The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3085 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

---

This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
*****

“So who’s this investigator you’re going to see tomorrow?” I asked my own investigator.

“A Mr Simpson.”

“If his first name is Homer or Bart, run—he’ll be crazy.”

“Or Wallis,” he added.

“William Wallace?” I said missing his link entirely.

“Nooo, Wallis Simpson,” he said and my brain had not made any connection at all.

“Married Edward VIII.”

“Oh her,” I sighed, “wasn’t she AIS?”

“What’s that some sort of security agency?”

“No Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome.”

He still looked baffled.

“She was probably XY but failed to become a man.”

“Gotcha, that’s why they didn’t have any children.”

“Mum’s AIS,” offered Danielle.

Jim’s head spun around to me so fast he nearly strangled himself. “So you’re not transsexual?”

“There are degrees of it and according to my birth certificate and my other official documents, I’m female which best describes how I see myself.”

“I don’t have a problem with that at all.”

“Good, now what about this Homer Simpson bloke tomorrow?”

I really should learn to keep my mouth shut or to think more quietly because here I was at one thirty in the afternoon, sitting in a hire car parked outside the offices of the agency the man was supposed to work for. Jim was wearing a wire which meant I could hear things as quickly as he did.

“I’m here to meet with Mr Simpson,” I heard Jim say.

“He’s not here,” said a woman’s voice, probably the receptionist.

“Well he should be.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said the woman, “nothing in the diary.”

“I spoke to him on the phone yesterday.”

“He didn’t tell us.”

“Do you know where he is?” asked Jim.

“Sorry, that’s confidential.”

“Let me put it this way, you have five minutes to produce him or tell him to get his arse here asap or this place will be crawling with police.”

“You the police then?”

“Find him and be quick about it.”

“Mr Christian, could you please come to reception.”

“Who’s he?” asked Jim.

“That’s me,” said a new male voice. “What’s the problem, Sonia?”

“This gentleman said he had an appointment with Mr Simpson but he’s not here. He made threats telling me to call Mr Simpson immediately or the police would be crawling all over the place.”

“We have nothing to hide, Mr...um.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well you’ve heard wrong.”

“I don’t think so—one word from me and the police will be knee deep in an hour.”

“Let them, they won’t find anything.”

“All hidden is it? They’ll find it.”

“What is they’re supposed to find?”

“Shall we start with tracing children who’ve been adopted and have declined contact with the birth parent.”

“We wouldn’t take on that sort of case.”

“I have it on good authority that you did, or your Mr Simpson did and I’d like to speak to him about it.”

“You’re not the only one, where is he Sonia?”

“He’s got a day off.”

“Call him, tell him to come straight in.” I could hear anxiety in Christian’s voice.

“He’s not answering his phone.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“His phone seems to be switched off.”

“If he calls in, tell him to get his sorry arse straight here.”

“I will Mr Christian.”

“I’m sorry uh Mr...”

“If he arrives call me on this number and keep him here until I arrive.”

“Just who do you think you are?”

“Your worst nightmare if you don’t detain him.”

I heard the man swearing at Jim as he left. “Just call me or regret it.”

Moments later he was back in the car and we drove away. “You get all that?”

“Yes—d’you believe them?”

“Mostly. They’ll be clearing out all sorts of dubious stuff now so the police won’t find it. Plan B.” He stopped the car and called a number, “If you visit now I’m sure all sorts of things will be available but you’ll need to be quick.”

“Who was that?”

“The local CID.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t call the police.”

“No he interpreted it that way. I didn’t say so, just what would happen if I didn’t speak with Simpson.”

“What’s going on?”

“I have no idea but it’s going to be fun finding out.”

“Can you take me home, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” While he powered the car towards home about twenty miles away I sent Danielle a text or tried to. Seems her phone was off too, very unusual unless she forgot to charge it.

“Can we go straight to the school?”

“If you wish.”

I dialled St Claire’s and spoke to the secretary. Sister Maria was in a meeting so I asked her to check that Danielle was on the premises and ask her to call me urgently. She huffed and puffed but agreed to do it. Five minutes later she rang me back.

“I’m sorry, Lady Cameron, it looks like half of Danielle’s class have gone into town.”

“What for?”

“Apparently they volunteered to distribute the food parcels we made up from the things you parents donated.”

“When are they expected back?”

“Not until lunch time.”

“If Danielle returns ask her to call me urgently.”

“Did you not know they were doing their Wenceslas delivery?”

“No I didn’t.”

“But you were our biggest donor and got the supermarkets to donate too.”

“That was months ago.” I’d forgotten all about it, actually Diane had done most of it, I just asked her to call on my behalf. I had made a donation of a thousand pounds worth of groceries which David had selected as most nutritious for the money. I had no idea what, he arranged it all by email I think.

See, I just delegate and it works faultlessly—except why am I getting this sense of something not right about to happen?

I sent Trish a text asking if she had a photo of Danielle with her purple hair. I received a reply five minutes later with a photo. If we had to call the police, then at least we had a recent photo, though I wasn’t sure how many people had purple hair in any case.

Then we got held up by the accident. Why do they let ordinary humans drive cars? Most of them have brains which can barely cope with organising two feet to walk in relatively straight lines. They just haven’t evolved enough to do more than live in caves and throw rocks at each other.

We sat in the traffic unable to move and because we were on a motorway, I couldn’t get out and walk. Talk about frustration, I should imagine the only thing that would compare would be some ancient crusader coming back from the Holy Land only to find the lock on his wife’s chastity belt had seized. I smirked at my stupid thought and Jim asked what I was thinking about, so I told him. He absolutely roared with laughter.

It was half an hour later when we got to the school, th police car parked outside didn’t do anything for my sense of doom and disaster. I didn’t wait for Jim I ran straight in and spotted Andy Bond.

“Ah, Cathy, come on in,” he said opening the Headmistress’ office.”

“Where’s Danielle?” I gasped feeling quite sick.

“We’ll find them, Cathy.”

“Them, who’s them?”

“Danielle and another girl, um Cindy...”