Dark Side by Margaret Duffy

eyes on us,’ Patrick remarked, noting down a few figures on his clipboard.
    â€˜No, but James has if we bump into him,’ I pointed out ruthlessly. Despite James’s refusal of our offer of help we were doing a little investigating.
    My partner handed me a large tape measure and began walking away from me towards a lamppost holding the end of the tape. Having arrived and noted the distance I gave him, he let go of the end and I wound it in again. Eyes on the ground as if following a trail, he then set off towards where a side street joined the main road.
    â€˜He can always tell us to sod off if we do,’ he observed mildly when I caught up with him.
    We were dressed in blue overalls, part of a collection of ‘come in handy’ garments we keep in an old kit bag in the car for when we want to assume any kind of role. It includes dark tracksuits for being invisible at night and jeans and baggy sweatshirts for loafing around as Joe and Mrs Bloggs. Most have been acquired from charity shops. Patrick did ask me to dispose of a black lace Teddy-style bra that transforms my modest bust into something quite amazing – I had worn it as part of a ‘tart rig’ – on the grounds that when I wore it his concentration on the job in hand went overboard. It is now safely in a drawer in the bedroom at home, as you never know when you will need to generate some raw lust in your man.
    So, as utility company jobsworths, it being Saturday notwithstanding, no one gave us a second glance as we measured this and that, lifted small manhole covers and peered within, shaking our heads and writing a few sentences along the lines of, ‘Rain water in cavity not draining away’ and ‘This water meter is filthy. How do they read it?’ in case we were challenged. Until this moment, we had stayed in the close vicinity of the house last given as Benny Cooper’s address, a thirties semi in East Twerton, just off the Lower Bristol Road in Bath.
    â€˜He’s probably moved,’ I said as we reached the street corner and turned left.
    â€˜Well, someone’s at home. As we saw, there was a red sports car parked in the drive – such a vehicle was mentioned by Carrick last night, if you remember – and I saw the bedroom curtains being drawn back,’ Patrick replied. ‘The place is also in a fairly bad state of repair, which might suggest the owner spent a period of time away detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’
    â€˜And we’re walking down here why?’
    â€˜Just to move away from that area for a few minutes to look normal and also, for future reference, to find out if there’s a back way.’
    There was not and we wandered back the way we had come, Patrick writing down the numbers of the telegraph poles. The registration of the vehicle had also been noted for later checking.
    â€˜No, to hell with this, I’m going to ring the doorbell and tell him we can smell gas,’ he announced.
    We returned to our original scene of operations in time to see another car draw up outside the house
.
As is the case in most of the city there were double yellow lines on this section of road, which would explain the driver’s subsequent haste, hurrying to the rear of the car, a black hatchback, throwing up the door and grabbing several heavy carrier bags of shopping. He then kicked open the garden gate and tottered up the short path, almost falling after catching his feet in something – the overhanging weeds? – and, having dumped down the bags, rang the bell, following this with a good battering on the door with a fist. Hastening back to the car he collected two full cardboard wine carriers and, having already placed a twin toilet roll pack beneath his chin, returned to the house, the door of which still remained shut.
    â€˜Come on! Come on!’ he yelled after more ringing and banging.
    We, meanwhile, were exhibiting enormous interest in a drainage