Lottie Entwistle To The Rescue!

“I really do not know what this is all about!” I said indignantly from the uncomfortable chair opposite the nice young man in his smart uniform. He looked at me with surprise, and a little pity in his eyes, as if I were a confused old dear who had wandered in from the biscuit aisle.

If someone had told me this time last week that I would be being interrogated by a Police Officer whilst wearing my favourite pussy pyjamas, I would never have believed them! I mean, me, Lottie Entwistle, a 92-year-old great-grandmother! For goodness' sake, the whole idea is just blooming ludicrous.

It had been a day like any other day. Well, to be honest they are all exactly the bleeding same when you get to my age. By the time I’ve hauled myself out of bed, dressed, brushed my teeth and hair, its usually lunch time!

When my Harry was here, we would lie in bed with a cuppa, reading the Daily’s, and arguing over the crossword. Aah, I really miss the old fella. Then, I remember that the dirty old sod ran off with Beryl Carpenter at No.42, and I think, ‘Good riddance!’

Anyway, as I was saying, it had been a normal day. I decided to give the windows a bit of a clean. My Timothy, bless him he’s 67 now, has told me time and time again;

“Mum, don’t go climbing up those steps, and no over-stretching at your age!”

The cheek of it. How old does he think I am? I had given the back windows a quick once over and was just taking the steps round to the front when I heard it. A loud crash and then a tinkling, a bit like glass breaking. My hearing’s not what it used to be, so, I carried on cleaning the windows.

I live in a bijou bungalow, so it didn’t take too long. My Timothy now lives in my beautiful, six-bedroom, four-bathroom, Georgian mansion, worth well over a million the estate agent told me. But my thoughtful Timothy bought me this little bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac and then moved himself, his dogs, and his wife and three children all into my old house, so I am truly fortunate!

It was the shrieking and wailing that went on and on and on. Annoying bleeding racket! There I was about to sit down with a cup of tea, a packet of digestives, and watch Homes Under the Hammer! I do so love that cuddly, teddy bear of a presenter. I can never remember his name though. But don’t get me started on some of the wrecks that get transformed into luxury accommodation. I mean, they get it all finished so quickly. You try to get someone to come around here to unblock a drain…Good luck!

The hullabaloo came from two doors down, not sure who’s in there now. That house has had more tenants than I’ve had hot dinners! I called out across the garden fences, “Everything okay over there?” No answer. Then, “Hello, are you alright?” Nothing!

Now, I could have, should have, left it at that, after all I am a little old lady. Well, I am when it suits me, but say that to my face, I dare you! I have also always fancied myself as a bit of an amateur sleuth so, I thought I’d pop over and investigate. I walked down the passageway behind the houses and knocked on the door. After a bit of a wait, I spotted one of those camera bell thingamabobs, so with a huge cheesy grin, I pressed that too.

After a few minutes of patiently waiting, I wandered around to the side gate and called over the top.

“Hey, anyone out here?” Still nothing. So, I lifted the latch, no padlock I noted, and walked around the back to the patio doors. The lawn had been trimmed within an inch of its life, the borders were stuffed with expensive-looking exotic plants, and the garden furniture looked like the sort you’d see in waiting room magazines. Not that I was being nosey. Then I saw it: one of the patio doors had a big hole in it right where the handle was, and there were bits of glass peppered over the paving slabs.

‘You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work this one out Lottie!’ I told myself.

Convinced that there may be somebody inside that needed help, my sleuth ego took over, so, I pushed the door and went in. The kitchen diner was beautiful. Jade green floor to ceiling units, rich pink walls, brass taps, a porcelain sink, and a coffee maker big enough to need planning permission! Then, I nearly tripped over the body lying on the floor, devastating for me at my age!

‘What a stupid place to take a nap’…ran through my head…of course it bleeding didn’t. I know a dead body when I see one!

The victim was a female Caucasian, mid 50’s, around 200lbs and looking at her roots, not a natural blonde. She was wearing an orange boiler suit. Definitely not her colour, and it did not do those curves of hers any favours either!

All those detective episodes were finally paying off! She was sprawled out on the lovely Italian, could be Portuguese, marble tiles, but no seeping blood. On my detective series it would’ve been slowly expanding into a big deep red puddle of claret by now.

Instead of calling an ambulance, I bent down to see if I could feel a pulse. She was a bit clammy, and I couldn’t seem to find a pulse, but then, I’m not a medical professional and my arthritic fingers are not what they used to be. Now, I realise how callous it seemed to check out the rest of the house before dialing 999, but I did anyway. All while a body lay on that beautifully tiled kitchen floor.

There was something else, though I did not know why it bothered me at the time, her left hand was curled tight in against her chest, as if she had been holding onto something she had not wanted to give up.

The master suite was lavishly decorated with gold and black wallpaper with African animals scattered across it. The huge four poster oak bed was draped with red velvet curtains and a rich red and gold velvet quilt laid like a shimmering lake across the bed. ‘Very sexy,’ I mused.

