Comedian E-Book

Derek Ansell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When fading Comedian Jim Wilson is found dead in his hotel bed at the end of a week-long engagement at a South Wales theatre, his wife Joanne refuses to believe he has taken his own life.

Her private investigations involve interrogating the last three women to see him alive. What she discovers is upsetting and deeply shocking, and in the course of considerable pursuit of people who seem reluctant to talk to her - with help from Henry, the hotel Duty Manager - she is resolutely persistent in her pursuit of the truth.

Joanne will not give up until she knows everything. But is she prepared to learn the truth about her husband?

Leseprobe

COMEDIAN

DEREK ANSELL

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Derek Ansell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CHAPTERONE

There was really nothing unusual about Jim Wilson’s last night in his hotel following his week-long engagement at the Carswell Bay Hotel, nothing that is, except that he was found dead on his bed the following morning. Everything else about his last night and the gig had gone according to plan as it always had in recent years. He had accepted a week in the small provincial theatre because that kind of engagement was the only kind he had been getting for the past five years. And small gigs with poor payment were, after all, better than no gigs at all.

He had left his Victorian villa on the outskirts of Windsor at eleven in the morning because he was regular in his habits and kept to the same timescales in almost everything he did. The drive down the M4 had been relatively uneventful, sparse traffic through as far as Swindon, a brief flurry of vehicles for about two miles and then quiet again. He went first to his hotel, as he always had on similar engagements in other towns, proceeded straight to the reception desk, announced himself, and requested a brief word with the duty manager.

The man that approached him shortly was a somewhat gangling figure, quite tall and with a somewhat craggy face and sparse, light brown hair. Wilson judged his age to be about forty-six or seven, close to his own.

‘Mr Wilson, welcome to the Carswell Bay hotel,’ he said warmly.

‘Are you the duty manager?’ Wilson asked.

‘Duty manager, restaurant manager, accountant, and general dogsbody.’

‘Well, that should keep you pretty busy,’ Wilson responded, ‘I shall be here for a week, and I have a request.’

‘Whatever I can do,’ Dobbs offered affably.

‘Well, you will know my situation,’ Wilson replied. ‘When I come off stage at night, I like to keep a low profile. Avoid people sidling up to me telling me how much they enjoyed my old television programmes and are there going to be any more.’

Dobbs smirked. ‘Well, you are rather known for them. I myself was about to say how much I enjoyed them.’

‘Fortunately, you didn’t.’

‘No.’

Wilson explained that he was hoping to return each night and not be bothered by anybody, hotel staff and other guests. He would like a quiet corner of the restaurant for meals and would prefer not to be approached by anybody. It was tiresome indeed to be reminded constantly of his former glories especially as he was going to great lengths to expand and make a success of his present engagements. Mr Dobbs’ co-operation in this would be appreciated.

‘Well, I can promise to keep the staff here off your back,’ Dobbs said quietly. ‘As to the guests coming and going, they may be a different kettle of fish.’

‘Do what you can.’

‘Indeed, I will,’ Dobbs offered brightly. ‘I run a tight ship here so you may depend on the co-operation of every member of staff.’

‘Well, that is all I can ask,’ Wilson replied looking doubtful.

Wilson requested a late, light lunch and Dobbs smiled in his offbeat manner and indicated the door to the restaurant. He walked with Wilson over to the door and asked if he ever worked with his old sidekick Len Harris these days. Wilson told him gruffly that he didn’t, they had broken up five years ago and he preferred to work alone. Or with less prominent assistants.

‘But you were very good together. So funny those old sketches.’

‘It’s in the past Mr Dobbs,’ Wilson snapped, raising his voice. ‘And I prefer to leave it there.’

‘Oh, sorry, no offence intended.’

‘You see, this is just the sort of thing I want to avoid during my stay. If you can’t stop yourself blaring out some inane reference to my past, what chance do I have with the rest of the hotel staff.’

Dobbs attempted to placate his guest. He assured him he meant no intrusion into his past and would make absolutely certain that it would not occur again. Mr Wilson could depend on him.

‘I hope I can’ Wilson intoned sourly.

