“Well, it’s all to do with the zoo, and the chimpanzee attack. The woman apparently went into the cage when she shouldn’t have. The animal regarded it as a menacing trespass on his territory. She was a cleaner up at the hall. Oh yes, and that’s confidential, but Cowgill didn’t say I had to keep secret the details of Pettison’s private morgue there. Mind you, I think it’s probably best if you do keep it to yourselves.”
“Morgue! Lois, you need go no further. I forbid you to have anything more to do with it. An’ that’s an order!” Derek was sitting bolt upright, looking as stern as he could manage. This, unfortunately, was not enough, and Lois continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“I need to keep in touch with Cowgill to see what they discover about how things go on under the surface. As you know, Dot’s keen to take on the cleaning job there, and as yet, I’ve made no final decision. The important thing is that the zoo is well away from the hall, and there’ll be no need for Dot to go anywhere near it. And the woman in the entrance kiosk is an old friend of Dot. Margie Turner, she’s called. End of story.”
“Of course it’s not the end of anything! But I suppose I have to trust in your common sense not to get too involved in something dangerous,” said Derek, and getting up, he stalked out of the kitchen and slammed the door.
Gran’s eyebrows lifted. “I must say, Lois, I agree with Derek. I’d say it’s up to you and Dot Nimmo. She’s not my favourite person, but I wouldn’t see her come to harm.”
Lois sighed. “You were happy to see her eaten by a bear not so long ago. But thanks, Mum. I don’t know about you, but I’ll not be happy until we find out exactly who put that snake in Josie’s stockroom. I’d better go and smooth my husband down, and then it’ll be time for Inspector Montalbano on the telly. I might pick up some tips.”
*
Alone in her house in Tresham, Dot Nimmo looked at the telephone and tried to decide whether to ring her cousin-in-law, Amadeus Mozart Nimmo, Mozzie for short. He was her cousin by marriage, a brother to Dot’s late husband, Handel. Handy had been more of a sleeping partner in the dodgy enterprises that the Nimmo patriarch, the late Ludwig, had run successfully in Tresham for many years.
Now she was on her own, outside the dealings of the Nimmo businesses, but she kept in touch, feeling in some way that it kept her closer to her own late husband, of whom she had been extremely fond and proud. Her own son, Haydn, had died in a car crash, and her life had been dark and bereft until Lois Meade came along and recruited her into the New Brooms team.
Yes, now would be a good time, she thought. Mozzie would be in his armchair, with a whiskey at his elbow, asleep and snoring.
“Hello? Is that you, Mozzie? It’s Dot here. Long time no see! How’re you doin’, boy? Good. Now listen, I know you’re a friend of that Pettison man. Yeah, the one who comes an’ sees to the brassy blonde over the road from me. Well, I need some information. Tomorrow? Yeah, fine. I’ll bring the car back. See you then, boy.”
She smiled and put down the phone. He was a useful dodger, in his way. Now, when she next spoke to Mrs M, she would have a few interesting things to tell her. A couple of hours later, she was about to go upstairs to bed when a loud rap on her front door caused her to pause. Kids, no doubt. There was a family of no-goods a few doors down the road, and knocking on doors and scarpering was one of their less offensive ways of being a nuisance.
She was halfway up the stairs when there was a second rap. Then she heard the letter box clang, and she turned. Once they had shoved through a lit firework, and if she’d not been there, it could have set the house on fire. She went down and through the hall to the front door. There was something on the mat, with a label attached. She bent down to pick it up, and it moved. She screamed and retreated. Then she could see what it was. A fat and wriggling worm was trying to move across the stiff bristles of her door mat.
“Very amusing,” said Dot aloud. She put on rubber gloves, picked up the worm and carefully untied the label. Then she put the twisting body out into her back garden, and was about to screw up the small piece of card, when she saw some writing on it. “Anima,” she read. “Latin: breath, life, soul.”
“Rubbish,” said Dot, and threw it into the bin.
Sixteen
Justin Brookes, returned from the fens of Lincolnshire, looked around the meagre room that served as his headquarters. His father had rallied, and after making excuses about important meetings to attend, he had said farewell to his mother.