Lucky 13 : Episode 13

Monday December 21.

At two a.m. Roger knocked on the window of Gary and Cleo’s bedroom. He had not wanted to wake the children by ringing the doorbell, but in the end he had to.

Cleo eventually woke, put on her genuine Japanese kimono (bought at a street market in Chicago yonks ago) and woke Gary, told him what time it was and went to the front door to let Roger in.. She then made espressos all round while Gary overcame his reluctance to leave his warm bed and slipped into something casual. Amazingly, by two fifteen the cops were out and about in the freezing cold, wishing they had not volunteered to check Jane Barker’s house at such a ludicrous hour.

There was nothing to suggest that Jane Barker’s house had an occupant. Gary and Roger went all round looked in at the windows, stood and listened, heard nothing, went round again, and gave up. The front and back doors were locked and there were no lights visible. They controlled Dorothy’s cottage just in case, but there was no sign of anyone hovering there, either.

Gary received a text from the patrol team to say that they had taken a good look at villa and surroundings and not seen anyone there, either.

Harry Marble would be on the run for a few more hours – or days – or (heaven forbid) weeks.

Roger and Gary trudged home, half frozen from the wind and disillusioned from the futility of their mission.

***

A few hours later Dorothy said goodbye to Linda Fox over breakfast, albeit with mixed feeling. It was still dark. Linda did not say so, but she was not sorry to leave a murderous stranger lurking somewhere close. Dorothy was not keen to be alone, but Linda had work to do so Dorothy heroically if somewhat deceitfully insisted that Linda should go home as planned. She chivvied herself into smiling when Linda packed her board case into the car boot and thanked Dorothy for a memorable weekend. Dorothy did not mention that she was more nervous than usual. She had loaded her pistol. Linda unloaded hers before setting off.

As it turned out, Dorothy’s nervousness was justified. She was about to go back into the cottage when she was stopped in her tracks by someone grabbing her from behind and pushing her in. She was horrified. It must be Marble, she decided. She tried to wriggle free, but the attacker pushed her into her parlour and sat her down roughly in an armchair.

“Do you know who I am?” he said. “You should. You helped to cop me last time we met.”

“Why, you’re Mr Marble, aren’t you?” said Dorothy, trying to look friendly. “You stayed with my friends the other night.”

“What’s that to you and how do you know?”

“Isn’t that where you’d go first?”

“It’s none of your business, Mrs Price.”

“It’s Miss,” said Dorothy as a matter of routine.

“I don’t f**king care if you’re the Queen Mother.”

“She’s dead, Harry,” said Dorothy, thinking that since she had nothing to lose she might as well give him a run for his money.

“And so will you be soon,” Marble sneered.

That’s as maybe, but I’ll have to blow my nose first. It’s the cold weather,” said Dorothy, “it always gets to my nose.”

A way out of this admittedly tight corner had occurred to Dorothy. Her handbag was propped up between her and the the side of the armchair since she had been carrying it when she was assaulted.

Later, Gary was to praise her for her fast reaction, though he had always disapproved of a loaded pistol in Dorothy’s bag and was trying to persuade her to stop carrying it around. Now her search for the paper tissue was accompanied by releasing the safety catch on the pistol.

Harry Marble was genuinely out of his depth. This woman wasn’t scared of him. He had been known to solve his problems with physical violence, but this woman was too old for rape (he did not fancy that anyway) and would probably kick up too much of a fuss if he just got violent unless he was faster than her. He was about to try physical threats by moving in her direction with clasped fists.

“You’d better get the hell of here before I shoot you,” Dorothy shouted drawing her pistol out of the handbag and following that a tissue into which she snorted effectively while Marble looked on, halted in his intention to thump her black and blue and irritated by the coolness of this old woman. He waited for the nose-blowing to end.

Don’t try anything, Mr Marble,. This pistol is loaded with live ammunition. Dorothy followed that statement by producing the banana that was to have comprised sustenance at the travesty show.

Marble laughed.

“Shoot me? With a banana?”

