The Trouble with Polly Brown (43 page)

“I'm so sorry, officers. We are all from the children's home, and we have become so unhappy in the home that we decided to run away and go to London in search of a better life.”

“Oh, so just like Dick Whittington and Oliver Twist, you miserable lot also believe that the streets of London are paved with gold, do you?” the red-haired detective sarcastically interjected.

“No, sir. I don't think any such thing. But as Toby has a mum who lives in Croydon just outside of London, so we were hoping—”

“Polly, you stupid prat. Shut yer gob now, or I'll shut it for yer!” Toby angrily shouted. “You'll get us in a whole heap of trouble.”

“Young man, I think that's an understatement,” the exasperated DC stated as he began to twirl his limp mustache between his fingertips. “You're already in the muck up to your scrawny little necks,” he chillingly stated.

Polly ignored Toby as she tried hard to continue explaining the real reasons behind their desperate actions.

By now Toby was so livid that he began to use very unacceptably expressive language as he further vented his utter contempt for all around him. The poor police officers, who believed they had seen and heard everything that life could throw at them when dealing with the criminal underworld, were completely taken back that one so young could speak such terribly foul language—and in front of adults!

Polly turned to Toby and begged him to calm down, but to no avail, as he then turned and began shouting extremely unpleasant expletives in her direction.

“Enough!” roared the shocked and enraged DC Chickpea. “I've just about had enough. Young man, I'll have you know that your disgracefully foul language has turned the air bluer then young PC Inkblot's uniform. I am therefore wholly unwilling to listen to anymore of your utterly disgraceful and most offensive barrage of abuse. PC Inkblot, I order you to handcuff these young villains. Then lock them all in the back of your police van and run them back to the police station for further questioning.”

PC Inkblot gave a deep sigh as he placed his highly important and treasured notepad back into his breast pocket before urging the young, very disrespectful hooligans in the direction of his police van.

Polly felt like a violent criminal as, handcuffed, she was ordered to crawl like an animal into the back of PC Inkblot's van. Even the windows had wire in the glass to prevent them escaping. She could give a number of very deep sighs, as she knew for certain that this was going to be a very long night.

Back at the station, the handcuffs were removed, and they were placed in a cold, bleak cell, which was then locked. They were then left alone for a considerable, lengthy time—time deliberately given to allow them to come together and get their stories aligned and correct before they would be individually interrogated and then obliged to give written statements that they would be unable to retract at some later date.

With the children huddled on a bench in one of the jail's many cells, the only sound echoing throughout the building was that of PC Inkblot's old-fashioned typewriter as he methodically typed out every word of the unpleasant altercation that had taken place between the officers of the law and these young but hardened, thuggish criminals. After all, this potentially damning piece of evidence had to be faithfully and fervently recorded, as it might be required as evidence by Her Majesty's Courts Service at some future unknown date.

Who knows? Such a case as this might well bring the young PC a little local fame, with maybe the odd handsome picture or two of himself finding their way onto the front page of the local paper. He knew if this were to happen, his mum would be so proud of him. She would inevitably cut out the pictures and frame them so that every visitor to the house could be reminded of what a wonderful police officer her only son had become. “Aw, Mum, you really are the best,” he sighed as he pictured her diligently framing the newspaper cuttings before placing them on the wall of every room in the house. Come to think of it, he might even find himself being considered for promotion.

The young, inexperienced officer gave himself a little slap on the wrist so as to remind himself not to get too carried away by future stardom, but he also smiled to himself as he considered how delighted his mum would also be when he showed her all he had recorded of this latest dynamic escapade. He knew for certain that, unlike DC Chickpea, she would want to swap her cookery or other gossip-filled magazine in preference for his latest thrilling piece of writing as she headed upstairs for some bedtime reading with a cup of hot cocoa in her other hand.

Chapter Seventeen

PC INKBLOT TO THE RESCUE

A
T APPROXIMATELY FIVE
thirty in the morning, the front doorbell of the castle rang. It was very quickly answered by a stupefied, half-comatose Boritz in dressing gown and slippers with a snarling Pitstop dutifully at his side.

“Argh. What time it?” he yawned as he struggled to stay awake.

“Good morning, sir. My name is PC Inkblot, and I do believe these young, bleary-eyed pipsqueaks are your personal property. Now, am I correct in my thinking?” he said, beaming from ear to ear as he reached down to give young James an affectionate pat on the head.

“Well, yes, Constable Inkblot, these little whippersnappers are mine. But out of courtesy, pray, tell me quickly, how did they come to be in your possession?” he inquired, his hands trembling as he fought to quell an overwhelming desire to explode into a rage.

“Well, sir, it is indeed quite a long but very interesting tale, so I would be most obliged if you would indulge my senses by allowing me to share this utterly riveting story—which does transcend most of my other stories—over a nice cuppa. How about it?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, very well then. Do please come on in,” Boritz wearily sighed as he tried to keep himself in one piece, for in return for bottling up his rage, he was now feeling horribly nauseous. “Children, go upstairs and get into bed, for you still have a few hours left to sleep before you need to be up for school. So off you go, my little poppets, and Uncle will want to see you all in the morning.”

