Twelve Red Herrings (37 page)

I shivered, and
sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.

“Vauxhall Bridge
Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.

“Bad luck,
mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.” I frowned.

As the taxi
manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre traffic and across
Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed
monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England
cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became
ever
more gloomy
.

When we reached
the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my
change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was
faced by my second queue that evening. This one was considerably longer than
the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid
for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my
turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form sellotaped to the
counter.

I followed its
instructions to the letter, first producing my driving licence, then writing
out a cheque for ‘o5, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both
over, with my cheque card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s
sheer bulk was the only reason I didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have
more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even
car thieves.

“Your vehicle is
in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon
row of cars.

“Of course it
is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging
puddles as I ran between the lines of cars.

I didn’t stop
until I reached the farthest corner of the pound.

It still took me
several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta - one disadvantage, I
thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.

I unlocked the
door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key
in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the
occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t
switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theatre.

I uttered a
string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.

I watched as
another figure came running across the pound towards a Range Rover parked in
the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off
before I could shout the magic words ^”jump leads’. I got out and retrieved my
jump leads from the boot, walked to the front of the car, raised the bonnet,
and attached the leads to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I
settled down for another wait.

I couldn’t get
Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking
up that evening was the ‘flu.

In the following
forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man
asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he
manoeuvred his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached
the jump leads to his battery.

When he switched
on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.

“Thanks,” I
shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.

“My pleasure,
man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.

As I drove out
of the car pound I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It
reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I
needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I
sneezed again, and decided on the ‘flu. Although they’d probably taken the last
orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.

I peered through
the rain, searching the pavements for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row
of three outside a post office.

I stopped the
car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been
vandalised. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing
in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on
the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.

I dialled the
restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.

“Laguna
50/said an Italian-sounding young girl.

“Janice, is that
you? It’s Mike.”

“Yes, it’s me,
Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you
that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the
nearest meat-axe.”

“Why?” I asked.
“You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”

“Nick chopped
the top off one of his fingers earlier this
evening,
and Gerald had to take him to hospital.

I was left in
charge. He’s not best pleased.”

“Oh, hell,” I
said.

“But I’ve got...”

“The sack,” said
another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.

“Gerald, I can
explain...”

“Why you didn’t
turn up for work this evening?” I sneezed,
then
held
my nose. “I’ve got the ‘flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to
half the customers.’

“Would you?”
said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving
it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theatre.”

“What do you
mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.

“Exactly what I
said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two
rows behind you at the Aldwych.

They enjoyed the
show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure,
that he thought your date was “absolutely stunning”.”

“He must have
mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

“He may have
done, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in
to collect your pay packet, because there isn’t one for a head waiter who’d
rather take some bimbo to the theatre than do a night’s work.” The line went
dead.

I hung up the
phone and started muttering obscenities under my breath as I walked slowly back
towards my car. I was only a dozen paces away from it when a young lad jumped
into the front seat, switched on the ignition, and lurched hesitatingly into
the centre of the road in what sounded horribly like third gear.

I chased after
the retreating car, but once the youth began to accelerate, I knew I had no
hope of catching him.

I ran all the
way back to the phone box, and dialled 999 once again.

“Fire,
Police or Ambulance?”
I was asked for a second time that night.

“Police,” I
said, and a moment later I was put through to another voice.

“Belgravia
Police Station.
What is the nature of your enquiry?’

“I’ve just had
my car stolen!” I shouted.

“Make, model and
registration number please, sir.”

“It’s a red Ford
Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.” I waited impatiently.

“It hasn’t been
stolen, sir. It was illegally parked on a double ...”

“No it wasn’t!”
I shouted even more loudly. “I paid 2o5 to get the damn thing out of the
Vauxhall Bridge Pound less than half an hour ago, and I’ve just seen it being
driven off by a joyrider while I was making a phone call.”

“Where are you,
sir?”

“In
a phone box on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Warwick Way.”

“And in which
direction was the car travelling when you last saw it?” asked the voice.

“North
up Vauxhall Bridge Road.”

