Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Private Dick

‘Snivelling little creep!’ she hisses. ‘I suppose my husband paid you to come bursting in here ?’

‘I don’t think that Mr Brown would like me to make any comment concerning that statement,’ I say, ruthlessly professional to the last.

‘I could give you an albumful of photographs that would make Gordon throw a purple fit. Do you remember when the World Limbo Dancing Championships were held over here—?’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I say. ‘I have a weak heart and my doctor says that I shouldn’t get over-excited.’ I pick up my camera and am relieved that Mrs Brown makes no move to stop me.

‘Send me a print for my collection,’ she says, slumping back on the bed. ‘I hope you got my best side. Why don’t you take one especially for my husband?’ She sticks out her tongue and extends two fingers. I raise my camera and then think better of it. Mr Brown gave few indications of being a one-man laugh riot. ‘You came a couple of minutes too early. Do you know that?’ Mrs Brown rotates her shoulders against the bed and draws up one of her legs so that I cop an eyeful of snatch thatch. This is obviously a very naughty lady and it is a good job that I am incorruptible. Men of lesser moral fibre might fancy their chances of filling the gap vacated by the gent now probably skipping down Baker Street in a dustbin. ‘Come and sit down,’ says Mrs Brown, patting the bed beside her. Her spare hand drifts down between her legs and it is soon clear that something is itching.

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