by Ian Edwards
Alan shrugged. ‘She’s fine about it.’
James pulled a face. ‘Really?’
Alan laughed. ‘Well, she hasn’t said she’s unhappy about it. And to be fair to her, she recognises my relationship with Sarah is purely platonic and in the best interests of my comedy career, which she wholeheartedly supports.’
James sat back in his chair and stared at his friend. ‘Bollocks,’ he said.
‘What?’ Alan replied. ‘Not convinced?’
James shook his head and drained his pint. ‘Seriously,’ he said.
Alan sighed. ‘She doesn’t mention it a great deal. She just says ‘OK’ when I tell her I have a gig.’
‘Frosty?’
‘I’d say frosty to fair.’
So much for tonight’s weather forecast then,’ James said.
‘I suppose all relationships are like weather forecasts, really,’ Alan replied.
‘Go on,’ James said, inviting his friend to expand on the theory, knowing that he was about to be a guinea pig for a potential new routine.
‘Cold, frosty, changeable. Everything that can be used to describe the weather also fits when describing relationships.’
‘What about warm and wet? That’s my favourite weather!’ James offered.
Alan laughed. ‘I’m having that,’ he said.
James nodded. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t always apply. What about moody and snappy? That doesn’t figure on any weather forecasts I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ Alan said. ‘Last night the weather in Bristol was described as moody and snappy.’
James’s barely raised a smile. Alan guessed that something was troubling his friend, and that something was most likely his wife.
‘Amy giving you a hard time?’ he asked.
‘She’s been in an odd mood for a month or so. Moody, snappy, jumps on everything I say,’ James frowned.
‘And how’s that’s different to normal?’
Ignoring Alan’s comment, James added, ‘And she’s drinking far more than normal.’
Alan glanced down at the empty pint glass in front of James. ‘How many is that tonight?’ he asked provocatively.
Continuing to ignore Alan’s attempts to goad him, James said, ‘Seriously, even I think that she’s putting too much away.’ He paused. ‘And do you know what happened the other day?’
‘Funnily enough, no.’
‘She woke up with a monster hangover and threw a sickie.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Alan said in shock. Amy’s dedication to her job and the children she taught was legendary.
‘Seriously mate, I couldn’t believe it.’ James said before adding, ‘that was when I really knew something was wrong.’
Alan drained the rest of his pint, letting the shock of James’s statement sink in. ‘I’ll tell you what you need,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘A night out. Rosie and Jayne are off for a meal and a club in a few weeks. We should go with them. It’ll do you good.’
‘I’m not sure a night out is the best thing for Amy. She’s drinking too much anyway. The last thing she needs is to be given any more excuses to get pissed.’ James said.
‘Not her,’ Alan groaned. ‘The last thing we need is your wife moping around and arguing with me. I was thinking that you and I could tag along with them. There’ll be some friends of Rosie’s and Jayne’s there too.’
James shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not’.
‘Excellent,’ Alan said, standing up. ‘Let me get you another pint. We can’t have you going home more sober than your wife.’ He didn’t wait for James’s reply.
Alan bypassed the bar and headed into the toilets. They had been considered in need of renovation in the 1970s, and not been touched since. The decor was post war, although Alan was uncertain as to which war that might be, although the sign above the solitary mirror informed him that “loose lips sink ships” offered a clue.
He pulled the grubby towel round on its roller, drying his hands on the least stained areas, when he heard the crash of the cubicle door being hit with force and banging against the door frame. Abandoning his futile efforts to dry his hands, Alan turned and pushed open the cubicle door.
‘Frankie!’ he cried out in surprise ‘I thought you had the hang of these landings’
Frankie dusted himself down, looked at Alan and said ‘give it time son, give it time.’
Chapter 7.
Jayne strode across the unfamiliar car park. Having spent the previous four years based at Copse Hill Station, she was a little apprehensive about transferring to the larger South Thames Station. She was told she had been hand-picked for a special Task Force, but more than that was unclear. Like a child on the first day at big school, Jayne was anxious to make a good impression on her new colleagues.
