Jane Hetherington's Adventures In Detection

by Nina Jon

  Jane took the photograph and studied it. The man pointed out to her could well be Johnny’s father, she realised. There was certainly a resemblance, although it wasn’t striking, but given the size of the image, and the years which had passed between the taking of it, and the photographs Johnny had given her, this was unsurprising.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Monty said, beaming.

  “It could well be, Monty,” she said, still staring at the photograph.

  “Look. Let me go to Hull. I’ve got people I can stay with. I’ll ask around. People know me. Someone is bound to know him if he’s there. I might even bump into him. He’s more likely to open up to me, than you.”

  After her phone conversation with Monty, Jane had searched against Pete Lambert and Hull, but once again had drawn a blank. This didn’t mean he wasn’t there, only he wasn’t living there as Pete Lambert.

  “‘Course I’ll need expenses…” Monty said.

  While he talked on, Jane pondered. She didn’t really want to fund Monty’s reunion with his old Hull friends, although it sounded as though she was going to have to. Monty may really have worked with Pete Lambert, and he might actually know people in Hull who might be able to help him find Johnny’s dad. That would be well worth the expense. She couldn’t accompany him to Hull to keep an eye on him even if she’d wanted to (which she didn’t – she barely knew him) because she was meeting Dean Moon the next day. Nonetheless she decided she was going to take the risk that she would never see Monty or her money again.

  “Expenses?” she said.

  “There’s the cost of travel. I may ’ave to buy a few beers, slip some people a few tenners. A hundred should do it for starters.”

  It was a tidy sum, but not excessive, she thought. If he’d asked for a thousand pounds that would have been another matter. She took out four twenty pounds notes and two ten pounds notes and gave them to him.

  “I’ll call you the minute I got any news,” he promised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Underwear Model

  Johnny arrived at the photo shoot for the underwear catalogue escorted by Charity, who’d insisted on coming with him, even though her friends had said that when it came to male underwear catalogues, it wasn’t other women she needed to worry about.

  Charity looked around the studio – a camera, pointing at a blue screen – and whispered to Johnny, “Thought it would be a bit more glam, didn’t you?”

  “I was hoping for Bermuda,” he replied, picking up the top garment of underwear – a pair of stretch hipsters – from a pile and holding it out to look at.

  “We’ll e-mail you the catalogue before it’s published, in case any of the pictures compromise your dignity,” the photographer promised.

  “I don’t have any of that, so there’s nowt to worry about,” Johnny replied, disappearing into the changing room to get changed into his first outfit, while Charity sat herself down in one of a row of chairs leaning against the wall. Minutes later Johnny pulled back the changing-room’s curtains and stepped into the studio wearing the hipsters to applause from Charity and indifference from the photographer.

  “The things I do for love,” Johnny said.

  The morning passed quickly. While Johnny posed in front of the blue screen wearing a succession of stretch slips, briefs, boxers, trunks and finally microskin long Johns (‘for those cold winter nights’, as the label put it) Charity gave herself a manicure, then settled down to read a book. Her friends had been right, she realised. She didn’t have anything to be jealous about. The photo shoot was really rather boring, the tedium broken only by wondering what Johnny would emerge from the dressing room wearing next.

  “I didn’t realise there was so much choice in the world of male underwear,” Charity said to the photographer, while Johnny darted back into the changing-room for his umpteenth change of the morning.

  “We too have to dress to impress, nowadays,” was the reply.

  Johnny coughed loudly. Charity turned around to look, and burst out laughing. As Johnny, wearing what Charity would have described as a padded thong, and grinning from ear to ear, posed as Atlas.

  “What on earth is that?” she asked.

  “It’s an enhancer,” the photographer explained. “You’re not the only ones who can make yourselves look younger and perkier then you really are, through the power of foam.”

  “Now this I must get a photo of,” Charity said, getting up from her seat.

  While the photographer took his selection of photographs, Charity took hers. “I think I’ve got everything I need and a bit more besides,” she said, deciding to call it a day.

