The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1130 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Sunday, was a family day, a mixture of chores and interactions in the household. Simon washed the cars helped by Danny and Julie: she also washed her scooter thing.

I washed all sorts of things, including the laundry aided and abetted by Trish and Livvie, who took it in turns to fill and empty the machine, sort the washing and fold it afterwards. Between them they can even cope with a sheet or duvet cover and we have a large machine, which wouldn’t look out of place in a hotel or commercial laundry. Simon and Tom bought it between them when it became obvious that our burgeoning family needed more than the old Hotpoint Tom had had for years.

Billie and Meems were helping me wash down the kitchen, they can get down to skirting boards and the bottom of doors more easily than I can. We were accompanied by the delicious smell of bread baking as we worked, which did nothing for my recent resolution to eat less and exercise more.

The final act of ablution was for me to wash the floor, which I did, restoring it to its pristine condition–I’m lying, but it was cleaner than before. Simon and his car wash team were instructed to enter by the front door to avoid walking near the wet kitchen floor. Unfortunately, I hadn’t told Tom, who’d taken Kiki for a walk and her great big spaniel sized feet left footprints all over the kitchen floor. Some days I really don’t know why I bother.

I was cooking a roast lunch, a leg of Welsh lamb, the cooker helped the floor to dry after I re-mopped it following Kiki’s dance all over it. We ate the aforementioned piece of meat with all the trimmings–fresh made mint sauce, roast spuds, roast carrots, cauliflower and the last of the runner beans from the garden. We were all so stuffed, I wondered if I should resolve to eat more and exercise less–it seemed easier. There was ice cream for pudding, which I did resist, which was more than Simon did: he had my portion as well.

We all went for a walk that late afternoon which was quite warm, although there was rain forecast and it arrived after we got back. It teemed down all night, and at one point, Simon and I lay listening to the rain lashing against the windows.

When I was a kid, I used to love hearing the rain, and sometimes would even sit in the car by myself listening to it, until I fell asleep, which I invariably did. Listening to it with Simon, took me back to my childhood and gave me a sense of security, lying there in his arms. I slept well that night and tiny wee didn’t wake until nearly six, when Simon had to rise anyway.

I fed her while he showered and then made us both a cuppa–he has his uses now and again. I changed the baby and brought her down while he had his breakfast; I had some toast while I watched her in the recliner.

Simon left at quarter to seven, promising to get the transfer to Portsmouth up and running in November or early December. I suppose it could be my early birthday present, and it really would be, I do miss him when he’s up in London.

I put the baby down for another sleep, and showered myself before rousing the girls, then Julie and Danny. They all showered and I sorted various hair styles, dressing as they showered. Once that was done, Jenny, who’d come down, helped with breakfasts and agreed to take the girls to school while I continued pressuring Danny’s school to return his stolen football boots. I was quite looking forward to seeing Mr Edwards squirm, because I was sure he hadn’t recovered them yet.

I sat in the car waiting for the school to do registrations and assembly, then settle down to lessons. I waited for twenty minutes, listening to Radio 4 and Start the Week: then I strolled into the school and to Mr Edwards door, upon which I knocked.

I was quite surprised when a strange man opened the door. “Yes, what d’ya want?”

“I wanted to speak with Mr Edwards.”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that.”

“You are?”

“I’m Cathy Cameron, who are you?”

“Inspector Old, Hampshire Constabulary; what did you want him for?”

“My son had his brand new football boots taken from the changing room last week, Mr Edwards was trying to recover them.”

“Right, hang on, I saw a pair of boots in a bag just now.” He disappeared back into the office and came out with a clear plastic bag containing a pair of boots and Danny’s name on it. “Just a minute, these belong to Danny Maiden.”

“Yes, my son–he’s adopted and we didn’t change his name.”

“I suppose I can trust you.”

“I did mention football boots before you picked them up.”

“Okay, here y’are then.”

“Why are the police here, and where is Mr Edwards?”

“Look, Mrs Maiden–no, it was...”

“Cameron, Cathy Cameron.”

“That name sounds familiar, we haven’t met before have we?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“I’ve got it, it’s not the name that’s familiar, it’s you on the posters in the bank, isn’t it?”

I blushed, not many people seem to recognise me from them. “Yes, you’re very astute.”

“Ah, I’m good with faces–now you were holding some small furry thing–um, oh yeah, a dormouse.”

“I’m very impressed with your powers of observation and recall.”

“It’s me job, I’m a detective, so observation’s part of me work.”

“I’m a scientist and it’s part of mine too. I also ask questions, so where is Mr Edwards–not run off with the school funds, I hope?”

“He ain’t running anywhere any more, you have your boots, I think you’d better go.”

“Very well, thank you, Inspector Old.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Cameron.”

I took the boots back to the car and went on to the local radio station where apart from inane pop music, there was more likelihood of hearing if something was amiss at the school.

I had arrived at home and was parking the car when the ten o’clock news came on. ’News is still coming in about the suspicious death of a teacher from Portsmouth who was found at his home late last night having apparently drowned in his own fish pond. Police are still at his home and haven’t released his identity. Local sources suggest it’s a Mr Reg Edwards, a teacher in Portsmouth, aged fifty one. We hope to have more news on that in our later bulletins. On to the weekend sport...’

So he was dead, a coincidence or what? Was it an accident–maybe he’d had a drink and fell into his fishpond, or was he pushed? My curiosity was piqued to say the least although I realised that as a breast-feeding mother of a two month old baby, I wasn’t most suited to investigating someone’s sudden death, but it concerned me because I’d met the man and although he was a trifle pompous, he had got the boots back, so maybe we owed him.

I went into the house deep in thought. “Oh you got them back then?” said Stella.

“What?”

“Danny’s football boots, you got them back?” she pointed at the bag.

“Yes, but the man who recovered them is dead.”

“Dangerous was it?”

“What?”

“Getting them back.”

“I have no idea, but I do intend to find out,” I said firmly, putting the boots on the kitchen floor.