Despite the pointed pistol, and probably because of the banana. Marble was amused and felt in control of the situation.

“That gun looks like a cigarette lighter,” he scoffed. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to defend yourself.”

Dorothy needed no further encouragement. She had learnt from Greg Winter’s excellent coaching sessions how to put someone out of action if one was in danger. She now pointed the pistol at Marble’s knees and fired.

“Take that, you bastard,” she scoffed in the same tone as Marble had used on her.

Marble had just enough time to look astonished before the excruciating pain of the bullet penetrated his brain. He collapsed in a heap and lay clutching his left leg and screaming at Dorothy to get a doctor.

“Sorry,” she said. “Did I hit you?”

“Blast you, woman. I’ll get you for this,” the intruder muttered.

“I doubt it,” said Dorothy. “You are a laughable gangster. You’re not even armed.”

She phoned Cleo and said “Dr Hartley? Can you send a paramedic here? I have just laid someone out and he has injured his leg.”

“What are you on about, Dorothy?”

“Mr Marble wants me to call a doctor to his gun injury and you are a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Have you taken a pot shot at Marble?”

“That’s right. He’s out of action in my parlour. I don’t know how long for unless I shoot again. You’d better hurry.”

“Gary’s on his way, Dorothy. Don’t let the guy budge and don’t shoot again. If he’s immoveable, you’d be committing a crime, Dorothy.”

“I don’t think he can move, Dr Hartley. You’d better order an ambulance,” Dorothy said. “I think he needs one.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Gary, as he rushed to put his clothes on. “That woman will be the death of me.”

“He must have tried to take her hostage, Gary. Just get there and leave the speculation till later.”

***

The absurdity of the situation had not escaped Cleo, however. Linda would have left early to get her drive to Bristol over before the roads got too busy. Marble must have been hovering and watching the cottage. Dorothy was probably not on her guard if she was waving to her friend before turning to go back into the cottage. Marble must have crept up behind her and grabbed her then pushed her into her parlour with the intention of holding her as hostage and bargaining with the police, always assuming he had any plans at all for dealing with the obstreperous Dorothy.

Cleo’s phone-call to Roger had him also speeding to Dorothy’s cottage.

Meanwhile Dorothy had gone to her freezer and fetched a bag of crushed ice.

“You’d better hold that against the wound,” she said, more or less throwing it at him so that she did not have get near enough for him to grab her. “Any move from you and I’ll put a hole through the other knee, Mr Marble. Tough luck to be caught by an elderly spinster,” she added.

“Just let me go,” he squeezed through his teeth. “I won’t tell who shot me.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” said Dorothy. “I’m enjoying myself and I don’t mind who you tell that I shot at an intruder who took me prisoner in my own home and threatened me.”

***

Gary arrived breathless after running all the way up Monkton Way, exclaimed at the scene without actually praising Dorothy for her prompt action, and took over. An ambulance arrived at about the same time as Roger who said he would go with the attacker to the hospital and stay there until a guard could take over. Gary phoned Nigel, who had just arrived at HQ, and told him briefly what had happened. Nigel, who loved Dorothy anyway, was full of admiration for her and would organize a guard for the would-be gangster.

“Is Dorothy OK?” he had time to ask.

“Trigger happy, Nigel.”

“She managed to solve the problem of finding Marble, though, didn’t she?”

Nigel knew he was rubbing salt into the wound, reminding Gary that a mere elderly spinster snoop had jumped Gary’s gun.

“It was forced on her, Nigel, but I admit that she’s resourceful,” said Gary, more gallantly than he felt.

“You can’t grumble about a happy end,” said Nigel, who knew how it still irritated Gary when amateur sleuths got the better of a situation.

“We still don’t know what he’s guilty of,” said Gary, “and I can’t leave it to Dorothy to charge him when we do find out what he’s done.”

“Should I arrange the eye to eye with Bryn Thomas for today?”

