Saturday, 13 October 2012

Chapter 12.2

Rhys-Morgan was feeling happier than he had for a while as Tommie and he wandered to the canteen in search of a fresh brew and possibly a donut. Despite the tragic circumstances, Tommie’s (and Emma’s) revelations to the detriment of Sir Henry’s ALF theory had cheered him up no end.
  “I still think Peter Lloyd’s our man,” he declared. “He owns - or possibly owned - a pet shop, and if the bomb really was delivered by tortoise... It just fits.”
  “Yes, Guv,” agreed Tommie. “What about MI5? Or is it MI6?”
  “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he sighed. “It’s a domestic issue but then it’s an international research centre. I guess we’ll find out when we get visited by some guy driving a car worth more than my house and wearing a suit worth more than my car.”
  Tommie laughed. “Aren’t most suits worth more than your car, Guv?”
  “True. Anyway, I’ll assist them by staying well out of their way,” he told his number two. “If they want to chase up the ALF, that’s fine with me.”
  The two coppers entered the station’s common room, which was devoid of people so soon after lunch but happily still had a pot of coffee on the go. Tommie poured them both a large mug and slumped into a plastic seat at the closest table. Rhys-Morgan deposited himself in the chair opposite and waved away the sugar. Although he knew full well that his friend did not take sugar, Tommie always felt that it would be rude not to offer.
  “So,” Tommie asked, stirring two lumps into his own coffee. “What’s our next move?”
  Rhys-Morgan held his mug in both hands and took a long, contemplative swig of coffee. It was not very hot and tasted quite old but was still better than the stuff he made in his office.
  “Well, we’ve had nothing yet from the ferry or airports,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “although we can’t rule out the possibility that he took the ferry to Ireland under a false name. I’ve requested the CCTV footage from Pembroke and Holyhead.
  “Bobby and Roger should be back soon from their little man hunt. I’m guessing that we would have heard something had Peter Lloyd turned up at the pet shop. Assuming they don’t have any good leads from the neighbours, I’m thinking it might be time for a good old fashioned stake-out. See if he turns up at night when he thinks no one’s watching."
  He took another gulp and shrugged. “If nothing else, it will keep us away from the station in case Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown and/or his minions turn up looking for some assistance.”
  He chinked his mug off his sergeant’s in a mock toast. “You and me, Tommie. Just like old times!”

Chapter 12.3 ☛

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