow morning,” said Dorothy. “By then, I hope we
will all know a bit more.”
“I’m going to drive to the pub,” said Cleo. “Just for a coffee
and to listen to anything I can pick up there. I’m waiting for news from Frank.
He has a free hand in the Harry Palmer case and will no doubt have achieved
something.”
“On second thoughts,” said Dorothy, “I think I’ll stroll around
Huddlecourt Minor today, Cleo. It’s at times like this that I wish I had a dog
instead of a cat. Dogs are good diplomats.”
“Borrow next door’s, Dorothy.”
The Barkers next door to Dorothy had owned a mongrel that
answered to the name Mohammed.
“I would, but Mohammed has gone to live with Jericho
Williams’s family. He wanted a dog and Mr Barker had taken a dislike to the
amount of time and steaks Mrs Barker devoted to Mohammed. Mr Williams was
afraid that the person who wrote “Vengeance” on the windscreen of his car might
do something worse. We are going to have to find that individual, Dorothy.”
“I don’t know what the world is coming to.”
“That’s exactly what Mr Williams said. Any idea who could have
done it?”
“What about those ruffians from the sports club? They
already have a bad reputation for wilful damage to property,” said Dorothy.
“And they claim to be Christians!”
“Love thy neighbour went out of fashion long ago,” said
Cleo. “To be honest, I don’t think it was ever in fashion. Being kind and
generous has nothing to do with religion, and certainly nothing to do with the
church, whatever nomination it carries.”
“Are you subliminally advising me to love the Barkers, Cleo?”
“Heavens no, but I expect that Mohammed will get a better
deal than Mr Barker’s hens,” said Cleo. “I remember Jane Barker smuggling them
out of the house chloroformed to be set free on the common and left to their
fate.”
“Jane shouts a lot at Mr Barker these days, though he looks
quite sick to me. I’ve cut down contact with her, Cleo. I feel sorry for Mr
Barker. Jane is really quite awful and very stupid.”
“But judging from Mr Barker’s paunch, she cooks well,” said
Cleo.
“He’s given up rearing hens. I think he got too attached to
them. Jane says that he’s drinking heavily. That might explain the paunch. He
infuriates Jane by accusing her of giving away his beautiful dog and
threatening to get an even bigger one next time.”
“I rather hope he does, Dorothy. Shall we find him one?”
“Why not? Mrs Barker was not attached to the hens. It does
not surprise me that she hated the dog. I expect it forgot to wipe its feet.
Isn’t she too house-proud to suffer animals?”
”She does have a mania for housework. I’ll take my new pistol
to Huddlecourt Minor, just in case, shall I?”
“New?”
“Greg got me one to replace my old one. It’s lighter and
more accurate.”
“You should not be firing weapons, Dorothy.”
“Only at the shooting range and in self-defence, Cleo. Greg
has been showing me how to aim for legs. You don’t have to kill someone in
order to immobilize them.”
“Just don’t tell anyone you are a sleuth. Use a nom-de-plume
and pretend to be someone looking for a house to buy, but please not at
gunpoint.”
Although Cleo was smiling and only teasing Dorothy, she had an
uneasy feeling about Dorothy’s enthusiasm for her gun.
“Don’t forget that my age is a good disguise,” said Dorothy,
taking her leave. “Anyway, visiting Flora gives me the excuse I need for being
in that district at all, and she may tell me something useful. I’ll wear my
sleuthing outfit. I always think that being dressed for the job increases the
success potential.”
***
When Dorothy had left, Cleo told Gary over the phone what Dorothy
was about to do and told him that she herself intended to visit Molly and see
how things were. Gary was not keen on her going to Molly’s pub on her own, and
said so.
“But anything else looks official, Gary.”
“I’m not taking bets on how long Molly will be running
around free.”
“We need to check a few facts before we start speculating,”
said Cleo. “I can’t believe that Molly would grab a knife and stalk Ali with
the intention of stabbing him. She needed him and thought the flirt with Polly
would soon lose its novelty.”
“You’re the expert on human nature,” said Gary. “Isn’t it true
of us all that we tend to believe what we want to believe and ignore signs of
contradiction to what we believe? Every religion is based on that human trait.”
“Don’t preach, Gary!”
“Those were your exact words, my love. Roger is on the other
line. I hope he has news of Mortimer. It’s time for some retribution in that corner.
Roger could use a bit of Old Testament logic, too.”
