The squeegee shrieked as it was dragged across the inside of the fogged-up windscreen for the umpteenth time.
“This never happens in TV stake-outs.” Partial Sue’s Fiat Uno had been commandeered for surveillance duties. “Windows of police cars never ever steam up.”
“Well, there are three of us in here,” said Daisy, who was working her way through a packet of Jaffa cakes.
Fiona had left Simon Le Bon at home because she knew he’d whine the whole time, wanting to be let out. It wasn’t fair on him, and it would drive the other two crazy — although they seemed to be doing a pretty good job of that themselves.
Daisy yawned. “I’m bored.”
They’d been there since five forty-five, after closing up the charity shop and dropping Simon Le Bon back at Fiona’s. It was now ten thirty and between then and now, precisely nothing had happened. Outside it was dark, damp and quiet. Apart from the inside of the car continually misting up, they had a strategic, uninterrupted view of Ian Richard’s house from where they were parked across the street. A big, solid property — possibly four bedrooms, judging by its generous proportions — it had red brick reaching halfway, then white-painted render took over, stretching all the way up to the eaves. A tall hipped roof topped it off and would have made an excellent candidate for a loft conversion with all that space up there going begging.
Daisy squirmed in the back. “Nothing’s happening. Is this really worth it?”
“That’s the nature of surveillance,” Partial Sue said. “Nothing ever happens until something happens.”
Daisy scratched her head. “But isn’t that the same with anything?”
Fiona twisted around in the passenger seat to face her. “It means we just have to wait. It’s like a David Attenborough programme. Those cameramen sit for weeks just to catch ten seconds of footage of a snow leopard. But when they do, it’s worth it.”
“I don’t think I can sit here for weeks, not even for a snow leopard. The back of this car’s not built for someone with my girth, and my bum’s gone numb. Plus, what happens when we’re at work, and not here to check up on him?”
“That’s a good point,” Partial Sue said. “We might have to take it in turns. Do shifts.”
Daisy shook her head. “Oh, no. I can’t do that. I need my sleep. I need my creature comforts, and when will I get time to get my bits from M & S?”
“When you’re not on your surveillance duties,” Fiona suggested.
“But I’ll be sleeping then or at work. We’ve got a charity shop to run. And what is it we’re expecting to happen here? Because he’s not going to reveal himself as the killer right outside his own house.”
Fiona could feel her confidence waning. Daisy’s logic was right. Nothing was going to happen outside his house. The best they could hope for was that Ian Richard would emerge at some point and they could follow him, but to where? The Co-op? The Post Office? The newsagent? This surveillance project could take weeks, even months of tedium. And if they did discover who Ian Richard hung around with, would it help at all? If he’d acted alone, which was highly likely, would knowing where he went and whom he met provide strong evidence of his guilt?
Maybe Fiona had jumped the gun on this one, got swept up in her own enthusiasm to play amateur detective. She’d made a rookie error, embarking on a stake-out and not thinking it through. Sitting in a Fiat Uno watching a rather nice suburban detached house was not the best use of their time. They’d only just started their investigation, and it was already going nowhere.
“Why don’t we just knock on his door and ask him?” Daisy suggested.
“He’s hardly going to confess to a murder on his own doorstep at ten thirty at night.”
“No, of course not,” Daisy replied. “I mean just to get his reaction.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Fiona said.
Partial Sue rolled her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“Maybe not as blatant as that. But what if we knock on his door? It’s late. It’ll catch him off guard. We say we’re lost, looking for a local hotel or something. Bit of misdirection. Then out of the blue, one of us says, ‘Oh, do you know Sarah Brown?’ If he hesitates or is stumped or stunned, we’ll know he’s hiding something. If he shrugs it off and says, ‘Nope, never heard of her,’ we cross him off our list and move on to the next Ian Richard.”
“I like that idea,” Daisy said.
Partial Sue agreed. “I have to admit, it’s better than sitting here, watching the car mist up, and it does get the ball rolling.”
Fiona lowered her tone. “A word of caution. We need to be prepared. If this is our killer, he could be a nasty piece of work. He might try something.”
Daisy gave a whimper. “I’m not sure I’m so keen on this plan anymore. I don’t do conflict. I can’t even watch Question Time.”
Fiona placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Don’t worry, Daisy. There are three of us and one of him. Safety in numbers. But if he does try something, we need to defend ourselves.”
“I have a can of WD40 in the boot,” Partial Sue said.
“Yes, grab it. If he tries anything, douse him with it. Daisy, you have your mobile ready to call the police.”
“O-okay.” Daisy’s voice wobbled.
“Listen, Daisy, you don’t have to do this,” Partial Sue reassured her. “You can always wait in the car.”
She sniffed back a breath and straightened up, as much as she could in the back of a Fiat Uno. “No. We go together. Let’s do this.”
The three women exited the vehicle. Partial Sue armed herself with the spray lubricant, slotting it into the pocket of her coat but keeping her finger firmly on the nozzle, ready to deploy if things went pear-shaped.
They approached the front step. “Let me do the talking,” Fiona said. “If he gets nasty, Daisy, call the police. Sue, spray him with the WD40 to incapacitate him, before he realises it’s not pepper spray. That should give us time to get back to the car and get out of here. Remember, this Ian Richard is a potential killer. A dangerous individual. The kind the police warn the public not to approach.”
Partial Sue and Daisy nervously nodded their heads. They had never looked more serious, or more scared.
“Ready?” Fiona felt a surge of adrenalin.
They nodded again, widening their stances, ready for action.
Fiona rang the doorbell. They waited.
It took a while, but eventually the door unlocked. A tiny man in a wheelchair awkwardly opened it, holding onto the handle and slowly reversing. In his late eighties or possibly early nineties, he was about the size of a scrawny ten-year-old boy. His striped pyjamas drowned him, giving him a deflated look. He had a small, fluffy, silver-haired head, reminding Fiona of a tennis ball that had been left outside for too long.
He stared at them through two watery eyes. “Are you here to put me to bed?”