Sir Henry’s grey Bentley was joyless at the best of times but as Watson steered it on to the M4 it was definitely venturing close to negative joy and possibly pain. Something like yoghurt. Sir Henry did not approve of yoghurt.
Sir Henry himself was brooding in the back seat. He had spent a rather disappointing couple of hours, driving out to Professor Greenwood’s house and finding it empty but otherwise devoid of clues. He glanced over at the laptop on the seat next to him. Perhaps that would have some answers that the tech boys could extract. He sneered. Sir Henry did not trust computers.
Alec Watson, meanwhile, was quietly fuming in the front seat and trying not to convert his anger into miles per hour. Sir Henry did not approve of speeding. The fact that Alec Watson was probably capable of driving the Bentley back to London on two wheels was neither here nor there. He was tempted to try.
For Watson, the last couple of hours had been more than disappointing. They had been held up twice on the way to the Professor’s house: first by a drift of sheep being driven down the lane and then by a tractor that necessitated Watson reversing for quarter of a mile. Neither of these were particularly unexpected but Sir Henry seemed to hold him personally responsible.
When they had finally made it to the house, which was clearly deserted, Sir Henry had then refused to let Watson pick the lock. Instead, he made Watson call for a local locksmith, wasting another three quarters of an hour. As a final insult, he rejected Watson’s offer to hack into Greenwood’s laptop, in favour of shipping it back to Q division, who would no doubt find a way to make it explode or turn the CD drive into a Shiruken launcher before getting round to actually extracting any useful data - assuming there was even and useful data on there. As so often in Watson’s life of late, he could not help thinking that he would have achieved four times as much in half the time if Sir Henry would just sod off back to London.
To add injury to insult, they had missed lunch and now Watson’s stomach was rumbling. Sir Henry did not approve of motorway service stations, so there would be nothing for Watson until they got back to London. At least the partition was up so Sir Henry could not grumble about the rumbles.
Just as that last thought passed through his head, Watson heard the gentle whir of the partition sliding down. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and let the accelerator pedal creep towards to the floor.
“I think I might have to get Wainbridge on this one, Smithers,” said Sir Henry. “There’s something funny going on here and I don’t like it.”
Watson nodded. Sir Henry did not approve of funny at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I need you to call ahead and arrange a meeting with the M.O.D.” Sir Henry continued, oblivious to the bad vibes emanating from the front seat. “Unless Greywood turns up soon, I think we’ll have to close down BIRD-FLU until this all blows over. We would not want the locals to panic.”
“Yes, sir.” Watson answered, through gritted teeth.
“Either way, I want you to head back to Swansea first thing and do some more checking up on the rest of the staff. That American professor reeked of whisky and the caretaker clearly cannot be trusted. Never trust a man with a beard, Smithers: they have something to hide. Now, if you excuse me, I have some thinking to do."
As the partition slid back up, Watson’s left hand was already instinctively dialling the number for headquarters as he reflected what was just said. There was some good news, at least. Sir Henry said “you” not “we”. There was chance that he would be released from Sir Henry’s leash. He also found himself contemplating the idea of growing a beard.
Noting that Sir Henry had activated the darkened glass, Watson accelerated a little more and pulled the car out into the fast lane. Perhaps things were looking up.
With that, the heavens opened.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Thursday, 30 August 2012
Chapter 9.2
The police van skipped easily down the windy back roads with WPC Evans at the wheel. Apart from setting the dogs on drunken troublemakers, this was the part of her job that Kippie normally enjoyed the most. Today, however, her heart was not really in it. Seeing her friend so shaken up had rattled her. She made a mental note to dig up the notes on the St Mildred’s robbery as soon as she got back to the station.
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Chapter 9.1
The clouds were looking menacing as D.I. Rhys-Morgan’s Mondeo rolled into the police car park. Despite the threat of rain, however, Rhys-Morgan sat in his car for a few moments after turning the engine off. He wanted some time to collect his thoughts before facing the news that his troops would bring him.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Chapter 8.4
When Mary opened the door and Kippie first laid eyes on Sister Enid, she thought that the old nun was dead. Her eyes were closed and her face wore a look of wrinkled tranquillity. Her hair was as white as freshly driven snow* and her flesh was not much darker. [*Before an eskimo has peed on it. Sorry, that’s not very politically correct. Before an Inuit has peed on it.] Her face had so many lines that it looked as if someone had peeled the skin off, screwed it up, and then stuck in back on. It was a face that had lived.