“I don’t know if Marble will be hospitalized, Nigel, he seems to have lost quite a lot of blood even if he is well enough to be discharged, but I’ll talk to Bryn Thomas today and we need to talk to the woman named Daisy. Gisela will have washed her hands of her trophy.”

“Trophy? What the hell are you talking about and how did Gisela manage an arrest?”

“Her mother has the details.”

“Daisy is the woman who ordered a double full English breakfast, I suppose,” said Nigel.

“I’ve heard about her girth, Nigel. Now I know how she cultivates it.”

“The canteen phoned me to ask if it would be all right. So I said yes. Might as well keep her happy.”

“She won’t be happy for long,” said Gary. “She’s a serial killer between meals.”

“You are a caution, Gary!”

“I am, aren’t I? Especially when extremely fat ladies turn out to be extremely evil.”

“What about Bryn Thomas? He thinks he’s coming to this week’s Lucky 13 rehearsal to see how he can fit in.”

“He’ll be a lucky 13,” said Gary. “You should not have committed yourself so drastically.”

“Wait a minute! You got me into it. Have you given a thought to what I’m supposed to do with him? He’s about as graceful as a Sumo wrestler.”

“Let him dress as one then, though I doubt if he’ll make it to freedom in the short term.”

“I’m not sure I can forgive you for the Sumo tip. The show is not for freaks.”

“You’ll cope, Nigel. You always do. Please get a rota going for Marble just in case he’s hospitalized for longer than an afternoon. I don’t think Roger wants to be at the hospital all day.”

“Do you mean that you have left the Superintendent guarding that common criminal?”

“He wanted to, Nigel. He loves Dorothy to bits and I’ve got his job now.”

“Well I never. What next?”

“The whole story when I see you. Ciao!”

***

Cleo was quite worried about Dorothy so she phoned her and discovered that her trigger-happy colleague was cock-a-hoop (as Cleo later described Dorothy’s mood) at having detained the guy who was on the run.

“He could have killed you,” said Cleo.

“He’s a softie,” said Dorothy. “When he had me sitting in the armchair he realized that he had no plan for dealing with me, but I couldn’t take any chances, so I shot him, but only in self-defence.”

“Awesome,” said Cleo. “Do you want me to come over?”

“Only if you want to try my bara brith,” said Dorothy. “You know that I always make bread in a crisis and the loaf I’m making now is just about to go in the oven. Your timing will be perfect.”

“Mmmm. Welsh currant bread. I can’t wait. You really are a cool cookie, Dorothy.”

***

Gary drove to HQ and found Nigel in his old 2^nd floor office. His assistant bombarded him with questions. Greg joined them and was delighted that Dorothy had had the presence of mind to defend herself by shooting at the offender.

“You should take the case, Greg. I’m supposed to be upstairs.”

“Never mind upstairs. You belong here, Gary,” said Greg.

For a moment, Gary almost liked Greg.

“I agree, but the money’s better. I’m will use this office for my practical work and coffee-making, and just use my superintendent office when I can’t avoid it, but at least until Nigel makes the office upstairs just as comfortable as this one.”

“What’s happening about Marble then?”

“We don’t know if he’ll have to stay in hospital so we are having to improvise,” said Gary. “Could you take over from Roger for a few hours?”

“No problem. I’d better get there now. If Marble is released from his hospital bed I’ll get a patrol team to bring him here and take Roger to wherever he wants to go. Otherwise Roger can make his own arrangements. I expect he’ll phone your mother.”

“He’ll probably want to go home, exactly for that reason.”

“Some retirement he’s enjoying!” said Greg.

“I’m glad my mother and Roger are having a life together, Greg.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. So am I. Roger deserves a few nice years after that witch of a wife was sent down.”

“He nearly went down with her, Greg, and I can’t forgive myself for not believing him at first.”

“But it all turned out hunky-dory.”

“My mother says that. She’s over the moon.”

“She must be. Found a son she thought was dead and has a new man in her life.”

“You wouldn’t want a man in your life, would you, Greg?”

“Certainly not. But I’d like a woman in my life who doesn’t bankrupt me.”

