chair. “Any news?” I asked. “I don’t suppose anyone has offered you a job?”
“I just don’t get it,” Tim replied. “You’d think someone, somewhere would need a private detective. Why is no one hiring me?”
“Maybe it’s because you’re no good,” I said.
“You might be right,” Tim nodded sadly.
“There are police dogs that have solved more crimes than you.”
“Yes,” Tim agreed, “but at least I don’t have fleas.”
I got up and turned the radio off. Tim had managed to get the tin open and the room was suddenly filled with the smell of twenty-seven-year-old sardines. And it was just then that there was a knock on the door.
I looked at Tim. Tim looked at me. We had a client and we also had a room that looked like a rubbish tip and smelled like the River Thames during the Great Plague.
“One minute!” Tim shouted.
In that one minute, we raced around like two people in a speeded up commercial for Fairy Liquid. Papers went into drawers. Plates went into the kitchen. The sardines went into the bin and the bin went out the window. Sixty seconds later, the office looked more like an office and Tim was sitting behind his desk with a straightened tie and a crooked smile. I took one last look around and opened the door.
A man walked in. I guessed he was in his forties: short and fat, smoking a cigar. The cigar was short and fat too. He was dressed in a nasty suit. The pattern was so loud you could almost hear it coming. He had black, greasy hair, thick lips and eyes that would have been nicer if they’d matched. His shoes had been polished until you could see your face in them – though with his face I wouldn’t have bothered. There was a gold signet ring on his finger. The way it squeezed the flesh, I doubted it would ever come off.
“You always keep your clients waiting outside?” he demanded as he came in and took a chair.
“We were filing,” Tim explained.
He looked around. “I don’t see no filing cabinets.” He spoke like an American but he wasn’t one. He was just someone who spent too much time on planes.
“We were filing our nails,” I said.
He helped himself to one of Tim’s business cards from the desk. “Are you Tim Diamond?”
“Yeah. That’s me.” Tim narrowed his eyes. He always does that when he’s trying to look serious. Unfortunately it just makes him look short-sighted. “I’m a private eye.”
“I know,” the man growled. “That’s why I’m here. My name is Jake Hammill and I want to hire you.”
“You want to hire me?” Tim couldn’t believe it. He leant forward. “So what can I do for you, Mr Camel?”
“Not Jay Camel. I’m Jake Hammill. You want me to spell it for you?”
“N-O,” Tim said.
“I work in the music industry. As a matter of fact, I’m the manager of a woman who’s a very famous pop singer.”
Tim scowled. “If she’s so famous, how come I’ve never heard of her?”
“I haven’t told you her name yet.”
“Maybe it would help if you did.”
Hammill glanced at me. He was obviously suspicious. He turned back to Tim. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“I’m not going to tell you,” Tim replied.
“All right.” Hammill nodded. “Her name is Minerva.”
I have to admit, I was surprised. Hammill looked pretty small-time to me, but Minerva was one of the biggest names in the business. She was a multimillionaire pop singer and a movie actress. I doubted there was anyone in the world who hadn’t seen her videos. She was the woman with the golden voice and the silver-plated breasts. Her clothes were outrageous – like the rest of her lifestyle. She had been born in Greece but now she lived most of the time in New York. The fact that she was visiting London had made the front page of every newspaper … even the
Financial Times
.
“The thing is,” Hammill said, “I’ve got a serious problem…” He twisted his signet ring nervously around his finger like he was trying to take it off.
“I just don’t get it,” Tim replied. “You’d think someone, somewhere would need a private detective. Why is no one hiring me?”
“Maybe it’s because you’re no good,” I said.
“You might be right,” Tim nodded sadly.
“There are police dogs that have solved more crimes than you.”
“Yes,” Tim agreed, “but at least I don’t have fleas.”
I got up and turned the radio off. Tim had managed to get the tin open and the room was suddenly filled with the smell of twenty-seven-year-old sardines. And it was just then that there was a knock on the door.
I looked at Tim. Tim looked at me. We had a client and we also had a room that looked like a rubbish tip and smelled like the River Thames during the Great Plague.
“One minute!” Tim shouted.
In that one minute, we raced around like two people in a speeded up commercial for Fairy Liquid. Papers went into drawers. Plates went into the kitchen. The sardines went into the bin and the bin went out the window. Sixty seconds later, the office looked more like an office and Tim was sitting behind his desk with a straightened tie and a crooked smile. I took one last look around and opened the door.
A man walked in. I guessed he was in his forties: short and fat, smoking a cigar. The cigar was short and fat too. He was dressed in a nasty suit. The pattern was so loud you could almost hear it coming. He had black, greasy hair, thick lips and eyes that would have been nicer if they’d matched. His shoes had been polished until you could see your face in them – though with his face I wouldn’t have bothered. There was a gold signet ring on his finger. The way it squeezed the flesh, I doubted it would ever come off.
“You always keep your clients waiting outside?” he demanded as he came in and took a chair.
“We were filing,” Tim explained.
He looked around. “I don’t see no filing cabinets.” He spoke like an American but he wasn’t one. He was just someone who spent too much time on planes.
“We were filing our nails,” I said.
He helped himself to one of Tim’s business cards from the desk. “Are you Tim Diamond?”
“Yeah. That’s me.” Tim narrowed his eyes. He always does that when he’s trying to look serious. Unfortunately it just makes him look short-sighted. “I’m a private eye.”
“I know,” the man growled. “That’s why I’m here. My name is Jake Hammill and I want to hire you.”
“You want to hire me?” Tim couldn’t believe it. He leant forward. “So what can I do for you, Mr Camel?”
“Not Jay Camel. I’m Jake Hammill. You want me to spell it for you?”
“N-O,” Tim said.
“I work in the music industry. As a matter of fact, I’m the manager of a woman who’s a very famous pop singer.”
Tim scowled. “If she’s so famous, how come I’ve never heard of her?”
“I haven’t told you her name yet.”
“Maybe it would help if you did.”
Hammill glanced at me. He was obviously suspicious. He turned back to Tim. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“I’m not going to tell you,” Tim replied.
“All right.” Hammill nodded. “Her name is Minerva.”
I have to admit, I was surprised. Hammill looked pretty small-time to me, but Minerva was one of the biggest names in the business. She was a multimillionaire pop singer and a movie actress. I doubted there was anyone in the world who hadn’t seen her videos. She was the woman with the golden voice and the silver-plated breasts. Her clothes were outrageous – like the rest of her lifestyle. She had been born in Greece but now she lived most of the time in New York. The fact that she was visiting London had made the front page of every newspaper … even the
Financial Times
.
“The thing is,” Hammill said, “I’ve got a serious problem…” He twisted his signet ring nervously around his finger like he was trying to take it off.
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