The Deadly Dance - M. C. Beaton [7]
Emma produced her notebook.
“My son has gone missing,” he said.
“May I have your name?”
“I’m Harry Johnson. My son is called Wayne. He’s nineteen.” “Have you been to the police?”
“Yes, but Wayne’s got a bit of a record for stealing cars, so they’re not bothering much.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Two days.”
“Does he normally live with you?”
“Yes; here’s my card.”
He extracted his wallet and fished out a card. Emma rose and took it from him, noting that Mr. Johnson was a plumber.
“Can you give us a list of places he usually frequents?”
“He likes going to Poppy’s Disco, reckon pretty much all the pubs, that’s about all.”
Emma suddenly spoke. “Mr. Johnson, why are you so anxious about him? He is nineteen, he likes pubs and clubs. Might he not just have taken off somewhere? Does he have a car?”
“Yes, he does. My bleedin’ car. That’s why I want to find him.”
“Make of car and registration?” asked Emma, while Agatha fretted. She should be the one asking all the questions.
“It’s a red Rover SL-44. Here. I’ll write down the registration number for you.”
“Quite an old car,” said Emma.
“But I kept it beautiful. I told him he was never to touch it. He must have taken the keys off the table while I was asleep in front of the telly. How much do you lot charge?”
“If we recover your car, the charge will be a hundred pounds,” said Emma, “but our expenses will be added on. They may not amount to much unless he has gone out of town.”
“I’m not a rich man,” said Mr. Johnson. “Oh, go ahead. But I don’t want to be running up no big expenses. If you haven’t found him after two days, forget it.”
“I’ll get you the form to sign,” said Emma, going to a filing cabinet. Agatha’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t even know they had a suitable form. Also, Emma was no longer wearing the old tweed suit but a smart linen skirt and blouse. I hope the cow isn’t thinking of taking over, thought Agatha sourly.
“Here we are,” said Emma. “I’ll fill in the money—here— and then you sign here and here. Fill in your address and your phone numbers and an e-mail address if you have it. If you will give us a cheque for a hundred pounds now, then we will bill you for any expenses.”
He brought out a battered wallet. “Credit card?”
“No,” said Emma with a smile. “Cheque and bank card, please. Oh, and we’ll need a photograph.”
He took a photograph from his inside pocket and was about to hand it to Emma, but Emma, conscious of Agatha’s eyes boring into her, said, “Please hand it to Mrs. Raisin.”
Agatha looked down at the photograph in surprise. “This is your car. Haven’t you got a photograph of your son?”
“Oh, him. Yeah, got one here.” He ferreted back in his inside pocket and produced a small passport photo.
Wayne had black hair gelled up into a crest on top of his head. He had a nose stud and five little earrings in one ear. His face was thin and his lips were curled in a sneer.
“Do I get my money back if you don’t find my car. .. I mean, him?” asked Mr. Johnson.
Agatha looked at Emma. “No, but you will not be charged expenses,” said Emma.
“Right, I’ll be on me way. Keep me posted.”
There was a silence after he had left, and then Agatha said, “We didn’t charge enough. The rent of this place is awful, not to mention the business tax.”
“I thought it might be an idea to keep prices low until we have built up a reputation.”
“In future, consult me. Right? Now, Ed better get started.”
“Do you want me to go and look for the boy?” asked Emma.
“Remember this. You’re a secretary. So stay here and man the phones.”
Agatha went straight to Mircester Police Headquarters and asked to speak to her friend. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. She was in luck; Bill was not out on a case.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been round to see you,” said Bill. “I read in the paper that you’d opened up your detective agency. How’s it going? Who is this Emma Comfrey who found the cat?”
“She’s only my secretary. She’s my new neighbour and wanted the job. Actually, she got lucky, that’s all. I’m thinking of replacing her with someone