2. THE CAVEMAN

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES 2

“What we need,” suggested Sergeant Royston Williams, moving from the doorway in an unbelievably sluggish way as though he was trying to drag himself through a dense cloud of something sticky, like molasses, “is inside information.”

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Angelina, “is it the fog again?”

“Yep. I’m about to black out,” replied Royston, and t prove that he spoke the truth he blacked out there and then. It was why he’d been retired from the police force. He blacked out far too often to be seen as an efficient police sergeant even though, when he was alert and well, it was said by everyone that mattered that he was brilliant.

“He’s right,” agreed Blinky, whose eyesight was still failing him, hence his nickname, which he didn’t mind because his boyhood hero had been the ace world war one pilot and fictitious Biggles, and Blinky began with a B as well.

“I need a wee dram,” murmured Angelina, “seeing as you’re blind and the sergeant’s out cold, I need a pick-me-up to get me on my toes.”

She ignored the variously handicapped men and poured herself a generous measure from the whisky decanter

“I’ve got a friend who works for MI5,” she said to anyone who might want to hear, and as Blinky, though sightless for the time being was, arguably, conscious, he heard.

“Ah, spies and all that! It’s what I was about to say,” he clapped his hands in time with the syllables in each sentence, “what we need is a proper spy on our books.”

Royston was coming round. The black fog, which was never too far away from rendering him unconscious, was on the retreat, and he felt sufficiently au fait with the conversation to contribute to it.

“Igor is MI5,” he said.

“Of course he is!” enthused Blinky, then “Who’s Igor?”

Royston sat down and rubbed his head. “I must have banged myself just them, when I passed out,” he said ruefully, “and it damned will hurts.”

“Well, it would,” murmured Angelina sympathetically, “here, let me rub it for you. Does this help?”

Never were fingers so gentle as those that searched for the centre of Royston’s headache and gently massaged it away, and he grinned his appreciation. “Does it help? You’re practically perfect, and you know it because I’m always telling you,” he said, gallantly.

“Then you might as well have a sip of my whisky,” said Angelina, “to complete the healing process. Here you are, but go easy. Stocks are running low. Now what was that about Igor?”

Royston frowned as he gathered his thoughts, and then he explained. “Way back when Thatcher was battling the Argentinians the government had need of a recording device that would capture both sounds and images and yet be so easily concealed that nobody except those in the know were aware of its existence. She wanted a superspy equipped with something so trivial, so insignificant, that nobody would know it was there,”

“A few micro memory chips might do,” suggested Blinky, who had forgotten that everything has its place in history and the places of micro memory chips and the Falkland’s conflict didn’t coincide with any precision in time.

“Whatever the alternatives, it was discovered that a single diamond crystal can be shoved in a special kind of microwave oven until it’s able to record almost unlimited data that can be decoded into sounds and pictures,” explained Royston, scratching his head where Angelina had soothed it, and smiling at her in the sort of way that made her want to take him to bed there and then, a desire which she just about managed to overcome because she got him no further than the door before turning round.

“Nightie night,” she said.

“Where are you going?” demanded Blinky, “this is no time to walk out on us! We’ve a job in hand and we’re going to see it through to the final outcome, whatever that might be.”

“Sorry,” blushed Angelina, “I was just thinking, I mean, hasn’t he got a simply gorgeous smile?”

“The trouble with you,” almost snarled Blinky, “is that you’re out of control! You seem to forget, young lady, that you’re not the old hag I thought you were but a flighty female with far too much interest in men’s trousers for your own good! It must be the medication you take in that glass. Side effects, that’s what it is, side effects. You weren’t like this before I had my accident.”

It would have taken too long for Angelina to explain that there are men and there are men and the one sort she adores whilst the other sort she finds boring and Blinky had always fallen into the second group, so she didn’t even try. And she also kept quiet about her medication, which wasn’t medication at all but her one weakness (if you discount half the male population and their trousers), a good single malt whisky.

“I was only going to check something, sir,” she said in her most formal voice, which Blinky found so desirable he yearned for a sight of her underwear, which was impossible on two counts: she wasn’t wearing any and his eyes were in their blind phase.

Royston cleared his throat. “If it pleases you, sir,” he said in deliberate imitation of Angelina’s formal tones, “we could take Matilda and visit Igor. The last I heard from him was he had opted to become a hermit and was living in a cave where there are historic artefacts left over from the golden era of cavemen and their chums.”

“Matilda’s being serviced,” growled Blinky, “she failed her MOT test and needs rewiring.” Matilda was the specially designed self-driving car that Blinky had for when he needed personal transport.

“Then we’ll take my car,” said Royston, “I’ve had it serviced and one of those new electrical engines fitted so that it’s not doing too much environmental damage. And solar panels that can be extended at the press of a button until fools might mistake them for wings so that they can get the benefit of the odd half hour of sunlight we might experience. That adds a little to its range but it’s not too far to Igor’s cave anyway. Come on, the pair of you, we’ll be back in time for tea!”

“Just a moment,” grunted Blinky, “I think they’re coming back...” he meant his eyesight was returning, which was good news for Royston as it meant his boss could see what was going on and bad news for Angelina because it meant that her boss could see where to put his wandering hands.

“I’ll remain behind if you like,” she volunteered.

“No, damn it, no!” thundered Blinky, “we’re the three summat or others, and that’s the way we’ll stay. One for all and three for one...”

“All right,” she conceded, “but I warn you, sir, if I feel your sneaky fingers anywhere near my quivering flesh I’ll be getting out and walking home, and when I get home I’ll put up a big notice on the front door of your office explaining that it’s a home for blind perverts, and anyone else might as well stay away...”

“Spoil sport,” growled Blinky.

“And I’ll punch you,” Royston told him, “if that’s what Angelina wants, I mean.”

“Now even you’re turning against me,” moaned Blinky, almost tearfully.

“Now lads, it’s time to leave the playground and set out for work,” said Angelina, “if it’s you driving, Royston, I’ll be safe enough. Blinky always closes his eyes when you’re driving, whether he’s in a seeing mood or not.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” grinned Royston, “so do I!”

© Peter Rogerson, 13.01.20