Approaching the entrance, she stepped aside as two officers dragged a helpless man from a parked patrol car and onto the path in front of her. Clearly drunk, he made no complaint as he was helped up a ramp and into the police station, his badly worn shoes leaving scuff marks on the concrete as he was dragged into the station.
She entered the building and watched as the two officers sat the drunk in a chair.
‘Anywhere we can put him to sober up Sarge?’ one asked, looking over at their drunk, who had now started singing.
The Desk Sergeant pointed down a corridor. ‘Cell five is free, put him there,’ he said, ‘and don’t forget to roll him on his side. You know what he’s like.’
The two officers picked up their charge and dragged him down the corridor as the tuneless drone petered out.
Jayne walked up to the desk and presented her warrant card.
‘Hi. I’m PC Jayne Talbot,’ she announced. ‘It’s my first day. I’ve come over from Copse Hill Station?’ She stated it as though it were a question.
‘OK PC Talbot,’ he said. ‘I was told you’d be coming. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll get someone to take you up to the CID room.’
Jayne sat on the hard wooden bench opposite the desk and watched as the two officers made their way past her, after presumably depositing their drunk in the cell. They stopped to talk to the Desk Sergeant, and although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Jayne did pick up on their laughter. Her first day nerves and natural insecurity made her worry that they were talking about her, rather than the drunk.
‘PC Talbot?’ The voice shook Jayne out of her reverie. She looked up to see a figure wearing a full uniform looming over her.
‘PC Talbot?’ He asked again, and without waiting for an answer he continued, ‘I’m Superintendent Pitcher. I thought I’d come down, introduce myself and take you up to meet the team.’
Standing up Jayne instinctively offered her hand which Pitcher shook firmly. ‘Pleased to meet you Sir,’ she said.
‘Right. Follow me,’ Pitcher said, and set off into the depths of the police station with Jayne striding after him.
Jayne followed the Superintendent up serval flights of stairs and along what felt like miles of identical corridors. On several occasion Jayne had to break into a jog just to keep up with him. To Jayne’s relief, he made no effort to engage her in conversation as he strode purposefully towards their destination.
They came to a halt by a pair of doors. Pitcher turned to Jayne and said, ‘This is the meeting room. I thought we’d start off here. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team and explain why you’re here.’
‘Thank you Sir,’ Jayne replied and walked through the double doors.
*
Meanwhile, downstairs in cell five, the drunk stirred. He knew he had to be somewhere but couldn’t for the life of him remember where. The room was spinning like he was on a fairground carousel. He closed his eyes and tried to fight against the swirling room. He pushed his head against the cold bed and promptly fell to sleep.
*
The meeting room was much larger than Jayne was used to. It could, she thought, comfortably seat fifty of
ficers. However, just two PCs sat next to each other on the front row. Jayne nodded to them and took a seat on the right hand side of the pair. Superintendent Pitcher made his way to the podium at the front of the room.
‘Good afternoon everyone,’ he said. ‘Before we get started, I thought we would introduce ourselves. You know me, I’m Superintendent Pitcher, and I am running this Task Force. And you are?’ He pointed at Jayne.
‘PC Jayne Talbot, Sir. Transferred from Copse Hill.’
The PC to her right said, ‘PC Ken Howe, not transferred from anywhere.’
‘I’m PC Andy Wen,’ the other officer said. ‘Also not transferred from anywhere.’
From a box at his feet, Pitcher took out three large envelopes and handed them to the seated officers.
‘OK then. Thanks for that. So, let’s get started. As some of you may know, a recent inquest recorded an open verdict on the death of property developer Clive Oneway. Our enquiries were satisfied that Mr Oneway had taken his own life by throwing himself from the balcony of his penthouse apartment and warranted no further investigation.’ He paused before continuing. ‘PCs Howe and Wen were first on the scene, and also spoke to many of Mr Oneway’s neighbours. Whilst there were some reports of a woman visiting his apartment during the course of the evening, there was no evidence to connect her to Mr Oneway’s suicide. Nor is there any clue as to her identity.’
