The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1262 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

It took me several days to deal with the murder of Mr Whitehead. Danny was upset too. Following Trish’s example he’d filmed the assault on me and the teacher on his phone, including the important fatal blow with the knife. They told me that he was old enough to prosecute for driving the car at one of the attackers, but that would be up to a senior officer to decide.

The man who was hit by the car was the father of the boy who’d assaulted Danny, and the man I’d laid out was his brother in law. They were charging the one with murder and the other with assault and complicity to murder, or something like that.

About a week later, I had a visit from a Chief Superintendent in full uniform, with a suit from the CPS. The suit, from the prosecution service, said that upon reflection it would serve little purpose to prosecute the boy even though he had driven the car at my assailant with intent, his intent was to protect me from a man with a knife who’d already stabbed one person and seemed intent on stabbing me. He talked legalese and at one point, I thought he had more tents than a summer campsite. It was that intense.

The copper in fancy dress told me that they would expect me to keep the boy under control and that he should concentrate on his schooling and football. I assured them he would, and that if I felt I needed help I would ask them to come and read the riot act to him. The copper nodded and they left. I sighed with relief.

It was short lived. I had just made a cuppa and was engaging in the first sips of the brown nectar when the phone rang–typical. I picked it up. “Hello?” I said almost grumpily.

“Is that, Catherine Cameron?”

“Yes, who’s that?”

“I’m Julian Sangster from Lippiatt, Crachett and Boothe, solicitors and commissioners for oaths.”

“I don’t need a solicitor or an oath commissioned, so what d’you want?”

“Please, dear lady don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but I’m having a trying lifetime.”

“Sorry to hear that, however, we have to ask your permission to release the body to the undertakers.”

Body? Undertakers? Shit–nothing had happened to Simon, Tom or one of the others? Please God. “Body? What body?”

“Mr Whitehead’s.”

“Is this a joke, Mr Whitehead was stabbed in front of me?”

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry I didn’t know, but he’s given you as his next of kin.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s named you as his next of kin, so we’d be grateful if you could come in to sign one or two forms for us and okay the funeral arrangements.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Where are you?”

“Winston Churchill Avenue, Southsea.”

I glanced at my watch, it was ten past two. “I could possibly make it between four and half past.”

“Yes, that would be fine, please ask for me, Julian Sangster.”

Jenny was off today, Stella was out. My only hope was Tom. I called him at the university and asked if he could possibly collect the girls from school. He hummed and hawed, but agreed in the end. If he couldn’t have done it he’d have said so immediately, he just likes to make me sweat.

I continued with my chores, changing beds and checking on the casserole–I was doing a sausage and liver casserole with strips of streaky smoked bacon laid over the top. The only problem is it’s cooked in a pot the size of a bucket–well having five adults and a thousand kids, you need a big pot–that’s what Simon says when he pokes me in the tummy. He’s got nothing to shout about, at least I can still see my knees, he can barely see his feet.

The casserole was doing okay, so I completed the potatoes and peas and left them for Tom to put on when he got home with the girls, or for Danny when he got home. I left a note on the fridge door, ‘Please put heat on under the vegetables at five pm, Mummy.’

I went and showered and changed. I decided I would dress like a business woman and wore a suit and blouse with knee length boots. The suit was a deep lavender colour and the blouse a white cowl neck, the boots were black patent with a comfortable two and a half inch heel.

Despite the traffic, I arrived ten minutes early. I did wonder about walking round for a few minutes, then decided against it. I entered the reception of the solicitors and could see they were probably doing quite well parasitizing the elderly residents of Southsea–average age 93 years–or some such figure. As you will gather, I’m not overly disposed to many solicitors who are underworked and overpaid.

The receptionist smiled at me, “Can I help?”

“Yes, I have an appointment with Mr Sangster.”

“Who shall I say it is?”

Why didn’t she consult her diary? Oh well she asked for this, “Lady Cameron.”

She blushed and dialled his office, he was probably playing with himself under a large oak desk. “Mr Sangster, I have Lady Cameron to see you.”

“Lady?” I heard him squeak, “Why wasn’t I told?”

“I don’t know, Mr Sangster.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out.”

“He’ll be right out, Lady Cameron.”

He wasn’t, he took three or four minutes, so he could have been pulling his drawers up, washing his hands, ordering tickets for Wimbledon or a thousand other things. The more off the wall one’s speculations, the quicker the time passes.

“Lady Cameron, how good to meet you in person, do come in,” he offered his fleshy mitt and I shook it lethargically. “Tea or coffee?”

“Some water, would be nice,” I said sitting in a well upholstered chair. I smiled sweetly, he hadn’t offered it, which was why I’d asked for it. He rang reception and asked for a glass of water and a coffee for himself.

I regarded him while he called for the drinks. He was mid thirties, about five ten and not overweight. He wore a Marks and Spencer’s charcoal suit, which fitted him quite well, with a Persil white shirt and gold tie–he could have been a Liberal Democrat MP.

“Could I give you this to read before we begin.” He passed me an envelope in vellum coloured heavy paper. I opened it with the paper knife he offered me.

There were two pages of neatly written handwriting in blue-black ink suggesting a fountain pen. It gave an address in Southsea at the top of the letter.

‘My Dear Catherine,

Alexander Whitehead (deceased).’

I had to move the letter when my tears began to drip on to the paper.