Scandal at Six(60)

“I thought you had something more to tell me,” Lois said.

“Yeah, well, coffee first.”

After the others had gone, Dot asked if now was a good time to tell about Ted’s request.

“Fine. Fire away,” said Lois.

“Seems he’s planning to blackmail Pettison. At least, I think that’s what he meant. Wanted me to ask one of my less-than-reputable family to help him. I told him he was wasting his time, and that my lot were well in with Robert Pettison. I advised against it, but it’s obvious he’s had enough, poor devil. I said if he was really serious, I might try to help. Did I do right?”

“We shall see, Dot. Thanks, anyway,” answered Lois.





Thirty-four





Robert Pettison was beginning to feel threatened. The police were still circling like vultures, every day turning up with some trumped-up reason to inspect everything, from the house to the zoo to the gardener’s shed. Up to now, and with Justin’s help, he had managed to conceal animals which could be construed as illegally obtained straight from the wild. He now concentrated on small creatures that were easy to hide, and so far none had been visible to nosy policemen. All such animals he bought for resale, and mostly on commission, with regular customers around the country.

But now there were other people bothering him. Dot Nimmo, for one. It had probably been a mistake employing her, knowing she worked for the celebrated Lois Meade, with the latter’s close association with Inspector Cowgill. Dottie was always nosing around, asking about the locked room and announcing that she intended to turn out the cupboards in his office. “Full of rubbish,” she had said. Maybe she would call it rubbish, but those locked cupboards were full of records that were highly incriminating rubbish, going back years. He had forbidden her to touch them, of course, but Dot Nimmo had never obeyed orders and, he suspected, she was not about to change.

Perhaps he would give her the sack. But that would bring him face-to-face with Lois Meade, whose eyes were everywhere, and who would inevitably ask questions he would rather not answer. So, he would have to find a way of dealing with Dottie. He thought of several ways, but the one he liked best was already tested and tried. Several of his animals had poisonous bites, and he could easily arrange for one to escape, blaming it on the keeper, or Margie Turner, when she was filling in.

Then he thought again. No, maybe not poison. One more poisoning would be a death too far. He would have to think of another kind of accident that would not necessarily kill Dot, but render her unable to do any cleaning for the foreseeable future. Yes, that would be best.

Feeling cheered, he got up from his chair by the fire, put out the lights, made sure everywhere was safely locked and bolted, and went upstairs to bed, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a hot-water bottle in the other. Two steps from the top, he tripped on the worn carpet and went flying down the stairs, bumping from one step to another and yelling as he went. His glass of whiskey broke into pieces around him, and the hot-water bottle burst, spraying his face with boiling water.

He reached the floor headfirst, and there was a dreadful cracking sound as bone hit ceramic tile. His last thought before he blacked out was that now he knew how to deal with Dottie Nimmo.



*



In the warm flat above Farnden shop, Justin Brookes had fallen asleep in his chair, while the television churned on to a snoring audience. He finally awoke to the sound of the telephone, and fumbled around until he found it.

“Hello? Oh Mum, it’s you.” His stomach lurched, and he gripped the receiver more tightly. “Mum? Don’t cry, Mum; take your time. When was it? Oh, nice that you were with him. It was kindest, really. And he’d had a good innings. Is anyone with you? Oh yes, that nice post lady. Well, I’ll leave first thing in the morning, and should be with you in a couple of hours. Then I’ll organise everything. Now you’re not to worry. Try to get some sleep. Bye-bye, Mum. Love you.”

He put the phone down, and was suddenly hit by huge, wrenching sobs. His father was dead. A father who had been steadfast, always defending him against criticism and doing his best to keep a wayward son on the right path. Oh God, please give him rest, and help me to lead—what is it?—a righteous and sober life. In the future. Somehow.



*



The following morning, Justin was as good as his word, and left Farnden after an early breakfast. He took his good businessman’s suit with him, intending to stay in Lincolnshire until after the funeral. He could help around the farm and, in talking to his mother, get some idea of what to do next. He had to face the fact that his uncle and the zoo were going to be closed down in the near future. Uncle Robert thought he was bombproof, but Justin was well aware that the net was drawing tighter. Should he stick by the old idiot, or leave while the going was good?