Your car has been parked here for over two weeks and is restricting our access to our gate. Can you please shift it to another position if the car is not in regular use? That would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you.
340 Highgate.
That was pretty polite. I’d considered putting Shift your shit-heap right now or I’ll tow its arse but didn’t think it would go down that well. My handwriting was a bit dodgy, and it had taken a lot of concentration to control the adrenaline tremor. It wasn’t helped by my still-sweaty hand slipping on the pen. But it was first things first – I hadn’t showered and changed yet as I’d wanted to do this little task while I was in the right mood. I lifted the windscreen wiper up and popped the note underneath. There was a clean line in the dusty windshield where the wiper blade had been resting. Yet another indicator of how long the car had been stuck here – that, and an ever-growing colony of spiders and their architecture in the wing mirror. I had clapped eyes on the owner once. With a heap like that I’d have thought it belonged to a scruffy no-hoper, but the guy was actually quite tidy looking. It probably never occurred to him that leaving his car there could be a major pain to anyone else – inconsiderate bastard.
That done, I was finally beginning to feel on a more even keel, at least dealing with the car was something I had a chance of remedying. The work situation was a different prospect entirely. I bounded up the front steps and headed inside to freshen up.
It was amazing how great food, fine wine and sparkling dinner conversation could lift a mood. Unfortunately, one of the topics du jour related to work. Uncle Phil had a turn talking with the detectives today, along with most of his unit, which shared the same building as the Pharmacy Department and Rose-Marie’s sixth-floor lab. Social and Preventive Medicine was on the ground floor and he’d recognised her face from the photos as he’d seen her waiting for the lifts and recalled saying hi on occasion. He said she was very polite and seemed to work long hours. A view shared by everyone, it would seem. He hadn’t been able to enlighten the detectives much more than that. He’d have been saved the bother if the interview had been this afternoon. Things were off in a new direction now.
There was the usual crap on offer on the television, more than thirty channels to choose from and nothing to watch. We didn’t do reality TV. I failed to see the fascination in watching wannabe celebrities eating things that were bound to give you a dose of the shits or nightmares for the rest of your life. Besides, that sort of programme made me feel so embarrassed on their behalf I wanted to hide behind the sofa cushions. So by unanimous vote, we opted for a DVD. Maggie and I had been given the task of choosing, so here we were, privileged to be in Uncle Phil’s study, sorting through the crammed shelves that housed his rather extensive DVD collection.
‘What about some vintage James Bond?’ Maggie asked as she leaned over and pulled out what looked like the entire set in a boxed collection. ‘Here we go, Sean Connery when he was young and hot.’
‘Or we could have Sean Connery when he was old and hot, Phil’s got Rising Sun here.’
‘Oh, yes, Wesley Snipes, yummy.’
Uncle Phil’s DVD collection was indeed impressive. As well as a penchant for James Bond, The Saint and The Avengers, it looked like he had the full collection of CSI, Criminal Intent, Law and Order as well as the British series Waking the Dead, Silent Witness and others. Despite knowing those type of programmes never reflected the reality of policing, they entertained, so I would have to raid those at a later date. Well, the British ones anyway.
I rarely went into Uncle Phil’s den and was always amazed by the sheer volume of things. Both he and Aunty Jude liked stuff. There were books on everything from architecture, to history, as well as his medical-related texts. Some looked pretty old and I’d bet a few were fairly valuable. He also had framed antique maps and a number of scale models. And he could afford what looked to be the latest in computer technology. He had dual LCD screens for his rather stonking-looking tower, a separate external hard drive and a few other bits of hardware, a laser printer and an inkjet. He also had a lightweight laptop for work and for around the house, which he could hook into the internet and the printers via their wireless network. It was a comprehensive set-up.
‘No wonder he disappears in here for hours on end,’ I said as I bent over to look at a limited-edition model Denny Hulme McLaren. ‘Give me a big pile of food and I could spend weeks in here. This has got to be every bloke’s idea of heaven, not to mention mine. Books, DVDs, music, computer, flash telly – I bet there’s a drinks cabinet here somewhere too. All it needs is a pool table and a sign on the door: ‘Girls keep out.’’
‘Oestrogen exclusion zone. Perhaps I could get him a sign made up for his birthday. He’d like that.’ Maggie was working her way along the row of DVD spines.
‘I’m sure your aunt would just love it. Mind you, I noticed she didn’t volunteer to come in and choose.’
‘I’m amazed we were allowed in. He’s usually so precious about his man cave. I’ve got it, something Tarantino, how about Pulp Fiction?’
‘Perfect, just what I need to wind down after a hard day solving murders. Blood, guts, drugs, guns, needles and funky dancing. Funny and gory. Hand it over, let’s get out of here.’