10 Gorgeous Will at Home

Christie’s Detective Agency Two Part 10 THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY

The ego that was Gorgeous Will lived a few miles outside Brumpton in an otherwise unremarkable village (one shop, one pub and one bus a day) called Swanspottle. Horace was using Jenny’s car as his own was old, unreliable and unattractive, and Jenny suggested that if he was careful he could use her electric car and it could be counted amongst expenses. Anyway his old banger would do the name of the Agency no good at all.

When he arrived at the address supplied by DI Cyril Hodbur, Horace was surprised, to say the least. The house was on the outskirts of what was really an old and weather-worn village anyway and looked as if if had been built as a sort of afterthought, being disproportionately narrow but tall enough to house an obvious attic dormer window. The whole thing looked unshapely, and the front garden (mainly rubble and dried weeds with a disused rusty wheelbarrow on its side in the middle and three obviously threadbare car tyres in lieu of a floral display) was an eyesore. The thick grey curtains that covered the single front window were little better, being tatty with several holes in them, and drawn so that the interior of the house must have been almost in darkness.

“Well, well,” thought Horace, and he clambered over an old child’s bicycle in order to approach the front door. He noticed that parked on what might have been a drive to the garage (which had no doors) was a geriatric mini-minor with one of its front lights bashed in. He couldn’t help peering in. It looked as if its owner obviously may well live in it when he was away from home, and also that he was none-too tidy.

Horace rang the doorbell and heard the rattle of something tinkling tunelessly within the house. After almost too long the door opened and a man clad in shiny metallic materials, silver trousers and a copper shirt, and reeking of several different aftershaves, opened the door, yawned and then beamed at him.

“You must be Jonny-boy?” he asked.

“Horace Sorsse,” he corrected him, “I rang.”

“Of course. Come in. Coffee? Or something a bit stronger?”

“No thanks. And I’m driving,” replied Horace, who had been given the use of Jenny’s Nissan for the ride to Swanspottle.

“It never affects me,” the other said, “I’ll have a whisky. Free sample from one of the finest distilleries in Scotland when I was there doing some promotion for them. They adored me.”

He poured himself a drink that didn’t look the colour of any whisky that Horace was aware of, being more like vodka, and invited Horace through to the inner living room. This was set out as a dining room, with a table and chairs and a television that was far too large for what was really quite a small room and switched on to an advertising channel trying to tempt any viewers it had into buying what looked like bog-standard swimming wear.

“I need to keep an eye on my work,” muttered Gorgeous Will as if apologising for the presence of the television’s domination of the room.

“I understand,” said Horace, “maybe we can get this over swiftly and I can leave you to get on with your research.”

“Research?” asked Will.

“Yes, you know, what you just said, keeping an eye on your work,” replied Horace. “They said at the police station that you reported seeing a woman sitting at a table inside the library when you had your little prang?”

“It wasn’t my fault! The lamp-post leapt out at me when I took my eyes off the road for a mere second,” explained he who had been described to Horace as a tenth-rate celebrity.

“Lamp-posts don’t normally do that, sir,” contributed an astonished Horace.

“I know. But its the sort of thing that happens to me! They must sort me out for different treatment,” beamed Gorgeous Will, and as he spoke a flake of something flesh-coloured broke away from his face revealing a rougher and faintly lined whiskery surface beneath it. Gorgeous Will brushed it to one side as if it wasn’t there.

You’re not the twenty-something you claim to be, and haven’t been for years, thought Horace.

“Anyway,” he said, “back to the night in question. Did you see anyone else around? Anyone who might be the sort of person to kill a poor old lady in a library after dark?”

“There was a policeman,” replied Gorgeous Will thoughtfully, “they can be dodgy, you know, coppers. I’ve known some pretty nasty creatures in that uniform, you know. They can’t half lie, and they plant bottles in a fellow’s car as evidence. They’re after something, fame and fortune I should think, but don’t stand a chance, and I should know because I’ve got it. Look now at the television! Here I come!”

A transatlantic voice-over began as Gorgeous Will increased the volume, And here we see our retro swimwear range, with a bright polka dot bikini for the lady, just the thing for that Spanish holiday in the sun with fellas all around on the look out for a beauty like you, and a slim-wear pair of trunks for the man who likes to feel the water on his equipment…

And the man on the television was quite obviously his host currently sitting at a dining table in his own scruffy home and on the screen wearing a tight and uncomfortable-looking pair of swimming trunks.

“I think the camera angle was a bit wrong there,” complained Gorgeous Will, “I’d have liked to see it slightly from below, add a bit of an accent on my bulge, not that I need much help in that department, but it never hurts us actors making the best of what we have!”

“Really?” asked Horace, trying to think of something more enlightening to say, and failing. His initial dislike of Gorgeous Will was deepening every time the shiny-clad man opened his mouth.

“Indeed! Now look at her! The girl in the bikini. She’s nowhere near as young as she looks on the screen, and when we shot that her armpits didn’t half reek! You should have smelt them, and I was never that close to her! And what’s more, when I offered her a sip from my flask, just to calm her nerves, she said she was teetotal! Now, I ask you, who can have any fun with a girl who’s teetotal?”

“Is there anything else you can remember from that night?” asked Horace, desperate to make as hasty a getaway as he could whilst being professional and leaving no investigative stone unturned.

“There was another copper, ignorant young chap, he came along…” mumbled the distracted Will, “now look at that! Doesn’t that show my equipment off in a better light? Much better!”

“I’m going, then,” replied Horace, “thanks for your time, and I’ll see my own way out. Most grateful.”

“Pity you can’t stay any longer,” moaned Gorgeous Will, “my moment in Bermuda shorts is coming up soon, and I do look good in them, even if I do say so myself! I had a semi when the camera was on me.”

But Horace was already on his way to the front door, shaking his head and asking himself that if that’s what undercooked testicles did for a man then he wasn’t ever going to try them.

Gorgeous Will was certainly not gorgeous and definitely a most unpleasant individual.

But was he a killer?

© Peter Rogerson 04.10.21

...