‘Well I’ll be . . .’
*
As much as Ben Finch tried to behave like an officer of the law around Mrs Robbins, he always acted somewhat like a scolded child. He just couldn’t help himself. Mrs Robbins just had a way about her, and when she used that tone of voice, his status as Keeper of the Peace was instantly reduced to that of a fidgeting, nervous boy.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Benjamin Finch! Don’t stand there on the mat. How can you possibly conduct a police investigation if you have to shout all the important details to Sergeant Williams from across my kitchen?’
‘Yes, Mrs Robbins.’
He took one tentative step off the mat, his foot balancing in mid air.
‘Should I take my shoes off then?’ he asked.
‘Constable Finch, it is only mud. I had to wipe mud off my own shoes this morning. Now stop dithering and come back inside. Really.’
‘Yes, Mrs Robbins,’ Finch acknowledged. He was one hundred percent convinced that if Mrs Robbins ever stumbled across him having a bath she would demand to know if he had washed behind his ears.
‘I dusted for prints, finished the inventory, and called all the numbers that were listed on the phone, sarge,’ he announced.
‘Any luck?’ Bill Williams asked.
‘Yes and no. There weren’t that many numbers listed. Some of the neighbours, couple of fast food restaurants, an estate agent, and a CD shop. Hardly any personal numbers, which seems a bit unusual. His wife’s number was on it, of course, but I didn’t bother ringing that as she’s overseas. I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.’
‘Good thinking,’ Bill agreed. He nodded to suggest Finch should continue.
‘Right. Two were numbers of people on the continent, one German and one Frenchman. I just said, ‘wrong number’ and hung up. No point chatting to foreigners at this stage. One of the numbers was his gran. She thought I was Fenwick. Think she might be a bit senile too, sarge. Kept calling me her “Li’lgordo”, whatever that means. She was no help at all.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Bill asked.
‘After I told her I was a policeman she said how wonderful it was that her grandson had got a proper job at last instead of playing computer games all day. She even moaned that I hadn’t been up to see her in ages, so she said. She lives in Reading. She reminded me in case I’d forgotten. I had to promise to visit just to get her off the phone.’
‘Sounds like everyone’s granny, that does,’ said Bill, grinning. ‘Anything else?’
‘There was one bloke . . . er . . .’ He consulted his note pad. ‘Fella by the name of Steve Goldin. Works at a graphic design studio up in Watford. Says he never heard of Ralph Fenwick. Said I had the wrong number. I asked him if he was sure. He said yes, dead sure.’
‘In my experience, lad, no one is ever dead sure about anything, even being dead. But it’s interesting though, all the same.’ Bill made a mental note and filed it.
Finch was not finished.
‘There was one other number on his phone. I didn’t call that one. I know it sounds daft but it felt . . . well, spooky, sarge.’ Finch held the phone out to his sergeant.
Bill Williams took the phone and looked at the number on the screen. He raised an eyebrow. Fascination or morbid curiosity took hold for a few seconds and he pressed the call button. The phone he was calling began to ring. Automatically he raised the phone to his ear.
On the fifth ring a voice on the other end said, ‘Hello?’
11: Who’s a Pet? Who’s a Cat?
The town of Corlington is the type of place where certain people think that having a world-famous fast food outlet in the high street is sure sign of progress. The same people often swore by the practice of always carrying indigestion tablets. And these forward-looking people were none too happy when a few elderly members of the local bowls club started distributing flyers with the message, Say No to Muck-Donalds.
Anyway, for those residents who had a more old-fashioned approach to take-away meals, the place to eat was across the road. At least with fish ‘n’ chips no one has ever made allusions to the food being road kill.
Fokyu’s Fish n’ Chips (pronounced: Foe Queue’s) had formerly been a Chinese take-away but survived in this guise for only three months. After doing almost no business and receiving at least one death threat when someone’s cat went missing, Mr Wi Fokyu decided to change to selling fish and chips.