Pitcher nodded to PC Wen. ‘Anything to add Andy?’
Wen took his time, paused and said, ‘It was raining.’
Pitcher looked puzzled. ‘What? Is that all you have to say?’
‘Sorry. It was raining, Sir.’
Jayne heard Ken Howe stifle a laugh.
Pitcher looked Howe. ‘Anything to add to your colleague’s helpful contribution?’
‘What Andy means is that the heavy rain that night meant that it would have been difficult to find any meaningful evidence,’ Howe added helpfully.
Satisfied by the explanation Pitcher continued. ‘Your job is to investigate the death of Clive Oneway. You will find sufficient evidence to either support our findings that Mr Oneway took his own life, or establish that Mr Oneway was killed by a person, or persons unknown to us at this time.’
Pitcher looked out at the three faces staring back at him and sighed. This must be what a barrel looked like after it had been scraped clean, he thought. His plans to form a crack team to investigate this death had failed miserably, and he had been left with PC Talbot, who was described by her previous Superintendent as “Not cut out to be a copper. Her interminable shyness leads her to be outwitted by even the most stupid of criminals.”
PC’s Howe and Wen were no better. They just happened to be in the canteen when Pitcher was looking for volunteers. Pitcher was undecided if their being first on the scene was a help or hindrance. Probably the latter, he thought.
On the plus side, Pitcher had been able to secure the services of his first choice senior investigating officer - DCI Montgomery. Pitcher was in no doubt that “Monty” could sort this incident out on his own in a couple of hours. However he would need somebody to make the tea and drive him around on days when he was over the limit.
Pitcher looked at the clock on the far wall. He had expected Monty to have arrived by now, so that he could meet his new team. He knew that DCI Montgomery was investigating an alleged case of poisoning at a brewery but would still have expected him by now. Typical Monty, Pitcher thought, seeing the case through to the very end.
‘Your senior officer DCI Montgomery,’ Pitcher informed the three gormless faces staring back at him, ‘is finishing off an investigation. But he will be with us as soon as possible. In the meantime I suggest that you open the envelopes in front of you and start reading through the case file.’
*
In cell five, the drunk opened both eyes and stared up at the ceiling. This place looks familiar, he thought to himself. Slowly he began to recover his memories.
*
‘Any thoughts?’ Pitcher asked.
Jayne looked up from the file that was spread across her knees. She stuck her hand in the air like an excitable schoolchild trying to attract the teacher’s attention.
‘You’re not at school now, PC Talbot’ Pitcher said. ‘Just tell us what you think.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘Clive Oneway was a property developer. That’s somewhere between lawyers and nonces on the “wrong un” scale. Of course he had enemies.’ Pitcher answered.
He was interrupted from further comment by a crashing noise against the meeting room door. All four officers looked at the source of the noise. The door crashed again causing the window in the door to shake.
‘Christ sake, just pull it,’ Pitcher called out.
The door opened and a tall dishevelled figure stood in the doorway, blocking out much of the light, Pitcher turned and smiled. ‘Everyone,’ he said to the room, ‘I’d like you to meet your senior investigating officer. DCI Montgomery.’
Pitcher offered Monty his hand as the DCI staggered into the room.
‘Sorry I’m late Sir. The previous operation over ran,’ he slurred and covered his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle a belch.
Jayne could hear the two PCs to her side giggling, although her full attention was taken by DCI Montgomery and his badly scuffed shoes.
Monty turned to address his team. ‘OK. Let’s get down to business.’ He slurred and promptly collapsed on the floor.
Chapter 8.
‘Amy, Amy, Amy,’ Stretton La Mon sighed, leaning back in his expensive chair.
