'Great.' He stooped down and pulled off one of Joe's slip-ons. 'Let's see if it matches this. Don't go away, Sixsmith.'
He was seriously out of order, of course, and it was all the worse because Joe suspected that he knew not too deep down in his shrivelled heart that he had as much chance of pinning this on Luton's finest black PI as he did of making
If
Chief Constable. This was mere ritual humiliation which he could get away with because there was nothing Joe could do about it.
Or perhaps there was. From his snooker player's viewpoint Joe could see the smooth silhouette of an answer phone at the extreme left edge of the desk. Reach that, ring Butcher, get her down here to witness his illegal imprisonment, and he could possibly get Chivers by the legal short and hairies.
He swung his left arm and touched the machine. Unfortunately the actual phone was at its left edge. He strained to reach the few extra inches, the ball of his thumb pressed a button and suddenly a female voice with a backing of 'Santa Rock' was screeching in his ear.
'Feel loose! It's Wilma. We're just having the greatest time here on the beach and I thought I just had to ring and say HI! Hope all your troubles are behind you and that you're having the happiest Christmas of your lives. Ring me soon. Bye-eel'
He'd started the message tape. He worked out that 'feel loose' was Australian for Felix and Lucy who had narrowly missed being woken in the early hours of Christmas morning.
He started searching blindly for the stop button then changed his mind. Could be something significant on the tape. And besides, what else did he have to do just now?
He settled down to listen.
Next voice was male, local, blurred with booze.
'Can you send a cab to the Queen's, mate? Quick as you like ... oh bloody hell, Trace!'
There was a brief vomiting sound then the phone went dead. Some other poor sod who had been misled by Merv's flier. Not that any sane taxi driver would agree to pick up a fare at chucking-out time from the Queen's notorious Xmas Rave!
Several bleeps indicating calls but no messages left. More misled revellers. The drunk's voice again Still waiting at the Queen's, you gonna be long? Then another couple of seasonal greetings, this time English and presumably at civilized times. Then, still slurred, but with sleep now as much as drink -Where's that sodding taxi? How long you gonna keep us waiting?
More bleeps. Another seasonal message, this time referring to Boxing Day. Joe hoped the drunk and Trace had made it home. Still more mess ageless bleeps. A woman leaving a message for Lucy which included the sentiment Thank God Christmas is over!' so presumably the twenty-seventh or -eighth.
And then a man's voice. He didn't recognize it straight off, which wasn't surprising as last time he'd heard it, it had been raised in anger. Now it was quiet, but with restrained emotion. Perhaps worry?
'Felix, tried you at the cottage but no reply. I'll try again but this is a fail-safe in case you're on your way back to town. That business, you know what I mean. Well, it's looking urgent. If possible I'd like to meet in the office tomorrow to check it out. If you hear this before I reach you, ring me straight back. I'm at the office now, it's four thirty. I'll hang on till six, then I'll head for home. Do ring. It really is urgent.'
Food for thought there, but no time to digest it. The tape was still running. Couple more no-messages, then a woman's voice, young, irritated, 'Mr. Naysmith, this is Freeman's, your stationery order is ready. Please ring us to make arrangements for collection at your convenience.' Nice to know not all the business world ground to a halt between Christmas and the New Year. A man's voice, East End accent and again very irritated Naysmith seemed to have the art not uncommon in lawyers of getting up noses Where you been? The wheels are coming off of this thing. I pay for service, I get nothing, you get nothing. Ring me! Another satisfied customer. Joe had had a few like that who felt that buying a bit of your time meant they had freehold on your soul. Another couple of bleeps then nothing more. The tape reached its end and rewound itself. Time to renew his efforts to get hold of the phone and summon Butcher.
He stretched, strained, got two fingers on the phone, tried to pull it towards him then it rang. His hand jerked in shock, the receiver fell off its rest.
'Hello! Hello!' Joe shouted.
He strained his ears to catch the reply. The voice sounded familiar.
'Can you send a cab to the Queen's? And listen, mate, last time you kept me waiting forever.'
Oh shoot! thought Joe. Not much chance of getting assistance from what must be the most optimistic idiot in Luton. Still, it was all he had. But before he could try to open negotiations, the door burst open and into the room burst a wild-eyed, haggard-faced, unshaven creature in a baseball cap and a flowered T-shirt which made the Magic Mini look like a model of Puritan restraint.
'Chivers!' it bellowed.
'In the garden,' said Joe, who believed in being helpful to madmen, particularly when chained to a desk.
'Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?'
The man sounded amazed but nowhere near as amazed as Joe as he squinted up at the newcomer and said incredulously, 'Mr. Woodbine? Is that you?'
Any doubts he had vanished next moment when Sergeant Chivers appeared, snapped to attention and said, 'Hello, sir. Welcome home.'
'Welcome?' snarled Detective Superintendent Woodbine. 'I spend three hours sitting in a motionless plane in a temperature in excess of one hundred degrees because my travel company omitted to pay airport fees before it went bust. I get diverted for reasons not yet clear from Luton to Manchester, I finally arrive home wanting nothing but my own bed and about three days uninterrupted sleep, and what do I find on my doorstep, which I am unable to reach because of the crush, but more flashing lights and wailing sirens than I'd expect at a major incident.
