Brough was up first, earlier than usual. He tried to call Miller to ask for a lift into work. He didn’t think being in a confined space like Pattimore’s car was a good idea, although you have to be with someone in order to give them the silent treatment.
No. Not this time. This went beyond the silent treatment.
He carried his plate of cremated toast to the bin, wincing as the dull pain in his arm sharpened in protest at the movement.
He hadn’t dared to look for bruises during his shower. Bruises would make what had happened all too real.
Oh, wake up, David! Isn’t the pain evidence enough? Isn’t the memory?
He tried Miller’s number again. There was still no answer and he’d be buggered if he was going to record a message for her to play on loudspeaker so that her gravedigger boyfriend could make fun of his ‘posh’ accent.
Fuck that.
He heard Pattimore go into the bathroom. Galvanised, Brough summoned a taxi. He pulled on his raincoat and went outside to wait.
The last remaining clumps of snow were grey with dirt and brown from dog shit. What had been so pretty at first, painting everything bright and clean, was now tainted, soiled and messy, and you just wished it would disappear.
Hurry the fuck up, Brough urged the taxi driver in an attempt to communicate telepathically.
He sent Miller a text message berating her for not answering or returning his calls.
***
Detective Inspector Benny Stevens had seriously considered calling in sick. Even the smiling and softly spoken new incarnation of Chief Inspector Wheeler would see that as the cop-out it most assuredly was.
Hah, he thought bitterly! Cop out. This particular cop is most definitely ‘in’.
He wasn’t going to have that lot casting nasturtiums on his professionalism. No fucking way. I may be a maverick and play by my own fucking rules but - He slumped in his chair. I’m no maverick, he admitted to himself. When Wheeler says shit, I do.
Speak of the sun and we feel its rays: Chief Inspector Wheeler breezed into the briefing room, sweetness and light personified.
“You’re keen,” she observed.
Stevens bit down on the ‘fuck off’ that was trying to burst free from under his moustache. The old Wheeler wouldn’t mind such language and would have retorted with much worse to keep him in his place. But this new Wheeler - Stevens didn’t know what to make of her. She’d probably have him up on a whatsit - a fucking disciplinary and would smile that same sweet and disconcerting smile while chewing his bollocks metaphorically off.
Brough was next to arrive.
“Someone’s keen,” he smirked in Stevens’s direction. Stevens exhibited his middle finger.
Pattimore was next. He hurried across to Brough who stood and went to sit somewhere else. Pattimore was about to call out Brough’s first name but at the last second thought this would be imprudent, considering what had triggered yesterday’s... barney, Pattimore supposed was one word for it.
Except Davey didn’t fight back, did he? Pattimore’s conscience pricked him. He squirmed in his seat, wondering how he could make amends.
“Right,” Chief Inspector Wheeler spread her arms in a gesture of welcome and inclusion, like the leader of some kind of cult. “Looks like the gang’s all here so we’ll make a start.”
Brough glanced around, taking care to avoid Pattimore’s searching, imploring gaze.
“Um, Chief?” he raised his hand. “Miller isn’t here.”
The old Karen Wheeler would have made a scathing comment, satirising his prowess as a detective, but this all-new, improved model merely smiled. “That’s right. Had a phone call from her fella. D S Miller’s not going to be in this morning.”
“Why? What’s the matter with her?”
Chief Inspector Wheeler said she didn’t know but she suspected (and here she mouthed the words and made vague gestures to her abdomen) that it might be ladies’ trouble.
Brough averted his eyes, thoroughly aghast.
“The purpose of this briefing -” Wheeler was interrupted by the sudden and noisy entrance of Harry Henry, bumbling into the room like a whirlwind asking for directions. She waited, sphinx-like, for him to find a seat, which he managed but only after somehow contriving to collide with every other piece of furniture.
Harry Henry sat leaning forwards. He pushed his loose spectacles up the bridge of his nose and grinned, encouraging the Chief Inspector to continue.
“- is to make sure those of us going undercover know what we’m up to and those of us in the support team know what they’m up to as well.”
Harry Henry nodded vigorously. His glasses fell off.
“Stevens, you are - for want of a better term - the inside man.” She paused, fully expecting snickers and snorts but was pleasantly surprised to hear none. Stevens was sulking like it was an Olympic event. “Pattimore and Brough will help you prepare.”
Pattimore looked hopefully at Brough, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Chief Inspector Wheeler.
“In what way?” said Brough, flatly, expecting some kind of homophobic remark in return.
“Oh...” Wheeler made an expansive gesture. “You two know the lie of the land. The layout of the place. Who are the characters? Who does he need to look out for? Who does he need to talk to?”
“Oh” said Brough, sitting back, “So it’s not about what to wear, how to speak and what to drink?”
“No!” Wheeler was appalled. “Well... a bit. Oh, all right; yes, it is! I mean -” she pointed directly at Stevens, “Look at him.”
Everyone looked at him. Stevens blushed.
“Harry, you will also go along as a punter. You can be a travelling sales rep just asking for directions but you decide to have a sandwich and a tomato juice before you go on your way.”
Harry jotted all this down in his notebook.
“Fuck’s sake,” said Stevens. “Why does he get to be the sales rep? Why can’t he be the bummer?”
“Because,” said Wheeler and left it at that. She noticed Harry Henry had his hand in the air. “Yes, Harry?”
“I don’t like tomato juice,” he said glumly.
Wheeler’s smile faltered but only for a split second. “Orange juice then. Anything you like, okay?”
“And does it have to be a sandwich? Wife’s got me off bread at the moment. Says it bloats me right up.” He patted his round belly as illustration.