“I phoned the primary school, Gary. Those little boys still
had their mother’s maiden name of Scott. That’s all the information I could get
out of Miss Digby. She was extremely rude.”
“She being…”
“… a school director straight out of hell.”
“You’d better ask Dorothy to dinner, Cleo. I’d really like
to talk to her about her latest sleuthing.”
“She has a rehearsal tonight, Gary, though I’m sure she
would prefer a cosy dinner, especially if Roger comes.”
“I’ve invited him so he’ll come and be disappointed. C’est
la vie.”
***
xxxxx
Cleo made her way to the pub in Huddlecourt Minor, but Molly
was not there. A notice stuck on the door said ‘Opening at 4 p.m.’. Molly had
not let in the regulars for their midday session. That was puzzling. Didn’t
Molly want to run the pub anymore? Cleo phoned Molly on her mobile and Molly
said she had an appointment with her lawyer but would be back at three.
“What do you want, Cleo?” she asked.
“I really just wanted to see how you are, Molly.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Did that cop of yours send you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then there’s no hurry, is there?”
Cleo had to be satisfied with that snappy dialogue.
***
When Dorothy Price had reached a decision, she got moving,
and that was exactly what she did in respect of finding Steve Foster, though
she was far from sure what she would do if she did find him.
After taking the precaution of putting her lady-sized pistol
into her handbag along with pepper spray, her notebook and a biro, donning her
cloche, sturdy shoes and a raincoat, Dorothy marched up Monkton Way, walked
past the old priory and climbed the steep hill to Huddlecourt Minor. There was
no time to lose, she reflected. She would knock on Flora Snow’s door and ask
herself in for a chat, hoping to gain prior information about Foster. To that
end she wrapped a fresh, bap-shaped bara brith in tin foil and took it with her.
Flora Snow was definitely not one of Dorothy’s favourite
people, but she was usually up-to-date on the local news and gossip. She lived
in a corner house that had four custom-built flats for older ladies. Her
quarter of the building was downstairs, on the corner of the main street that
cut through the village and a side street named Elm Road, a treeless street
where Steve Foster apparently lived. Dorothy feigned surprise to see Flora Snow
standing on her doorstep.
“I thought it might be you, Dorothy,” she said.
“Were you expecting me, Flora?”
“Someone told me you had been here before.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy, who should not have been surprised that
she had been spotted.
“I’ve put the kettle on,” said Flora. “Would you like to
have tea with me?”
“Oh, how nice,” fibbed Dorothy.
“You haven’t been around much lately,” said Flora, ushering
Dorothy into the sitting-room.
“I’ve been busy getting the Spiritual Revue organized.”
“That must be hard now my sister is no more,” said Flora.
Dorothy felt bound to put the record straight.
“I always organized the entertainment,” she told Flora.
“Laura made one or two suggestions, but she was never available for the nitty-gritty.”
“She was clever, Dorothy. She left the hard work to others,”
said Flora.
“I noticed,” said Dorothy.
“So what are you doing in these parts now?”
“I’m looking for Steve Foster,” said Dorothy.
“I think you are looking into that Egyptian cook’s death,
aren’t you?”
“What makes you think that, Flora?”
“That little hussy, Polly Spencer, was walking out with
Steve Foster before she latched on to Mr Lewis.”
“It isn’t always the women who are degenerate,” said
Dorothy.
“It’s usually them, enticing innocent men if they think it
will be to their advantage.”
“I beg to differ,” said Dorothy. “Take your half-sister, for
instance.”
“Laura?”
“She would not have become a prostitute unless there were
male customers prepared to pay for what she had to offer.”
“She wasn’t a prostitute. She was only looking after her
interests,” said Flora.
“Exactly,” said Dorothy, thinking that Flora could certainly
have gone down that road, judging from her affluence now.
Flora’s euphemism was hair-raising. Realizing that they were
about to have a quarrel about the definition of a loose woman, Dorothy decided
to get back to Steve Foster.
“You see, Flora, Polly was seduced at a vulnerable age and
persuaded to go away with an awful man.”
“With that swine, Coppins. Everyone knows that,” said Flora.
“She could have said ‘no’.”
“At 15? With the prospect of getting away from home? Never!
That’s not how young girls think, Flora.”
“Well, she came back with a bastard, watched her father swap
women and then went back to working as a barmaid. Then she stole Molly Moss’s
partner. Asking for trouble, if you want my opinion,” said Flora.