Amy sat on the considerably cheaper chair in front of his desk and stared solemnly back at him. She deliberately sat on her hands to avoid the urge to inspect her finger nails, such was her lack of interest in anything the headmaster had to say.
‘Amy, Amy, Amy,’ he said again.
‘What appears to be the problem?’ She asked.
‘There has been some repercussions following your trip to the zoo yesterday.’ Stretton paused. ‘Some serious repercussions.’
Amy thought back twenty four hours to the previous days’ school trip to the zoo. She couldn’t think of anything that had gone wrong. She was certain she hadn’t left any of the children behind.
‘What repercussions?’ She asked.
‘Now,’ Stretton said, ‘Are you absolutely sure that you brought back the correct number of children?’
‘Yes. Absolutely sure.’ Amy paused for a second before adding, ‘I counted them all into the coach, and all off once we got back here.’
‘I’ve no doubt that you brought all your children back.’ He stressed the word “your” in such a way so as to get Amy’s full attention. ‘But can you be sure that you didn’t bring back any extra children?’
‘Of course I didn’t, Stretton. That’s the sort of thing that you would notice.’
Stretton reached down and picked a plastic carrier bag from the floor at his feet, placing it on the desk in front of them. Amy mentally attempted to guess the mystery contents of the bag before Stretton spoke again.
‘I received a phone call from the zoo this morning. It appears that the zoo has lost a penguin.’
‘That was careless of them,’ she replied.
Stretton glared back at her. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ he said.
‘I’m not laughing,’ Amy replied. ‘But, I mean, how can they tell? Do they take a register every morning?’
‘It appears they have a system,’ Stretton explained patiently, ignoring Amy’s attempt at humour. ‘They have a list, and they tick each penguin off as present twice a day.’
Amy snorted. She was tired, irritable and bored of her headmaster’s questions, none of which seemed to make any sense at all.
‘I’m sorry Stretton, but I really can’t see the relevance of your questions. It’s unfortunate that the zoo has lost a penguin but it really has got nothing to do with us.’
‘And you’re sure about that?’ Stretton replied, his brow
furrowing. He spoke slowly, as though he were giving her a chance to change her answer.
Amy nodded, although she was not feeling as confident as she had felt a few minutes earlier.
Stretton reached into the carrier bag on the desk and took out a mobile phone. He tapped away at the screen and swiped it with his thumb.
‘That’s the one,’ he muttered and passed the phone over to Amy.
‘As you can see from the picture on the screen, there appears to be a new addition to your class.’
Amy peered at the picture on the mobile phone while he continued.
‘It appears that your class kept themselves amused on the return journey to the school by taking pictures of themselves at the back of the coach. I believe they are called selfies. Alfie in particular appears in several photos alongside a new addition to your class.’
Amy looked closely at the picture on the mobile in front of her and her heart sank.
The headmaster was correct. Alfie was indeed pictured next to another pupil, one wearing a school jumper, a school scarf and perched on his head, a baseball cap with the school’s badge across the front. The new pupil also looked remarkably like a penguin.
Amy bit her lip. ‘That child does look a bit like a penguin,’ she admitted, in the forlorn hope that Stretton still wasn’t sure that it was in fact a penguin.
Stretton nodded. ‘In fact, you could say it is a penguin.’
‘Possibly.’ Amy said, not wanting to confirm what was now rather obvious.
‘Definitely,’ he said.
Amy felt herself blush. She was sure she had counted heads properly.
‘I have several mobile phones in here,’ Stretton gestured at the carrier bag, ‘all of which have been confiscated from members of your class, and all of which appear to have pictures of the penguin in school uniform posing with the children.’
‘Possible penguin,’ Amy interrupted.
Stretton banged on the desk with the palm of his hand. ‘It’s a bloody penguin. How many children do you know that have flippers, a cylinder shaped head, are covered in black and white feathers and have a beak?’