The empty metal paint spray can hit the inside of the dustbin. John stood back from the glowing white cycle frame. "Virgin white and good as new. Tomorrow I'll reassemble my trusty steed."
He picked up his cigarettes, lit one and inhaled the pungent smoke. "Okay, Jackie, a bit dramatic, but I can do the necessary easier on a bike than in my car. No one ever notices a cyclist. And before you ask, I'm not having sex with Angela. She's not interested in me. But she's attractive and a bit of a flirt. I'd have a chance if I were twenty years younger." Taking a bottle of turpentine from its shelf, he soaked a rag and cleaned his hands.
On leaving the well-lit workshop, he noted the sun was beginning to drop below the horizon. He shielded his eyes and checked the time.
After washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he glanced out of the window at the house opposite. Recently painted, with an immaculate garden. At least he had a better view. They had to look at paint flaking off windows and a garden full of tall weeds. Since his wife passed, he had given a hundred percent to the job and used it as an excuse. His life had changed again, and it was time to take control, but where should he start. He muttered as he washed the dishes in the sink. What I need is a to-do list. With the dishes washed and dried, he placed them in a cupboard, but a voice in his head told him it was the wrong cupboard.
As he looked at the disorder surrounding him, his enthusiasm melted away. Irritated, he seated himself at the table, lit a cigarette and gave the problem some thought. He rummaged amongst some old local papers looking at the small ads, but he asked himself. How do I know if they are any good? I need someone who does, and the woman who runs the launderette came to mind, and tomorrow is laundry day.
In a better frame of mind, he remained at the kitchen table, sipped a beer, smoked, and watched a travelogue.
***
He filled his laundry bag the following day and cycled to the High Street laundromat.
Babs Vincent, a slim woman in her early fifties with her dark hair pulled back behind her ears, had worked in the laundromat for years. She loved her job and was now the supervisor. She stopped folding sheets with her assistant June when John entered. "The usual, wash, dry and shirts ironed."
John nodded as he handed the bag over. "Babs. I need a cleaner. You wouldn't happen to know someone who needs a job?"
"This might be your lucky day." She picked up the shop phone and dialled a number. "What's the pay?"
His eyes looked up towards the heavens. "What's the going rate?"
Babs laughed. "Five pounds a day, depending."
John shrugged, "Depending on what?"
"What do you want her to do."
"Clean," said John, "What else?"
"Did you hear that, Gillian? Right, don't hang up. I need to talk to the gentleman."
"When would you like her to start?
"Tomorrow would be good."
"My daughter needs a job. She's a hard worker, used to clean bedrooms in the Grand Hotel along the seafront until it closed. Give me your address, and we'll come round your place and have a chat."
"You have my address. What time tonight?"
She placed her hands on her hips. "I finish here at six. How about seven."
"Perfect. See you later, and thanks."
"Don't worry about collecting your laundry. I'll bring it with me."
John knew he could count on Babs. "Thanks." He waved and left.
Outside the laundromat, John mounted his cycle and went for a ride. On passing the Little brothers' house, he saw the wooded area on his left. He stopped a few hundred yards further and pushed his bike through the trees. At peace, he marvelled that these giants grew well from a tiny seed, a touch of sun, and a drop of rain.
"Whoever said crime doesn't pay?" Calm, his eyes scanned the red brick wall surrounding the property. The white-painted mansion was a mass of mirrored glass stretched from the ground to the eaves. The ground floor windows had security bars fitted. Automatic wrought iron gates allowed vehicles to pass in either direction.
A few metres into the wood, he found a tree stump to sit on, made himself comfortable and smoked a cigarette. For a time, he stared at the house. It was a fortress guarded by a pack of Dobermans.
For the next two hours, nothing happened. It gave John time to think and allowed his thoughts to flow. That's when his best ideas came, but he had to write them down. The roar of a powerful car's exhaust jumped him back to reality. The fresh air and exercise made him feel hungry. He smiled at the thought of a good meal at his local.
When he was ready to leave, the brothers, Peter, David and Bobby, arrived, driving their top-of-the-range Silver Mercedes saloons.
In fifteen minutes, he retraced his steps, mounted his bicycle, and cycled to the carpark at the rear of The Lion and the Unicorn.
As he ate, his mind considered his options for the brothers. He smiled at the thought of strolling up to the house, a loaded double-barrelled shotgun under each arm and taking the brothers out. However, he knew a gunfight was a stupid idea. A chief inspector he once was, but Wyatt Earp, forget it. He ordered another pint. The answer became obvious. Do unto others as they would do to you. He knew the answer, but it required the checking of a few details. Draining the dregs of his pint, he left.
