***
I couldn’t just turn up on the doorstep of the house where the alleged shooting had taken place and tell them I was a private investigator. Once they knew I was working for the guy across the park, who insisted he’d seen someone being shot in their house, they’d turn me away for sure. If I was going to get inside, I’d need to use magic, or come up with a cunning plan.
Fortunately, as you’re no doubt already aware, plans of the cunning variety are my speciality.
It’s not everyone who can carry off a uniform, but I look really good in them—even if I do say so myself.
The middle-aged man who answered the door was holding a golf putter.
“There’s a sticker on the dashboard,” he said. “Didn’t you see it?”
“Sorry?” I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant.
“My resident’s sticker is plainly on display. I’m Mr Smart.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He looked me up and down. “You are the parking warden, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You look like one. Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. I’m from the fire service.”
He poked his head out of the door and looked left and right. “Is there a fire somewhere?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m from the prevention division of the fire service. I’m calling on all the houses in the street to do a spot check, just to make sure everything is in order.”
“Did you let us know you were coming?”
“No. The whole point of these checks is to drop in unannounced.”
“I see. I suppose you’d better come in, then. What’s your name?”
“Rhona—err—Burns.”
“Burns!” He laughed. “That’s rather an unfortunate name, given your occupation, isn’t it? Don’t trip over the putting mat.” He pointed to a strip of green matting which looked just like a crazy golf hole. “Do you play golf, Rhona?”
“Me? Err, no. Is it alright to take a look around the house?”
“Help yourself.”
A woman appeared in the doorway at the other end of the hallway.
“What’s going on, Jeffrey? Have you told her that we have a resident’s parking permit?”
“She isn’t the parking warden, Deirdre. She’s from the fire prevention service.”
“She looks like a parking warden.”
“I’m not,” I reassured her. “My name is Rhona Burns, and, as your husband said, I work for the fire prevention service.”
“Did you hear that, Deirdre?” The man laughed. “Her name is Burns?”
“Of course I heard her. I’m not deaf.”
“But it’s Burns, and she works for the fire prevention service. Do you get it?”
The woman continued to stare at me, stony-faced. “What do you want?”
“I’m checking on all the properties in the street. It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes or so. Is it alright if I make a start?”
“I suppose so, but please be quick.”
The question now was what exactly did a fire prevention officer do? I’d brought a clipboard and notepad with me, so I began to make meaningless notes as I walked around. I started in the kitchen and took a close look at the various appliances, tapping each one, and then scribbling on the notepad.
I was just about to leave the kitchen when the woman said, “What about the smoke alarm? Shouldn’t you have checked that?”
Oh bum. I had no idea how to test one of those.
“Err, actually, no. This particular inspection doesn’t include the smoke alarms. We have a separate unit that deals with those.”
I hurried out of the kitchen before she could ask any more awkward questions. After spending a few minutes in the lounge, I headed upstairs. The room in which Rusty had supposedly seen the shooting incident turned out to be the master bedroom. I looked high and low, but I could see nothing to suggest someone had been shot in that room. There were no bullet holes or blood. Or bodies. I looked across the park at Rusty’s house; had he really witnessed a shooting in this room? It was looking less and less likely.
I came out of the master bedroom and was about to make a quick ‘check’ on the other rooms when I heard the man and woman going at it like cat and dog downstairs.
“What was I supposed to do?” the man said. “Turn her away?”
“You should have told her to make an appointment.”
“But she said it’s supposed to be a random check.”
“That’s your trouble, Jeffrey. You’re weak. You let everyone walk all over you.”
“Just a minute, Deirdre, that’s not—”
“Go back to your stupid golf. That’s all you care about, isn’t it?”
The argument continued in that vein for the next few minutes, with the woman throwing more and more vicious insults at her husband. The poor man tried to defend himself, but he was no match for her acerbic tongue.
When they eventually relented, I made my way back downstairs. There was no sign of the woman, but the man had gone back to his putting.
“Thanks very much,” I said. “Everything seems to be in order. You have a clean bill of health.”
“Excellent.”
“I can see myself out.”
Chapter 14
I was about to interview Mrs Jones, the cook at Tweaking Manor. I didn’t need to take the car because she lived in Middle Tweaking. Her house was two doors down from where Walter Staniforth had once lived. Just prior to his retirement, Staniforth had been the lead detective on a case involving the murder, by poisoning, of a young woman. In his determination to solve the case and retire on a high, Staniforth had framed an innocent young man called Arnold Kramer. Fortunately, I’d been able to find the real murderer, which had resulted in Arnold Kramer’s release. When the truth had come out, Staniforth had been arrested and subsequently
