Confessions of a Private Dick (Confessions, Book 14) by Timothy Lea

Author:Timothy Lea
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007549054
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘I had a bloke round the office today,’ says Sid, all excited.

‘Makes a change from the cleaners,’ I say.

‘Shut up,’ says Sid. ‘You know what I mean. A client – well, I think he was a client.’

‘We could do with some of those,’ I say. ‘That second leaflet drop in the Co-op didn’t pay dividends, did it?’

‘It should have done,’ says Sid. ‘You expect to get a divi at the Co-op, don’t you?’

‘Very whimsical,’ I say. ‘Tell me more about this bloke.’

‘He was funny,’ says Sid. ‘Didn’t give anything away. He seemed dead relieved when I told him I hadn’t been to a public school.’

‘Public school?’ I say. ‘You must have been having a very funny conversation.’

‘That’s what I said,’ says Sid. ‘Very strange it was. He wanted to know if we’d ever been to Russia.’

‘Blooming nearly,’ I say, thinking back to the time when Sid cast me adrift in the Thames and I was picked up by a Russian freighter – see Confessions of a Long-Distance Lorry Driver for thrill-packed details.

‘I didn’t mention that,’ says Sid. ‘Some sixth sense – call it intuition if you like – or perhaps my carefully developed powers of deduction—’

‘Get on with it,’ I say.

‘Suggested that he didn’t want us to have been to Russia. Anyway, I’ve got the gen and we’ve got to go and see his guv’nor.’

‘Great,’ I say. ‘Where does he hang out?’

‘That’s another funny thing,’ says Sid. ‘We’ve got to go to a Turkish bath where we’ll be picked up.’

‘I bet we will,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard all about that. You never want to lie down in one of those cubicles, you know.’

‘Picked up by a contact who will take us to our man,’ says Sid through gritted teeth.

‘Not General Arman?’ I say. ‘The fat black bloke who wants to marry the Queen. I don’t fancy working for him. He’s vicious.’

‘That’s General Amin, you berk!’ says Sid. ‘Gordon Bennett! You have absolutely no contraception about what’s going on in the world, do you?’

‘I’m sorry, Sid,’ I say. ‘How do we know which is the right bloke?’

‘Well, he’s Jewish for a start-off,’ says Sid. ‘I can’t remember the name. The geezer wouldn’t let me write anything down.’

‘Brilliant,’ I say. ‘So I keep my eyes open for a hampton with a short back and sides. That could be anybody. You don’t have to be a four by two to be skinned alive.’

‘That’s not the only thing,’ says Sid. ‘He’ll be wearing a tattoo. A red dragon.’

‘Where?’ I say.

‘Down at the Turkish baths,’ says Sid. ‘Don’t you ever listen to anything?’

‘I meant where on his body?’ I say. ‘On his flowers and frolics? His fife and drum? His Marquis of Lorne?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Sid. ‘It can’t be very difficult to spot a red dragon, can it?’

But it is very difficult. Those Turkish baths are dead steamy and the wooden slatted seats don’t help. I have just tapped a bloke on the shoulder and pointed to his bum when I see that what I thought was a red dragon, is in fact the mark left by the bench he was sitting on.

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