“You did the runner,” said Dennis.
Jeremy nodded. “Enough was enough. Arrest me if you must. For what crime, I don’t know. But that’s why you’re here, right?”
“That’s why I was here. Don’t s’pose there’s any of that nettle brandy left in the bottle, Mister…?”
“Just call me ‘Barry.’”
“Okay, Barry. And I’m Dennis. Look, I need a loo break. Could you show me where it is?”
“No problem. Step this way. I’ll fetch a fresh bottle while we’re at it.”
It was Dennis who returned first from the nether regions of the Shepherd’s Hut and, after the considerable thought he’d put into the matter while peeing, sheepishly confessed to Jeremy his recent Twitter activities. How keen he’d been on collecting the million-pound reward offered for any information leading to the capture of the megalomaniac bonkers banker on the loose. He even fessed up to his alias.
“Betty?” Jeremy laughed. “Some name for a copper with a beard.”
Dennis blushed.
“Anyway, Betty, it’s your call. Like I said, I’m here if you want me. Get the handcuffs out and go for the big bucks, if you still believe in them. But before you do, a further word of warning. The prime reason for suggesting that the million pound reward is a fiction is that Barry and I know the origin of the bonkers banker post and I should tell you Jackie Lamur’s boss isn’t the most reliable when it comes to shelling out that kind of money. Probably just offering one more of his rubber cheques to suck in the punters. But, like I said, it’s your call.”
“Here we are,” said Barry, returning with the fresh bottle. “Top-ups for everyone?”
To which everyone gladly agreed.
“‘Betty’ here is one of the tweeters who swallowed the Lamur post,” Jeremy told Barry when the topping-up was over.
“Betty?” said Barry, peering around the room.
Dennis blushed again.
“That’s what Dennis is called when he’s on Twitter.”
Barry frowned. “Some name for a copper with a beard.”
“That’s what I said.”
Dennis re-blushed and this time also squirmed. “Spur of the moment thing, wasn’t it? Copper’s pay ain’t all that brilliant. Surprised you didn’t have a go yourself, Barry. Gardening can’t bring in much.”
Barry nodded and smiled. “Like Mister Micawber, I make ends meet.”
“Also, Barry wasn’t always a gardener,” said Jeremy. “Used to be an Oxford professor before he thought better of it.”
“Bloody ’ell. The two of you make a proper pair. Anyhow, look, I’ve made up my mind, innit?”
“To take me in and claim your mythical reward, Betty?”
Dennis sucked at his nettle brandy. “Quit it with the ‘Betty,’ okay?”
Jeremy and Barry shrugged and nodded.
“No, I ain’t goin’ to take you in. And I ain’t goin’ to claim no reward neither. Enjoyed our little chat, didn’t I? Made a lot of sense to me.”
“Raaf, raaf,” chorused Hans and Colin who’d been listening in.
“So, what I was thinkin’ was…”
Barry and Jeremy exchanged squints.
It was Barry who spoke up. “Yes?”
“See, only if you was willin’… I wouldn’t mind… only for a few days like…”
“Dossing with us?” said Jeremy.
“Well… um…”
“You’d be very welcome, old fellow,” said Barry. “It’s not a big house, but there’s room for all. There might be a few questions asked at your place of employment, of course. But that would be for you to negotiate. Let us just say we wouldn’t want any more strangers knocking on our door.”
Dennis dropped his head into his hands and fiddled with his beard. “See, the thing is, I’ve never liked being a copper all that much. Wouldn’t take me nothing to toss in my badge altogether and I’d never say nothing to nobody about where I’d gone. Honest Injun.”
“Raaf, raaaaafff,” said Hans and Colin, who were as bored with being police sniffer dogs as Dennis was with being a policeman. Hans was particularly pleased if the boss’s words meant he could spend some quality time with Shirley.
“Oink,” said Pete, more as an expression of general support than from any self-interest. Pete just liked it when humans got along with each other.
“Well, it’s an interesting idea and you’d be welcome,” said Jeremy. “Keep me out of the pokey for a while anyway.”
“Thanks. I’ll pull my weight, and there’s plenty of that, as you can see,” said Dennis, patting his belly. “There’s one other thing I haven’t told you, though. And you’re not going to like this. Before I came looking for you, I had a message from Jackie Lamur on my phone sayin’ she’d fancy a chat with me.”
“And?” said Jeremy.
“She sounded kosher and said she could be in Fanbury in two shakes of a dog’s tail. That was yesterday. But…”
“But?” said Jeremy.
“While I was in the loo just now, she called me. Seemed like such a nice girl and I’d always liked her tweets, so…”
“You told her where you were,” said Barry.
“Yes. Look, I’m sorry. Must’ve been the drinks you gave me that made me talk but she’d already been speaking with Batty Hattie who’d told her about funny goings-on in the village and talking to me and how she’d sent me to this address and…”
“Like you, she’s found us,” said Jeremy.
“Yes. Sorry. Look, I’d take it back if I could, only now it’s too late, and…”
Which was when there came another knock on Barry’s door.
“Popular chap I am all of a sudden,” he said, levering himself from his chair.
“Yes indeed, my dear, do come in. We’ve been half expecting you,” were the muffled words from the door.
“Oops,” said Dennis.
And so it was, after pedalling the metal in her beaten-up pre-Satnav VW Golf all the way to Fanbury that Julie MacKintosh finally met up with her Twitter buddy “Betty.”
And then, to her astonishment, she also re-encountered her one-time-only sex partner, the rogue megalomaniac bonkers banker, Jeremy Crawford.
Twelve
Back at Jeremy’s ex-home, his soon-to-be ex-wife, his parents, and his in-laws were gathered together in the solarium discussing progress so far and getting antsy— Sophie most of all. She still had her credit and debit cards working, but for how much longer once Sir Magnus cut off Jeremy’s enormous salary, which he had sworn to do if “the bounder” weren’t caught soon? Hardly any time at all, that was how long. Then what? Go to work herself? No way, Hozay. But life would be soo different. She would, for example, have to let “the help” go. No more cook, no more cleaning lady, no more hairdresser, no more pedicurist, no more manicurist, no more beauty therapist, no more interior design adviser, no more personal shopper, no more free credit for Harrods’ food, wine, and couture deliveries. None of the benefits Jeremy’s money had bought, and to which his “loving wife” had become accustomed.
“Just imagine how the queen would feel if someone said they weren’t going to pay for her palaces no more,” she complained to Ron, Gloria, Vince, and Valerie. “Proper pissed off she would be. Proper… pissed… fucking… off.” Faux tears dribbled down her rouged cheeks and smudged them.
Ron, Gloria, Vince, and Valerie stroked their chins and nodded.
“Terribly hard for you to bear, my dearest dahling,” said Valerie, eyeing Ron and Gloria with the suspicion she felt they deserved for having spawned a failed banker. Implying there might have been something amiss with either their genetic materials or their parenting skills, or both.