Although, deep down, Kippie knew that the nun could not really be dead, her police training kicked in and she started looking for signs that the old woman was still in the land of the living. A voice in the back of her mind intoned: “Whatever you do, don’t move the body!”
In front of the nun sat a china mug, a large pink rose emblazoned on the near face. A slight purple discolouration on the inside indicated that it had been used recently: a blackcurrant drink by the appearance of things. This was supported by the slightly shrivelled tea bag in the bin and the purple stain slowly spreading into the wastepaper below. The bag looked a little damp, revealing that it had been immersed until quite recently.
Kippie’s gaze now drifted from the desk to Sister Enid herself, looking for vital signs such as the gentle rise and fall off her chest. As she checked for any indication of a slight pulse on the side of Enid’s neck, Kippie noticed the thin black cables. They emerged from under Enid’s hair, running over her collarbones before joining together just above the silver and cobalt blue pendant that hung from her neck. The wire then snaked down her grey cardigan, across the left arm at the crease of the elbow, and then up to a small stereo sat on the window ledge.
Mary cleared her throat. “Ahem. Sister Enid?”
The old nun did not answer, but continued smiling peacefully. Kippie could now see her foot tapping under the desk at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, plus or minus a few. Mary frowned and waved her hand in front of Enid’s closed eyes, hoping to elicit some kind of response but got none. Seeing this, Kippie tapped her friend on the arm and pointed to the stereo.
Mary smiled and nodded. Placing her left index finger over her lips in a signal to stay quiet, Mary reached across Enid with the other hand and gripped the headphone lead as it left the stereo. She winked mischievously at Kippie and then gave the lead a quick tug.
The stereo speakers sprung to life with guitars, drums and a scream of: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”
Noticing the change in sound, Sister Enid opened her eyes. Spotting her visitors, she calmly and serenely reached over and hit the button to stop the CD, which obligingly span to a halt with a gentle whir.
“Rage Against the Machine,” she said nodding towards the stereo with a gentle smile. “Aren’t they wonderful?!”
Far from her original fear that the old nun had snuffed it, Kippie could see that Enid’s eyes sparkled with vitality. She may be over eighty years old but here was a woman who was in no hurry to shuffle off her mortal coil.
“Now girls,” she smiled warmly, “what can I do for you?”
Mary returned the smile. “This is WPC Evans, Sister Enid. She’d like some information from you.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed quickly. “I won that stereo in a raffle. That’s why I don’t have a receipt!”
“WPC Evans is a former pupil,” explained Mary. “She needs some information about Patrick Edwards.”
Enid cogitated for a moment. “That name rings a bell,” she nodded thoughtfully.
“He was a caretaker here,” Mary told her.
Kippie stepped in. Mary had laid the foundation but this was her investigation. “He retired about three years ago?”
The wrinkles across Enid’s brow changed configuration briefly and the sparkle in her eyes seemed to dim momentarily before flaring back to life with a vengeance. Her smile was like opening the blinds on a really sunny day.
“Oh, I remember Patrick!” she beamed. “Lovely man. Liked to be called Tricky or Ricky or something. Possible Dickie, like Sir Richard Attenborough.” She leant forward and winked. “Now, there’s a man I’d jump on if not for my vows of chastity. He’s yummy. Did you see him in…”
Kippie cleared her throat gently.
“…oh yes. Patrick. Where was I?” She sat back. “That’s right. I wouldn’t let him shorten his name. St Patrick was always my favourite, you see. Reminds me of when I was a girl in Galway.” She made a brisk movement with her hand. “I loved the way he drove those snakes into the sea.”
There was a faraway look in her eye for a moment, before she visibly drew her concentration back to her office. “That was St Patrick, of course!” she laughed. “Not our Patrick. No, we don’t have any snakes here.”
The words had barely left her mouth before she clamped it shut with her hand, turning wide-eyed to Mary. “I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mary trembled slightly but managed a reassuring smile as Enid patted her hand. “That’s okay.”
Kippie’s heart-rate increased slightly. At last, she seemed to be getting somewhere. “Our last known address for him is the cottage here. Do you have any address on record for where he went after he left here?”
