Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. by James Hawkins Page A

video. It’s cut and dried — nail the nasty little bastard’s bollocks to the floor.”
    â€œIt’s just that —”
    â€œLike I said, Dave, nice one.” Then his tone takes on a sarcastic edge. “By the way, are you still working for us, or have you joined the turnip crunchers permanently?”
    â€œI was just waiting for the funeral…”
    â€œOkay. I’ll expect to see you first thing tomorrow morning, then.”
    â€œYes —” Bliss starts, but the line is dead and he’s still shaking his head as he replaces the receiver.
    â€œWho the hell was that?” queries Mainsbridge.
    â€œEdwards,” replies Bliss. “Senior delegate of the sore-backside brigade at H.Q. He’s bleating about me still being here. I’ve told Daphne that I’ll go with her to the bank to sort out Minnie’s affairs later this afternoon, but after that I’ll have to get back to the big house.”
    â€œNo sweat, Dave. They reckon it’ll be weeks before Stapleton’s fit to plead. Anyway, I’ve got all the evidence I need.”
    Mark Anderson, Minnie’s bank manager, is well aware of his customer’s demise but, other than offering his condolences, he’s unwilling to discuss her affairs with anyone, even a chief inspector from Scotland Yard, untilDaphne puts the bite on him. Staring him coldly in the eye, she queries, “Aren’t you the Mark Anderson who grew up on Batsford Street?”
    â€œYes,” he responds cagily.
    â€œI thought I recognized you,” says Daphne triumphantly, and then her face sours as she closely scrutinizes him. “That’s the trouble with small towns, Mark. I’m sure we all do things when we’re teenagers that we hope will be forgotten… although I doubt that Detective Chief Inspector Bliss would be too interested in hearing about —”
    â€œAll right… All right,” steps in Anderson, smiling wryly as he turns puce. “I’m sure Mrs. Dennon wouldn’t have minded me telling you that I spoke to her about her account. It was my duty when she applied for the overdraft. After all, she was asking for a lot of money for someone with only a state pension to sustain her.”
    â€œSo, what did she want it for?” asks Bliss, wondering how Minnie had sold him on the idea of a world tour.
    â€œShe said it was some kind of business partnership,” continues Anderson. “Something so big she couldn’t tell anyone for risk of ruining the deal.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t need a business plan or some kind of collateral?” asks Bliss in surprise.
    â€œSome of our more senior customers can be very persuasive, Chief Inspector,” Anderson admits, giving Daphne a poisonous glare. “Anyway, in view of the circumstances, the bank has written off the debt.”
    â€œI guess Minnie knew about his past as well,” says Bliss as they leave the bank. “What on earth did he do as a teenager?”
    â€œI’ve absolutely no idea, David,” chortles Daphne, “though something certainly made him poop his pants.”
    â€œYou are incorrigible, Miss Lovelace,” laughs Bliss, taking her arm and leading her up the High Street towards Watson Street and Minnie’s last known place of abode.
    Nothing has changed in the flat since Bliss’s previous visit. “There’s no point in going through the cupboards again,” he is saying as he takes a contemplative pull at a corner of carpet while Daphne scours the little sitting room and rechecks the cushions of the settee, saying, “God knows what she did with the money. She certainly didn’t buy furniture. This lot wouldn’t get ten quid at auction.”
    â€œWhat’s going to happen to it?”
    â€œI’ll probably chuck it out for the dustmen,” suggests Daphne, and Bliss looks up with a thought.
    â€œBingo,” he yells a few