Open Writing

A month after the murder of my old pal Tim Blumire I received a phone call. 'Is that Gordon Beckett?' asked a female voice.

'Might be,' I said, cautious as usual. 'Who are you?'

'Never mind who I am ... Do you want to know who killed Tim Blumire or don't you?'

'Perhaps I do,' I said, 'or perhaps -'

'Well, make your mind up.'

'Let me say yes, for the sake of argument.'

'A fine detective you are.'

'I prefer to be called a private investigator.'

'Were you ever in the police?'

'No, I used to work in a library.'

'You mean you were actually a library assistant, stamping books?'

'Yes, and there's nothing wrong with that. . . Now, what were you saying?'

'I was saying do you want to know who killed Tim Blumire or don't you?'
'Look,' I said, 'perhaps we'd better meet.'
*
Young, blonde, shapely, she came up to me in the bar. I'd told her I would be carrying a copy of the Daily Blare but I wasn't.

'How did you recognise me?' I asked, taking our drinks to a table.

'You looked like the only bloke who might read the Daily Blare.'

'Is that a compliment?' I asked.

'Take it or leave it,' she said, lining a cigarette.

'Well, then,' I said, 'who did kill Tim Blumire?’

She glared at me and flashed what looked like an identity card.

'Where were you,' she snapped, 'on the night of Friday, December 31st?'

'Now ... let me think,' I said, as if I'd forgotten.

'Just teasing,' she giggled, downing her vodka and tonic.