“Oh, I doubt it dear.” Enid told her, quite cheerful once more. “I’m afraid they’re not much interest to us once they’re gone. Especially the men. Sister Millicent makes sure of that.”
Kippie retrieved her notebook and pencil from its usual spot in her left breast pocket. “Any relatives that you’re aware of? Did he ever bring anyone to formal occasions, anything like that?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Sister Enid reached past her and pushed the door shut.
She leant forward and continued in tones bordering on conspiratorial. “To be honest, Patrick wasn’t all that popular round here.”
“Yeah,” Kippie nodded and glanced sideways at Mary. “So I gather.”
“I liked him, and I know Mary did too, as did Jo and a couple of the others. But the powers that be were never too happy with some of his, how can I put it, more secular pastimes. The marijuana thing was just the last straw. I think that Sister Millicent had been looking for an excuse and was glad to see the back on him.”
Sister Enid straightened and touched her forehead, belly, and each breast to make the sign of the cross. If Kippie wasn’t mistaken, Sister Enid’s expression had hardened slightly.
“Well, um, would any of the others have stayed in tough with him?” she pressed. “In your opinion?”
Enid considered this for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so, dear.” She stiffened. “At St Mildred’s, we don’t tend to associate with the likes of him, you see,” she added loudly.
Kippie could take a hint, even if she did not understand it. She put the pad and pencil back and took out a small business card, which she handed to Enid. “Thank you, Sister. If you think of anything that could help us find Patrick’s address, please be in touch.”
Sister Enid took the card and dropped it in her in-tray. “Of course. Always happy to help the police is St Mildred’s. Now, unless there’s anything else, my dears, I must ask you to go. Got exams to mark, you see.”
“Of course,” echoed Kippie. “Thank you for your time.”
She turned and opened the door, revealing Sister Millicent in all her icy glory.
“Got what we came for did we, Evil Evans?” the headmistress asked with poorly concealed venom.
“I think so,” Kippie told her. “Your staff have been very helpful to my enquiries.”
Sister Millicent glared from Sister Mary to Sister Enid, the latter of whom was now typing away industriously at her computer whilst humming the school hymn quietly. “Good. Then you’ll be happy to leave. Police uniforms do get the girls overexcited so. I do not like the girls getting excited.”
This was not news to Cerys Evans.
Although, deep down, Kippie knew that the nun could not really be dead, her police training kicked in and she started looking for signs that the old woman was still in the land of the living. A voice in the back of her mind intoned: “Whatever you do, don’t move the body!”
In front of the nun sat a china mug, a large pink rose emblazoned on the near face. A slight purple discolouration on the inside indicated that it had been used recently: a blackcurrant drink by the appearance of things. This was supported by the slightly shrivelled tea bag in the bin and the purple stain slowly spreading into the wastepaper below. The bag looked a little damp, revealing that it had been immersed until quite recently.
Kippie’s gaze now drifted from the desk to Sister Enid herself, looking for vital signs such as the gentle rise and fall off her chest. As she checked for any indication of a slight pulse on the side of Enid’s neck, Kippie noticed the thin black cables. They emerged from under Enid’s hair, running over her collarbones before joining together just above the silver and cobalt blue pendant that hung from her neck. The wire then snaked down her grey cardigan, across the left arm at the crease of the elbow, and then up to a small stereo sat on the window ledge.
Mary cleared her throat. “Ahem. Sister Enid?”
The old nun did not answer, but continued smiling peacefully. Kippie could now see her foot tapping under the desk at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, plus or minus a few. Mary frowned and waved her hand in front of Enid’s closed eyes, hoping to elicit some kind of response but got none. Seeing this, Kippie tapped her friend on the arm and pointed to the stereo.
Mary smiled and nodded. Placing her left index finger over her lips in a signal to stay quiet, Mary reached across Enid with the other hand and gripped the headphone lead as it left the stereo. She winked mischievously at Kippie and then gave the lead a quick tug.
The stereo speakers sprung to life with guitars, drums and a scream of: “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”
Noticing the change in sound, Sister Enid opened her eyes. Spotting her visitors, she calmly and serenely reached over and hit the button to stop the CD, which obligingly span to a halt with a gentle whir.
“Rage Against the Machine,” she said nodding towards the stereo with a gentle smile. “Aren’t they wonderful?!”