  She gave Johnny a quick kiss goodbye and gave his enhancer a quick squeeze. From the street outside the photography studio, she sent the photos to everyone on her mailing list. The replies she received ranged from, ‘Lucky you!’ to ‘Now I can die happy!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY- FOUR

  Charlie Moon

  I

  It was late afternoon by the time Jane arrived at Greenfields, the sheltered housing complex where Dean Moon’s grandfather lived. She parked in the car park at its rear. Dean and his girl friend, Liz, were waiting to greet her.

  Once introductions were over, Dean said, “You’re perfect for this job. You’ll blend into the background nicely.”

  “Dean,” Liz said, digging him in the rib cage.

  Jane just laughed. “I’ve just dropped Granddad off. I left him having a nap, thought we might start with a tour of Greenfields,” Dean said.

  “Good idea,” Jane said.

  The Greenfields sheltered housing complex was a collection of bungalows and studio apartments. Greenfields was large enough to allow every property in it to open onto its communal gardens, with the exception of those apartments on upper floors. These had balconies. The communal gardens formed the centrepiece of the complex. The complex and its gardens were well-tended: a sprinkler watered the lawn, bedding plants filled the flowerbeds and hanging baskets hung on either side of each

  front door. The pavements, which were lined with green handrails, were wide enough for wheelchairs to move across them easily, and the three could comfortably walk alongside each other as they strolled through the gardens. Greenfields was situated on top of a hill and Jane imagined the residents sitting out in this garden on a nicer day than this one, enjoying the panoramic views. What a lovely place to end one’s days, she thought.

  When an elderly couple slowly shuffled by, arm in arm, Dean and Liz said hello, but Jane just felt a twinge of sadness.

  “Granddad has one of those flats over there,” Dean said, pointing to a row of two-storey apartments. “He’s in one of the ground-floor ones. He’s even got his own little patio.” “And one of those cords in case he has a fall,” Liz added.

  “Which he hasn’t,” Dean felt the need to point out. “Mum was so pleased when she got him in here, and now this has happened…” His words petered out.

  The group stopped and sat down on a bench on the lawn.

  “I believe there was something else you wanted to tell me?” Jane said. “Something you said you’d rather not put in an e-mail.”

  “The truth is…” Dean began, awkwardly. “The truth is my granddad’s not quite the doddery old fool he makes himself out to be. I know my granddad, and it’s not in his nature to take things lying down. I know damn well if he thinks someone has broken into his apartment, he’ll be looking for them, and if he finds them…” Dean paused, before continuing, “I’m worried he’s going to take matters into his own hands.”

  “You think he might be planning some form of revenge? Is that likely at his age?” Jane asked.

  Dean and Liz glanced at each other.

  “Highly likely,” he said.

  “When Dean’s nan was still alive,” Liz said. “She told me a family friend once had too much to drink at a party and propositioned her in the kitchen. She said that at first, Dean’s granddad laughed it off and put it down to the drink; but a co
uple of months later, he and the man concerned spent the afternoon at the football and went for a drink afterwards, as though nothing had happened. She said that on the way home, Dean’s granddad suddenly dragged his friend into an alleyway and beat the hell out of him. He said that if he ever touched his wife again, he’d kill him.”

  “He hasn’t changed. If he thinks someone’s done something to him, he won’t forget it. He’ll get even. He’s old, but he’s still as strong as an ox,” Dean said.

  “I see,” said Jane. “Now I understand. You want me to try to discover who stole your grandfather’s credit cards, before he does?”

  “Exactly,” Liz said, adding, “that’s why we don’t want to wait for the police to make an arrest either – might be too late by then.”

  “And should I manage to unmask the culprit, what will you do then?” Jane asked.

  “You’ll be visiting me in jail,” Dean replied.

  “Dean,” Liz said.

  “I’m only joking,” he said. “I’ll give their name to the police and let them deal with it.”

  “In which case, I’m delighted to accept your instructions. I think in the circumstances, I’d better start immediately, don’t you? Could you remind me of your grandfather’s name?”

  “Charlie. Charlie Moon.”