***

Talking of women, I’m going to talk to the famous Daisy now. That’s another case you might have to take over so you might like to be at her interview. Nigel won’t be able to stomach her.”

“It sounds as if you don’t grudge me the case,” said Greg.

“I don’t. Being a superintendent has its uses.”

“So you really want me to take her on, do you? I’m sure you must have an ulterior motive. You usually like to wallow in that sort of crime.”

“As Gisela’s colleague, she will expect me to delegate.”

“What about Chris’s role in this human tragedy?”

“He might have three corpses to exhume, and he has the fourth of Daisy’s victims on the slab,” said Gary. “If Gisela’s mother had not had her wits about her, she might be well on the way to paradise by now.”

***

Having decided to pursue the case at least as far as the first round of questioning, Gary was keen to find out what Daisy’s motive was for killing innocent old people. He knew of cases where carers developed pity for their charges and wanted to put them out of their misery even if they did not want to go. Other seniors were wealthy and so grateful to be cared for that they rewrote their wills in the carer’s interest, not least because they wanted revenge for being dumped in an OAP home so that the relatives could live in their house or otherwise benefit from the absence of the elders.

Greg opted to watch the proceedings from the next office, sitting behind one-way glass. Nigel would take notes, sitting as far as possible away from the serial killer.

Daisy was brought in between two guards, since one on his own had not been able to budge her from her cell bed. They had already waited patiently for her to finish an opulent brunch and were subsequently treated to noises from above and below as they elbowed the wriggling barrel of a woman into the lift and brought her panting and furious to the second floor. Fortunately for Gary and Nigel, the most disturbing part of her digestive system had ceased to actively digest the full English breakfast by the time and had not yet had time to process the second large meal of the day. She was seated on a bench brought in specially from the corridor and took up most of its width.

Gary liked women with normal curves. That had attracted him to Cleo in the days before she oscillated from pregnancy to quite slim and back again. But Daisy was not curvaceous, she was obese. Her skin was pasty and the whites of her eyes were liverish. She wore a large floral print that did nothing for her and shabby shoes that had tramped many miles of OAP home corridors. Her hair was brownish, streaked with bleach and permed. Gary thought she must be in her late forties.

Reluctantly, Nigel came forward with his notebook to jot down her data. Gary looked on with sense of foreboding. Daisy did not smell nice.

“Name?”

“Elizabeth Young.”

“Not Daisy?”

“Elizabeth Daisy Petunia Young,” said Daisy.

“That’s quite a pretty name, Miss Young,” said Nigel.

“And you are quite a pretty young man,” she retorted.

Nigel reflected that it was going to be one of those days. Gary went into his cubby-hole kitchenette and got the espresso machine going. He was amused at Daisy’s comment and even more amused that this pasty-faced, unpretty person could be named Petunia, as if Daisy wasn’t bad enough.

“Do you take sugar, Miss Young?” Gary asked.

“Are you making tea?”

“Espresso, but I’ll make tea if you would prefer it.”

“I would. No milk and three lumps.”

The tea did the trick. Miss Young was gratified to be treated like a guest. Gary was not quite sure how to approach the issue of dead pensioners, but Nigel saved him the trouble.

“This is not really a celebration, Miss Young,” he said. “I hear that you’ve been helping the elderly.”

Miss Young was puzzled. Had this bright young man got the wrong end of the stick? She had been treated roughly by the patrol police and rudely by the guards and accused unfairly of multiple murders.

Gary reflected that Cleo had warned him that Daisy might not think she was doing anything wrong. How was he going to get her to confess to something she thought was in the line of duty?

“My grandmother’s nearly eighty,” said Nigel.

“Is she in a home?” Daisy asked.

“Sometimes. My parents have to run the family dry-cleaning business, and my gran stopped working so it’s all hands on deck. But Gran likes company during the week and a bit of TLC when she can get it,” said Nigel, surprising himself by drawing a chair close to the smelly woman and sitting down.