Wilson picked a quick snack from the light bites menu and sat down in the corner alcove Dobbs had offered him. He wanted to get to the theatre in good time and set up his dress rehearsal ready for the first performance the following day: Tuesday. Then he asked for Dobbs again and got directions to the local theatre which was situated on the other side of town. On arrival he parked his Audi, went straight to the stage door, asked the security man to announce him to the Artistic Director and was soon greeted by a young man with blond hair who introduced himself as Freddie Thompson. The man was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Support Live Theatre.’

Wilson introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Everything was ready for him, Thompson assured him, including his dressing room. As they walked in the direction of that room Wilson repeated the request he had made to the hotel manager to keep him private at all times and keep visitors away from him.

‘How about actors and other theatre professionals?’ Thompson asked drily.

‘They would be acceptable, yes.’

‘I thought they might be.’

Wilson glared at him but didn’t speak. When they reached the dressing room, Thompson indicated it with his hand and stood to one side.

‘And I want people kept well away from this dressing room,’ Wilson uttered starkly. ‘Especially people enquiring if I have another television series coming up.’

Thompson smiled briefly, thinking about how unlikely such a series was but he kept quiet. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said and departed.

Wilson went in and saw a young woman in tightly fitting jeans and a fluffy yellow top standing by the make-up mirror. She had light brown hair and vivid green eyes.

‘Holly!’ Wilson exclaimed.

‘Hello, Mr Wilson,’ she replied. ‘I got here early so I thought I’d come and tidy up your dressing room.’

‘Very kind of you, I’m sure,’ Wilson responded, advancing into the room.

‘It’s no problem.’

‘Come and give me a big kiss, Holly,’ Wilson suddenly blurted out, holding his arms wide and advancing towards her.

‘No, keep away,’ Holly replied, moving swiftly to the other side of the room. ‘Behave.’

‘You didn’t say that last week,’ he reminded her.

‘That was different,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘Look, I’m here to work, to learn from you, do whatever you ask of me on stage but that’s all.’

‘You know I can’t resist you,’ Wilson told her, grinning.

‘Think about your wife, Jim,’ she replied harshly.

‘I’m trying hard not to,’ he told her, looking grim.

Holly kept her distance, moving further away every time he appeared to move nearer her. She talked about his new act, how good she thought it was, and how successful it would be. She had worked very hard, learning lines, checking all the bits of business that went on during performance, and she was sure this dress rehearsal was going to go smoothly and without a single hitch.

Wilson wasn’t so sure. He suffered from stage fright and had done ever since he started in show business more than twenty years ago. Even now, although it was just a dress rehearsal, he was feeling sick and nervous. There would be people out front, possibly quite a few of them. He sat down heavily in the only armchair in the room and smiled sadly at Holly.

‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ he murmured softly.

‘I’ll make you one,’ Holly said, ‘And lighten up, you look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

‘I have,’ he agreed. ‘The ghost of my younger, more attractive self.’

But Holly was already moving over to get the kettle and cups. Wilson sank into a reverie, half asleep, half awake, and worrying about going out on stage. It would never get any better, he knew that. Now his depression was compounded though, by rejection from Holly, his new assistant, and a young woman he had great hopes for. When Holly brought the tea, they both sat and drank it, in silence at first. Then Holly perked up and beamed at him.

‘I want you to know, Mr Wilson,’ she began earnestly, ‘that I intend to work myself into the ground, if necessary, to make a success of this act.’

‘That’s nice to know,’ Wilson responded but he didn’t look particularly pleased.

Holly just smiled. A sweet, provocative smile, he thought.

‘You’d best get to your dressing room,’ he told her. ‘It’s getting near time.’

She paused at the door before going out. ‘It will be successful, won’t it? We’ll break a leg, won’t we?’

‘Better than that Holly, we’ll break two, yours and mine.’

He began to get ready for the dress rehearsal. Slowly, he changed into costume and was even slower applying stage make-up. When he finally stood and went down the corridor towards the stage, his head was throbbing and his heart thumping in his chest. It was always the same; he desperately wanted to turn back and return to the dressing room, but he kept moving forward.

‘How do want to play it, Mr Wilson?’ the stage manager asked.

‘Straight in, no fuss no, preliminaries.’

‘Right you are.’

‘Many out front?’

‘A dozen or so, maybe a few more; extra stagehands I haven’t counted.’