“Polly’s mother died of a broken heart didn’t she? That does
not explain why Ali was stabbed in the back, Flora.”
“I don’t know about the broken heart, Dorothy. I have my
doubts there, but I’m just glad it was Ali rather than Steve Foster,” said
Flora. “He does our garden, you know.”
“I suppose that is a valid reason for not getting stabbed,”
said Dorothy, who now knew that Flora would not say anything negative about the
boy, even if she knew something.
“And he was quite a bit younger than Miss Spencer, Dorothy.”
“Do you mean that he probably did not mind being jilted,
Flora?”
Flora fell for the ruse.
“Oh no! He was very jealous, Dorothy. I asked him in and he
sat where you are sitting now, his head in his hands, saying how bitter he was
that Polly had chosen a mere cook when she could have had an ongoing
businessman.”
“A businessman?”
“Steve Foster is at college studying accountancy,” said
Flora. “He’ll be there now.”
“Good for him,” said Dorothy.
“So I told him it was good riddance to bad rubbish,” said
Flora.
“Then he got really angry. He said Polly was not bad
rubbish, and I was forced to say I meant the cook was rubbish and would be a
passing fling, though that is not what I meant, of course.”
“Was he satisfied with that explanation?”
“He said he would get Polly back no matter what it took,”
said Flora.
Dorothy thought that was more like what she wanted to hear.
“I told him it was up to him,” Flora continued, “but that
there were plenty of nice girls who would appreciate him.”
“Did he believe you?”
“He said he was sure there were, but Polly was the love of
his life.”
“So he went away not quite sure if he had your support, I
expect,” said Dorothy.
“Oh no! I made sure he had my unflinching support if she was
the girl he wanted most. He’s a good gardener.”
“Ask him if he’d help me with my garden, Flora,” said
Dorothy.
“I’ll do that, Dorothy. He’s always short of money. I expect
he buys expensive gifts for that barmaid. But you could ask him yourself,
couldn’t you?”
***
Dorothy decided she had heard enough and would make an exit.
She had understood something between the lines of what Flora had told her,
despite the plainly selfish angle taken by Flora, who was more interested in
Steve Foster’s gardening skills than his spurious romantic entanglement. There
was always a chance that Foster would be glad of a few extra hours gardening.
It was worth looking into.
Flora was sorry to see her go. She did not have many
visitors and would have liked to tell Dorothy what her next door neighbours and
their next door neighbours were getting up to these days, but Dorothy was
practiced at getting out of tedious situations, so it wasn’t long before she
was back out on the street. She decided to drop in at the pub and see if Cleo
was there. She was not sure if she should confirm to Cleo that Steve Foster could
be a suspect in the Ali case on grounds of jealousy.
Cleo was sitting in her car outside the pub and none too
pleased to see Dorothy at that moment.
“Steve Foster was not at home,” said Dorothy. “He’s studying
to be an accountant.”
“I thought you were going to see Flora Snow,” she said.
“I’ve been there,” said Dorothy. “She told me what Foster
would be doing. Why are you sitting in the car?”
“The pub is not open yet, Dorothy. It doesn’t open till four
p.m.”
“I thought it opened at eleven.”
“It did in the old days. I hope you did not draw your
pistol, Dorothy.”
“I was tempted. Flora Snow is a most annoying person. When I
look at her, I see Laura all over again.”
“But presumably she told you something important, didn’t
she?”
“Between the lines.”
“You’d better tell me now, Dorothy.”
“That young man named Steve Foster was very angry that Polly
had jilted him and told Flora that he would get her back no matter what it
took. Those were apparently his exact words.”
“So he’s a suspect, isn’t he?” said Cleo.
“That’s what I think, but we need to know more about him
than Flora knew, or was willing to tell me. He does her garden, so she was only
positive about him. I asked Flora to send him to me if he needed more gardening
work. That would be a good way to get to know him and get him to tidy up some
of the corners in the garden that I never have time for.”
“Cheryl Archer is working at the disco tonight, so she could
take a closer look at the guy. If he is there, she might find out something, or
the guy might show off by saying something. He’s minus a girlfriend at the
moment, I assume. I’ll phone her now.”
***
Cleo phoned and gave Cheryl Archer her instructions. In the meantime, Molly opened up, saw Dorothy
standing next to Cleo’s car and asked her what she wanted to drink. She and
Cleo finally got into the pub and sat at a table, where Dorothy produced the
currant bread loaf she had not felt like giving to Flora. Molly fetched plates,
knives and butter and offered Dorothy a contract to deliver ten of those loves
every week. Dorothy refused, apparently reluctant.
