One Way Ticket by Evie Evans

pointed out an open door in
the corner, at the far end, and we followed him through it into a small office.
    “The trophies were on here,” Mr Clement
said, indicating a shelf by a desk. “Awards for community work, humanitarian
stuff.”
    “Were they valuable?” I asked, causing
Addi to shoot me an angry look.
    “Not to anyone else. I can’t believe
they’d be worth much, even as scrap metal.”
    “Nothing else missing?” I asked, noticing
there was still a computer on the desk. Old, but it had to be more valuable
than some cups. Addi looked daggers at me.
    “Claudette thinks there are some
decorations missing. Here she is now.”
    Claudette was a small, middle aged lady
with obviously dyed auburn hair. “Allo,” she greeted us when Mr Clement
introduced her. That one word was said with such a thick French accent, my
heart sank.
    “You’ve found some other missing items?”
Addi asked quickly, giving me a glance as if daring me to get a question in
first.
    “Ah, oui, mais−” Claudette began.
She actually said a lot more but that was the only bit I understood. A mild
feeling of panic started rising up from my stomach as Addi looked at me to
translate, followed by Claudette and Mr Clement.
    “She’s very upset,” I started (even I
could tell that from her manner).
    Claudette said something else and I found
myself nodding along as if I understood every word when in reality I caught
none of it, the feeling of panic rising in me all the time until it reached the
back of my neck and clamped there like a vice. Addi was looking at me
expectantly.
    “The cups,” I burst out, as Claudette
gestured to the empty shelf, “she’s very upset about them.”
    Then she pointed out the door and said
something else.
    “There’s some other stuff missing outside?”
I guessed, thinking it was lucky the French are naturally so demonstrative.
    She was indicating the door so we followed
her out to the opposite wall where some plaques and framed photographs were
displayed. There appeared to be a couple of holes in the pattern they made.
    “Some of these are missing,” I told them.
Claudette nodded, it looked like my guess was right.
    “Why would anyone want to steal these
things?” Addi asked. “Have you had problems with anybody?”
    Luckily, he seemed to be asking this of Mr
Clement and wasn’t expecting me to translate it for Claudette.
    “No,” Mr Clement insisted. “We work to
bring all the different nations here together, not have conflict with them.”
    “Disgruntled members?”
    Mr Clement looked offended by Addi’s
question. “Absolutely not. That sort of thing doesn’t happen here. We are all
about harmony.”
    “So, you can’t think of anyone that could
do this? Not even as a trick?”
    “No one we would know.”
    That was going to make it easy. I wasn’t
sure what the police procedure was, would Addi whip out a fingerprinting kit
and start taking some prints? He didn’t. He took a few notes of the layout and
a couple of photos on his phone. And we were done. On the telly, the police
procedures were a bit more vigorous than that. Of course, I’d need to keep that
to myself if I wanted to get on around here.
    “Was that it, then?” I asked as we walked
back to the car.
    “What else did you expect to happen?”
    He seemed a bit tetchy so I didn’t say
anymore.
    “You should’ve left the questioning to
me,” he told me as we got to the car.
    “Sorry, I was just trying to be helpful.
Must be a rival committee, eh? Or someone they’ve booted out?”
    “I don’t think we’re going to get any
further information out of those two.”
    “You’ll be able to get hold of someone
else from the committee, won’t you? Or a club member, someone who knows what’s
been going on and is willing to spill the beans?”
    “You’ve been watching too many tv shows.
People are hardly ever willing to ‘spill the beans’.”
    “They do on the Greek cop shows. They can
hardly keep it in till the sixty