He walked out deliberately, thinking, as he always did, it was just like going to the swimming pool. You were nervous and edgy until you dived in, and then all was well. He saw Holly on the other side of the stage smiling, waiting patiently for her cue. He winked at her, but she wouldn’t have seen at that distance. He fixed a grin on his face, bounded out onto the stage, told a short, snappy joke, pulled a face, and heard the reassuring burst of laughter. Suddenly all was well, he felt great and was enjoying himself doing what he did best.

CHAPTERTWO

Sharon Jones had been working hard for over two hours. She paused, mopped her brow, straightened the pillows and covers of the fresh bed she had just made, and walked over to the window. Outside the sun was shining and cars were moving slowly along Carswell High Street. Soon it would be time to take a short break and meet up with her friend on floor three. She moved over to the flat surface that ran the length of the bedroom and replaced the tea, coffee, and sugar sachets by the kettle. She then fetched little sachets of milk and lined them up alongside the rest.

People often asked her if she would like to get a better job, but the truth was, she liked working as a chambermaid. She was always up early every morning so the six o’clock starts suited her quite well. And starting early in the morning meant that you had a good-sized slice of the day after work to do as you liked. That suited her too. She made a last-minute check on the room and everything in it and went out into the corridor.

She walked up to number forty-four and looked beyond to forty-five. Then she looked at her watch and grinned. Five minutes to nine. The man in forty-five would be coming out any second now and going down for his breakfast. He was meticulous in his timekeeping and came out of his room on the dot of five to nine. Had done all week since he arrived on the Monday. Sharon frowned, waited, and waited a little longer and couldn’t understand why there was no movement from number forty-five. He was always dead on, never missed. As he didn’t appear however, she shook her head and went to work in number forty-four. She cleaned the room, made up a fresh bed and came out onto the corridor again. It was time for her break now, but she was puzzled about the man in forty-five who hadn’t appeared as usual. Maybe he came out and went down while I was in forty-four she reasoned, shook her head, and walked along the corridor and up the staircase to the third floor.

Annie was already pouring out a cup of coffee from her flask as Sharon appeared. Sharon took it, thanked her, and accepted a cigarette which her friend lit for her. She told Annie that she was concerned that the immaculate time-keeper in forty-five had not yet emerged from his room.

‘Prob’ly overslept.’

‘No, no,’ Sharon recited, shaking her head. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘Most likely explanation.’

‘No, I think he must be unwell,’ Sharon murmured and added, ’I hope he is.’

‘Well take a look in,’ Annie advised. ‘You’ve got a pass key.’

The two women continued to drink coffee and smoke in silence, standing side by side and gazing over the balcony at the now busy high street below. When they finished their cigarettes, they prepared to return to their respective floors.

‘Good luck with sleeping beauty,’ Annie called, departing.

Sharon shook her head and returned slowly to her floor. She knocked loudly on number forty-five’s door but received no response. She stood there for perhaps a minute, debating with herself whether or not to go in and investigate. Finally, she decided that she must go in, if all was well, she could retreat swiftly, apologise if the occupant was still in the room and not much harm done. On the other hand, if all was not well—Sharon took out her pass key and opened the door gingerly. As she entered the room, she became immediately aware that all was not well; the lights were on, and the curtains drawn although it was broad daylight and sunny outside. She advanced slowly towards the centre of the room, looked left to where the bed was positioned and was shocked to see a man lying on top of the bed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,’ she blurted out. ‘I thought you were out.’

It was only as she turned round to walk out that it occurred to her through the fog of her nervous state that the man was lying on top of the bed and not in it and he was wearing shirt, trousers, and socks. She turned again, advanced nervously back to the bed, and looked at the man. He was lying perfectly still; no movement of any kind and his face was pasty white with his lips slightly parted. Something about his appearance and stillness terrified Sharon; she wanted to scream but it died in her throat. Convinced that the man was dead, she rushed out of the bedroom and ran headlong down the staircase and did not stop running until she burst, unceremoniously into the manager’s office.

Henry Dobbs had just put a biscuit to his mouth. Coughing and spluttering, he shed crumbs onto his desk at the sudden loud intrusion into his morning coffee break.

‘What on earth,’ he cried out. ‘What are you doing Sharon?’

‘He’s dead sir.’

‘What?’

‘Dead, Mr Dobbs. Bloke in number forty-five.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous Sharon, what are you talking about?’

