Maxwell said. ‘I thought I’d lost you for a minute there. ‘Well, the old-fashioned heavy breather knew he had struck lucky, of course, because he had a reply from the other end. A little horrified scream, an answer, whatever he wanted. But someone
texting
gets no reaction. They just send the text and that’s it. Nothing.’ He looked the cat in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking. When I send a text and get nothing it is often because I haven’t sent it at all. But that’s not what I mean. I happen to know,’ he said proudly, ‘that you get a little message on your phone saying “message sent” but you don’t know if the person to whom you have sent it has received it. So, why would you send it in the firstplace? But even if there was a reason, why would you send more? They might be going to a docker in Glasgow, an all-in wrestler in Ynysybwl or a bouncer in Scunthorpe. You wouldn’t know it had gone to a rather sad girl in Leighford, would you?’
For some reason, Metternich did not reply to that one and Maxwell had to concede that he probably was not very up on mobile phones, even for a cat.
‘You wouldn’t, anyway. Take it from me. So, what we’ve got to find out is, how has the sender – let’s call him a “he”, shall we, because I just can’t picture it being a girl somehow– got their numbers? And to do this I will have somehow to think of a question I can ask Julie and Leah without letting Leah know that I know that she has had these texts.’ There was a pause. ‘Don’t just look at me, Count. Do you have an answer – yes or no?’
Metternich flicked an ear and, jumping from the chair, was down the stairs and out of the cat flap before you could say ‘vole’.
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’ Maxwell yawned, stretched and, rather more slowly than the cat and, this time, not using the cat flap, made his way into the big wide world and beyond. Springtime in Leighford. What could be nicer? How long have you got?
The morning light, filtered through the blackthorn blossom and unfurling leaves of the woodland, stroked the man’s cheek with its pollen-sparkled fingers. The catkins shook and trembled above him, but in the wind, not because of any disturbance he made. His chest was still, the one half-open eye did not flicker as the sun struck the pearly cornea. His lips were parted over his teeth, as if a smile had been frozen in the making. A beetle walked over his lip and investigated the edge of his nostril. An early fly, drowsy in the still-chilly spring morning, walked round the spiral of the ear and, without a moment’s hesitation, disappeared inside. Either this man was a very determined naturalist, or he was dead.
Jacquie made her way to her office through a thicket of concerned women. As she had barrelled out of the station the afternoon before, the tales had grown and spread and so by the morning it was common knowledge that Nolan had been squashed by a runaway steamroller whilst being mauled by a rabid Komodo dragon, despite both fates being rather unusual in Leighford.
Her desk was in an even worse state than she had feared. A report that she had been annotating was in the middle, with the pen still in place where she had been underlining a witness’s non sequitur which might be vital. A coffee cup with a greasy slick on top of its grey contents stood inthe dried spill caused when she had leapt to her feet, flinging on her coat and grabbing her bag. Someone had pushed the chair under, but that was all. Otherwise it was a testament to her flight. She sat down, picked up the pen and tried to gather her thoughts again. She had only just got back to understanding the gist when Henry Hall’s head popped round the door.
‘Jacquie? Have you got just a minute?’
‘Yes, guv.’ She put down her pen again. One day, if she was lucky, she would finish that report and also, with luck, it might get to the court before the subject had completed his tariff.
Henry
texting
gets no reaction. They just send the text and that’s it. Nothing.’ He looked the cat in the eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking. When I send a text and get nothing it is often because I haven’t sent it at all. But that’s not what I mean. I happen to know,’ he said proudly, ‘that you get a little message on your phone saying “message sent” but you don’t know if the person to whom you have sent it has received it. So, why would you send it in the firstplace? But even if there was a reason, why would you send more? They might be going to a docker in Glasgow, an all-in wrestler in Ynysybwl or a bouncer in Scunthorpe. You wouldn’t know it had gone to a rather sad girl in Leighford, would you?’
For some reason, Metternich did not reply to that one and Maxwell had to concede that he probably was not very up on mobile phones, even for a cat.
‘You wouldn’t, anyway. Take it from me. So, what we’ve got to find out is, how has the sender – let’s call him a “he”, shall we, because I just can’t picture it being a girl somehow– got their numbers? And to do this I will have somehow to think of a question I can ask Julie and Leah without letting Leah know that I know that she has had these texts.’ There was a pause. ‘Don’t just look at me, Count. Do you have an answer – yes or no?’
Metternich flicked an ear and, jumping from the chair, was down the stairs and out of the cat flap before you could say ‘vole’.
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’ Maxwell yawned, stretched and, rather more slowly than the cat and, this time, not using the cat flap, made his way into the big wide world and beyond. Springtime in Leighford. What could be nicer? How long have you got?
The morning light, filtered through the blackthorn blossom and unfurling leaves of the woodland, stroked the man’s cheek with its pollen-sparkled fingers. The catkins shook and trembled above him, but in the wind, not because of any disturbance he made. His chest was still, the one half-open eye did not flicker as the sun struck the pearly cornea. His lips were parted over his teeth, as if a smile had been frozen in the making. A beetle walked over his lip and investigated the edge of his nostril. An early fly, drowsy in the still-chilly spring morning, walked round the spiral of the ear and, without a moment’s hesitation, disappeared inside. Either this man was a very determined naturalist, or he was dead.
Jacquie made her way to her office through a thicket of concerned women. As she had barrelled out of the station the afternoon before, the tales had grown and spread and so by the morning it was common knowledge that Nolan had been squashed by a runaway steamroller whilst being mauled by a rabid Komodo dragon, despite both fates being rather unusual in Leighford.
Her desk was in an even worse state than she had feared. A report that she had been annotating was in the middle, with the pen still in place where she had been underlining a witness’s non sequitur which might be vital. A coffee cup with a greasy slick on top of its grey contents stood inthe dried spill caused when she had leapt to her feet, flinging on her coat and grabbing her bag. Someone had pushed the chair under, but that was all. Otherwise it was a testament to her flight. She sat down, picked up the pen and tried to gather her thoughts again. She had only just got back to understanding the gist when Henry Hall’s head popped round the door.
‘Jacquie? Have you got just a minute?’
‘Yes, guv.’ She put down her pen again. One day, if she was lucky, she would finish that report and also, with luck, it might get to the court before the subject had completed his tariff.
Henry
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