just the leg that’s damaged. Everything else below the waist is in excellent working order, as they say!” He leered horribly. Di had a feeling that he was proud of his leer, for the simple but mistaken reason that he probably considered it an impish grin.
“I’m sure it is, Mr ? ”
“Parker. Bert Parker. You can call me Bert.” He thrust forth his hand, clasped her smaller white one between two strong paws, began a journey up her forearm with his fingers before it was forcibly withdrawn.
“Mr Parker,” she said firmly. “Not one of the Nosey Parkers, I suppose?” The joke was out before she knew what she was saying, an attempt to mitigate the brusqueness with which she had removed her arm, and she instantly regretted her familiarity. For though with a name like his it could scarcely be the first time he had met such a sally, he cackled inordinately, enjoying the intimacy of humour, believing it must surely mean that this pneumatic vision fancied him.
“Very good, that. Very good indeed. Do sit down, Inspector.”
“Detective Constable,” she said firmly, trying not to smile at this clumsy attempt at flattery. “DC Curtis. Here to take a statement from you.” She opened her notebook and sat down on the upright chair five feet in front of him, then realised too late that it afforded him a splendid view of her knees and thighs from his position in the wheelchair. He slumped a little lower in his chair, smiling seraphically. She wondered if she should take him on at his own game, crossing her knees with a careless flash of white gusset, a vision which would surely be more than he could handle.
But she was not that kind of girl. Her mother had told her that she was not.
Di got up and walked over to the larger window of the two in the wall facing the street. This was a quiet bywater of Hereford, though not far from the Cathedral and the town centre. The window commanded an excellent view of the houses opposite and of the steps descending to the door of 17a Rosamund Street, the basement flat where Tamsin Rennie had lived. “I believe you saw certain things from this window which may prove to be of use to us in what is now a murder investigation, Mr Parker.”
“I do hope so! I’d love to be of use to you, m’dear!”
The voice came unexpectedly from her side; the wheelchair having arrived with surprising speed and silence. At the same moment, an arm encircled her hips, fingers stroked exploringly around the top of her thigh, where in Bert Parker’s fevered imagination there would have been a suspender. A broken leg had clearly not dimmed his optimism.
Di Curtis slipped from the embracing arm as adroitly as it had encircled her. She had no fear; she was used to rejecting younger and more powerful advances than Nosey Parker’s. But she did have a dilemma. This aging Lothario had committed no offence to bring her here: he was a private citizen, helping the police of his own accord. If she sent him into a fit of the sulks with a vigorous rebuff, he might refuse to help with the investigation. A refusal might not be public-spirited, but there would be nothing illegal about it.
They didn’t tell you anything about this sort of problem on the training courses. And she dearly wanted to take back some useful information to the Murder Room. It was the first time she had been attached to the team of Superintendent John Lambert, a local CID legend who was held in appropriate awe by newly recruited DCs. She would have to retain the upper hand with Bert Parker — and as pleasantly as possible.
“How long have you been in your wheelchair, Mr Parker?”
“Over three months, now. They had to reset the bugger, you see. Bloody boring it is, too, stuck in here all day with nothing to watch but the telly and the street outside.”
“So you’ve seen most of what’s been happening in the street during that time?”
“Most of it, yes. Well, nearly all of it, if I’m honest, during the daylight hours. I’ve
“I’m sure it is, Mr ? ”
“Parker. Bert Parker. You can call me Bert.” He thrust forth his hand, clasped her smaller white one between two strong paws, began a journey up her forearm with his fingers before it was forcibly withdrawn.
“Mr Parker,” she said firmly. “Not one of the Nosey Parkers, I suppose?” The joke was out before she knew what she was saying, an attempt to mitigate the brusqueness with which she had removed her arm, and she instantly regretted her familiarity. For though with a name like his it could scarcely be the first time he had met such a sally, he cackled inordinately, enjoying the intimacy of humour, believing it must surely mean that this pneumatic vision fancied him.
“Very good, that. Very good indeed. Do sit down, Inspector.”
“Detective Constable,” she said firmly, trying not to smile at this clumsy attempt at flattery. “DC Curtis. Here to take a statement from you.” She opened her notebook and sat down on the upright chair five feet in front of him, then realised too late that it afforded him a splendid view of her knees and thighs from his position in the wheelchair. He slumped a little lower in his chair, smiling seraphically. She wondered if she should take him on at his own game, crossing her knees with a careless flash of white gusset, a vision which would surely be more than he could handle.
But she was not that kind of girl. Her mother had told her that she was not.
Di got up and walked over to the larger window of the two in the wall facing the street. This was a quiet bywater of Hereford, though not far from the Cathedral and the town centre. The window commanded an excellent view of the houses opposite and of the steps descending to the door of 17a Rosamund Street, the basement flat where Tamsin Rennie had lived. “I believe you saw certain things from this window which may prove to be of use to us in what is now a murder investigation, Mr Parker.”
“I do hope so! I’d love to be of use to you, m’dear!”
The voice came unexpectedly from her side; the wheelchair having arrived with surprising speed and silence. At the same moment, an arm encircled her hips, fingers stroked exploringly around the top of her thigh, where in Bert Parker’s fevered imagination there would have been a suspender. A broken leg had clearly not dimmed his optimism.
Di Curtis slipped from the embracing arm as adroitly as it had encircled her. She had no fear; she was used to rejecting younger and more powerful advances than Nosey Parker’s. But she did have a dilemma. This aging Lothario had committed no offence to bring her here: he was a private citizen, helping the police of his own accord. If she sent him into a fit of the sulks with a vigorous rebuff, he might refuse to help with the investigation. A refusal might not be public-spirited, but there would be nothing illegal about it.
They didn’t tell you anything about this sort of problem on the training courses. And she dearly wanted to take back some useful information to the Murder Room. It was the first time she had been attached to the team of Superintendent John Lambert, a local CID legend who was held in appropriate awe by newly recruited DCs. She would have to retain the upper hand with Bert Parker — and as pleasantly as possible.
“How long have you been in your wheelchair, Mr Parker?”
“Over three months, now. They had to reset the bugger, you see. Bloody boring it is, too, stuck in here all day with nothing to watch but the telly and the street outside.”
“So you’ve seen most of what’s been happening in the street during that time?”
“Most of it, yes. Well, nearly all of it, if I’m honest, during the daylight hours. I’ve
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