Strange Things Happen

I plucked the letter from Meinwen's hands and tossed it back on the mountain of post. "He doesn't need a million quid," I said, "and he certainly doesn't have the time to read any books, condensed or otherwise. He's going down."

"Dahhhnnn," said Winston. "That's a phrase you can only ever say wif a sarf Lunnon accent, innit? You're goin' dahhhnnnn."

"That only applies to His Majesties Metropolitan Police," I said. "Excepting of course the Chief Constable who is only ever chosen from the alumni of Cambridge."

"Don't you talk to me about the Police," said Meinwen. "I read the drummer-boy's biography last week and it was disgusting. So full of profanities I had to pretend I'd lost it when my Mam asked to borrow it. It would have cost her a fortune in swear box money."

"Why's that?" Winston kicked about the post looking for any personal letters that might reveal a clue to what happened here. "You can't help the swearing if you're reading something, surely?"

"Well my mam's an enthusiastic but slow reader," said Meinwen, "and her trouble is she reads aloud and every time she hears a swear word she puts tenpence in the poor box."

"That's easy to cure," I said.

"How's that?"

"Send her some earplugs."

Meinwen scowled. "Oh very funny, I don't think."

"It was, actually," said Winston, grinning. "I'll have to remember that one."

"Anyway," I said. "Forget going dahhnn." I looked into the dark stairwell. "We're going up."


Image: "Strange Things Happen" by Stewart Copeland