“And what is
your home telephone number, sir?”

“O81
290 4820.”

“And
at work?”

“Like the car, I
don’t have a job any longer.”

“Right, I’ll get
straight onto it, sir. We’ll be in touch with you the moment we have any news.”
I put the phone down and thought about what I should do next. I hadn’t been
left with a great deal of choice. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to
Victoria, and was relieved to find that this driver showed no desire to offer
any opinions on anything during the short journey to the station.

When he dropped
me I passed him my last note, and patiently waited while he handed over every
last penny of my change. He also muttered an expletive or two. I bought a
ticket for Bromley with my few remaining coins, and went in search of the
platform.

“You’ve just
about made it, mate,” the ticket collector told me.

“The last train’s
due in at any minute.” But I still had to wait for another twenty minutes on
the cold, empty platform before the last train eventually pulled into the
station. By then I had memorised every advertisement in sight, from Guinness to
Mates, while continuing to sneeze at regular intervals.

When the train
came to a halt and the doors squelched open I took a seat in a carriage near
the front. It was another ten minutes before the engine lurched into
action,
and another forty before it finally pulled into Bromley
station.

I emerged into
the Kent night a few minutes before one o’clock, and set off in the direction
of my little terraced house.

Twenty-five
minutes later, I staggered up the short path to my front door. I began to
search for my keys,
then
remembered that I’d left them
in the car ignition. I didn’t have the energy even to swear, and began to
grovel around in the dark for the spare front-door key that was always hidden
under a particular stone.

But
which one?
At last I found it, put it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. No
sooner had I stepped inside than the phone on the hall table began to ring.

I grabbed the
receiver.

“Mr. Whitaker?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the
Belgravia police. We’ve located your car, sir, and...”

 
“Thank God for that,” I said, before the
officer had a chance to finish the sentence. “Where is it?”

“At this precise
moment, sir, it’s on the back of a pick-up lorry somewhere in Chelsea. It seems
the lad who nicked it only managed to travel a mile or so before he hit the
kerb at seventy, and bounced straight into a wall. I’m sorry to have to inform
you, sir, that your car’s a total write-off.”

“A total write-
off ?”
I said in disbelief.

“Yes,
sir.
The garage who towed it away has been given your number, and they’ll be in
touch with you first thing in the morning.” I couldn’t think of any comment
worth making.

“The good news
is we’ve caught the lad who nicked it,” continued the police officer. “The bad
news is that he’s only fifteen, doesn’t have a driver’s licence, and, of course,
he isn’t insured.”

“That’s not a
problem,” I said. “I’m fully insured myself.”

“As a matter of
interest, sir, did you leave your keys in the
ignition ?”

“Yes, I did.

I was just
making a quick phone call, and thought I’d only be away from the car for a couple
of minutes.”

“Then I think
it’s unlikely you’ll be covered by your insurance, sir.”

“Not covered by
my insurance? What are you talking about?”

“It’s standard
policy nowadays not to pay out if you leave your keys in the ignition. You’d
better check, sir,” were the officer’s final words before ringing off.

I put the phone
down and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. I slipped off my jacket
and began to climb the stairs, but came to a sudden halt when I saw my wife
waiting for me on the landing.

“Maureen...”
I
began.

“You can tell me
later why the car is a total write-off,” she said, ‘but not until you’ve
explained why you didn’t turn up for work this evening, and just who this
“classy tart” is that Gerald said you were seen with at the theatre.’

Overdone NO, I’M
NOT DOING ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR,” said Anna.

I smiled, unable
to mask my delight.

“Good. I know a
little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”

“That sounds
just fine,” said Anna as she made her way through the dense theatre crowd. I
quickly followed, having to hurry just to keep up with her.

“Which way?” she
asked. I pointed towards the Strand. She began walking at a brisk pace, and we
continued to talk about the play.

When we reached
the Strand I pointed to a large grey double door on the other side of the road.
“That’s it,
” !
said
. I would
have taken her hand as she began to cross, but she stepped off the pavement
ahead of me, dodged between the stationary traffic, and waited for me on the
far side.