Free With My Little Eye by Gerald Hammond Page A

Tash; but she glanced at herself in the car’s wing mirror before she allowed the reporter to photograph her. The photograph, delicately airbrushed, eventually appeared along with a hint that it had been Tash who found the body. It was then that she learned that, in the view of the media, any dramatic event or provocative opinion is attributed to the prettiest girl in sight at the time.
    Douglas and Tash spent the day carrying out a survey of a rambling industrial building that was now vacated and derelict. They had developed a teamwork aimed at minimizing their time spent working and maximizing their precious leisure time. Provided that Douglas drove gently and gave warning of any bumps ahead, Tash could take dictation direct onto the laptop in the moving car. Douglas thought freely while driving and while his recollection of the building was fresh. The buildings that they had been surveying could be converted into dwellings as the client hoped, but Douglas’s report pointed out that the neighbourhood had become almost a slum and that more than thirty old houses would have to be updated or demolished to restore housing values in the area. It might be essential to enlarge the project. The capital requirement would be greater but so also would be the profitability. He could produce or obtain more accurate figures if instructed.
    That conclusion had not taken long to reach. Expecting to run late, Douglas had said that they would not be back in time for an evening meal so they stopped at the Lothian Arms, a good quality pub not far from Underwood House, for a bar supper. The pub’s decoration was inoffensive and there was no jukebox.
    Over the scampi and chips he asked her, ‘Do you have any ideas about what might have happened to Stan?’
    Tash considered the question. ‘From what the police are asking, they still haven’t found a cause of death that they can be sure of. I think he just plain died.’
    The licensee was a huge man, built to a large scale and then enlarged further by obesity. His name was Swanson and Douglas had surveyed and valued the pub on behalf of the brewery owners.
    After greeting Douglas and his assistant, Swanson came and leaned over their table. ‘So you’ve lost one of your residents?’
    â€˜That’s so.’
    â€˜The fat little bugger? Stan something?’
    â€˜Eastwick,’ Douglas said. ‘Yes. Did he come in here?’
    â€˜From time to time. Not very often. Just as well. We can do without his sort in here.’
    Douglas was surprised. Stan Eastwick had always seemed friendly and without vice or malice. ‘He didn’t make trouble, did he?’
    Swanson sank his bulk into a chair that creaked in protest. ‘Not exactly, no. But it was only a matter of time, the way he looked.’
    Tash seemed to understand but this seemed very strange to Douglas. Stan Eastwick’s appearance had never seemed out of the ordinary. ‘Looked?’
    â€˜At women,’ Swanson said impatiently. ‘As if he could see through their clothes. X-ray vision or something. My wife was complaining.’
    Mrs Swanson was a looker and she knew it; tall, brassy blonde, with long and shapely legs, she carried her large bust proudly before her. Her face, though, come to think of it, Douglas could not remember her face, if he had ever seen it. This was definitely a subject to be avoided.
    â€˜And his brother?’ Douglas asked. ‘Did he seem to have X-ray vision too?’
    Swanson considered his reply. ‘Not that I noticed,’ he said at last. ‘He’s more like one who’s afraid of women. Looked away and cut it short if the wife spoke to him. Know what I mean?’
    â€˜Where is Mrs Swanson today?’ Tash asked idly. ‘Gone out with the girls?’
    â€˜She’s down in the cellar putting on a fresh carbon dioxide cylinder. I’d better go and see what’s keeping her.’ He rose and lumbered