The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1186 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I had a dilemma: if I involved any police, however friendly they were, it would become official as soon as I did. If I didn’t, then I’d be on my own against someone I had no knowledge of in any shape or form. I didn’t know who they were, or how many of them, nor what they did, apart from rather nasty things to other people. They were presumably criminals, because anyone who did some of the things they did who weren’t criminal, were criminal if you see what I mean. James Bond gets away with being amoral or even downright evil, because he’s the good guy–it says so at the start of the book or film. Same with Jack Bauer in 24, although I’d stopped watching it several series ago, despite Keiffer Sutherland being very pleasing to the eye, his character verged on psychopathic at times and his wife had been murdered by his so called colleague–crikey, he had more problems than I but he was allowed to shoot anyone at will, which might make it easier if a tad messier.

I could hire some help, but are private investigators any good, or do they just cost loads of money? Most of what they do is presumably divorce or industrial espionage stuff, with finding the odd missing person in between. I wondered.

Common sense told me to turn what I had over to the police and let them deal with it, but a part of me wanted to know just who was trying to harm me and my family and why? Did I want revenge? I wasn’t sure–that’s a bit juvenile. What I wanted was to stop them doing it to me again or to anyone else. That would mean putting them away for a very long time or damaging them beyond recovery, either financially or physically.

I looked through yellow pages and then the internet. There were plenty of names but most of them seemed inadequate for what I wanted. I called Henry, explained what I wanted, he gave me a name–James Beck, ex military police and Royal Marines, with experience in Iraq, and Afghanistan. Great, if I find any roadside bombs he’ll be very useful.

I called the mobile number Henry had given me. It rang several times before a rather nice voice answered it. I don’t know about the caller, he could be a hairy dwarf with a broken nose and a squint but he had a voice like melting chocolate and I nearly put on a stone listening to him saying, ‘Hello.’

“Hello, I’m Cathy Watts, I have a problem with which I’m told you might be able to help.”

“Well it isn’t your syntax, Cathy Watts, so how can I help?”

“Could we meet, somewhere public, my life could be in danger.”

“We could, but you have nothing to fear from me.”

“Yes, my friend recommended you highly.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet.”

“Okay. I have to warn you, I charge two hundred an hour up to a thousand a day.”

“Wow, I hope you work quickly then?” I said rhetorically.

“Oh yes, I’m a fast worker.”

We arranged to meet in a coffee shop in a department store in Portsmouth at ten the next morning. I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing, but now I wanted to get a chance to see who the voice belonged to. He’d be carrying a Guardian, besides, I knew to look for the guy wearing the trench coat–don’t they all wear them? I agreed to carry or be reading a Guardian myself–his suggestion, so he can’t be all bad, can he?

The children were off school, so I had to fib a little bit to get away from the house to meet with James Beck. I’d asked Henry not to mention my call to anyone, and being Henry, he’d respect that. I had made clear that I wasn’t doing anything against the family, so he was happy to believe me. At times, Henry is a super chap.

I left home at nine and caught the bus into Portsmouth. I left the car behind because I felt they were too easy to follow, or had apparently been so far. Perhaps I should have gone by bike, although it was cold and wet. I sat downstairs on the bus on one of the seats by the door, the long ones for oldies and disabled passengers. I sat there because I felt I could see anyone get on who might be a threat. I forgot that any seat in a bus except those on the aisle side, are potentially exposed in so far as it’s possible to see where someone is sitting.

The bus stopped and passengers got on. Then as it lurched forward to re enter the traffic, a window behind me shattered with a huge bang. I yelled and threw myself forward just in time to see a second slug drill a hole in the opposite side of the bus a foot from the first one.

Tyres squealed and a car drove off, the bus stopped and the driver came to see what had happened. I managed to excuse myself and walk towards the town centre, leaving the bus and its mystified driver behind. It looked very much as if we were all marked by whoever these maniacs were.

A bit further on, I flagged down a taxi and he took me the rest of my journey. I got to the coffee shop with two minutes to spare and sat with my back to the wall and opened my Guardian. I ordered a latte coffee and sat waiting for the enigmatic Mr Beck to arrive.

He was late, it was five past and I’d had two sips of my coffee and the complimentary biscuit. I’d also read the same letter four times and still had no clue what it was about.

A voice startled me as I was about to have my third sip and I nearly sprayed milky coffee everywhere. “Miss Watts?”

I looked up and saw a tall fair haired man, who looked about mid thirties, and whose brown eyes sparkled and his lips crinkled into a smile, showing regular white teeth. “Yes,” I managed to croak as I put down my coffee mug. “I take it you’re Mr Beck.”

“Correct, how d’you do?” he proffered his hand and I shook it. “May I join you?” I wanted to say, ‘Anytime’, his voice was as smooth as melting butter and I’m sure I had goosepimples.

He ordered a coffee, black and strong–hardly surprising, if he’d ordered a weak tea I think I’d have been disappointed; this was a man of action and my head filled with loads of clichés.

“May I call you, Cathy, I’m Jim by the way?” he paused, but continued before I could do more than nod my agreement, “Or do you prefer Lady Cameron?”

“Whatever–did my father in law speak to you?”

“Henry, good lord no, I did a search for you and came up with the dormouse lady; a clip on Youtube of one of the critters parachuting into your cleavage–lucky blighter; a clip of you and Simon telling about your forthcoming marriage despite your previous status and several references about acts of bravery–saving babies in burning cars and the like. If ever I need a back up in a tight situation–can I call you?” There was that perfect smile again–I must remember I’m married to Simon.

“You’ve done your homework, I’m impressed.”

“A bit, although I don’t know what you want–so, how may I help you?” My brain melted with his voice and I had to almost shake myself to concentrate on the business in hand. If Simon hadn’t got me first, I’d have been throwing myself at him body and soul. Shit, I hope he didn’t notice.