What’s TLC? Slap and tickle?” she said, wagging a finger at Nigel. She laughed and her obesity laughed with her in the form of a wobble.

“Tender Loving Care, Miss Young,” said Nigel in a soft, endearing voice.

Daisy whistled.

Gary was amused at first and then astonished. What had come over Nigel? Nigel winked at Gary and Gary thought it might be a good idea to let his Man Friday get on with it. He could always pick up the pieces later.

“You’d better tell your grandmother to beware of carers,” said Daisy.

“Why?” said Nigel.

“There are carers who want to get rich,” she explained.

“I don’t believe it. How?” said Nigel.

“Well, the oldies need visitors and friends as well as your TLC,” she said.

“Don’t we all?” said Nigel.

“Carers are also there to help people at the end of their lives to let go peacefully,” said Daisy.

“I thought they were there to help them to live comfortably for all the days they have left,” said Nigel. “My Gran visits a home for respites, but we all want her to live for a very long time.”

“Not everyone wants to live,” said Daisy. “Some want to pass over.”

“How do you know which ones want to pass over, Miss Young?” said Nigel.

“You can call me Daisy.”

“And you can call me Nigel, but tell me how you know which ones want to pass over.”

“Some of them tell me.”

“What do they say?”

“They say they have a bit of a headache or had a bad dream or did not like the dinner.”

“Those are not reasons for wanting to be dead,” said Nigel, raising his voice somewhat before realizing that Daisy was capable of closing up like a clam if she thought she was being interrogated.

“So what can you do if people say things like that,” said Nigel in his softest, gentlest voice. He was starting see the woman as some kind of hell’s angel, but did not want her to sense his growing horror at the coolness with which she spoke.

“On the other hand,” he added, “I can see your point.”

“I thought you would,” said Daisy.

“But you can’t just do away with someone, can you?”

“You can if you know how.”

“More tea, Miss Young,” Gary asked. He had ostensibly been tapping on his notebook at the little table where Nigel usually sat to take notes, but had been listening carefully to the dialogue between Daisy and Nigel and was recording it on his phone.

“Yes please. I’d forgotten all about you,” she said.

“That’s all right. Nigel loves a chat with my visitors. Just carry on.”

Gary took Miss Young’s empty beaker and went into his cubby-hole. He had no idea how Nigel was going to proceed, but he thought his assistant was doing a good job and would leave him to it.

“Biscuits, Miss Young?”

“Biscuits are fattening. I usually avoid them, but I’ll make an exception.”

Nigel moved his chair to within shoulder-rubbing with Daisy. His nose was puckered and he had a distasteful look on his face that fortunately Daisy did not see, but Gary did and was full of respect for Nigel’s fortitude.

“How?”

“How what?” said Daisy. The invitation to eat biscuits had interrupted her train of thought.

“You wanted to tell me how to deal with old people fed up with life,” said Nigel, playing on the kind of son-mother relationship Daisy seemed to be entering into. Nigel enchanted her. He had a nice smile and he smelt nice.

“I don’t know if you can keep a secret, Nigel,” she said.

“I’ll tell you what, Daisy. I’ll tell you a secret and you’ll me one.”

Daisy found that idea exciting.

“What’s your secret, Nigel?”

“I like dressing up as a lady,” he said.

Daisy’s eyes grew wide as she looked him up and down. “But you aren’t a lady,” she said.

“No, but people think I am when I wear lady’s clothes.”

Daisy giggled.

“Now tell me yours, Daisy,” said Nigel.

“Doses of arsenic make your hair fall out,” she whispered.

“How do you know that, Daisy?”

“I just know. And when your hair has fallen out, you die.”

“But a lot of men lose their hair and go on living,” said Nigel, feigning concern for Daisy’s benefit.

Daisy drew her hand through Nigel’s hair.

“You needn’t worry, Nigel. You have beautiful hair and a lot of it.”

Nigel found Daisy’s endearment repellent. Why did he have to be within stroking distance? He would have liked to shake her off and shudder, but he didn’t.