The members of the local town council were thrilled, as the town hadn’t had a proper ‘chippy’ since Harry Wimple passed away nearly two years ago.
The council even had an impromptu ‘whip-round,’ offering Mr Fokyu five hundred and thirty-six pounds and fourteen pence if he would change the name of his restaurant to something more ‘traditional’. The money being for the cost of a new sign (thirty-two
Pounds seventy-five pence including VAT as quoted by Charlie Gibbles) and was in no way to be looked upon as an inducement.
But on this point, Wi Fokyu he would not budge. In an emotional council meeting he addressed the chairman: ‘You no change your name? No! You, Fotheringham. I, Fokyu.’ With a defiant ‘Hmmmpf’, he folded his arms and sat down.
The town’s children thought it was wonderful. Naturally. Of course, they said it was a victory for cultural as well as human rights that the chip-shop owner should have his name on the shop window. They had learnt all about human rights at school.
So, when any of these socially-conscious children were asked by their parents where they were going on a Saturday night, the reply was usually, ‘Fokyu’s.’
There was a rumour spread around town that suggested even though the Chinese take-away was no more, cats and dogs were still disappearing. The management at the restaurant opposite the fish n’ chip shop had no comment on this issue.
Mr Fokyu did a roaring trade, especially on the last Wednesday of each month, as this was market day. His mushy peas had picked up a reputation as being the best in the district.
Corlington, like every market town, had market days. Local farmers brought their livestock and produce to town to auction and sell.
During market days, the sleepy little place was alive with the sounds and smells of rural England. You were certain of a friendly greeting from friends and strangers alike if you should happen to be in town. Market day just wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t hear someone call, ‘Hey, Brenda, ‘ow’s your old man’s turnips then?’
‘Better’n your old man’s cucumber, I’ll bet!’
or,
‘ ‘Ello ‘Enry. Oi ‘eard your cow was sick?’
‘Tha’s right, Bert. But the vet said ‘e would ‘ave a look at ‘er if Doctor Burnley couldn’t make it on ‘is rounds.’
*
Fred, Ralph, and Hendrix emerged from Corlington Station and made their way to town on foot. The main shopping area – which wasn’t much to speak of; no more than two or three streets – was less than a quarter-mile from the station. Just a relaxed stroll as the sun began to peep over the horizon.
There was a smell of diesel as lorries full of livestock began to arrive.
The local police were already hard at work putting up temporary barriers in the town centre to prevent motorized traffic from entering.
All the livestock corrals, pens and numerous stalls would be set up on the town periphery. The centre of town was always pedestrianised for Market Day.
Within five minutes, they had arrived at Hastings Street, which was considered the centre of Corlington. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted tantalisingly on the air. Fred’s nose identified the aroma and his head obligingly turned towards the source, a small bakery-cum-coffee-shop across the street.
‘Time for breakfast, I believe.’ They stood on the kerb by a pedestrian crossing. The orange beacons flashed their continual warning, but with no vehicles allowed in town other than the odd delivery bicycle, they were in no danger of oncoming traffic.
However, by force of habit Fred reached out and pressed the
button on the pole, then waited for the green man to appear.
‘All clear,’ he said cheerfully and they stepped on to the crossing.
The cat had a playful air about it and began to skip from white stripe to black.
‘Now you see me, now you don’t. Now you see me, now you don’t.’
The two men stared at their feline companion who looked up at them slightly abashed.
‘Sorry, couldn’t resist.’
As they reached the bakery, the owner was unlocking his door and rolling up the window-blind.
‘Morning to you. Looks like its going to be a fine day. With you in a minute,’ said the baker as he went inside his shop. A moment later, he returned carrying a round, wrought-iron table that he set on the pavement. He then brought out four chairs.
Once the last one had been arranged, he brushed his hands on the front of his apron and smiled.
‘Right, sir, what can I do you for this morning? Spot of breakfast, or will it be take-away?’
The smell of fresh coffee mingled with that of the bread. Fred’s stomach suddenly felt very hollow.
‘I think I’ll sit for a while,’ he answered, as he pulled out a chair.
