There was so much in it. It was a pity all of that had been forgotten – such a pity! Perhaps he would try to teach some of them to Olive, and she could pass them on to the other girls.
There was no point trying to teach Tofu any folklore – no point at all.
20. Truth and Truth-Telling in Gayfield Square At Gayfield Square Police Station, Irene and Bertie were greeted by a policeman, who smiled warmly at Bertie. “Lost your bicycle, son?” the policeman asked. Bertie looked at the policeman blankly. “I don’t have a bicycle,” he said. “I wish I had a bicycle, but I don’t. Mummy won’t let me . . .”
“The officer is just being playful, Bertie,” Irene interrupted.
“It’s his idea of a joke, you see.”
The policeman looked at Irene sharply. “And what can we do for you, Madam?” he asked coldly.
“I’ve come to report the theft of a car,” said Irene.
“I see,” said the policeman. “And are we sure it’s been stolen?
It hasn’t been towed, has it?”
Irene gave a start. Towed? It had not occurred to her that the car might have been legitimately removed. What sort of line was there on the road at that point? Was it residents’ parking?
It was residents’ parking, surely . . .
“I don’t think it will have been towed,” she said. “It was parked in Scotland Street, where we always park it. Now it’s gone.”
The policeman nodded. “The most surprising cars get towed, you know. You’d be astonished at how many people come in 62
Truth and Truth-Telling in Gayfield Square here to report their car stolen and all the time it’s down at the vehicle pound.”
Irene gave the policeman the number of their car and he went away briefly to feed the details into a computer. While he was gone, Bertie looked around the room with interest. There were several notices pinned on a board and he sidled over to these and peered up at them. There was a notice about the depth of tread required on a car tyre and one about the closing of a road.
And then there was a Wanted poster, complete with the photograph of the wanted person. Bertie peered at the photograph.
It was very interesting. Surely not . . .
“Mummy,” he whispered. “Come over here and look at this.
Look at this Wanted poster.”
“Not now, Bertie,” said Irene. “We must deal with our car first.”
“But I recognise the person in that photograph,” Bertie persisted. “Look, Mummy! Look at the person in the photograph.”
“Oh really, Bertie,” said Irene, the exasperation rising in her voice. “I don’t see what . . .” She stopped. Slowly she leant forward and studied the picture. “My goodness . . .” she began.
“You see,” said Bertie. “It is him, isn’t it?”
Irene stood up again and pulled Bertie away from the notice board. “Hush, Bertie,” she said. “We haven’t come here to look at Wanted posters. We’re here to find our poor car . . .”
“But,” said Bertie. “But the notice says that anybody who recognises . . .”
The policeman was now returning to the front desk.
“Your car has not been towed,” he said. “So if you’d like to tell me when you last saw it and where it was when you last saw it.”
“We’ve just see that pho . . .” Bertie began, but was interrupted by Irene.
“Now then,” she said loudly. “When did we last see the car, Bertie? Can you put on your little thinking cap? When did Mummy park the car up at the top of Scotland Street?”
Bertie scratched his head. “Last week, I think. Yes, Mummy, Truth and Truth-Telling in Gayfield Square 63
it was last week. Daddy was out drinking, remember, and you . . .”
“Last week,” interrupted Irene. “Yes, last week. And, Bertie, Daddy does not go out drinking, as you put it. Daddy had gone to meet somebody from the office and it just so happened it was in the Cumberland Bar. It was a working meeting.” She smiled at the policeman. “Honestly! Out of the mouths of babes . . .”
The policeman looked at Bertie and winked. “So it was last week some time?”
“Yes,” said Irene. “I think it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday.”
“So it was stolen some time after Tuesday but before the day on which you found it to be missing, which was . . .”
“Yesterday,” said Bertie. “I took Mummy up the street to show her that it wasn’t there. She was very cross. She said a rude word.”
“Bertie!” exclaimed Irene. “I did not say a rude word. You’re making it up.”
“But you did, Mummy,” said Bertie. “You said . . .”
“No need,” said the policeman. “None of us is perfect. Let’s proceed. I shall need to take all your details at this stage. Then we’ll enter the particulars of the car on the national stolen-cars register. And we shall make inquiries.”
“It might have been stolen before,” said Bertie suddenly.
Irene spun round sharply and glared at him. Then she turned back to the policeman. “He has a very vivid imagination,” she explained. “You know how children are. They construct these vivid imaginative worlds. Melanie Klein . . .”
The policeman looked at Bertie. “You said it was already stolen?” he asked. “Who stole it? This Melanie Klein? Your Dad?”
“No,” said Bertie. “Daddy would never steal a car. He works for the Scottish Executive.”
“So,” the policeman continued. “Who stole it then?”
“Oh really!” Irene interrupted. “This is completely pointless.
It was just a bit of childish fantasy. You were making things up, weren’t you, Bertie?”
Bertie shook his head. “I think it might have been that friend 64
Missing Domenica
of Mr O’Connor’s. You remember, Mummy, I told you about him. Gerry. He might have . . .”
“I think we’ve had quite enough of this,” said Irene, reaching out for Bertie’s hand. Turning to the policeman, she explained that they had to do some shopping and that if there was anything further that the police needed to know they could telephone her.
Then, pushing Bertie before her, she hurried towards the exit.
“But what about that poster?” Bertie said, as they made their way out.
“Later, Bertie,” said Irene. “We’ll talk about that later.”
Outside now, and heading up the square in the direction of Valvona and Crolla, Irene pointedly refrained from meeting Bertie’s gaze. The little boy, head down, was a picture of dejec-tion.
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” he said after a while. “Did I say something wrong?”
Irene pursed her lips. “There are times when it’s best to leave things to grown-ups, Bertie,” she said. “That was one of them.”
“But I was just telling the truth,” protested Bertie. “Do grown-ups not tell the truth?”
“They do,” said Irene crossly. “They certainly do. It’s just that grown-ups know how to handle the truth. You’ll learn that in due course, Bertie. You’ll learn.”
Bertie said nothing. He was thinking of the poster and the photograph on it. Who would have guessed?
21. Missing Domenica
Angus Lordie knew immediately that the letter came from Domenica. When he picked it up, there it was – a brightly-coloured Malaysian stamp portraying local flora, and beneath it the address, written out in Domenica’s characteristic script. She had learned that script at St Leonard’s School, St Andrews, all those years ago, at the feet of the redoubtable Miss Powell, a teacher who, so Domenica had once informed Angus, believed Missing Domenica