21. THE WHEELIE BIN

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES 21

Next day was another peculiar day, one that started late and moved at breakneck speed as it progressed through a strange set of hours. And it began with a telephone call that should have warned them that all was not well.

It was Royston’s phone that rang because Blinky had failed to charge his up. It was his favourite trick, going away from home or their office at 221c Butcher Close without a working phone due to a flat battery.

“We’ve got to go!” barked Royston, putting his head round Blinky’s door and marvelling how such a pompously serious man could be happy wearing dazzling boxers under his normally sober trousers, which he’d left behind last night near the tip draped on a wet hedge, hopelessly soiled .

“What is it?” asked Blinky.

“The police have phoned us,” replied Royston, “and we’ve got to go back to Headquarters at 221c. Apparently there’s a problem, though Gadgett wouldn’t tell me what that problem is.”

“Too secretive by far,” muttered Blinky, “but tell me, how are we going to get there? Your batteries are flatter than pancakes!”

“It’s noon, the sun’s been out since the crack of dawn and they’ll have soaked up quite enough,” replied Royston, “get a move on and I’ll make sure that Angelina’s dressed. Not that she got undressed last night. She passed out the moment her head hit the pillow.”

“You’re a very rude man,” muttered Blinky.

Royston went back to the room that he’d shared with the young woman and looked admiringly at her. She looked as bright as a berry and fully alert, her eyes shining and her long hair glistening as though it had been shampooed and brushed to within an inch of its being, and he knew that couldn’t possibly be the case bearing in mind the couple of minutes he’d been away alerting Blinky.

“You look good,” he praised her, “anyone would think you’d just spent an hour in the bath!”

“I heard you on the phone,” came her reply, “and knew it must be urgent. But I’ve got one big question to ask: you and Blinky left your trousers near the tip, so what are you going to wear?”

Royston frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he grunted, “Blinky’s underpants are too bright by half and he’d best keep them hidden or he’ll attract far too much attention, but my boxer shorts could pass for running shorts, at a pinch.”

“As long as nothing pops out for a breath of air while you’re running?” grinned Angelina.

“We’ll be all right once we get back to 221c,” assured Royston, “I’ve left a spare outfit in my locker there, just in case something like this crops up, and I know Blinky’s got spare togs there as well. What I want to know is how you’ve kept that little skirt so clean? You look nice in it, though, even though it did get splashed a bit when we were at the tip.”

“We ladies can keep clean even in mud,” assured Angelina, “come on, let’s test it out and see if you’ll pass for a marathon runner in those pants!”

Blinky was ready and quite oblivious to the fact that his vivid boxer shorts looked more like a psychedelic excursion into wonderland than protection for his more delicate parts, and he walked, apparently without a smidgen of self-consciousness, through The Ginger Nut, which was apparently deserted, and out to the Land Rover.

“I’ll drive,” he said to Royston, “nobody notices what the driver’s wearing but they’re bound to notice me in these knickers if I’m in a passenger seat.”

“Okay,” acknowledged Royston, “but take the shortest route just in case the sun hasn’t been as bright as I think it has. I’ll get in the back with Angelina and nobody will notice me there.”

“As if you hadn't had enough of me, sleeping in the same bed half the night,” teased the young woman with a cheeky grin.

“It wasn’t even half, and sleeping is the right verb for you to have used,” grunted Royston, “have you still got those gnashers, boss?”

Blinky snorted, “calling me boss isbetter than calling me guv I suppose,” he muttered, and felt around for his pocket.

“Sod it!” he almost exploded, “where did I put ‘em if I haven’t got a pocket?” he shouted, searching inside and outside his boxer shorts for a pocket that wasn’t there.

“Shirt pocket?” suggested Angelina, seeing for herself that he had something bulky tucked into where he rarely put anything.

“Ah,” murmured Blinky, and produced the diamond teeth set in gold. “Of course. I know I couldn’t have lost ‘em, not me when they’re as important as these are.”

Having assured himself that they had everything they needed Blinky set off, a lonely figure in the front of the car, with the other two in the back seat and Royston contriving to sit as close to Angelina as he decently could.

“Don’t squash me, then,” she complained.

“I was just...” he said, contritely.

“You were just what? Trying to sit on my lap? And you in your underpants? Naughty, naughty Royston,” she said, her eyes teasing him. “I’ll tell you what, keep your eyes on the road and hope that Blinky doesn’t go blind before we get to 221c!”

“It should be me driving,” he muttered, “I let Blinky get his own way without thinking.”

“Good job it isn’t far, then,” she replied, frowning.

Half an hour later they were approaching 221c Butcher Close, in Badgerbrook and to their surprise there was a large police presence with exclusion tape isolating the building. To their experienced eyes it looked as if there must have been an important incident there

Inspector Gadgett was there talking to a couple of white-overalled scene of crime officers, and when he saw them walking from the Land Rover towards him he broke off and gesticulated.

“You’ve got a few questions to answer,” he said when he reached them, “and you’d better make sure you give all the right answers or you’re in deep s**t!”

”What is it?” asked Royston quickly. He could see the glazed look passing over Blinky’s face and he recognised it as a sign that the older man was about to enter into one of his many periods of blindness.

“I’m addressing the leader of your outfit and not the parrot!” snapped Gadgett unpleasantly.

“I’m afraid … my eyes,” stammered Blinky, “I’ll be alright soon enough, though.”

“Tell us what’s wrong, officer,” suggested Angelina with what she hoped was a winning smile.

“Right,” said Gadgett gruffly, “the refuse men were emptying bins down here, your bins because there aren’t any others, and when they lifted the lid up to see if you’d got the right stuff in it, guess what they were supposed to be taking to the recycling centre...”

“Not much,” croaked Blinky blindly, “we don't get much rubbish that goes in that bin. Maybe a few tins … I’m partial to tins of beans and sausages… And paper. But that’s mostly shredded and you’re not supposed to put shredded paper in that particular bin.”

“Anything else?” asked the Inspector sarcasm oozing out with every syllable.

“Not much. Now spit it out, Inspector, what is there about our wheelie bin that’s caused all this excitement? And all that tape?”

“You’d best go and take a look, but don’t touch anything. I’ll lift the lid for you because I’m wearing gloves!”

“What in the name of goodness!” barked Blinky from his world of darkness.

They walked to the bin and Gadgett lifted the lid for them to see what might be lurking inside it.

“Good grief!” exclaimed Royston.

“What is it?” demanded Blinky from his shadowed world.

“It’s what’s his name, the landlord of The Ginger Nut, Nobby, and he’s still dead!” exclaimed Royston in a state of total confusion, “But what on Earth are his last mortal remains doing here?”

© Peter Rogerson, 01.02.20