Gary brought Daisy her second lot of tea. “No milk and three sugars again, Miss Young. I can see you are having a lovely chat with Nigel.”

“We are getting along well,” Nigel said. “Aren’t we, Daisy?”

“Does he know about you dressing up as a lady?” she whispered.

“I don’t think so,” Nigel whispered back.

“You’d better not tell him. He would not understand.”

Nigel nodded.

Gary went back to his notebook. He could only hear snippets of the conversation and was amused by the way Nigel had obviously made a hit.

“So if I wanted to get rid of someone, I could give them arsenic, couldn’t I?” Nigel continued.

“In small doses, but regularly.”

“And where can I get arsenic from?”

“Any garden centre.”

“Is that where you get yours?”

“I just wait until the gardener at the home buys some and help myself.”

“How do you know that it really works? Have you got proof?”

Daisy nodded knowingly.

“I can’t believe that people could die from a bit of arsenic,” Nigel said, “though I’ve heard the bit about the hair falling out.”

“At the home they think it’s food allergies, but I know better.”

Gary decided that it was time he intervened.

“Can I disturb you for a moment, Nigel?” he called, and Nigel got up and went to Gary, thanking his lucky stars that he could get away from this ogress.

Gary asked Nigel to please finish the list he was making on his notebook and Nigel got the message, thankful that he would no longer have to endure the intimacy in which Daisy was starting to revel.

Gary could see that Nigel looked nauseated.

“I’ll call the guard in. I think Daisy and I have chatted for long enough,” Nigel said, hoping he would not be confronted with this vile person ever again. Wasn’t that why he wanted to leave the police force and do something else? Gary had told him several times that some people out there were just as vile and coppers were there to protect the good from the bad, so to speak. Gary had often wondered about Nigel’s sheltered upbringing. Children had to know about the evil in the world, otherwise they could not protect themselves against it, but he wanted to talk to Daisy for a moment before she left the office.

Nigel went to Gary’s notebook – his toy, he called it as it too small to work comfortably on the reference files that were needed in police work - and continued with the solitaire game that Gary had been playing. Gary’s mobile was still recording. Nigel vowed to keep out of Daisy’s sight in future. He would include visual data when he transcribed the ‘talk’ with Daisy.

Gary sat on the chair next to Daisy hat Nigel had vacated. Nigel switched the recording off and on again. This would be part 2 of the drama.

”Now, Miss Young,” he started, “do you want to tell me what you have been telling your friend Nigel?”

“It’s a secret between me and him,” said Daisy.

“Secrets are meant to be shared, Miss Young.”

“Not this one. I want to go the toilet now.”

A putrid smell emanated from Daisy’s rear.”

Gary went to the office door and instructed the guards to take her back to her cell.

“We’ll talk later, Miss Young.”

Nigel joined Gary at a safe distance to see Daisy off the premises.

“Can I have a double portion of fish and chips for lunch, Nigel?”

“With or without, Daisy?”

“With, please,” she said and was led away, surprisingly docile.

“See you soon, Nigel,” she called over her shoulder, and Nigel felt a chill coursing down his spine.

“Yes Daisy. Don’t forget to keep my secret.”

***

“Boy, does she stink,” said Nigel, opening all the office windows and reaching for the ‘ocean’ room spray he always kept handy for such occasions.

“What was that last bit about, Nigel?”

“Mushy peas, of course. What do you think?”

“You got on very familiar terms with her,” said Gary.

“I had to get her to talk, didn’t I?”

“So what did she say? I could not pick up much of that whispering.”

“We told each other secrets.”

“Really? What did you tell her?”

“That I liked dressing up as a lady.”

“That’s not a secret,” said Gary.

“It is now.”

“OK. So what did she tell you?”

“To summarize: how to kill people with arsenic.”

“Brilliant,” said Gary.

“I had to pretend I wanted to kill someone, Gary. She enjoyed all that.”

“And I’m satisfied that you did the right thing, Nigel. We’ve got to get her to confess officially. We think we know that Daisy killed those senior citizens, but we need proof. We can’t rely on the outpourings of Gisela’s mother.”