Far from her original fear that the old nun had snuffed it, Kippie could see that Enid’s eyes sparkled with vitality. She may be over eighty years old but here was a woman who was in no hurry to shuffle off her mortal coil.
“Now girls,” she smiled warmly, “what can I do for you?”
Mary returned the smile. “This is WPC Evans, Sister Enid. She’d like some information from you.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed quickly. “I won that stereo in a raffle. That’s why I don’t have a receipt!”
“WPC Evans is a former pupil,” explained Mary. “She needs some information about Patrick Edwards.”
Enid cogitated for a moment. “That name rings a bell,” she nodded thoughtfully.
“He was a caretaker here,” Mary told her.
Kippie stepped in. Mary had laid the foundation but this was her investigation. “He retired about three years ago?”
The wrinkles across Enid’s brow changed configuration briefly and the sparkle in her eyes seemed to dim momentarily before flaring back to life with a vengeance. Her smile was like opening the blinds on a really sunny day.
“Oh, I remember Patrick!” she beamed. “Lovely man. Liked to be called Tricky or Ricky or something. Possible Dickie, like Sir Richard Attenborough.” She leant forward and winked. “Now, there’s a man I’d jump on if not for my vows of chastity. He’s yummy. Did you see him in…”
Kippie cleared her throat gently.
“…oh yes. Patrick. Where was I?” She sat back. “That’s right. I wouldn’t let him shorten his name. St Patrick was always my favourite, you see. Reminds me of when I was a girl in Galway.” She made a brisk movement with her hand. “I loved the way he drove those snakes into the sea.”
There was a faraway look in her eye for a moment, before she visibly drew her concentration back to her office. “That was St Patrick, of course!” she laughed. “Not our Patrick. No, we don’t have any snakes here.”
The words had barely left her mouth before she clamped it shut with her hand, turning wide-eyed to Mary. “I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”
Mary trembled slightly but managed a reassuring smile as Enid patted her hand. “That’s okay.”
Kippie’s heart-rate increased slightly. At last, she seemed to be getting somewhere. “Our last known address for him is the cottage here. Do you have any address on record for where he went after he left here?”
“Oh, I doubt it dear.” Enid told her, quite cheerful once more. “I’m afraid they’re not much interest to us once they’re gone. Especially the men. Sister Millicent makes sure of that.”
Kippie retrieved her notebook and pencil from its usual spot in her left breast pocket. “Any relatives that you’re aware of? Did he ever bring anyone to formal occasions, anything like that?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Sister Enid reached past her and pushed the door shut.
She leant forward and continued in tones bordering on conspiratorial. “To be honest, Patrick wasn’t all that popular round here.”
“Yeah,” Kippie nodded and glanced sideways at Mary. “So I gather.”
“I liked him, and I know Mary did too, as did Jo and a couple of the others. But the powers that be were never too happy with some of his, how can I put it, more secular pastimes. The marijuana thing was just the last straw. I think that Sister Millicent had been looking for an excuse and was glad to see the back on him.”
Sister Enid straightened and touched her forehead, belly, and each breast to make the sign of the cross. If Kippie wasn’t mistaken, Sister Enid’s expression had hardened slightly.
“Well, um, would any of the others have stayed in tough with him?” she pressed. “In your opinion?”
Enid considered this for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so, dear.” She stiffened. “At St Mildred’s, we don’t tend to associate with the likes of him, you see,” she added loudly.
Kippie could take a hint, even if she did not understand it. She put the pad and pencil back and took out a small business card, which she handed to Enid. “Thank you, Sister. If you think of anything that could help us find Patrick’s address, please be in touch.”
Sister Enid took the card and dropped it in her in-tray. “Of course. Always happy to help the police is St Mildred’s. Now, unless there’s anything else, my dears, I must ask you to go. Got exams to mark, you see.”
“Of course,” echoed Kippie. “Thank you for your time.”
She turned and opened the door, revealing Sister Millicent in all her icy glory.
“Got what we came for did we, Evil Evans?” the headmistress asked with poorly concealed venom.
“I think so,” Kippie told her. “Your staff have been very helpful to my enquiries.”
Sister Millicent glared from Sister Mary to Sister Enid, the latter of whom was now typing away industriously at her computer whilst humming the school hymn quietly. “Good. Then you’ll be happy to leave. Police uniforms do get the girls overexcited so. I do not like the girls getting excited.”