  II

  Jane drove to the hotel Liz had booked her into. She was there just long enough to freshen up. She wanted to be back at Greenfields in good time to join Granddad Moon and his fellow residents for a game of cribbage she knew was taking place that evening in the communal lounge.

  She arrived back at Greenfields at just after half past six and made her way to the communal lounge. Ragtime music boomed out from inside the single story building. An unusual accompaniment for a quiet game of cribbage, she thought, throwing the fifty pence entrance fee into an upturned hat, smiling at the elderly gatekeeper, and stepping inside the lounge to find a casino in full swing. Gamblers dressed in outfits from the 1930s gathered around the twenty or so tables in the room to play roulette, blackjack or poker to a musical accompaniment provided by one of the residents playing a piano dressed as Al Capone. Jane scoured the lounge – there wasn’t a game of cribbage in sight.

  She looked around the room for Charlie Moon. As Charlie was the only man in the room with a moustache and a bright red bow tie and matching braces, she quickly found him sitting at a poker table, cards in front of him, and a drink to his right-hand side, which Jane guessed was stronger than lemonade. Seven Card Stud, it seemed, was Charlie’s game.

  A rather plump, rosy-cheeked woman lent against a long hatch, which separated the communal lounge from its kitchens, serving someone with a cup of tea and a slice of cake. Jane hadn’t had time to eat, and she was rather hungry. She walked up to the counter and peered through the hatch into the kitchen where an array of goodies greeted her. She ordered a cup of tea and a cheese scone.

  “I’ve not seen you before,” the lady behind the hatch remarked.

  “It was an impulse visit,” Jane explained. “I am trying to decide if I’d like to take a bungalow eventually.”

  “It is always good to see a new face and a youngish one at that. Bea Applegate,” Bea said, by way of introduction. “I live on site. Any questions – I’m the one to ask. Sugar?” she asked Jane, referring to the cup of tea she had just poured for her.

  “No, thank you. And no butter on the scone either, thank you.”

  Bea looked slightly bewildered, then started to laugh.

  “The average age of the regulars here is about eighty-five.

  At that age, no one counts calories any more.”

  While she waited for Jane to pay for her tea and scone, Bea continued chatting. “By yourself I see? Recently widowed, I’ll wager?”

  Jane pushed a one pound coin in the direction of Bea Applegate.

  “Unfortunately I am, yes.”

  Bea took the money and dropped it into a tin box with a clatter. She wrote down the order in a notebook and, as she did this, she explained that she too was widowed.

  “Some ten years now. It doesn’t get any easier. Working here helps, though. Not everyone here is as independent as they look. Some are in and out of each other’s houses all the time, but some would never see anyone if it wasn’t for me and my staff. We help them with their shopping, prescriptions, finances, filling in forms and the like, but if all they want is someone to talk to, then we’re there for that as well,” she said, proudly.

  Jane wondered how much money Bea earned working here. Probably not very much, and her staff even less. The temptation to exploit elderly, sometimes confused people, might be more than some could resist.

  “Events like this must cheer the residents up. Wouldn’t do any harm if the stakes were a bit higher, though, would it?” Jane said, having noticed that the residents were gambling with dummy money.

  “But we’d need a gambling licence for that. What people do behind their front doors is their business, but we can’t have them openly gambling on the premises – we’d get shut down.”

  Jane left Bea serving two elderly ladies. She decided her best course of action would be quiet observation, and therefore sat down quietly at Charlie Moon’s poker table. Although women outnumbered men in the room, two men and a woman were Charlie Moon’s opponents at the table. The stakes may have been oversized, vividly coloured fake-banknotes, but those at the table played as though the stakes were high. Jane found the intensity and competitiveness of the game, whose competitors only took their eyes off each other to check their cards, or count out their money before moving it to the centre of the table, fascinating.

  “Betsy?” the dealer asked. The dealer, a man who could have been anywhere between seventy and eighty-five, was wearing a green visor.