“But we’ll have to get her here for questioning,” said Nigel.

“Would you like to tell Gisela what Daisy told you in confidence and see how she reacts, Nigel?”

“Should I do that?”

“Daisy didn’t tell me about the arsenic, she told you,” said Gary.

“OK, I’ll do it,” said Nigel.

“Good. I’ll ask her to come here, since this is still your office.”

“It’s still your office too, Gary.”

“It’s yours now, Nigel. You’ve just been promoted to detective status.”

“I have?”

“You can hang up your uniform and go incognito in future, unless you need to ware it for an official reason.”

Nigel was shocked by Gary’s apparently sudden decision, not knowing that Gary had talked about it to Cleo and was taking her advice. If Nigel thought he had already reached the top of his career ladder, he was to be proved wrong. The state had not financed his education to have him dithering about whether to use it.

“I’ll get you a nameplate on the wall to replace mine.”

“You aren’t serious, are you?”

“Just think of your interview with Daisy as a sort of audition,” said Gary. “And you passed with flying colours.”

Gary held out his hand. Nigel shook it vigorously.

There’s a problem, though,” said Nigel quietly. “What about Greg?”

Greg, who had been largely forgotten by Gary and Nigel, but who had been hugely entertained by the scenario, came into the office full of felicitations to Nigel for his interview, his heroic sufferance and his new status.

“The hand-shake was to seal the agreement,” Gary said. “We’ll have pizzas from Romano’s to celebrate. Can you order them?”

“Have I been demoted again?” said Nigel.

“No,” said Gary.

“So theoretically you could order them, couldn’t you? Us being colleagues and stuff like that.”

“Touché, Nigel. You learn fast, but I’m still ahead, remember.”

“Order me a pizza too, please Nigel: double cheese and anything that’s lying around.”

“I’ve just had a thought,” said Nigel. “It might be better if the Superintendent tells Gisela I’ll be available from 2:30 if she’d like to come to my office and talk about things.”

“Your office, Nigel?” said Greg.

Gary interrupted to say that Nigel would only share his old office until the office on the superintendent floor was fitted out.

“Just one thing, Nigel, said Gary. “If your promotion is going to go to your head…”

“…I’ll have to stop sending you up, won’t I?” said Nigel.

***

After their pizzas had been washed down with a swig or two of Chianti, Greg decided to pursue his drug case (that was well on the way to being solved), while Gary announced to Nigel that he was going to his office on the third floor. He would tell Gisela that Nigel had been promoted to detective status and would have the office next to hers.

“What’s her surname, Gary? I can’t call her Gisela.”

“I think it’s Ting, or Wing, or something like that.”

“I’ll have to look it up, won’t I?” said Nigel. “I suppose her mother has the same name.”

“Assuming Gisela isn’t married, although modern women often keep their maiden names, Nigel. It saves a lot of fuss when they get divorced. But I don’t know what Gisela’s status is.”

“I’ll call her ‘Mrs’ and see what happens.”

“Do that and risk a snub. Women like Gisela want to be a ‘Miss’ in business; ‘Mrs’ smacks of housewife and ‘Ms’ has a weird rumble about it and looks better than it sounds.”

Nigel ascertained that Gisela was a Miss Thring in real life. He was glad he did not have a speech impediment. The Thrings would be happy to talk to the newly ‘crowned’ Detective Sergeant Nigel Bramley.

Nigel wondered already if being a detective was going to be all it was cracked up to be. If Gary was going to pass on all the awkward females he came across, Nigel was not going to like the job.

Cleo put on her genuine Japanese kimono (bought at a street market in Chicago yonks ago) and woke Gary, told him what time it was and went to the front door to let Roger in.. She then made espressos all round while Gary overcame his reluctance to leave his warm bed and slipped into something casual. Amazingly, by two fifteen the cops were out and about in the freezing cold, wishing they had not volunteered to check Jane Barker’s house at such a ludicrous hour.