The fresh air stimulated his thoughts as he rode his bike the two miles to the abandoned St Mary's Catholic Church. As his mind wandered, he recalled his school history lessons. Thomas Cromwell, a blacksmith's son, directed the destruction of monasteries. Often led by Cromwell himself, his officers collected evidence of wrongdoing. Fraud and vice were the two most common. Yet, his men raised the red sandstone building that once covered this site to the ground.
His eyes scanned the area. As far as he could determine, no one was in the locale of the mausoleum. A shiver ran through his body as he remembered living in a sick world. As a young boy, his parents forced him to attend Sunday school. When people asked him about his religion, he said, "I failed the exam for Catholic and became an agnostic."
A mother worried about her son's lateness one night from church questioned him. He told her of his visit to the undercroft with a priest. A report of abnormal practices undertaken there forced a police investigation.
Together with a female officer, John followed one of the choir boys to the named special place. Searches of the obsolete monks' cells revealed evidence of what happened there. Their lives would never be the same again for those who ventured into the dark.
When the senior priest chose to end his life, the cover-up began. The church authorities believed that out of sight would become out of mind. They concealed the access to the undercroft with a granite mausoleum. Over time, the reason for the structure faded.
Being a policeman means you discover things. Forcing the main gate open, John pushed his cycle through the weed-covered cemetery. Smashed headstones lay strewn across the ground.
The metal door to the inside of the empty tomb hung open on its hinges. Wary, John squinted inside. Disgust swept over him as he remembered what went on in the dark below. Hypodermic needles, broken bottles, and excrement covered the marble floor. Drug addicts went there to shelter from the weather and inject themselves. Alcoholics of harm's way drank themselves into oblivion.
John inspected the intact steel hatch cover on the floor. He knew to gain access would require a metal cutting torch. Satisfied, he returned to the gate and cycled home.
***
John watched as Babs and Gillian, her daughter, knocked on his front door. He opened the door. "Come in. Kitchen or sitting room?"
"It's your house," said Babs as her daughter shrugged.
"Kitchen it is then. Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee for me. Gillian will have coke if you have any."
John grinned, shaking his head. "No coke."
"A glass of water, please," said Gillian.
Babs perfume filled the kitchen. She was still in her work clothes. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Fill your boots," said John as he tossed a packet of Woodbines on the table. He made two coffees and handed a glass of tap water to Gillian.
Babs took a cigarette and lit it. She inhaled deeply before exhaling the smoke. He looked at the tall, slim Gillian and guessed she was eighteen. Long hair and dark curls framed her round face. Her makeup was sparse but well applied. She didn't know it, but he had hired her when they met. "Gillian, why do you want this job?"
She looked straight at him. "Simple, I need the money. What do you want me to clean?"
"My house from top to bottom."
She threw back her head and laughed. "When did your wife die?"
"A few years back. Why."
She smiled. "You're not exactly into housework, are you?"
"I do what I must."
Babs coughed. "What are you playing at, Gillian?"
She turned to face her mum. "I happy to clean for this gentleman, but look around. This place needs a good scrub from top to bottom before it's half clean. I reckon a good couple of weeks work."
"I suggest five pounds a day to clean," said John. "I'll give you fifty quid to gut the place decent. The long and short of it is, no work, no pay."
Gillian half turned her head towards him before standing and holding out her hand. "It's a deal. Twenty-five quid upfront and a tenner for cleaning products. What time can I start tomorrow?"
"Wait." John rummaged in a drawer until he found a key. "Not before nine in the morning, but you can come and go to suit yourself. I have one proviso. No boyfriends giving you a hand."
Babs got up and stubbed out her cigarette. "My girl's a hard worker Mr Daniels and if you have any problems, tell me, and I'll sort it out."
"You won't have to. She'll be out the door faster than a rat up a drainpipe."
Gillian laughed. "I like you. Straight and to the point. Where's your hoover?"
John went to the hall cupboard and removed a silver cylinder. "This is all I have."
Gillian took it from him and set to work. After two minutes, she stopped. "You need a new one. It's buggered. I can get you a recon for a tenner."
"At this rate, you'll bankrupt me," said John smiling as he handed over two five-pound notes.
"What room do you want cleaning first?"
John shrugged. "I leave that to you."
"Mum, it's time we were off. See you after nine tomorrow morning Mr Daniels."
Gillian opened the front door, waited for her mum to pass and tried the key. "It works."
Good night," said John as he closed the door.