The following morning, I was sitting in my office, eyeing Marlowe, thinking about Brydon Bishop. Marlowe was licking his paws, gazing at the softly humming fan with evil intent. Marlowe didn’t like the fan; it disturbed his beauty sleep. However, with the tarmac melting on the roads and with the air as stale as a politician’s promise, the fan was essential, more important than a mid-morning cup of coffee.
Brydon Bishop...maybe he did murder Frankie Quinn. During our conversation, Brydon’s eyes had contained a far away look, the look of someone who could commit random acts of violence. But if he did murder Frankie, why? Maybe the murder was a random act of violence. However, to track Frankie down required time and planning, which suggested that the murder was premeditated.
I was mulling over that point when a man lumbered into the office; like the office window, the door was open, to create a through draught. The man was Brandon Bishop. I recognized him immediately because he was the spitting image of his brother, with two subtle differences – no spectacles and a small scar on the cleft of his chin.
“You Smith?” he growled.
I nodded, “That’s me; descended from a long line of proud labouring men, and women. My great-grandfather was a blacksmith, and his father before him; would you like to hire me?”
Brandon ignored my comment. He plonked his solid frame on my client’s chair then said, “Mind if I sit down?”
“Be my guest,” I said. Feeling frisky today, I determined to be the perfect hostess, polite and courteous.
“I’m Brandon.”
I nodded.
“I’ve got a twin brother, Brydon.”
I waited.
“You called on Brydon yesterday. You lied to him. You said your name was Summer.”
“A white lie,” I confessed.
“I don’t like liars.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
“But, on this occasion, I’ll forgive you.”
I smiled with heartfelt gratitude. “And I appreciate your kindness.” I closed my computer, helped Marlowe on to the windowsill then asked, “How did you uncover the truth?”
“We have a security camera in our door. It takes a picture of everyone who knocks on our door. It took a picture of you. We’re into I.T.”
“So Brydon told me.”
“I took your picture round the nightclubs. Slick Stephens recognized you.” Brandon tilted his head to the right. He gave me a vacant look. If anything, he lacked his brother’s intelligence, which placed the pair of them below the Neanderthals, in terms of evolutionary development. “You know Slick Stephens?” Brandon asked.
“Unfortunately, I do.” Slick Stephens, a slippery, unsavoury man, managed a chain of nightclubs on behalf of local mobster, Rudy Valentine.
“This time I forgive you,” Brandon said. He wagged a finger at me in admonishment, “But don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” I promised. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
From the windowsill, Marlowe eyed Brandon with deep suspicion. On a scale of zero to ten, I reckoned that Marlowe rated the fan at one and Brandon at zero. And, for a cat, he had an outstanding grasp of human character.
“I’ve written a poem about you,” Brandon said. With an ugly smile on his face, he delved into his jacket pocket and produced a piece of paper. Like his brother, yesterday, Brandon wore a black suit, while shirt and thin black tie. His shoes, too, were black and highly polished. “I write poetry.”
“So I heard.”
“You want to hear my poem?”
“I think it’s a must,” I said. Leaning forward, I offered an ebullient smile.
“It’s a work in progress,” Brandon cautioned, “you understand?”
“I’ll try to be generous,” I said.
Brandon cleared his throat then intoned, “Her hair shines like spun silk, I wish her eyes were green, like bread with mould.” He paused to explain, “I’m not sure about that line. See, I was going to put ‘like spun gold’, and that rhymes with mould, but your hair ain’t gold so I had to change it.” He continued, “Her legs aren’t long, but she’d look good on a horse, riding side-saddle of course. To see that, I’d offer a fiver, but only if she rode like Lady Godiva.” He sniggered, “I like that line.” Then, “I bet she’d look good in a basque, when I get to see her I really must ask.”
In the far distance, I thought I heard a low rumble of thunder. Or maybe it was Dylan Thomas, turning in his grave.
“What do you think?” Brandon asked, his face earnest, deadly serious. “Give it to me straight,” he insisted, “I can handle criticism.”
“Needs a bit of polishing,” I suggested.
“You don’t like it?” he growled, his face mean, his hands curling into fists, crushing the poem.
“For a first draft,” I back-pedalled, “it’s excellent.”
“You want me to sign it?” he offered, removing a pen from his jacket pocket.
“Why not?” I smiled.
In a slow, laboured hand, Brandon scrawled, Love, Brandon Bishop, at the foot of his poem. He grinned then handed the poem to me. “Here,” he said. “I’d like to think that we’ve established an understanding.”
“We’re well on the way,” I said, accepting the poem, placing it on my desk.
“Good,” he nodded firmly. “Do you write poetry?”
“No, but I’m reading some at the moment; Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales.”
“Saucer?” he frowned.
“Chaucer,” I said.
“Oh.” His frown deepened to a level beyond infinity. “Wasn’t he a goalkeeper with the Albion?”
“Don’t know,” I said; “I’m not into sport.”
“Oh.” Brandon sat back and placed his hands in his lap. He gazed at me for a long minute, through dark, ominous eyes. “You got a first name?” he asked.
“Samantha.”
“Pretty name.”
“Thank you,” I smiled.
“Pretty face.”
“Thank you.” My smile broadened.
“Be a shame to cut it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” I asked.
“You’ve been talking with my brother,” he growled.
I nodded, “I thought we’d already established that.”
“No one talks with my brother unless I say so.”
“Unfortunately,” I explained, “you weren’t around.”
“You want to talk with my brother, you ask me first, you understand?”
Again, I nodded, “If I want to talk with Brydon, I phone you first.”
“My brother is a very private man. He doesn’t like snoopers. Me and my brother are like that.” Brandon placed his middle finger on top of his index finger. Then he waved his fingers at me. “I don’t like snoopers.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said.
“You annoy my brother again, and I’ll ring that cat’s neck.” He turned to glare at Marlowe, who was still sitting on the windowsill, licking his paws.
“Touch the cat,” I said, “and I’ll ring your neck.”
“You’ve threatened me.” Brandon stood. He leaned forward, placed his hands on my desk. With his face turning puce, he yelled, “That makes me very ANGRY!”
“I can see that,” I said. “Maybe you should sit down; calm down; return to your seat.”
Brandon rolled his neck, curled his fingers into tight fists. Then he stepped towards the window. “I think I’d better kill the cat.”
I jumped up, shooed Marlowe through the window, then secured the catch.
Understandably, my actions did not placate Brandon. He lost the last semblance of control and said, “Guess I’d better kill you instead.”
I ran towards the office door. However, before I could get there, Brandon grabbed my arm. He threw me, doll-like, against the wall, where I bumped my head. Through a halo of stars, I tried to climb to my feet, only to receive a heavy boot in my ribs. I fell back with a groan. I was about to ease myself on to my feet when Brandon’s boot connected again, this time with the side of my head. Instinct compelled me to scramble to my feet. However, after further heavy blows from Brandon’s boots, I lost consciousness.