This was not news to Cerys Evans.
Monday, 27 August 2012
Chapter 8.3
Toby Ron looked at the retreating figures of Foxy Loxy, Turkey Lurkey and Weasel. “Well, that went all right.”
William looked at him, puzzled. “But we didn’t really tell them anything!”
“No,” Toby shrugged, “but they don’t seem to think you’re involved now.”
“But what if I am involved?” cried Billy.
“I think you should go and see Mystic Mog again. Hopefully, she’ll be able to tell you after last night.”
Billy did not look too pleased at this suggestion but began wandering towards the gate. Toby stopped him.
“But not until you’ve finished getting rid of those daisies,” he told the young goat.
“You’re joking!”
“S’alright, Billy.” William told him. “I’ll help.”
Mrs Goat smiled at one son while scowling at the other – something only mothers can really pull off. “Aren’t you a little angel? Billy, why can’t you be more like William?
“Goody goody,” muttered Billy as they wandered towards the floral region of the paddock.
“I heard that!” scolded their mum. “You should be nicer to your brother. Especially after he made sure you were OK last night.”
William stayed quiet. He was still feeling bad about losing Billy last night but not bad enough to own up to any failure in front of his mother. Particularly not when she was in this kind of mood. Biting his lip, William attacked the first patch of flowers. He just hoped that Toby Ron was right and Mystic Mog would have some answers.
William looked at him, puzzled. “But we didn’t really tell them anything!”
“No,” Toby shrugged, “but they don’t seem to think you’re involved now.”
“But what if I am involved?” cried Billy.
“I think you should go and see Mystic Mog again. Hopefully, she’ll be able to tell you after last night.”
Billy did not look too pleased at this suggestion but began wandering towards the gate. Toby stopped him.
“But not until you’ve finished getting rid of those daisies,” he told the young goat.
“You’re joking!”
“S’alright, Billy.” William told him. “I’ll help.”
Mrs Goat smiled at one son while scowling at the other – something only mothers can really pull off. “Aren’t you a little angel? Billy, why can’t you be more like William?
“Goody goody,” muttered Billy as they wandered towards the floral region of the paddock.
“I heard that!” scolded their mum. “You should be nicer to your brother. Especially after he made sure you were OK last night.”
William stayed quiet. He was still feeling bad about losing Billy last night but not bad enough to own up to any failure in front of his mother. Particularly not when she was in this kind of mood. Biting his lip, William attacked the first patch of flowers. He just hoped that Toby Ron was right and Mystic Mog would have some answers.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
Chapter 8.2
His anger shocked out of him, Rhys-Morgan accepted the chair he was offered. Jonathon moved Butterworth to a small velvet cushion on the desk and then sat down himself, neatening up his clothes at the same time.
“I would offer you lunch,” Butterworth told Rhys-Morgan, “but I’m afraid I’ve just eaten. I could get Joanne to bring you in some tea and cake if would like, though.”
“Er, no, thank you. I’m hoping this won’t take too long.” Rhys-Morgan thought for a moment. “Some coffee would be good, though.”
“Certainly.”
At an unseen signal from his Haemophagic boss, Jonathon buzzed the secretary.
“Now, how can I help you?” asked the tiny lawyer.
Despite himself, Rhys-Morgan found Butterworth to be quite charming. Furthermore, he was rather helpful. He remembered the Jackson and Lloyd case, for a start, which was more than Mr Smeg was even bothered to try to do. It turned out that Wendy, the missing-presumed-fraternising secretary, was David Lloyd’s sister-in-law, which is how Smeg & Butterworth got the case in the first place. Furthermore, young Anthony Smeg assisted on this case – his first official work at his father’s company – and it was through it that he first got close to Wendy.
“Of course, I don’t really believe the rumours about those two having an affair,” Butterworth told him. “Wendy’s more like a mother to him, in my opinion.” He sighed. “But then again, I am just a haemophilic annelid. What do I know about humans and your strange ways?”
“Enough to fleece lots of money out of us!” thought Rhys-Morgan. But, back to the matter at hand. “Have your clients received any threats about this case, that you know about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, detective. Jonathon, have a look in the file to see if we have anything recent on the Jackson and Lloyd case.”
Jonathon rose and opened one of the filing cabinets. After a moment or two he withdrew a beige document wallet a flicked through the contents.