After the improvised tea party, Dorothy exchanged brief hugs
with Cleo and Molly and left on a pretext. She would phone Cleo later.
***
Molly did not seem inclined to talk to Cleo. She cleared the
table instead. Some of the regulars came in, greeted Cleo cheerily and without
obscenities and then went to sit at their table. It had a bell hanging over it
that they rang gustily to attract Molly’s attention, as if they did not already
have it.
“Hi Sweetheart,” said Cleo in a low voice to Gary, when he
finally answered her call. “I just want to remind you about our date with Mrs
Colby. Shall I meet you at the Registry Office?”
“Where are you now? What’s all the noise?”
“I’m at Molly’s pub. The regulars are in fine form, but
Molly is not talking. I’m driving home any minute now.”
“I’ll meet you there, and our appointment with Mrs Colby is not
until tomorrow. I phoned her.”
“Great. I hope I’m not losing the plot, Gary.”
“If you are, I hope it’s not catching.”
“I was wondering how we would fit Mrs Colby in with the
dinner party and have something for the guests to eat,” said Cleo.
“So now that problem’s solved,” said Gary. “What dinner
party?”
“Now it’s your turn to forget something.”
“No wonder Roger said he’d see me later,” said Gary. “He
said that the drugs squad had taken on the chemist shop case, but homicide is
still heavily involved.”
“Has the drugs squad used a dog there?”
“I don’t suppose they would do that. You would expect to
find drugs at a chemist’s. It would not take a snooper dog to tell you that and
it’s early days in that robbery case. We need Chris’s forensic verdict.”
“I think illegal drugs will be found at Mortimer’s place,
and do you know, Gary, the more I think about out it, the surer I am that
Mortimer is the sort of guy who could be into something like that.”
“Is that one of Dorothy’s hunches?”
“No. Mine.”
“So his wife might have wanted him to stop,” said Gary.
“Or Mortimer went on one of his trips to the continent and
someone else killed his family as a warning,” Cleo suggested. “Supposing he had
been trying to double-cross a syndicate?”
“So he found his family dead and scrammed instead of
notifying the police,” said Gary.
“That is exactly how he would react if he is smuggling,” said
Cleo. “It’s really weird how self-protective drug dealers are who cause indiscriminate
death and destruction to their customers.”
“It’s the money game. Money and power wielded by ruthless,
evil characters.”
“I’m starting to think my mother was right when she said
life was safer in Chicago.”
“I’m starting to agree. If Mortimer really is a
drug-peddler, we are living almost next door to one.”
***
Gary phoned Roger before leaving HQ, only to hear that as
far as he knew there was nothing new to report on Mr Spencer and Edith Parsnip.
Gary was able to tell him that the Hartley Agency represented by Frank Wetherby
was onto something in the Harry Palmer case, but not ready for the police to
take over. Roger told Gary how hard the French police were working on finding
Mortimer, but not having any success. Mortimer was a keen golfer and enjoying a
respite from serious work while his secretary took a holiday, the French police
reported. Gary thought that any Mortimer was better than none, and told Roger
as much. When they had one brother, they would find the other. In the meanwhile
Cleo was sure that a drugs-trained snooper dogs should be sent to Lilac Way and
to Mortimer’s manufacturing company and look for illegal substances.
“We’ll get onto it right away, Gary,” Roger promised. “Ignoring
one of the agency’s hunches would not be a good idea. They have a very good
record for hitting on something we have neglected.”
“That’s unfortunately true. They supported me when I did not
believe in their capabilities, Roger. Cleo still reminds me of those days from
time to time.”
“Unfortunately, Gary? And are you surprised after being
disparaging?”
“Not surprised, Roger. Rather ashamed, actually. Oh, and it
doesn’t look as if well have an early dinner, Roger.”
“Are you sure you want me to come?”
“Dead sure, as my daughter would say.”
***
Gary was glad to get home. Cleo was making coffee. Gary
reported that no Mortimer had yet been found but one was possibly on a golf
range somewhere.
“The problem is that the French Police are relying on
technology, Gary. They probably phoned around and left it at that.”
“Roger said that Mortimer’s secretary is on holiday.”
“So they’ll wait till they show up, I take it. Why don’t you go there and investigate
yourself?”