A plastic, embossed menu appeared from the baker’s apron pocket and was handed to him.
‘Coffee, tea?’ the baker asked.
‘Coffee, please,’ Fred replied.
‘Janet,’ the baker called over his shoulder, ‘customer.’
‘Coming, Dad.’
A young woman, about seventeen or eighteen, appeared at the table. She smiled sweetly and Fred returned the gesture.
‘Now, now, Frederick Johnson, no flirting with the waitress, there’s a good lad.’ Ralph was leaning up against the shop front grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Fred ignored him.
‘Scrambled eggs on toast, please.’
Janet scribbled down his order in restaurant shorthand and left. Ralph pushed himself away from the glass window and pulled out a chair to sit down.
‘Pretty thing, I must say.’
‘Go away Ralph; or at least let me eat my breakfast in peace,’ Fred mumbled in reply.
‘Tch, tch. There you go, talking to yourself again. You want to watch out, people might begin to wonder.’
‘You are beginning to become a pain in the backside, Ralph Fenwick,’ said Hendrix in Fred’s defence.
The cat jumped lightly onto the table and lay down.
The baker, who had a clear view of the table, was within earshot of his early-morning customer, and did wonder. He stepped outside with Fred’s coffee and enquired if anything was wrong.
Fred’s improvisational skills were improving rapidly. Realising that the shop’s owner might think he was complaining, he told him that he was practising a speech he had to make later on that day.
‘Very sharp, Fred,’ said Ralph, seeming to be genuinely impressed.
Janet reappeared with Fred’s breakfast. As she put the plate of food on the table, Fred rubbed his hands together.
‘This looks smashing, and I know it will taste just as good. Did you prepare it?’ Fred asked.
‘Oh, god. Get over yourself,’ Ralph groaned from across the table.
Fred merely grinned.
Janet blushed at the compliment.
‘Actually it was mum. She does the cooking; dad does the baking.’
‘Well, give my compliments to the chef.’
She refilled his coffee then left him to enjoy his meal. As she passed behind Ralph’s chair, she pushed it in towards the table. The table appeared to cut Ralph in two. The look on Ralph’s face was one of horror.
‘That’ll teach you,’ said Fred. Even the cat laughed. Sort of.
Ralph got up and sat in a chair that was in no danger of blocking the waitress’ path. His face was a picture of righteous indignation.
As if on cue, the moment Fred picked up his knife and fork there was a fluttering of wings in the air.
A resident flock of ‘urban vultures’, made up of pigeons and sparrows, began to drop down onto the pavement and approach Fred’s table.
For the cat, instinct took over. Standing one’s ground and ignoring a stupid old Ginger Tom was one thing. Ignoring a dozen items of potential breakfast that paraded with impunity less than four feet in front of him was quite another matter, even for a cat of Hendrix’s nature.
Hendrix’s tail began to swish as he stared, narrow eyed at the birds. Every two or three swishes the cat’s tail would bang down on the table causing the spoon on the saucer to jump up and down.
‘Hey!’ Fred hissed at the cat.
‘Oops, sorry,’ the cat apologised.
‘That reminds me,’ Fred began, ‘How come that cat at the station had a go at you?’
‘I wondered about that myself at first. Then I remembered that we cats are very sensitive to energy fields. Being highly developed and extremely intelligent, cats are able to see many different types of energy,’ Hendrix explained.
‘I heard dogs had a similar ability,’ said Ralph.
The cat looked disgusted.
‘Pah! Dogs. They’re almost like automatons. All they do is fawn over humans, sniff each others’ backsides, and pee up lampposts.’
‘Ah, you mean as opposed to spraying trees, scratching furniture, and terrorising any other household pets?’ Ralph smiled ever so sweetly.
‘Who’s a pet?’ The cat almost spat with indignation.
Ralph leaned close enough to risk getting his nose scratched and said,
‘Who’s a cat?’
Hendrix’s ears went up and back as he tried to think of a comeback line. He realised there wasn’t one.
