“What sort of people are they?” asked Lois.
Hazel sniffed. “Usual newly rich. Probably won the lottery. Wife overdressed and tame husband on a lead.”
“Hazel! Don’t forget our motto: ‘We clean; you pay.’ And that’s all we need.”
“Mrs M, you just made that up. ‘We sweep cleaner’ is our motto!”
“True. But it really doesn’t matter who or what they are. We’ve got all sorts on our books. I’ll make an appointment to see them, and let you know what transpires.”
“Anything new on that poor dog story? I reckon it was one of those horrible things old Pettison’s got in his zoo. John reckons it should be cleared out altogether. He’s always worried that the things brought over from foreign countries could bring diseases that turn into epidemics and run riot in our farm animals. I suppose there are special checks on them at customs and so on?”
“Small things, insects an’ that, can come hidden in luggage and are never spotted by customs, so Gran says,” Lois answered. “But that’s Gran, so I expect John has nothing to worry about. Now, I’ll just nip up the road and see if Dot is back from work. Let me know if you get any replies to the flat ad.”
Dot Nimmo’s house was at the top of the same street, and Lois parked outside and knocked. As she stood waiting for Dot to come to the door, she noticed a van parked on the opposite side of the road. It had a snarling tiger emblazoned on the side, and at the wheel sat Robert Pettison, his head partly shielded by a newspaper as if to hide himself from Lois’s gaze.
“Morning, Mrs M!” Dot beamed at Lois. “Just the person I was wanting to see. Come on in.”
“Just a minute, Dot,” Lois said. “What’s that van doing over there? Is there somebody living there that works at the zoo?”
“Oh that,” said Dot. “It’s the zoo boss. He’s got a lady friend he calls on every Friday afternoon. Has to wait until her husband goes off to work after lunch, though. Beats me how hubby don’t cotton on to a so-and-so tiger sitting outside his front door every week! Still, he’s reckoned to be one of them pimps, except he’s got just the one woman for sale. Funny kind of setup . . . Now come on in, and have a refreshing cup of tea.”
Lois stood at Dot’s front window and looked over at the tiger van. “Hey, the front door of that house is opening. Now a little man is coming out. He’s not even looking at the van. Wait a sec, Dot. I want to see if Pettison gets out. Ah, yes, there he goes. Has to duck to get inside that door! I can just see a brassy blonde head inside. What’s she like, his Friday mistress?”
“No better than she should be,” said Dot primly. “Come and sit down. I’ve got an item of interesting info for you.”
Twelve
Saturday, the busiest day in the life of Tresham Zoo, and Robert Pettison was awakened by the sound of a shot. He instinctively curled up under the bedclothes. When he came to his senses and realised it was probably a bird flying into his bedroom window, he decided to investigate.
Downstairs, he unlocked the back door and went outside. It had been a sharp crack, and he guessed the bird would be either unconscious or dead. In the flowerbed under his window, something black and white, with flashes of red, lay under a shrub, and he bent closer. It was a woodpecker, and its eyes were flickering. He bent down and touched it. It shivered and moved its wings. He put his hand over the pulsating body and picked it up. It chattered at him and struggled, trying to attack him with its long, sharp beak, but he had it securely in his grasp and went quickly downstairs in his nightshirt. He found a suitable box, and put it in carefully, where it cowered and glared at him, chattering harshly.
“There you are then, my beauty,” he said. “What a smart gentleman! We’ll see that you are safe and well, and then you can fly off to the wood.”
The bird was silent then, and from where he had put it on the kitchen table, it watched with a baleful eye as he ate his toast and drank coffee.
“Don’t look at me like that, sir,” said Pettison. “I have no intention of putting you in a cage in my zoo. The law would be down on me like a ton of the proverbial bricks. But my staff would, I am sure, be pleased to meet you, and once we have established that you are not injured, you may fly away like Peter, like Paul!”
“Morning, Mr Pettison. Talking to yourself as usual.” It was his cleaning lady, Mrs Richardson, who was the only person brave enough to speak her mind to him.
“Good morning, and a fine morning it is!”
“Maybe for some,” she answered gloomily. “I’m not stopping. Just come to give you my notice. I’m leaving, as from today. My hubby says I’m not to work here alongside them animals any more. That story in the papers of a German Shepherd being poisoned in a barn was the final straw for him. Snakes and dangerous insects! Plenty of people wanting cleaners, so I’ll be going. And you take care, Mr Pettison. You could be next. And if I was you, I’d release that bird before the RSPB gets here.”