Suddenly, it was all too much for Sharon. She stopped talking and burst into tears, standing in front of Dobbs’ desk, spluttering, and weeping noisily. Dobbs came around quickly to her, took her arm, and told her not to worry, she must come and sit down over here and tell him all about it. Sharon sat down but had difficulty stemming the flow of her tears and stopping her shoulders from shaking. Dobbs asked her to take her time, take a deep breath, and tell him all about it. Finally, Sharon managed to explain, more or less as it happened, her experience in number forty-five.

‘I expect he was in a deep sleep,’ Dobbs told her.

‘No sir, he was dead, I know he was.’

‘Do you have medical qualifications, Sharon?’

Sharon burst into tears again and Dobbs had to come over to her, comfort her, and tell her he would sort everything out; she was not to worry. He picked up his telephone receiver and dialled an internal number.

‘Margaret, hello, could you bring in a cup of sweet tea for Sharon please? She’s had a bit of a shock.’

Dobbs assured Sharon that he would sort everything out and clear up any misunderstandings so that she could return to work later. Sharon shook her head, convinced that he did not understand what had happened. Margaret came in with the tea and handed it gently to Sharon although she couldn’t stop her hands shaking and rattling the cup in the saucer. As she sipped tea looking most forlorn, Dobbs slipped out of the office and walked casually up to the floor Sharon was working on. He was a little put out to see the door of number forty-five was wide open. He frowned, shook his head irritably, and walked in. He only needed one look at the man on the bed to realise that Sharon had not been imagining things or exaggerating. He took Wilson’s pulse, something he had learned to do on a first aid course many years ago. Wilson was dead and the body was growing cold to the touch.

He walked out of the room, closed the door, and put a Do Not Disturb notice up; he didn’t want any other chambermaids going in there. Then he walked quickly back down and into the office. Sharon was still sitting there, clutching her cup and saucer although she looked up eagerly at Dobbs as he entered the room.

‘You were right, Sharon,’ Dobbs stated flatly. ‘Mr Wilson has died.’

Whether from relief or some other emotion, Sharon just burst into tears again and Dobbs had to go over and comfort her by sitting close to her and holding her hand.

‘Now you are not to worry,’ he told her gently. ‘I’m going to ask Jane in accounts to take you home in her little car and then I will telephone the police and ambulance service.’

‘I can’t go home, Mr Dobbs,’ Sharon sobbed ‘I haven’t finished me rooms yet.’

‘No more rooms for you today,’ Dobbs sympathised, ‘you’ve had a nasty shock. Is there anyone at home?’

‘My mum,’ Sharon whispered. ‘But I really should finish me rooms. I’ll be alright in two ticks, Mr Dobbs.’

But Dobbs was already making arrangements for her to go home; he called in Jane, explained the situation briefly, and asked her to take Sharon home and in the event that her mother had slipped out, to stay with her. Sharon went to powder her nose and while she was gone, with Jane in tow, he telephoned 999 for the police and the ambulance service. Jane returned after five minutes, saying Sharon was just coming.

‘Look after her, Jane, please,’ Dobbs said, ‘she’s more shaken than she knows.’

‘Now you just rest up,’ Dobbs told Sharon when she came back. ‘And don’t come back to work until you feel better. I’ll see you get full pay while you’re away.’

Sharon grinned nervously and Dobbs ushered them both out. He sat down at his desk and suddenly felt a bit woozy himself. It wasn’t the sort of situation a hotel manager expects to find himself in after all. And while his attention had been on looking after Sharon and cushioning her shock as well as he could, he hadn’t taken into account the fact that he could be suffering from mild shock himself. He took a few deep breaths, told himself that the police and ambulance people would be here soon, and he must be prepared to deal with whatever needed to be done. He had seen all sorts go on in hotels over the years, particularly in guest’s bedrooms but never a death. He took a few deep breaths, picked up the telephone handset, and dialled the bar.

‘Hello, Steve. Bring me in a whisky, would you, please? A double.’

‘Bit early in the day isn’t it, Mr Dobbs?’

‘Purely medicinal, Steve, purely medicinal. Explain later.’

CHAPTERTHREE

The full-length mirror in the bedroom was the best place for Joanne Wilson to see how she looked. Glaring intensely into it, she was quite pleased with the image that glared back at her. She was wearing her new dark blue dress with a short neck scarf of a different shade of blue. Her dark brown hair was luxuriously brushed out to shoulder length, and her make-up had been carefully applied to highlight her high cheekbones, clear white skin, and blue-grey eyes. Not bad at all for forty-seven she thought, and she knew that she could easily pass for a woman ten and maybe a few more years younger.

