I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE BY THE TIME I GET BACK THIS EVENING,” Ross’s sister said, hands on hips and a threatening expression on her face.
It was ten o’clock in the morning, and her brother was reading a newspaper spread over his unwashed breakfast dishes still on the table. He was unshaven and had wrapped himself in an old dressing gown which had belonged to her late husband. This grubby garment had been the last straw. It reminded her that she had rejoiced at getting rid of one useless man about the house and now here was another, apparently staying indefinitely. Well, he could think again.
“And if you’re not gone when I come back from the shop, I’m dropping a helpful hint to the Tresham constabulary.”
He looked up at her sharply, hastily covering up the blonde on page three. “What d’you mean? I’m not wanted for nothing.”
“I can think of something,” she said caustically. “Always stayed on the right side of the law, have you? Don’t make me laugh. No, you think about it. And I don’t want no forwarding address. Just be gone when I get home.” She turned and went out of the door and he heard her footsteps disappearing along the path outside.
Never mind about brotherly love, he thought, what happened to sisterly loyalty? He sighed. She always meant what she said, so he supposed he’d better be on his way. He got up, stacked the dishes in the sink, and went upstairs to get dressed. He was thinking hard about where he should go. Not to a country retreat yet. He smiled at the idea of himself as a country bumpkin. He still had a job to do for the boss and one of his own, and he had a plan worked out. Anyway, finding a bed for a week or so with one of the shadier contacts he’d made since being out of work shouldn’t be too difficult.
DOT NIMMO LET HERSELF INTO HER REDBRICK TERRACED HOUSE in Sebastopol Street in Tresham. It was a long street, built cheaply to house workers in the days of industrial expansion in the town. New Brooms office was at one end of the street, and Dot’s house at the other. She almost never called in to see Hazel in the office, not wanting her old friends and associates to connect her too closely with Mrs. M. Lois Meade was now well-known to the gangs in town as Cowgill’s favourite grass, and Dot was anxious that her family should not clam up on her.
She sat down with a cup of tea and a sausage roll from the shop on the corner, and began to consider who best to approach. Her sister Evelyn had cut herself off completely from the family, but there were several of the next generation who could be useful, Evelyn’s son for one. He had also been included in the persona non grata cutoff by Evelyn, who had been disgusted when he was caught supplying to known dealers. Getting caught was the crime! Dot loathed him, with his flash clothes and smarmy ways, but she was quite capable of pretending family affection if it looked like being productive. She picked up her telephone.
“Hello? It’s Auntie Dot. No, I do not want a taxi, Victor! Are you at home this evening? I just need to pick your brains. Ha-ha! Of course you got brains. All the Nimmos got brains.” Of a sort, she added to herself, and then said she’d call in around seven o’clock. “That’ll still give you plenty of time to get to the pub,” she said. “See y’ later.”
Now, what to do next. Dot had to be at her new lady at two thirty, and it was only just after half past one. Who else in the Nimmo circle could she have a chat to? There was one old friend, but she hadn’t been in touch with her for years. She had had a family, all still around Tresham, so it might be worth giving her a bell. What was her name? She’d been at school with Dot, in the same class. Martha? Martha Ross! That was it. And she married a Smith. Oh God, finding her in the telephone directory would take a while, and even then she might not get the right one. More thought needed on that one.
She looked out of her window. Her garden was full of sunlight, and a large grey pigeon was sitting in the birdbath. It looks like a stupid duck, thought Dot, and she began to laugh. She felt ridiculously happy to be ferretin’ with Mrs. M again. And knowing the world of the Nimmos, it was more than possible she would uncover a great deal of dirt before they were finished.
VICTOR NIMMO WAS WAITING AT THE DOOR AS DOT DREW UP outside his tall, wrought iron gates. He lived in some style on the edge of town, and his house and large garden were fortified against all intruders. He had enemies, he knew. You couldn’t get as rich as he was without making enemies. Now he operated the gates remotely so Dot could drive in.
“Bloomin’ ’ell,” she said. “You expecting a terrorist attack, or something? Anyway, how are you, Victor? And how’s the wife?”
He ushered her into a long room lavishly furnished and decorated in shades of cream and gold. “Pammie’s gone to her mother’s for a few days,” he said.
Dot knew for a fact that she had been gone a few months, probably never to return, but said nothing.
“Now, Auntie,” Victor said. “What can I do for you? In a spot of trouble, are you?”
“Of course not,” Dot said sharply. “No, it’s information I need. I know you still keep the old rackets going, and might know something useful.”
“What’s it worth?” he said, pretending to be joking.
“Could be your entitlement to all this,” she said, waving her hand around. “But we Nimmos must stick together. It’s important, Victor, and you know the form. You scratch my back an’ I’ll scratch yours. Now, what I want to know is to do with missing persons.”
In a skillful way, she then described the kind of person she was looking for without alerting him to the actual case of Jack Jr. “The missing person’s probably been taken as part of an old grudge,” she ended up, “and God knows there’s still plenty of grudges in town. My old man may not have made your kind of money, but at least he settled everything before he died. Anyway, what d’you reckon?”
Victor was silent for minute, taking it all in. He might well have had brains, but they needed time. “Can I have a think, Dot, and let you know?”
“It’s urgent,” she said. “Give me a bell tomorrow. Don’t let me down, will you, Victor. But you got more sense than to do that, I know. Now, you’d better let me out of this prison and get yourself down the pub. And, by the way, I don’t want this spread around. You know how to do it. I’ll hear from you tomorrow.”