“Of course,” he said, “Anthony has all the details of that case. We just have the summaries here. All the recent stuff, though, seems to be about collecting evidence for the civil action against Garth Jones.”
“Oh yes,” said Butterworth. “I had forgotten about that. Not much chance of winning that one, I’m afraid. Don’t think it will even get to court, to be honest. Mr Jones certainly doesn’t seem worried – he’s been surprising cooperative for a man being sued.”
Rhys-Morgan jotted all that down. “There haven’t been any actual threats to do with the case, then?”
Butterworth shrugged, which was quite impressive given his lack of shoulders. “There was a bit of trouble at the time, as I recall. The case featured some, you know, unpleasantness to animals. I believe there were a couple of threats from some kind of animal rights group - the ALF, I think it was - but they rescinded once they learnt of my, er, non-human status. Then of course, we won the case.”
“There’s nothing on record of any threats since.” Jonathon reported, replacing a folder and closing the filing cabinet.
“You could ask them,” suggested Butterworth. “Mr Jackson and Mt Lloyd were also most cooperative with the police before.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his notebook shut. Butterworth could probably be trusted but he did not want to risk it.
“No, sadly that’s not possible. Mr Jackson and Mr Lloyd are unavailable.”
“It’s a shame Wendy’s off today or you could have asked her,” said Butterworth. “She would probably know if Frank Jackson had received threats. I can give you her address, if that would be helpful?”
Rhys-Morgan stood up. “Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
“I would offer you lunch,” Butterworth told Rhys-Morgan, “but I’m afraid I’ve just eaten. I could get Joanne to bring you in some tea and cake if would like, though.”
“Er, no, thank you. I’m hoping this won’t take too long.” Rhys-Morgan thought for a moment. “Some coffee would be good, though.”
“Certainly.”
At an unseen signal from his Haemophagic boss, Jonathon buzzed the secretary.
“Now, how can I help you?” asked the tiny lawyer.
Despite himself, Rhys-Morgan found Butterworth to be quite charming. Furthermore, he was rather helpful. He remembered the Jackson and Lloyd case, for a start, which was more than Mr Smeg was even bothered to try to do. It turned out that Wendy, the missing-presumed-fraternising secretary, was David Lloyd’s sister-in-law, which is how Smeg & Butterworth got the case in the first place. Furthermore, young Anthony Smeg assisted on this case – his first official work at his father’s company – and it was through it that he first got close to Wendy.
“Of course, I don’t really believe the rumours about those two having an affair,” Butterworth told him. “Wendy’s more like a mother to him, in my opinion.” He sighed. “But then again, I am just a haemophilic annelid. What do I know about humans and your strange ways?”
“Enough to fleece lots of money out of us!” thought Rhys-Morgan. But, back to the matter at hand. “Have your clients received any threats about this case, that you know about?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, detective. Jonathon, have a look in the file to see if we have anything recent on the Jackson and Lloyd case.”
Jonathon rose and opened one of the filing cabinets. After a moment or two he withdrew a beige document wallet a flicked through the contents.
“Of course,” he said, “Anthony has all the details of that case. We just have the summaries here. All the recent stuff, though, seems to be about collecting evidence for the civil action against Garth Jones.”
“Oh yes,” said Butterworth. “I had forgotten about that. Not much chance of winning that one, I’m afraid. Don’t think it will even get to court, to be honest. Mr Jones certainly doesn’t seem worried – he’s been surprising cooperative for a man being sued.”
Rhys-Morgan jotted all that down. “There haven’t been any actual threats to do with the case, then?”
Butterworth shrugged, which was quite impressive given his lack of shoulders. “There was a bit of trouble at the time, as I recall. The case featured some, you know, unpleasantness to animals. I believe there were a couple of threats from some kind of animal rights group - the ALF, I think it was - but they rescinded once they learnt of my, er, non-human status. Then of course, we won the case.”
“There’s nothing on record of any threats since.” Jonathon reported, replacing a folder and closing the filing cabinet.
“You could ask them,” suggested Butterworth. “Mr Jackson and Mt Lloyd were also most cooperative with the police before.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his notebook shut. Butterworth could probably be trusted but he did not want to risk it.
“No, sadly that’s not possible. Mr Jackson and Mr Lloyd are unavailable.”