Joanne returned to her dressing table, sat down, and frowned at herself in a different mirror. She had taken more than an hour dressing, making-up, and brushing her hair. Even so, her mind, all the time, had been on Jim and his sudden unexpected death. He had never been remotely suicidal, she knew that, so she was at a loss to explain what had happened in Wales. She intended to find out though. She began to brush her hair again, gently, not because it needed any more brushing but because it felt so good doing it.

Her marriage had been so much better in the past three or four months, which was another thing. Why would he be depressed if things were so much improved? The marriage had been very bad, she acknowledged that right away, and it had looked as though it were breaking down irrevocably at one point. Of course, it hadn’t helped that she had finally given in to the endless attempts by Len Harris to get her into bed, but it had only been the one occasion and she had regretted it immediately afterwards. Len had proved to be a hopeless lover anyway which had made things even worse. Jim never knew anything about it of course, she had made sure of that. And although it had been terribly slow and plodding, the relationship between her and her husband had grown gradually better and better until the point where she began to feel more comfortable in his presence. Then, a week or two before the trip to Wales and the fateful engagement at the Carswell theatre, they had actually resumed sexual relations after an interval approaching four years.

Joanne looked at herself in the mirror. No use dwelling on that now, she thought, what’s gone is gone and you move on. She looked at her watch and decided it was time to start her journey. She made one last adjustment to her lipstick and mascara and then got up and went over to take a last look at herself again in the full-length mirror. She was still reasonably slim she decided, and the blue dress fitted her tightly, emphasizing satisfactorily the curves of her body.

The warm spring weather had heralded pale sunshine as she got into her Mini and started the engine. She drove slowly down to the M4 junction and picked up speed as she moved along the motorway. Traffic was mercifully quite light at that moment, so she could cruise at a reasonable speed and not have to keep slowing down. In the end it proved to be a pretty uneventful journey all the way down with brief hold ups near Reading and slow traffic approaching Swindon but clear from then on. She pulled into the car parking area of the hotel half an hour earlier than she had estimated she would arrive, parked up, and then walked briskly to the reception desk in the hotel. She asked for the manager and a few moments later Henry Dobbs appeared with a crooked smile on his face as he approached.

Dobbs was not what she had expected from talking to him on the phone; he was tall, craggy, but good looking, and had a world-weary appearance about him, she thought.

‘Mrs Wilson?’

‘Yes, you must be Mr Dobbs?’

He smiled in acknowledgement and invited her to walk over to his office. He offered her a cup of tea which she accepted and the two sat facing each other across his desk.

‘I really don’t think I can tell you any more than I did on the phone,’ Dobbs declared gently, smiling again.

‘You haven’t told me anything yet, Mr Dobbs,’ she told him, stony-faced.

Dobbs looked disconcerted. He remembered that he had told her about the chambermaid finding the body and he had contacted the police and ambulance service. He reminded her and tried another, as he hoped, reassuring smile.

‘Just the basics. What happened the evening before, what time did you first see him?’

‘When he came back from the theatre for the last time, about ten thirty in the evening,’ Dobbs replied, thinking back carefully.

‘And how did he seem?’ she wondered. ‘Bright, cheerful, or low and depressed.’

‘Just his usual self,’ Dobbs said thoughtfully. ‘He never looked particularly cheerful, just—well, ordinary.’

‘And did you see him again that night?’

‘No.’

‘Not at all?’ Joanne asked, looking intense. ‘Are you certain?’

Dobbs concentrated hard. He was silent for a while and then burst out, ‘Ah, now, wait a minute. He did come down again and went into the bar. He ordered something.’

‘A double whisky,’ Joanne suggested.

‘Yes, I believe so. How could you know?’

‘My husband was a creature of habit, Mr Dobbs,’ Joanne continued. ‘He always drank a whisky every night at about eleven before retiring to bed.’

‘Ah.’

‘So now you see why I asked you to think carefully,’ she declared, fixing him with a harsh glare. ‘What about later that night?’

Dobbs looked thoughtful. He was silent for some time, looking down at his desk and then looking up to face Joanne. Then enlightenment suddenly dawned. ‘Yes, I was in the reception area later that night and I remember now, he came out of the bar and went out of the hotel.’

