The Ford Granada screeched to a halt, the tyres dragging across the slight grit of the road, rubber leaving a track behind the car as it popped up onto the curb outside of the Borg residence.
The noise had drawn Sandra’s attention and she pushed her fingers between her venetian blinds expecting to see Tony’s car pulling up. What she saw instead was two dishevelled men in their thirties hopping out of a very old Ford with rust on its body work, and worse than that, they appeared to be jogging towards her front door.
She pulled her hand away from the venetian blind and peered through the crack in the hallway door, looking through the glass of her front door as the worse looking of the two men knocked on the door frantically. They were discussing something with some intensity, each speaking over the other at some pace.
“I want it noted that I feel this is quite a poor idea, Brian.”
“I want it noted that your idea of a good idea is FedExing a dead cat to its owner.”
“If you tell this woman you are wanted in connection with the murder of her husband she will call the police faster than you can say ‘I accidentally left my passport on a pyramid in Morocco.”
“I need to know more about him and whether he had any other enemies.”
“You definitely said other enemies just now.” Mark said pointing his finger in Brian’s face.
“You know full well what I mean.”
“You know this man.”
“I know of this man.”
“You know the dead man, your documents were found all around him, you’ve seen his wife’s nipple and now we are stood at her front door to ask her if she knows of any other enemies, implying you not only know the man but have a motive to murder him.”
“He’s my boss.”
“I knew it!” Mark exclaimed, pumping his finger into the air.
Brian shook his head, “You didn’t know anything. And besides, you definitely didn’t know that he also—”
Sandra opened the door interrupting the conversation. Both men fell silent and looked right at her, their eyes open wide enough for the whites of their eyes to be on show more than is standard convention.
“Are you reporters?” She asked.
Sandra knew little of reporters, but she expected that they were poorly paid and, apart from a handful of them working for GQ Magazine, imagined them to be terribly dressed. If she were to draw a picture of two journalists, she would in fact have drawn a picture of Mark and Brian.
“Ah.” Mark hummed, looking at Brian.
“Well. No.” Brian responded.
“We are actually Private Detectives.” Mark interjected, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a creased business card, curled at the corners, and handing it to Sandra. “Well, I am. This is Brian. My, ah- client.”
“Client. He’ll be paying me. He’s a client.”
“Missus Borg,” started Brian, “I think we need a chat about Ernie.”
Sandra looked up from the business card.
“Why do I know your face from somewhere?” She asked Brian.
“I think I may be of some assistance here,” Mark interjected, stepping between the two, “Do you have any tea, Missus Borg?”
Her curiosity was peeked and she felt unthreatened by the two men standing at her door who she identified as being deficient in intellect. She invited them to join her for a nice cup of tea.
“Excellent,” Mark beamed as he wiped his feet on Sandra’s doormat, “I don’t suppose there’s a custard cream in your biscuit tin by any chance?”
As the door closed the councillor’s BMW pulled up behind the old Ford Granada. He leaned forward in his car seat and looked at the rusted car in front of him, then up at Sandra’s house and back to the Ford, raising his eyebrow.
He switched the engine off, unfastened his seat belt and, with no husband to worry himself about, he let himself in.