Paddy Bostock - Chosen

“And as for my part in this little adventure, you’ve no need for regrets. Who knows, it could be fun,” said Barry, still scrolling.

Mike in Montreal, Isabel in Tenerife, Gunnar in Reykjavik, Samantha in The Scilly Isles… Anon in Knotty Ash…

“Still, strange of the old bastard to use the social media. You’d have thought his first option would be to call the cops.”

Jeremy shook his head. “Not him. Far too much to hide. A major player in the two-thousand-and-eight banking fiasco and as yet still undetected.”

“And you, Jezza?”

Jeremy winced. “I was his right-hand man. That’s why he needs me. For my famous maths, but also to stop me singing.”

“I hadn’t realised.”

“Yup, Bazza. You have a reprobate on your hands. So sorry to have landed you in this mess, like I said.”

“No worries, old fellow. Between us we’ll find a way.”

Titch in Toronto, Dan in Damascus, “Horse” in Brooklyn NYC, the moron in The White House in Washington DC, Kitty in Nebraska, Giorgio in Calabria, Jim—named at last —in Knotty Ash.

“We’ll just need to put our thinking caps on, that’s all. And, to be square with you, Jezza, at my time of life there’s nothing a chap needs more than a bit of a challenge. Now, how about a nice bowl of my famed porridge with honey-roasted peanuts? Going to need to keep our strength up.”

Jeremy laughed for the first time in a long time. The devil’s laughter, was it? He no longer cared, just dipped his spoon into Barry’s special breakfast and took a bite.

“Yum,” he said after the first mouthful.

Sophie, Vince, Val, Gloria, Ron, Jonah, and Harry were astonished to find that when PC Dennis Dawkins said he’d be “right over,” he’d meant “right over.” Once he and Billy McCann had switched all incoming calls to Nighttime Assistance and closed down Fanbury Police Station, he’d told Billy he’d see him tomorrow then feigned his own departure by climbing on his bike and starting to pedal. When Billy was safely out of sight on his way back to Mrs McCann and their brood of mini-McCanns, however, Dennis—aka Facebook’s “Betty”—had swiftly backpedalled, dismounted, stowed his bike in its shed, fired up Fanbury’s only cop car, and, with blue lights flashing and wah-wah-wahs on full blast, burnt rubber to Jeremy’s ex-mansion, before which he skidded to a stop, showering gravel all over the place.

“Bloody hell,” said Vince, watching through the lounge curtains as Dennis climbed from the car, smoothed down his uniform, and headed to the door. “Never seen The Dork in such a hurry before.”

“The Dork” was what Vince called Dennis, both because he thought it a witty take on “Dawkins,” and because he reckoned Dennis to be a dork, given he’d never sussed even a single one of Vince’s shadier bookmaking schemes. Mind you, so much the better for Vince.

“Looks like he’s got ants in his pants,” said Val, as Dennis marched to the door and pulled the chime bell rope, which was still broken because nobody had thought to fix it after Sit Magnus’s yanking.

“I’ll let him in,” said Sophie. “This is my house and I’m the one who called.”

“S’cuse us if you wouldn’t mind,” chorused Jonah and Harry as they sidled out of the lounge into the abutting kitchen area, dimmed the lights over the six-foot-long “eating island,” and checked the back door for an escape route through the solarium/conservatory and into the “garden.” Why? Because, upstanding citizens though they might have appeared to be, there were certain little past misdemeanours—Internet banking fraud, for example—Jonah and Harry did not want broadcast around their new hideaway in Fanbury. It was one thing for them to agree to the coppers finding their pal, Jeremy, but quite another to meet one of them. Not when their mug shots were still on Scotland Yard’s computer.

“Missus Crawfish?” Dennis said as Sophie opened the door.

“Craw ford ”

“Ah- hah ,” said Dennis, taking a notepad from his top pocket and scribbling at it sinistrally. “You called about your missin’ ’usband. Mind if I come in?”

Sophie stood aside and obliged. Never having had dealings with the local constabulary, she’d not before encountered Dennis and reckoned he was pretty funny- looking for a policeman, what with the bushy beard and everything. But then she supposed practically all young men had to have beards nowadays in order to prove they were men. Still, at least he was tall. She liked her policemen tall. There were far too many undersized ones knocking around, in her opinion.

“This way, Detective,” she said.

“ Con stable, missus.”

“Never mind. Do take your boots off and follow me. I’ll introduce you to the family.”

“ Boots off?”

“House rule. We don’t allow muck on the carpets.”

Dennis frowned. Given the nature of the socks he hadn’t changed for two days, this wasn’t going to be a good start to the investigation.

“Don’t worry. We have guest slippers,” said Sophie as Dennis struggled with his laces. “Oriental to fit all sizes,” she added, peering down at his immense feet. Still, to be tall—and therefore reliable—she assumed a person also needed big feet. For balance.

“Blue or red?”

“Blue. To match the uniform, innit?”

“Mmm, I like a man with dress sense,” said Sophie as Dennis finally unbooted himself and, as fast as possible, slipped his size twelves into the slippers Sophie held out at arm’s length while averting her nose. “ Now you can follow me and meet the family.”

And so it was that PC Dennis “Shorty” Dawkins made his way into the luxurious depths of the Crawford mansion.

“Careful not to bang your head on the chandeliers,” Sophie advised him along the way. “They were very expensive.”

First the boots, now the head, bit of a bleedin’ bossy bitch this Missus Crawfish, Dennis reflected, inching his way along behind her, head bowed.

“ Women ,” he muttered very sotto voce as he followed Sophie. Bloody glad he ’d never got married. Especially not to Gladys, the barmaid at The Wigeon With Wings for whom he’d once carried a torch. Wonderful bottom, and the sorts of knockers a man would pay money to jiggle—but finicky. Pernickety even. Beer mats always needing to be re-arranged on the bar, beer-pump handles always having to be wiped for fingerprints, glasses so clean they were unhealthy. No, no, a fine bedmate Gladys would’ve made, but not a wife.

“Hi there, Dennis,” said Vince, choking back any dork-related slips-of-the-tongue when the copper finally made it into the mega-lounge. “So glad you could spare the time to join us in our hunt for Jeremy. Do take the weight off your feet,” he added gesturing at a faux Louis Quinze green velvet armchair.

“Jeremy?” said Dennis, lowering himself carefully onto the seat for fear of breaking it.

“Sophie’s husband? The missing one? The reason you’re here? Name of Jeremy?” said Vince, still fighting off dork references.

“Ah- hah , Je-re-my,” said Dennis, taking the notebook from his top pocket and again scribbling sinistrally at it. “So… and his whereabouts are now unknown, you say?”

“Unknown,” Vince confirmed.

“And, apart from bein’ our village bookmaker, you are?” said Dennis.

“Vince, Sophie’s dad. And this is her mum, Valerie,” said Vince, wafting a hand at Val, who was looking pale and distressed as instructed by Vince.

“Okey dokey,” said Dennis, scribbling some more. “And these?” Nodding across at Gloria and Ron, who were also looking pale and distressed as instructed by Vince.