“Because I’m getting married on Saturday and that is
absolutely at the top of my list of to-dos!”
“That deserves a hug,” said Cleo.
***
Over coffee Cleo announced that the lack of romantic
elements in modern crime detection was probably the reason why we appreciate
the fictional detectives of the past was that they relied on their little grey cells
for most solutions.
“I personally would have found Conan Doyle more believable
if he had allowed Holmes a girlfriend or even a boyfriend. We’ll never know
which he preferred.”
“Meaning that you would rather have the romance than cold
detection?”
“Not in Miss Marple’s case,” said Gary. “Though the Stringer
character was married to Rutherford in real life. I suppose that counts.”
“Fictional, Cleo, is the operative word! Crimes in real life
usually went unsolved. They are still looking for Jack the Ripper. But most
fictional detectives are love-starved.”
“Writers used all the scientific methods that were available
at the time, Gary. Fingerprints were used in crime detection apparently only
from 1892, but most people associate them even today with Sherlock Holmes! What
is not generally known is that fingerprints were analysed many decades before Conan
Doyle instituted them. The novelist Edgar Alan Poe used the idea in 1841. He
was really the first crime novelist.”
“Sherlock was probably better at snooping,” said Gary. “The
stories were ingenious, but they were only stories.”
“The crime story was very popular then and Conan Doyle had
many imitators. But there was only ever one Sherlock Holmes, and who knows how
many of those stories were based on fact?”
“You are a walking encyclopaedia, Cleo.”
“It just fascinates me. There’s a theory that Sherlock Holmes
was really an autobiographical account of the author himself, not just Conan
Doyle’s creation. Did you know that?”
“I always thought Sherlock Holmes was a bit of a joke until
I met you, Cleo. I preferred Philip Marlow.”
“Not Lord Peter – society gent and heavily reliant on the
police?”
“We live and learn!”
“Sherlock Holmes has joined the immortals – people still
write to him for advice. I doubt if anyone writes to Lord Peter. I always
thought he must be gay. He was a war-shocked trauma victim. Dorothy Sayers got
that far down the road, but she did not go the whole hog. Homosexuality was
still illegal when she was writing, so it was subversive.”
“It would have sold a lot more books, Cleo, but not
respectability.”
“I expect it would. Oscar Wilde was a terrible victim of the
hypocrisy still common then.”
“Another example of equating the art with the artist,” said Gary.
“The topic is a bottomless pit,” said Cleo.
“I contrast to siestas.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
***
At about five, sleuth-dog Spot arrived at the house in Lilac
Drive via Cleo’s cottage. Gary was curious. As they walked to Number 27, Cooper
told Gary that Spot was excited at the prospect of new findings. Gary wondered
if Cooper was as keen. As Cleo had conjectured, it did not take long for the
animal to locate cocaine on a box of train parts after getting a whiff of it
from some in a phial in Cooper’s pocket.
“So much for speculation, Cleo. Now we have fact,” said Gary
as he phoned her with the result of Spot’s sniffing. He then phoned Roger. This
new development was too sensational not to be reported immediately to his
senior.
Roger reacted by saying that he was now sure they were onto
something big. He wanted to circumvent the drugs department and contact the
French police himself, but Gary was not keen on that idea.
“Let’s not alienate them, Roger,” he said. “We need them.”
“They will be appalled that they did not know anything about
Mortimer’s activities,” said Roger.
“Neither did I, Roger, and I live almost next door, but he’s
small fry in a big drugs world.”
“The observation of the house must continue, Gary, but the
drugs squad can take over.”
“Great. Then I’ll have more manpower and resources for what
our department should be doing. I sometimes think it’s a pity that cops need
their sleep, too.””
“I’ll sort that out,” said Roger.
“Greg is looking into Mrs Spencer’s whereabouts last Friday night,
but I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“Spencer is still in custody. We’ll have to charge him with
something,” said Roger.
“Or let him go,” said Gary.
“Let’s talk about it
over dinner,” said Roger. “Have you invited Dorothy?”
“She can’t come, Roger. Her Spiritual Revue has its
rehearsals on Wednesdays.”
“But Cleo will be there, won’t she?”
“I hope so.”
“You don’t think Spencer would flee the country, do you
Gary?”
“I doubt it. I’ll get Nigel to spin him a tale about
questioning other family members tomorrow. He’ll just have to be patient.”
“Offer him a TV. That usually keeps people in custody
quiet.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Those arrest cells are not very
imaginative.”
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