  The two of diamonds lay face up in front of Betsy. It was the lowest ranked card on the table. The other cards on display were the two of hearts, the king of spades and the ten of clubs. Betsy appeared to be something of a cardsharp. She stared at the two cards in her hand before placing them face-down on the table in front of her and said, “I’ll open fifty pounds, Ted, I mean dealer.”

  Granddad was next. He matched Betsy’s stake and slipped his arm around her shoulder. “I once played in a mob game, you know. It was in Cuba, in 1958.”

  “Who won, Charlie?” Betsy asked.

  Charlie chuckled. “Well, as I’m still alive fifty years later, who do you think won?”

  “Horace?” dealer Ted asked the largest player at the table. He, too, matched Betsy stake, as did Ted.

  “Right. Third round, dealer,” Horace said.

  Ted, the dealer, obliged. He dealt each player in turn three cards, each dealt face-up on the table. On sight of his third card, the four of diamonds, Horace folded.

  “Match you and raise you,” Ted said, throwing some notes of indeterminable currency into the centre of the table. Betsy lifted up the corner of her cards and checked her hand again. She, too, threw more notes into the pot. Now it was Charlie Moon’s turn to snort in disgust.

  “I’ll raise you,” he said.

  Ted glowered at him. “You’re bluffing.”

  “We’ll see whether I am or not, you senile old fool,” Granddad Moon retorted.

  “Gentlemen please,” interjected Horace. “Final card, dealer,” he said.

  Ted dealt each player their final card, this time the cards were placed face-down on the table. When the final round of dealing was over, Ted shot Granddad Moon, a long disdainful look, before turning to ask Betsy if she was still in. When Betsy hesitated, her portly neighbour grew impatient.

  “If you don’t mind, woman, I’d like this poker game to finish before I meet my maker, which at my age may not be too far away.”

  “You leave her alone, Horace,” Charlie warned. As he spoke, he leant closer to Horace.

  “I second that,” said Ted.

  “I think I’m out,” Betsy remarked, seemingly oblivious to the protective feelings she was generating around
the table.

  Jane couldn’t help wondering whether all this friendly rivalry was itself a bluff. Was the thief sat at this table, falsely confident that he or she had escaped suspicion, while all the time Charlie was searching him out, ready to pounce when he had? Jane could understand Dean’s concern. Charlie Moon was elderly, but so were the other residents and Charlie looked taller and stronger than many in the room, including some of the staff, and, of course, it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight that counted.

  Across the table, Charlie Moon and the dealer turned away from Horace and towards each other instead.

  “You in or out?” Ted asked.

  “Out! With my hand?” Charlie Moon said, throwing yet more money into the pot.

  Ted clucked and adjusted his visor and matched Charlie’s stake, muttering, “Let’s see what you’ve got, old man.”

  The two of hearts, the Queen and seven of clubs and the Jack of spades were in view. With a triumphant snort, Charlie turned over his cards to reveal another queen, a king, and the five of hearts. Betsy squealed excitedly to survey and clapped loudly.

  “Your turn, Ted,” she said.

  “Your turn, Ted,” Charlie mimicked, sarcastically.

  Unfortunately, Ted’s hand turned out to consist of nothing of significance and the winnings were all Charlie’s. As though to add salt to the wound, Charlie insisted on counting out the notes.

  “Three hundred and seventy-five pounds,” he said, holding the fake currency out for all to see. “Horace is down ninety pounds, Betsy one hundred and five pounds and Ted one hundred and eighty pounds. Are we agreed? Now, how about we get ourselves a nice cup of tea and a slice of Battenburg, followed by a game of blackjack, Betsy?”

  “Oh that would be lovely, Charlie,” she replied.

  Ted said nothing and beside him Horace chuckled. No one who saw it could have missed the look on Ted’s face as Charlie and Betsy made their way, arm in arm, over to the tea counter. Jane saw it. So did Horace. He’d seen the jealousy in Ted’s eyes and for some reason it made him laugh. Were Charlie and Ted rivals for Betsy’s affections, Jane wondered. If they were, this could only complicate matters, by making revenge or jealousy another possible motive for the theft. Dear me, thought Jane. This was all getting very convoluted.