New Directions (27)

A call to Dev didn’t happen. A snotty AI voice pretending to be a female explained in staccato tones the number was unavailable – a lie and not a lie. He would be available after he switched off “do not disturb.” I sent a message filling him in about Celia’s condition and warning him about the Duke’s rule.

Then it was my turn to get a message. The rest of the afternoon spent smoothing Miss Angst (pet name for Ms. Crabbett my most difficult tenant), and begging the fella who does my odd jobs to go round and spurt WD-40 © on the hinges holding her bathroom door upright. Arriving in my village around seven I succumbed to an evening meal at The Star figuring since I’d be billed an hour for a two minute job I might as well go crazy and eat out.

The anger I felt when I left Celia stayed with me until I got home. I had a stab at finding the piece of shit Andrew Mercer on-line. Google provided me with enough pictures to fill one wall. I trudged through them to see if I recognised him from my visits to the office where he’d worked. I narrowed it down to about five “young dudes” on Facebook – all tenuous.

A look inside linkedin provided pics of about 200 careers and locations. My eyes were seeing double by the time I’d found three located close enough to Towcester to make them possibles. One face matched: a scrawny looking one with car-door ears wearing a t-shirt with Nelson Mandela looking out of it. The description; “Office manager located in Northamptonshire” had a smell, but it’s a big county. I had lot to do.

Maybe time to call in “the professionals,” but not a kosher tracing agency or one of the no trace no fee brigade. Two reasons: one, they’re vultures who’s charges are astronomical; two you have to register a name, address and bank details. I knew who to contact. I wasn’t sure he would help me with something like this, but whatever he decided I knew I’d have to spill everything. I needed to sleep on it.

The following morning, helped by good morning call from Karen, I got up feeling relaxed. The anger from yesterday retreated. Finding this Mercer runt didn’t seem to be so urgent. Celia was getting better and the police were on the case. Sticking my finger into that bubbling pot might get it burnt.

By the time I’d spooned through a bowl of granola and was on my second coffee doubts about Celia and the police crept in. What were the long term effects of the assault? I’d known of people dropping dead from a rogue brain embolus years after fully recovering from a serious accident. And the police. How serious would they take it now it didn’t look like she’d croak?

 My contact could probably answer a lot of my questions, but first a visit to someone with dirty fingers playing on both sides of the net who’d broken his promise. . . . Mr Stokes, hello again.