17. A FEW GLASSES OF RED

A time to relax in the caravan, waiting for the next day....

The twins, exhausted, were fast asleep in their bunks at the back of the caravan and Rosie was opening a second bottle of red wine.

“So that’s the story so far,” she told Peter Jenson who shouldn’t have still been there, shouldn’t have been refilling his wine glass like a reflection of his boss, Rosie Baur, but was doing both and had temporarily forgotten that he had a good half hour’s motorbike ride home.

Rosie had gone into detail (as she saw it) of the story of the caravan in the woods, and he had nodded from time to time and contributed little snatches of ideas when appropriate. When she had finished she looked at him seriously.

“So I’m prepared to bet that when the DNA comes back we’ll find the caravan in the woods sole occupant turns out to be Jerry’s own mother,” she concluded. “Everything points that way unless I’m much mistaken.”

“What about the old guy, Tom Coppleby?” asked Peter.

“The Seaholme boys are hanging on to him until they know for sure what he has or hasn’t done,” said Rosie. “I’ve known him for some years on and off and I always thought he was all right, though I’ve had a question-mark hovering over that opinion in the back of my mind. But it seems most likely that he was the one who organised a pretty effective crime ring a couple of decades back. It’s on record that a great deal of stuff went missing back then and the local police were rushed off their feet ,and we’ve evidence that gold was actually melted down in the woods. We’ve got the crucible they used, and somewhere there must be a furnace that provided the heat, though that’s missing, probably long gone. We’ve fragments of gold they spilt, and if they couldn’t be bothered to pick them up they were either in a great hurry or had so much that a few splashes didn’t matter to them.”

She poured herself a fourth glass of wine, and refilled his.

“You can’t ride home tonight,” she grinned wickedly, “and if I was the sort of immoral lass we meet on a daily basis in what might be loosely described as Brumpton’s red light district then I might start charging you for a bed for the night…!”

“Brumpton hasn’t got any sort of red light district...” began Peter, “and you’re my boss, not a pimp!”

“And I don’t want to see you breathalysed on your way home, or even worse, have a nasty accident,” she told him. “You’d best stay the night with me and get up extra early so you can get to the station in time for your shift.”

“I’m not on until the day after,” grinned Peter. “Even I get the odd day off, lowly as I am. What indecent proposal are you going to make, boss?”

She smiled back at him. “It’s long been thought that the space under a caravan would be nice and comfortable as accommodation for unexpected guests,” she began, “especially on a warm night like this promises to be...”

“And it guarantees no hanky-panky,” nodded Peter, “I like your thinking. I’d hate to wake up in the night to find I was being molested, especially by my beautiful boss in her chosen frilly nightie and with fragrant fingers.”

“I don’t wear a nightie,” she told him, “you know me, Peter, naturist by inclination and most certainly naturist in bed!”

“And I haven’t got me p-j’s with me,” he said, “after all, I wasn’t expecting to have the luxury of a caravan floor above my head!”

Rosie smiled again. “There is an alternative,” she said really quietly.

“There is?”

“If your promise to be really quiet when it comes to snoring and not to wake the twins by creating any sort of cacophony, you can squeeze in my bed with me, just this once, but remember to keep your hands to yourself.”

“I always keep my hands to myself!”

“But I am an understanding sort and know all about accidental nocturnal movements of active and intelligent men while they’re dreaming of green fields and rolling hills, so maybe I wouldn’t haul you before the beak for a simple mid-dream accident.”

“I don’t dream of green fields… Or rolling hills, come to think of it!”

“What do you dream of, Peter?”

“That’s not an easy one for me to answer … and not a fair question for you to ask me.”

“It’s perfectly fair! If you like, I’ll tell you what I dream of...”

“What’s that?

“If you promise you’ll tell me your nocturnal pleasures when I’ve told you mine!”

“Are they really pleasures?”

“I’m only human and it’s been two years since Paul was killed, but he still visits me in my dreams, and he was a real man, Peter, with all the appropriate bits and pieces. We had a really good marriage, and the twins made our family perfect. And I’ve not been with another man since, so if you stay the night you’ll be making a sort of history.”

He swallowed. “I get the warning,” he mumbled.

“Now you tell me your dreams … or nightmares. And, by the way, it was no warning.”

“They’re not sexual, if that’s what your suggesting,” he told her seriously, “my dreams are ridiculous and often involve the small boy me bumping into the present-day me and it not seeming at all odd. I guess I dream that I’m setting myself on the right tracks, the straight and narrow, from the future to the past whilst I’m still young enough to be easily influenced, if that makes sense.”

“It’s pompous!”

“But it’s what my dreams seem to be made of. At least those I can remember. I forget most.”

She nodded, and picked up the bottle ready to pour them each another glass. “I’m feeling a little bit pickled,” she said, and giggled. “But forgetting dreams, that’s the most infuriating thing that happens! More than once I’ve woken in the night for a wee with a dream fresh in my head, and yet it’s forgotten by the time I get back to bed, and I was really cherishing it.”

He sipped from his glass. “This is good wine,” he said, “and you’ve got a praiseworthy capacity for it!”

“I don’t get through an endless supply of plonk or I’d never be able to keep my head above water at work, but I do enjoy the odd glass now and again,” she said, grinning.

“The odd glass?”

“Well, you know. After all, I am on holiday! Now, as for the sleeping arrangements … if you need to visit the loo in the night you know where it is, and for god’s sake don’t waken the twins! I’ll sleep next to the wall and you can be where too much care and attention to decency and my celibate feelings might force you to keep your distance and consequently fall out of bed!”

He swallowed. “I’ll try,” he said, huskily, “though you are a cracker, even when you’re fully dressed.”

“I’ve not been called that before! And, by the way, I don’t think I’m actually celibate,” she told him seriously. “Not for the right man, anyway. Now when we’ve finished this glass I suggest we curl up in bed … quietly, remember … and get some shut eye.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And while we’re here, I’m not ma’am, I’m Rosie,” she told him.

He felt uncomfortable, and she knew it and she laughed, a tinkling, enticing laugh, and he felt a reaction in his own flesh, and groaned.

This might well turn out to be a night to either remember or forget.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Peter Rogerson 06.04.17