7. FAMILIES AND TARTS

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES 7

“Well, that’s a turn up for the books,” boomed Blinky as Royston spun his electric Land Rover round and started it hurtling the way they had come. Dust flew into the air and the electric motors whined in protest.

“I don’t know,” murmured Angelina, “it sort of makes more sense for him to have a spy in the camp than for flying fish to be on the look out for diamond dentures!”

“But from what you told us Igor became a hermit living in a cave to get away from all that sort of nonsense,” protested Royston, “I mean, why should he go to all the discomfort of living the way he does and wearing fluorescent boxer shorts as well if he’s going to let any old foreign spy into his life?”

“When I saw him that time I was with the boy scouts I sort of got the feeling there might have been someone, I didn’t know what kind of someone, not so far away,” said Angelina slowly.

“But didn’t you say you stayed the night?” queried Blinky.

“I may have exaggerated a teeny bit,” grinned the girl, “maybe it wasn’t all of the night.”

“And you sensed a … presence?” demanded Blinky.

“Sort of. Maybe it was the smell. The fragrance. Reminded me of my sister, God bless her. And you know what it’s like for a girl when the bit of manhood she fancies staying with hustles her out of his home?””

“It all seems rather odd to me,” snorted Blinky.

“Well, people can turn up where they’re least expected, if that helps,” murmured Royston.

“And that’s gobbledegook!” snapped Blinky.

“When I was a student,” murmured Angelina, “and money was in short supply I had to find a job...”

“We all do that,” cut in Royston, “I worked behind a bar in a working men’s club. It was easy enough work once I got used to the hours and all that cleaning up afterwards.”

“I found a part in what you might call a slightly naughty film,” sighed Angelina. “It wasn’t really as bad as a lot of them can be, what with me having to divest myself of my bra in front of a greasy cameraman with a bulge in his whatsit, but I didn’t like it. And I’ll tell you this for nothing: it wasn’t the fun you might think it was. For a start there was Jennie...”

“Jennie?” asked Royston, suddenly intrigued by the idea that his beautiful colleague had taken part in something as unlikely as a n even slightly blue film.

“I had to … you know, whisper things to her and even make out that I was kissing her,” Angelina said, “and that was the worst part. I mean, I’ve got nothing against kissing a girl, I had a really close girlfriend when I was younger and you’d probably be a bit shocked if I told you some of the things we got up to. But Jennie was awful. She made out she was oh, so superior, but she had pyorrhoea and her breath was as rancid as old socks and I had to brush my lips against hers!”

“I’ve never kissed old socks, not mine and not anyone else’s,” muttered Royston.

“Anyway, the job didn’t last long. A film got made, quite a good film, actually, with a really touching story about a cat and its simple-minded owner, which was me. A few of the scenes got cut, though, probably because of the faces I couldn’t help pulling, and they told me not to return unless I wanted to play a hag next time, which I didn’t. The point is, anyone can turn up anywhere in life and I’m certain that no matter how hermit-like Igor felt, a desire for companionship could soon make him weaken and pretend that maybe one little lady in his lonely world wouldn’t matter. After all, I’ve heard that men can get … frustrated … as easily as us women.”

“That’s all very interesting,” put in Blinky, “and if I’d known you had that sort of sordid background I might have thought twice about entrusting you with national secrets...”

“Hey you, just a minute!” snapped Angelina, “it’s not me that’s lost something that apparently includes sensitive material! And it’s not me who formed an inappropriate relationship with a foreign spy if that’s what the woman was!”

“Yes, come to think of it, how do we know the woman in Igor’s life was a spy?” asked Royston, hoping to calm the situation with practical common sense.

“She had a foreign accent. Igor said so,” said Blinky as though that proved everything.

“So do a lot of people. There are more people with foreign accents than there are people without!” pointed out Royston. “The thing is, Igor’s no fool and if he decided that the Margie woman was safe enough then she probably was,” he added mildly.

“I’ll bet she was a tart!” grunted Blinky. “And tarts are never up to any good! We had a whole department devoted to tarts when I was in the force, and we rooted out some serious wrong-doers, I can tell you!”

“What sort of wrong-doers?” asked Angelina innocently.

“Thieves, Vagabonds. Murderers. That sort of wrong doer! You were there, weren’t you? Pretty as a picture in your uniform...” grunted her boss, eyeing her suspiciously.

“And they were all tarts?” she asked, “all of them, the vagabonds and killers?”

“Of course they were! Floozies with no underwear or moral fibre between them!”

“And not hard men with guns? Not pimps in sharp suits? Just tarts with tears in their eyes?” asked Angelina.

“Tears in their eyes?” asked Royston, “where did they come from?”

“Closer to home than you might think,” she replied. “I’ll bet if we all took out family trees back a few hundred years we’d find a tart, maybe several tarts, with tears in their eyes. I know one, for sure. My mother was a tart and she cried a great deal.”

That shut the men up even though it wasn’t strictly speaking true. But Angelina had at least one memory of her mother weeping when she thought nobody could see her, though she was sure it had to do with being made a widow at a young age rather than her being a tart.

She was lost in a sudden sea of memories when Royston jammed on the brakes and the car slewed to a standstill.

“What now?” asked Blinky, who had just entered an unseeing phase after trying to contemplate memories of his own family tree and mentally bumping into a whole line of tarts. His own mother had always had that effect on him.

“It’s her!” exclaimed Royston, “look, over there! That pretty young woman in a miniskirt and with hair to die for!”

They looked to where he was pointing. About a hundred yards ahead of them and leaning on a wooden post that for no obvious reason had been driven into the ground on that spot was an admittedly very attractive woman, and as Royston had pointed out, her hair was long, like shining silk, blonde and beautiful, and her skirt was the sort of short that drifted lazily in a slight breeze as she idly waved one hand towards them.

“The tart!” exclaimed an unseeing Blinky. “I knew we’d see her down here if we looked hard enough!”

“Not at all! she’s no tart and nothing like one! How absolutely wonderful! It’s my sister!” cooed Angelina, “fancy seeing her here: I thought she was in Thailand with her boyfriend!”

© Peter Rogerson, 18.01.20