With the weary children heading up the stairs to their beds, Boritz reluctantly ushered PC Inkblot to follow him to his private and very plush sitting room. “There, this is more comfortable. Now allow me a few minutes to go and brew a lovely pot of tea.”

“Mercy me. Oh, mercy me,” he anxiously squeaked over and over as he made the long way down the corridor toward the kitchen. Poor Boritz was relieved to be alone in the kitchen, as it allowed him the privilege of beating the walls with his bare fists before recognizing that he needed to do some of his deep breathing exercises, which had never failed to calm him down. It also gave him the vital extra time necessary to think of what to do and say, for at five thirty in the morning the scheming and conniving section of his brain had not had any reasonable length of time whatsoever to click into place.

Finally, after a number of deep breathing exercises, he began to feel a sense of peace and tranquility arising from within, so holding a tray bearing a pot of hot tea as well as a plateful of chocolate-covered biscuits, he headed back to the sitting room with fresh determination to come out of this acutely embarrassing situation as clean as a whistle. He was, after all, an expert in the field of management control, and this situation was no different, although he had to admit that this crisis topped the lot, for up until ten minutes ago he had known nothing about it whatsoever!

As Boritz was very used to playing the good host, he immediately began by pouring the tea.

“I'll play mother, then. Shall I?” he said, giving the young, fresh-faced officer a very generous smile. “Milk or lemon?” he squeaked as his throat once more closed up due to unexpected and very intense fear. Boritz, feeling horrified by the situation, quickly began to cough, as he believed this would help his throat and voice get back to normal.

“Thank you, good sir. I like my tea with a just a tad of milk, if that's all right by you.”

“One lump or two?” Boritz politely asked with a sigh of relief, as the manly gruffness was once more present in his voice.

“Oh, two will be just fine, sir. Any more than that, and I'll get a dressing down from me mum, as I will begin putting on pounds,” he said, giving his nonexistent belly a gentle, friendly pat.

Boritz obliged by putting not two, not even four, but six lumps into the young constable's tea, for he was beginning to feel quite light-headed if not somewhat delirious. He also firmly believed that adding more sugar might well be the antidote required to sweeten up this excuse for a young officer of the law.

“Oh, please do take one of my very delicious biscuits, officer,” he said as he over-dramatically thrust the plate right up to the poor man's nose. “They are, after all, made from the finest Belgian chocolate, of this I assure you.”

“Well, thank you, dear sir. I most certainly would love to try a couple,” he replied as he then generously helped himself to at least five, if not six, biscuits.

Boritz watched on feeling hopelessly mortified as the young officer, having quickly polished off a number of biscuits, then rather greedily continued to help himself to a further large quantity of his preciously expensive biscuits. These biscuits were, after all, his favorite treat that he alone liked to binge on, and he was only doing his very best at being polite when he considerately placed the whole plate in front of the officer. He rather foolishly had not expected the young PC to brazenly help himself to so many. No wonder the young man had so many spots!

With the sudden revelation that the fresh, sincere-looking constable was without a conscience whatsoever when it came to eating someone else's biscuits, Boritz realized he would have to act quickly or risk losing the lot to the young, very greedy PC, who was clearly contemplating helping himself to further biscuits from the already half-emptied plate. Quick-thinking Boritz diplomatically whisked the plate away before the very impolite officer had the opportunity to help himself to anymore.

“Officer, I do believe you will put on some serious weight if you eat anymore. After all, they are extremely high in calories. My wife and I discovered these deliciously scrumptious biscuits in a little backstreet shop in London just after we had paid our respects at Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh, so you're on close, friendly terms with our good queen, are you, sir?” the young and extremely naïve officer of the law dared to ask.

“Well, not exactly. No, we are not on first-name terms as of yet,” Boritz hastily replied.

Had the young man not been an officer of the law, chances are extremely high that Boritz would have happily lied concerning his nonexistent relationship with the queen, but on this occasion he thought it unwise to embellish the truth, as it might well have future repercussions. Besides which, he felt he was already in up to his neck in water and believed he was just about to sink to the bottom of the canal.

“Now then, Constable Inkblot, I am all ears, so please enrich these little flappers by filling me in on all the details as to quite how my naughty little whippersnappers came to find themselves in your delightful custody.”

“Well, sir, allow me the time to expediently run through this crisis one step at a time,” the young and inexperienced PC suggested as he solemnly produced his notepad from his breast pocket to begin.

Boritz groaned from within, for he knew with assured certainty that this young officer would not be rushed, for he was clearly determined to give every fact as well as portray every nuance that had arisen during the very unpleasant altercation, as it was deemed imperative that Boritz be given a perfectly clear and vividly accurate picture of all that had taken place. Boritz therefore had little choice but to give the young, lanky constable the freedom of airspace he required to give a full and very detailed account while relaying every single second of that most dramatic evening.