My heart softened pathetically. I was a fellow gardener. I resisted the temptation to start blethering on about planting schemes and pests and diseases and carried on making notes.
“So he had his own business?”
“A firm, yes. They did very well. He prided himself on their reputation.”
“And your mother looked after the house and the two of you?”
“Oh, yes. A woman’s place was definitely in the home.”
“Did they encourage Jennifer to go to university?”
“Yes, I think so. That would have been something to be proud of, a good education, qualifications.”
“But she let them down. And you?”
“Made up for it.” He grinned self-deprecatingly. I reckoned he was more perceptive than his nervous manner belied.
“I did computer sciences back when it was a new field. Had my own business for a while but now I work on a consultancy basis. Work on new programmes, look at IT packages for industry and commerce, do a bit of research as well – mainly artificial intelligence.”
His shyness evaporated as he talked work – he still avoided eye contact but there was a confidence in his voice and the emotional intensity in the atmosphere waned.
We talked a bit longer and he arranged to come back in two days time with as many starting points as he could find. He mentioned a neighbour he thought would be happy to help him recall the names of Jennifer’s friends.
I’d already outlined my fees to him and we agreed that I would do the equivalent of three days work and then report back to him. At that stage he could decide whether to retain me.
It was almost lunch time and my stomach had begun to growl but I decided to complete my notes at the office before walking home. Office may give the wrong impression; it’s a room in a cellar that I rent from a family who live nearby. When I first set up shop as a private investigator I knew commercially rented accommodation was way beyond my means. But Withington, where I live, has a mix of houses and as well as the council estate, the terraced rows and the estate of Hartley semis there are quite a few big Victorian and Edwardian semis like the one we live in. I thought someone might have a spare room going so I went door-knocking in the neighbourhood and the Dobson’s were happy to give me a try. Several years on I’m still there, the detective in the cellar. The rent’s unchanged and apart from the time when some suspects on a case of mine trashed the place it’s been a trouble free arrangement.
