The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1839 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

It wasn’t tortellini, it was spag carbonara–I prefer bolognaise–but being just a common or garden peasant, I would wouldn’t I? I quite like Napoli as well but I prefer meat with my tomatoes. The advantage of the carbonara, is it’s easier to wash out of the children’s clothes than bolognaise sauce. However, because David made it, it would be delicious and I was becoming hungry, not having had any lunch–next time I’ll ask the villains to wait until I’ve been fed–they might agree, I’d be less aggressive with a full stomach and the moon is made of green cheese. I’m not aggressive, am I? No, I’m a pussy cat really–psychopathic and merciless.

I went up to change, and noticed one or two bruises which were beginning to feel tender. I rubbed them gently and liberally with arnica cream and hoped it would help. I redressed in jeans and top and went downstairs to my study, grabbing a cuppa on the way.

I began to read through Tom’s comments on my dissertation and was ten pages into them when David knocked on my study door. “There’s a policeman to see you.”

“Oh, which one.”

“I think he said his name was Brunetti.”

I stared at him then burst out laughing, “Pull the other one, David.”

“What’s so funny?” he asked looking somewhat bewildered.

“See that pile of books over there in the corner,” I indicated which corner.

“Yes.”

“The primary protagonist is a copper called Guido Brunetti. He didn’t give his rank as Commissario, did he?”

“No, he looks like an ordinary constable.”

“Okay, lay on MacDuff.”

“I always thought that was, ‘lead on,’” he said as we walked back to the hallway.

“You’d be wrong if you did, it’s definitely, lay on.”

“Of course you’re something of an expert on Macbeth, aren’t you?”

“Shall we say, I’ve done it a few times.”

There was indeed a copper standing in the hallway holding his helmet under his arm and looking at the combination of photos and paintings hanging in the large space between rooms.

“Lovely old place,” he said looking up at the decorative plasterwork of the ceiling.

“It is, I’m Cathy Cameron,” I offered my hand.

“PC Rick Brunetti, ma’am,” he took my hand and shook it gently. I had some difficulty keeping a straight face.

“Have you heard of Donna Leon, Rick?” I asked him.

“Yes, ma’am–I’m well aware of the Commissario–in fact I quite enjoy reading them.”

“If they were the slightest bit true, it would explain why no criminals are ever apprehended in Italy, seems the police who aren’t corrupted by politicians, big business or the mafia spend most of their time in bars drinking coffee or stronger things.”

“Yes, ma’am, but we don’t work like that.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Rick. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’m returning your pen–a nice one.” He handed my Waterman back to me.

“Thank you, Simon would be furious if I lost it again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, it fell down the side of my seat when we were up at his family’s castle.”

His eyes widened. “Castle?”

“Yes, there’s a picture of it here somewhere–ah, there.” I pointed to an aerial photo of the said pile of stone.

“Cor, that’s some holiday home,” he said.

“I take it you weren’t wanting to rent it for the week?”

“Um, a bit out of my league, Mrs Cameron.”

“I could probably get it down to a couple of thousand a day if you like,” I had no idea if they ever let it out.

“A day,” he gasped.

“I’ll take it that’s a no then?”

“Yes.”

“You would like it?” I teased him, he was getting redder in the face by the second.

“No, not on my salary, maybe on yours,” he countered.

“I couldn’t afford to stay there, besides it’s cold in winter and in summer, and damp.”

“So you haven’t stayed there, then?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t renting it,” my memory flashed back to my trip to Scotland and the attack which happened there.

“Oh, I see.”

“Anyway, enough of my silliness, what can I do for you?”

“You made a statement earlier?”

“I did, hence my pen being left behind.”

“My chief is wondering if you could attend an identity parade?”

“What for? The two were caught red handed, the one was literally red handed he’d just stabbed the other one–albeit accidentally.”

“Oh had he?”

“Yeah, so I’d just need to look for the guy with a broken nose and a large plaster on his belly. So why do they want me to attend an identity parade?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why were they threatening that woman?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, I’m just the messenger.”

“When is this parade?”

“Tomorrow at eleven.”

“At the police HQ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“D’you like Italian food, Constable Brunetti?”

“With a name like mine, what d’you think, ma’am?”

“Well mine is Cameron, but I’m not that struck on porridge.”

“Have you tried polenta, ma’am?”

“Yes, it’s nicer fried after boiling.”

“My favourite, ma’am.”

“Not polenta e osei I hope.”

“No ma’am, not into songbirds.”

“Indeed, well the less said about that the better.”

“I wonder if my namesake has eaten it?”

“Could be, he seems to spend more time eating than detecting.”

“He does ma’am, I’ll be off then, an’ I can tell my boss you’ll be there?”

“At eleven, yes.”

Simon and Sammi arrived as the ‘Commissario’ was leaving. “What did he want?” asked Simon indicating the departing police car.

“I um...”

“You haven’t been done for soliciting again?”

“How’d you guess?” I answered and Sammi’s eyes turned into saucers.

“Back to old habits,” Simon said shaking his head.

“You’re not a solicitor, Mummy,” declared Trish.

“I think Daddy meant something else, sweetheart.”

“What?” she looked puzzled.

“Why don’t you get him to explain while I make some tea.” I ignored Simon’s daggers look and slipped into the kitchen.

Sammi followed me, “Does he say things like that to you often?” she asked sounding a bit shocked.

“Take no notice of our banter, if he meant what he said he’d be talking to me privately.”

“But he’d have no grounds to, would he?”

“Look, Sam, I know lots of tranny women go on the game for all sorts of reasons from financial to just validating their apparent femaleness. I’m not one of them, the only game I play is badminton.”

“I’m sorry, Mummy, what he said just shocked me. I am sorry.”

“It’s okay, no offence taken.”

“Mummy, what’s a prostitute?” demanded Trish standing inside the door.

“If you needed to know, you wouldn’t have such a smirk on your face, Trish Watts.”

“Daddy said it was a lady of the night–you used to go out dormousing at night.”

“Ah, this shows the problem of incorrect assumption.”

“What d’you mean, Mummy?” Trish looked at me and I was aware of Sammi listening as well.

“I’ll give you a series of assumptions based upon a series of facts. Cows give milk; cows eat grass; bulls eat grass; therefore bulls give milk.”

She looked at me, “I didn’t know bulls gave milk as well, Mummy?”

“They don’t, it’s an erroneous assumption based upon only partial facts.”

“Can you do another one?”

“Dinner is ready,” called David.

“Not now, go and wash your hands, darling.”