Sophie stood aside and obliged. Never having had dealings with the local constabulary, she’d not before encountered Dennis and reckoned he was pretty funny- looking for a policeman, what with the bushy beard and everything. But then she supposed practically all young men had to have beards nowadays in order to prove they were men. Still, at least he was tall. She liked her policemen tall. There were far too many undersized ones knocking around, in her opinion.
“This way, Detective,” she said.
“Constable, missus.”
“Never mind. Do take your boots off and follow me. I’ll introduce you to the family.”
“Boots off?”
“House rule. We don’t allow muck on the carpets.”
Dennis frowned. Given the nature of the socks he hadn’t changed for two days, this wasn’t going to be a good start to the investigation.
“Don’t worry. We have guest slippers,” said Sophie as Dennis struggled with his laces. “Oriental to fit all sizes,” she added, peering down at his immense feet. Still, to be tall—and therefore reliable—she assumed a person also needed big feet. For balance.
“Blue or red?”
“Blue. To match the uniform, innit?”
“Mmm, I like a man with dress sense,” said Sophie as Dennis finally unbooted himself and, as fast as possible, slipped his size twelves into the slippers Sophie held out at arm’s length while averting her nose. “Now you can follow me and meet the family.”
And so it was that PC Dennis “Shorty” Dawkins made his way into the luxurious depths of the Crawford mansion.
“Careful not to bang your head on the chandeliers,” Sophie advised him along the way. “They were very expensive.”
First the boots, now the head, bit of a bleedin’ bossy bitch this Missus Crawfish, Dennis reflected, inching his way along behind her, head bowed.
“Women,” he muttered very sotto voce as he followed Sophie. Bloody glad he’d never got married. Especially not to Gladys, the barmaid at The Wigeon With Wings for whom he’d once carried a torch. Wonderful bottom, and the sorts of knockers a man would pay money to jiggle—but finicky. Pernickety even. Beer mats always needing to be re-arranged on the bar, beer-pump handles always having to be wiped for fingerprints, glasses so clean they were unhealthy. No, no, a fine bedmate Gladys would’ve made, but not a wife.
“Hi there, Dennis,” said Vince, choking back any dork-related slips-of-the-tongue when the copper finally made it into the mega-lounge. “So glad you could spare the time to join us in our hunt for Jeremy. Do take the weight off your feet,” he added gesturing at a faux Louis Quinze green velvet armchair.
“Jeremy?” said Dennis, lowering himself carefully onto the seat for fear of breaking it.
“Sophie’s husband? The missing one? The reason you’re here? Name of Jeremy?” said Vince, still fighting off dork references.
“Ah-hah, Je-re-my,” said Dennis, taking the notebook from his top pocket and again scribbling sinistrally at it. “So… and his whereabouts are now unknown, you say?”
“Unknown,” Vince confirmed.
“And, apart from bein’ our village bookmaker, you are?” said Dennis.
“Vince, Sophie’s dad. And this is her mum, Valerie,” said Vince, wafting a hand at Val, who was looking pale and distressed as instructed by Vince.
“Okey dokey,” said Dennis, scribbling some more. “And these?” Nodding across at Gloria and Ron, who were also looking pale and distressed as instructed by Vince.
“We’re Ron and Gloria, Jeremy’s poor parents,” said Ron.
“We want him back. Wuh-we nuh-need him back,” said Gloria, dabbing at her eyes.
“Right then. An’ Missus Crawfish is called Sophie, I deduce.”
“Correct, Constable,” said Ron. “Our darling daughter-in law. And it’s Crawford.”
“Ah-hah,” said Dennis, turning pages in his notebook, jabbing his pen at them, and thinking, “Christ, what with the Sophie bint as a missus an’ this lot as mums an’ dads, no bloody wonder the poor bloke did a runner.”
“And Jeremy was last seen?”
Which was when Dennis learned from Vince Jeremy hadn’t actually been seen by any of them for two whole weeks, during which time he’d been living in a barn with a pig called Pete and refusing anybody admittance.
“Pete?” asked Dennis, pen poised.
“Pete,” Sophie confirmed. “We’d been planning on eating him, but now it’s too late.”
“Pete has vanished too?”
“Yes. Been spirited away.”
“Jeremy and Pete? Both of them ‘spirited away’?”
“Yes.”
Dennis’s largely ineffective brain was starting to hurt.
“By demons?”
“Wuh-we duh-don’t nuh-know,” said Gloria. “Tell the nice policeman about Sir Magnus, Sopha.” That’s what Sophie’s mother called her daughter: Sopha.
So, while Dennis scribbled sinistrally, Sophie recounted at length both failed attempts by Jeremy’s boss Sir Magnus Montague and his team of trick cyclists to heal Jeremy’s evidently deranged mind.
“And the second time, huh-he wuh-wasn’t even there,” she wailed.
“No Jeremy? No Pete either?” said Dennis.
“Nuh-no. Both of them… gone.”
“An’ this Sir Magnus geezer? Wanna spell that for me? Might need to contact him.”
And so it was that Dennis “Shorty” Dawkins learned the family version of Jeremy Crawford’s disappearance. Not that he didn’t already know Jeremy had disappeared, of course. As “Betty” on Facebook, he already knew about and coveted the million quid reward for clues leading to his discovery. But it was always good to get details from the horses’ mouths.
Not that Dennis was much impressed by these horses. Snobby dipshits, he reckoned. And again, as he pocketed his notebook, made his excuses, headed back to Fanbury’s only cop car and burnt rubber away from the estate, he felt sympathy bordering on empathy for poor old Jeremy. And Pete. Dennis had always rather liked pigs. But, wherever they were, at least they were safe from their loony family.
Nine
Sir Magnus Montague was startled and baffled at the global response to “Jackie Lamur’s” plea for information as to Jeremy’s whereabouts when Julie plugged him into his little-used desktop iMac and showed him her results.
“Bloody hell,” he said as she scrolled up and down from “Maxim” in Minsk to “Jim” in Knotty Ash and back again. “Stop going so damn fast, woman, you’re hurting my eyes.”
“I thought sir would be pleased,” said Julie, faux pouting. “What with it going viral and everything. So many to choose from.”
“Viral? Sounds like a bally disease. And sir is not pleased. Sir is confused.”
“Sir confused?”
“Yes,” Sir Magnus was forced to admit, grabbing at his box of Havana Tranquillities. “How the hell am I supposed to pick any one from this lot? And you’re not telling me Jeremy bloody Crawford has been all over the world in the last seven days. What am I supposed to think, that he’s Superman or something? Some damn bollocks this Internet business has got to be. Talk about finding needles in haystacks.”