“It’s a shame Wendy’s off today or you could have asked her,” said Butterworth. “She would probably know if Frank Jackson had received threats. I can give you her address, if that would be helpful?”
Rhys-Morgan stood up. “Yes. Thank you. That would be very helpful.”
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Chapter 8.1
Sister Enid gritted her teeth as she stared at the contents of her china mug.
“Sweet Mother Mary and Joseph, infuse, damn you!” she shouted at the teabag that was sitting quietly at the bottom of the vessel. She was desperately in need of the calming herbal tonic, not to mention the ginseng buzz she always got from this particular blend.
It had been one of those days. She had been late to work after the cat had puked into her toaster. It wasn’t even her cat. Then, in morning registration, Sarah-Jane Putterly had had yet another nose-bleed. All over little Maria Jones. (Despite her GP’s assurances to the contrary, Sister Enid was convinced that Sarah Jane Putterly’s blood vessels must be connected upside down or something.) Both girls had ended up in tears in Sister Enid’s office while she had to try and contact their parents. Mrs Putterly was at home but Mrs Jones had been harder to track down.
Several phone calls and a box of Kleenex later, Enid had managed to locate her at the local hospital, where she had just taken Maria’s elder sister for what the nurse who had answered the phone described as “self-inflicted shrew bites”. Quite how that could have happened the duty nurse did not know but it was definitely a pygmy white-toothed shrew, apparently.
Once both girls had been collected, Enid had to fill in the required forms but there was only one left. A quick visit to the photocopier turned into a twenty-minute wait for Sister Rachel to photocopy the entire British Library. (Every institution has a photocopying king or queen who itches for any possible excuse to use their department’s copying contraption. Privy to arcane secrets, whispered from one Xerox engineer to another in darkened rooms, these masters of reproduction revel in the delights of double-sided stapled collations complete with different coloured card cover. Whether any of it is really necessary, only they really know. The rest of us just stand and stare impatiently.) When eventually she stopped, it was because the thing was out of paper. Bitch.
Enid closed her eyes for two deep breaths and then examined the mug once more. Finally, it looked just about right. With a well-practised movement, she fished the bag out with a silver teaspoon, engraved on the handle with Rupert the Bear, and dropped it into the bag-lined plastic bin next to her.
Bringing the mug up to her face she took a heavy blackcurrant breath. Everything was going to be all right.
“Sweet Mother Mary and Joseph, infuse, damn you!” she shouted at the teabag that was sitting quietly at the bottom of the vessel. She was desperately in need of the calming herbal tonic, not to mention the ginseng buzz she always got from this particular blend.
It had been one of those days. She had been late to work after the cat had puked into her toaster. It wasn’t even her cat. Then, in morning registration, Sarah-Jane Putterly had had yet another nose-bleed. All over little Maria Jones. (Despite her GP’s assurances to the contrary, Sister Enid was convinced that Sarah Jane Putterly’s blood vessels must be connected upside down or something.) Both girls had ended up in tears in Sister Enid’s office while she had to try and contact their parents. Mrs Putterly was at home but Mrs Jones had been harder to track down.
Several phone calls and a box of Kleenex later, Enid had managed to locate her at the local hospital, where she had just taken Maria’s elder sister for what the nurse who had answered the phone described as “self-inflicted shrew bites”. Quite how that could have happened the duty nurse did not know but it was definitely a pygmy white-toothed shrew, apparently.
Once both girls had been collected, Enid had to fill in the required forms but there was only one left. A quick visit to the photocopier turned into a twenty-minute wait for Sister Rachel to photocopy the entire British Library. (Every institution has a photocopying king or queen who itches for any possible excuse to use their department’s copying contraption. Privy to arcane secrets, whispered from one Xerox engineer to another in darkened rooms, these masters of reproduction revel in the delights of double-sided stapled collations complete with different coloured card cover. Whether any of it is really necessary, only they really know. The rest of us just stand and stare impatiently.) When eventually she stopped, it was because the thing was out of paper. Bitch.
Enid closed her eyes for two deep breaths and then examined the mug once more. Finally, it looked just about right. With a well-practised movement, she fished the bag out with a silver teaspoon, engraved on the handle with Rupert the Bear, and dropped it into the bag-lined plastic bin next to her.
Bringing the mug up to her face she took a heavy blackcurrant breath. Everything was going to be all right.
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