The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1440 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“I don’t think I can do this pregnancy bit,” Stephanie sounded distressed on the phone.

“Why not?”

“The sickness to start with, oh bugger here I go again–ring you bac–ugh.”

“Who was that?” asked Stella.

“Stephanie.”

“Oh is she coming over?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Oh, okay–going to feed the brood.”

“Fine, if you’ve got any over put it in a bottle, will you. Milk can fail.”

“Not me, I’m a real gusher.”

“Save your breath, Cathy, they don’t listen anyway,” I said to myself.

I was drinking a cuppa when the phone rang again, assuming it to be Stephanie, I answered it. “Hello? Stephanie?”

“Mrs Cameron?” asked an Indian sounding voice and I assumed it was a cold call for future sales.”

“No, this is Tidal View, cat psychology unit–do you have a psychotic cat?”

“Mrs Cameron, this is New Scotland Yard.”

“Oh,” my heart nearly stopped, “What’s wrong?” I racked my small brain trying to think if any of the kids were out and could they be in trouble. I determined they couldn’t–they were all in waiting for the rain to stop. So it had to be Simon–he was in Portsmouth–why would the Metropolitan police be calling me? It had to be a hoax call.

“Nothing is wrong, we are trying to contact your husband.”

If they were genuine they would know his number. I decided they were a hoax or worse, some sort of scam. I put the phone down. Moments later it rang again–the same voice. “Look if you don’t push off I’ll call the police.”

“Mrs Cameron, I am the police.”

“Well go and catch some criminals then.” I put the phone down again–bloody cheek of these scammers.

I continued ironing the sheets–I didn’t always need to, but I forgot this one was on the line and it got too dry and all creased. The phone rang again and I ignored it, then I heard Stella’s voice.

“Cathy, pick up the bloody phone.”

“Why is it Stephanie?”

“No, it’s the bloody police.”

“I think that’s a scam.”

“This one isn’t–pick up the bloody phone.”

Bugger, I put down the iron careful not to place it on anything that could be damaged by the heat. Reluctantly I picked up the phone, “Hello,” I said aggressively.

“Mrs Cameron,” said the same voice.

“It’s Lady Cameron, actually.”

“I’m sorry, forgive me, Lady Cameron, I need to contact your husband urgently.”

“Well phone his office, he’s got secretaries there who should be able to find him or take a message.”

“They are not answering.”

“Strange–they’re open–it’s a Monday morning, for God’s sake.” I had better things to do than chat to the plod–and I still wasn’t convinced.

“Do you have a mobile number.”

“Yes.”

“Could I have it, please.”

“No.”

“Please don’t be obstructive, Lady Cameron–I could have you arrested.”

“I’m taping this call, if you’re not who you say you are, I’ll contact the genuine police, if you are then making threats will achieve you nothing except an early retirement.”

“If everyone I talk to today is as awkward as you, an early retirement sounds good.”

“Why are you phoning, you usually send someone round.”

“We are greatly understaffed and over taxed.”

“I just paid my tax bill and you think you’ve got troubles.”

“I meant taxed as in over stretched–I don’t have time to send officers on wild goose chases.” He began to sound as if he may be real.

“Who did you say you are?”

“I’m Chief inspector Ranjit Singh.”

“Can you prove that–and I don’t mean that in a trivial way.”

“I could have you arrested, would that convince you?”

“No.”

“Please hurry, Lady Cameron, I am a busy man and have better things to do that play games with you, even if you have a title, too many ordinary people are waiting for me to help them.”

“I can’t give you Simon’s personal phone number, but I will try and contact him to ask him to phone you back if you give me yours.”

“But of course, my number is...” I wrote it down. I was still suspicious. If it was to do with the bank they’d have surely gone through head office which is in the Strand.

I called the local police and asked for a number to Scotland Yard, or more correctly New Scotland Yard, the Irish republicans blew up the old one about a hundred years ago. They needed some reason for answering my query and eventually came back with several numbers for the Met–none were similar to the one Inspector Singh had given me.

I dialled the first one and asked if I could speak to someone in charge. I eventually got a sergeant, who was probably as bored as I was. I explained my situation and he made um noises every so often. “So do you have a Chief Inspector Singh?”

“Dunno, luv, what number did he give you?” I repeated it to him four times. “Don’t sound like one of ours, luv.”

“Well why don’t you call it and tell whoever answers it that impersonating a police officer is a criminal offence?”

“Could do I s’pose, hang on–I’ll put you on ’old if I can remember ’ow t’do it.” I waited while some horrendous rendition of Mozart’s fortieth symphony was butchered over the telephone line. “They rang off, luv–can’t ’elp no more.”

“Sorry if I tired your only functioning brain cell,” I said sarcastically and put the phone down.

I became a little anxious about things but called Jim Beck. “Cathy, how nice to hear from you–what can I do to help?”

I explained my dilemma, he began clicking his computer–“That number is allocated to–oh it’s a holding company–so it definitely ain’t the Yard. You haven’t tried calling Si, have you?”

“Not yet, why?”

“Don’t, they’ve probably got a scanner fairly near and will get his number from your call. I’ve got a number for him, I’ll call him and warn him. Even the land line may not be safe, but don’t use a mobile–they’re so easy to intercept or scan.”

“Thanks, James, I called the police. They were about as much use as a concrete enema.”

“Interesting concept that.”

“What?”

“The plod being useful except for directing traffic.”

“What’s going on, Jim?”

“I have no idea, but I hope you’re going to ask me to find out and offer to pay me for doing so.”

“Usual rates?”

“For you, Cathy, I’d even go straight.”

“Just find out what’s happening and let me know if Simon or anyone else is in any danger.”

“Your wish is my contract, will do.”

“Shouldn’t that be command?”

“In more romantic times perhaps–nowadays, a more commercial approach seems to be the zeitgeist.”

“If I’m paying you, stop chatting me up and get off your arse and do something.”

“Ooh, I like dominant women,” he joked.

“No you don’t–now get to work, or I’ll introduce a penalty clause.”

“As long as David Beckham takes them–I don’t mind.”

“David Beckham, takes the penalties–I think he’s rather nice.”

“He’s got more ink on his body than the front page of the Guardian.”

“So he has.”

“I’m going,” I said and put the phone down–I then wondered about who this latest creep was. He definitely sounded Indian, but that could have been a ruse, if James was right–whoever this person was–or his friends are–they could be quite hi tech villains. I sat and thought about it–normally, I’d have called Si on his mobile and given them the number accidentally. I was amazed that I’d smelt a rat and didn’t.

The phone rang again. I picked it up and said loudly, “Stop calling me you creep.”

“Oh, Cathy, “ wailed Sephanie’s voice and she burst into tears. Oh bugger.