Perhaps if we’d had a bed like this, Harry would not have run off like he did. But then again, he’d always wanted what he couldn’t have. Beryl was welcome to him!

That bed looked so inviting. I could imagine myself living here, lying on that sumptuous quilt. I sat on the edge, shimmied over, and lifted my aching legs up on to the bed. All that cleaning had made me so tired. I shut my eyes, just for a few seconds, and was gone. I was lost in a dream. I was shaking a tree trying to dislodge something. Dead birds and rotting fruit were tumbling to the ground, but I couldn’t stop shaking it and shaking it. Then I realised that somebody really was shaking me. It was a young Police Officer!

“Now then Madam,” he began, “Are you with us?” I half opened my eyes.

“Where was I?”

“How had I got here?” And more importantly, is it lunch time yet?

I slowly sat up on the bed and looked around the room. It had been completely trashed. I must have slept through it. The Police Officer was talking to me. His lips were moving but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was so bizarre. Maybe I still hadn’t woken up.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, my head all over the place. A recollection of a woman’s body lying on a tiled floor. Did I dream that?

“We had a call down the station from one of the neighbours. They said they heard suspicious noises coming from this vicinity. My name is PC Bryan, with a ‘y’ he added. Do you live here?” He was looking directly at me, and he hadn’t said anything about the fake blonde.

“I am sorry PC Bryan, but I am not exactly sure where, ‘here,’ is?”

“Well, if this is not your house, what are you doing asleep on the bed?” The young Officer looked puzzled. Still no mention of a body.

“I think I may have banged my head.” I rubbed the back of my head in confirmation. He looked concerned and pulled his radio from his pocket.

“Let me put a call out for a paramedic to drop by and take a look at you. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous? Is the room spinning at all? Can you follow my finger?” He waved a finger across in front of my eyes from right to left several times. Very intrusive. I felt like biting it!

He spoke as if he was reading from a prompt sheet. I ignored his questions and slowly slid off the bed and tried to stand up. I felt fine but I could feel his eyes on me, so I did a few slow steps to show I was feeling better.

“I think I’m over whatever it was, but I could kill a cuppa.”

PC Bryan with a ‘y’ looked a bit put out. I think he secretly wanted to instigate an investigation. The only one he had ever had by the look of him. He followed me as I made my way towards the bedroom door. He walked in front of me down the stairs.

“We don’t want you to fall down the stairs now do we?” he said in a voice reminiscent of my Timothy’s.

As we walked into the kitchen, my eyes scanned the floor. The body was gone! I looked at

PC Bryan for clues to what he was thinking. If he knew anything, his face certainly did not!

Not only had the body gone, but the kitchen looked too pristine, too ordered, as if someone had cleaned the whole afternoon away while I was snoring upstairs.

“It is all coming back to me now. I was cleaning my windows, a few doors down, when I heard a commotion coming from over here. I must have popped over to investigate, but to be honest, I can’t remember much more after that.”

“Would you mind coming down the station with me to make a statement to that affect? You may have disturbed a burglar and could have been hit over the head with something. You could even be concussed” he concluded with a little too much glee in his voice. I looked at him, slightly annoyed.

“But I don’t know anything other than what I’ve just told you!’

Never hassle a 92-year-old who has missed her lunch!

I was heading towards the patio doors when I noticed it. The hole in the glass door had gone. No jagged edge, no glittering bits on the paving slabs, no sign that anything had ever been broken. It had been there. I know what I saw! I looked at my aged, freckled, hands, splayed out my fingers, and counted them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! Ten fingers still. A little test to make sure I still had all my marbles! Both my parents had died with Dementia; it was just a matter of time before it caught up with me.

As PC Bryan escorted me back to my bungalow, he paused and turned.

“If you don’t mind me saying something Madam?”

He spoke in a hushed tone, like he was speaking to a toddler. I gave him a hard stare. He shifted about, looking uncomfortable. “You do seem a little confused. Would you like me to call someone for you, a relative or a friend maybe?”

I looked at him incredulously. “I am more than capable of looking after myself, thank you very much!”

“Well, then maybe remember to get dressed next time before you decide to wander about other people's property in the future.” he replied walking away.

“What’s wrong with my pussy pyjamas?” I called after him

Back at my bijou bungalow, I put the kettle on and made two rounds of thick cheesy toast, with a slathering of mustard. I was starving. As I sat down on the sofa pulling up a side table for my milky tea and toast, I played my day back in my mind. I must have been hallucinating. It was my only plausible conclusion. Exhaustion brought about by over stretching in the sun and missing lunch maybe?

“Don’t be so daft Lottie Entwistle,” I chided myself! “You’re allowed to be a little absentminded at 92!”

Deep in thought I plunged my hands into my pyjama bottom pockets, still seeing that curled hand, the spotless kitchen, the unbroken glass. Something hard and sharp bit into my fingers. I winced and pulled my hand out quickly. There, in the palm of my hand, sparkling in the remnants of the late afternoon sun, was the biggest diamond and platinum ring that I had ever seen! A wry smile crept across my lips.

“No one will believe you did it, Lottie!”