Fred merely listened. He didn’t have enough experience to argue this point, or probably any other, with ghosts or spirits. He was still not sure what either of them was. How does one categorise an ethereal, talking feline called Hendrix, he wondered?
Hendrix decided not to pursue this discussion any further. He considered it was beneath him to argue with anything resembling a human.
They think they are so high and mighty and all because of a thumb, he thought. The day they invent paw-friendly cat food tins, watch out!
Fred coughed awkwardly into the silence. When he had their attention, he continued in a quiet voice. ‘Then how do we explain Michael spotting you?’
Hendrix turned towards Ralph and asked in a syrupy voice, ‘Inspector, care to have a shot at this one?’
Ralph merely glared back at the cat.
‘As I thought. Let me try to explain it this way. Do we all know what fairies are?’
Fred nodded slightly, aware of the fact that the baker kept looking at him from the front counter every now and then.
Ralph put his hands on his hips and in an unmistakably camp gesture and said, ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, darling.’
It broke the tension of the past few moments. They all laughed, which had the baker staring quizzically at Fred, who quickly covered his mouth with the palm of his hand and turned his head.
Hendrix brought the conversation back to the topic at hand.
‘The thing with fairies is, unless you believe in them you cannot see them, so they say. I realise that this presupposes that they do exist; and those who believe are emphatic that they do.’
‘That’s rubbish,’ said Ralph in a dismissive tone. ‘That type of thing goes hand in hand with a semi-delusional mind. It’s like circles in cornfields and Camelot and King Arthur. All nonsense.’
‘So Michael is semi-delusional, is he?’ the cat asked.
‘I . . .’ Ralph began, and stopped. ‘Oh. Forgot about Michael. I never thought about it like that.’
‘Quite,’ the cat pronounced in judgement before continuing.
‘Most people,’ the cat particularly stressed the word, ‘are just too busy with the day-to-day hustle and bustle of their lives to pay attention to things like this.’
‘It’s funny that you should use fairies as an example,’ said F
red. ‘That’s the subject of the book I want to buy.’
‘I didn’t think an ex-military type like you would be interested in things like that?’ Ralph asked, somewhat surprised.
‘Not for me; I told you it’s a gift for my friend in Chester.’ Fred paused for a moment and smiled fondly as he cast his mind back. Then he finished his breakfast and popped into the bakery to pay his bill.
Janet was busy taking an order from another customer. He gave a little wave indicating he would pay at the counter. He thanked the baker, left a tip, and turned to leave. As the baker closed the till, he asked Fred what the speech was going to be about.
‘Mmm? Oh the speech. Ghosts,’ Fred replied cheerily.
They headed towards a small church at the top of Hastings Street.
‘We popping in to confess our sins, are we?’ Ralph cheekily asked.
‘Very funny. The bookstore is around the corner in a small lane just off the street,’ Fred explained.
The sun was up and it did indeed look as if it was going to be a fine day. There seemed to be an inordinate number of Wellington boots on the streets, Fred noted, but then again, perhaps not. This was a market town and this was Market Day. Mud and manure were very much part of the stock-in-trade for most of the folks in town this morning.
He smiled at several people as he made his way to the bookstore. Everyone, without exception, smiled back and greeted him pleasantly in return.
I really like living in this neck of the woods, he thought. Then he sobered, realising how temporary that residence had become. Enjoy it while you can, Fred Johnson, he sighed to himself.
Hendrix noticed the play of emotions running across Fred’s face.
‘Everything all right Fred?’ the cat asked.
‘I was just thinking how wonderful life really is. Time is so short and we usually take it for granted.’
The cat merely nodded sagely. ‘Time,’ he repeated.
At the top of Hastings Street, one turns left into Westgate, crosses the road and twenty metres further, between an auction house and a pharmacist, is an old stone archway. Passing underneath, you will discover a cobbled lane called Bishops’ Mews. Up ahead, there’s a wooden sign. It’s green and white and on it is painted the name Pickerings.
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