‘To have a cigarette,’ Joanne whispered. ‘Another regular habit. What time did he come back in, roughly?’

‘Ah, now that I can’t say,’ Dobbs answered. ‘I remember I was called to the bar as somebody was a bit the worse for drink, and it took me some time to sort it out.’

‘So, you definitely never saw him come back in?’

‘No.’

‘You’re absolutely certain?’

‘Positive.’

Joanne was silent for a while and Henry watched her face closely as though he were waiting to be picked up on some point or other that he hadn’t expressed very well.

‘Well, I think we’re done here,’ she declared, with an air of taking charge positively. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Dobbs.’

Dobbs smiled nervously and told Joanne that he hoped he had managed to give her the information she needed but she shook her head in negative fashion. It was all very much the pattern that Jim had always followed and nothing new or particularly helpful had emerged. She felt no closer to any reason why Jim might have taken his own life, but she kept this last thought to herself.

‘I would like to go to my room now.’

Dobbs became the perfect hotel manager, escorting Joanne to her bedroom door after he had procured the key from reception for her. As she paused on the threshold, she asked him if the theatre was far from the hotel.

‘Not far no,’ Dobbs replied gushingly. ‘It’s on the other side of town but this is a small town.’

‘I must go there tomorrow morning.’

Dobbs left her silently to start unpacking her case.

The following morning Dobbs, smartly dressed in a grey suit with white shirt and blue tie and with his usually somewhat untidy mop of hair brushed neatly and carefully, walked nervously up to Joanne Wilson’s room, and knocked on the door. Joanne opened it with her hair in a rough ponytail and wearing tan-coloured trousers and a cream shirt.

‘Mr Dobbs.’

‘Yes,’ answered a now somewhat nervous, Henry Dobbs. ‘I um, wondered if I could drive you down to the theatre,’ he asked and as she did not reply but merely smiled, he continued, ‘After breakfast of course.’

‘How very kind,’ Joanne replied, smiling. ‘Of course, I can quite easily drive myself.’

‘Yes, but I know the way,’ Dobbs offered, having prepared for this response in advance.

‘So, you do,’ she went on, mockingly. ‘What about your hotel duties though?’

‘It’s my day off today.’

‘Ah. In that case I’d like to take advantage of your very kind offer.’

It was arranged that the two would meet in the reception area in an hour, so Dobbs retreated down the staircase and went back to the room that was provided for him when on late night duties. He had slept there last night rather than return to his little flat.

One or two staff members had seen him that morning and asked why he was not spending his day off at home, but he made an excuse about catching up with some paperwork and moved off hurriedly. Now he sat in the reception area wondering what he had let himself in for. His idea, he eventually persuaded himself, was to be as helpful to Mrs Wilson as he possibly could. He couldn’t be quite sure why except that he had liked her as soon as he met her and remembering the trauma with Sharon Jones when the girl had discovered the body, he thought he would like to help her find out what had led up to Wilson’s sudden death.

Even so Henry was feeling apprehensive and a trifle nervous. He had had little to do with women in his forty-seven years on earth. A date with a girl as a teenager had only come about when his friend James had introduced them and practically organised them going out together. He had been shy and awkward though, and it had come to nothing. A second date had been on his own initiative but had ended in disaster when the girl failed to turn up at the arranged rendezvous. After that, his relationships with women had been sparse indeed and had remained so for the last several years. He had lived with his mother until the age of forty after his father died young from a sudden heart attack. Only in the last seven years had he lived alone in his own small bachelor flat.

Ten minutes after the agreed time, Joanne Wilson came down the staircase and greeted Dobbs with a smile. She had changed from trousers and shirt into a smart black skirt and a beige top and had brushed out her hair luxuriously. Dobbs beamed at her.

‘Perhaps we should go now,’ he said awkwardly.

It might be a good idea,’ Joanne teased him.

He escorted her out to the car park and stopped in front of a faded red vintage Beetle car which looked as if it had seen better days but had been cleaned up and tidied somewhat. He opened the passenger door for her and stood to one side. Joanne raised an eyebrow and then began folding herself into the front seat.

‘It’s a little bit cramped I’m afraid,’ Dobbs explained. ‘I’m restoring her.’

‘To her former glory?’ Joanne enquired and then sighed.

‘Well, cleaning and tarting her up. Lick of paint here and there.’