“The choice is yours,” Wheeler’s jaw was clamped tightly shut. “I’m sure Brough and Pattimore can apprise you of the full range of bar snacks available.” She switched on a smile and addressed the group. “Right. I’ll leave you to make ready. Want you in there just after opening time, okay? Good.”
“Henry, a word.” Wheeler marched out. Harry Henry sat there blinking until Brough told him the chief had implied he should follow her.
“Oh. Oh, right!” Harry bundled from the room, a mass of coats, papers and files, still managing to find a free finger to push his glasses up his nose.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” Stevens was pleased to observe.
“He is always late,” added Pattimore.
“Harry’s all right,” said Brough.
In Wheeler’s office, Harry Henry dropped his belongings like a Christmas tree shedding all its needles at once.
“Close the door,” Chief Inspector Wheeler pursed her thin lips. When she was satisfied of their privacy, her tone and expression softened. A little.
“Um, sorry I was late,” Harry Henry mumbled. “Again.”
Wheeler waved his apology away. “Never mind that - um - folderol,” she had troubled choosing a word. She steepled her fingers and looked at him intently across the top of her desk. “Now, what have you got to tell me?”
“Um,” Harry Henry riffled through a clutch of papers, many of which were scrunched-up burger wrappers. Wheeler waited with what she hoped was a patient look on her face, while her least-organised detective searched haphazardly and did a lot of humming.
“Ah! Here!” He pushed a piece of paper across the table. Wheeler snatched it up.
“A frog?”
Harry Henry’s nose wrinkled. His glasses slipped.
“Um, that’s a toad. This,” he handed her another photograph, “- is a toad.”
Wheeler glanced from one photo to the other and back again, from amphibian to amphibian. “What’s the difference?”
“Well, that one’s smooth-skinned and that one’s a bit bumpy, but that’s not the point. Chief.”
“It’s not? What is the point?”
“What they have in common. That’s the point.”
Wheeler’s eyes narrowed. “And the fish? Yesterday you brought me a picture of a funny-looking fish and now it’s Kermit and Mister Toad. Where’s all this leading, Harry? I hope you’m not chasing a wild goose up a gum tree.”
“Um, no gooses, um, geese, so far yet, Chief.”
“So how does all this add up?”
“I’m not sure. I have a hunch.”
“Well, sit up straight, man!”
“Chief?”
“I’m joking! Humour in the workplace is good for morale. I’m quoting from that course I went on.”
Harry was nonplussed.
“Is that it?”
“Um... Well, I’m still puzzling it out. It could still be a chain of unrelated thefts but then if they’re unrelated they wouldn’t really be a chain, would they?”
It was Wheeler’s turn to blink.
“No, I suppose not. I just don’t want you leading yourself down a blind alley. We need all the brains we’ve got working on our main investigation.”
“I know, but...”
“But you think there might be some connection.”
“Might be; yes.”
“Well, thank you, Harry.” Wheeler stacked the photographs and tapped them on the desk like a newsreader when the lights go down. “Keep me informed. And if you feel like you’m getting nowhere slowly, we’ll pursue another line of enquiry, okay?”
“Um, yes, Chief.”
They sat looking at each other for a while.
“You were supposed to leave,” said Wheeler.
“Ah, right.” Harry gathered his belongings and shuffled from the room, leaving Wheeler to look at the photographs again. She liked to encourage thinking outside of the box. The trouble with Harry Henry, bless him, was she wasn’t sure he even knew there was a box.
***
Meanwhile, in the briefing room, Brough got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it,” he announced.
Pattimore looked stricken. “Aren’t you going to help me with Eliza Doolittle?”
Brough addressed his reply to Stevens. “I’ll leave you in the Detective Constable’s hands. I’m sure he’ll be gentle. With you.”
“Oi!” Stevens objected. “Where the fuck am you going?”
“To check on what’s up with Miller.” Brough left, glad to get out of there.
It was pointless trying Miller’s number and he didn’t have that Jerry’s. Brough supposed he’d have to go around to the flat they shared. Another bloody taxi!
“What’s up his arse?” Stevens nodded at the door. “No, don’t answer that.”
“Never you mind,” said Pattimore. “Now, come on; let’s get you licked into shape.”
***
“What on Earth are you two doing here?”
“We work here,” said Luigi. Edward managed a slow nod in support of this assertion.
“No!” Dickon was at the limit of his patience. “I mean, what are you doing here at this bastard time of the morning?”
“Delivery day,” said Luigi. “We’re rota’d on for this week. You said we were rota’d on, didn’t you, Edward?”
“Um...”
“Looks like somebody’s got it wrong,” said Dickon. “But I can handle it. You two go home.”
“But we’re here now,” said Luigi. “I’ve forked out bus fare.”
“I’ll reimburse your bastard bus fare. Just go home.”
“What about me?” said Edward.
“Don’t listen to him, boss; he walks it here.”
“Oh, have a packet of crisps or something; bloody hell. Now, go on, the pair of you; scoot!”
“If you’m sure?” said Luigi.
“Yes!” Dickon had trouble speaking; he was clenching his teeth so hard it felt like they were exchanging gums.
“Well, that’s hardly equitable, is it? Luigi complained. “My bus fare and his packet of crisps.”
“What’s equitable?” said Edward.
“It means the same; you know: fair,” said Luigi. Dickon muttered something unpleasant before telling them they ought to go and enjoy the morning off before he changed his mind. He held his ground, barring the cellar door like a bouncer. He waved away his two best bartenders with a fake smile fixed on his features.
Shit!
He’d forgotten about the delivery. The draymen would want access to the cellar. That was out of the question. More than that, it was out of the quiz!
His eyes darted to the clock. It was too late to cancel. They’d be on the road by now. He would have to think fast and act faster than an actor in fast-forward.