The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3098 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 Angharad

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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.
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“So has the chap from Canada contacted you?”

“No, he doesn’t seem to be there, or he’s not answering his emails.”

“His name wouldn’t happen to be Bannister, would it?”

“How did you know that?” she said looking astonished.

“I’m afraid he won’t be contacting you unless he raps on a table.”

“Wossat mean, raps on a table?” she still looked astonished.

“He’s dead.”

“But he can’t be...I need his algorithm to crack this case.”

“Oh dear, you’ll have to let the police do it then, won’t you?”

“No, they’ve got the wrong man—I did tell you.”

“So you did, well the local paper seems to think they got the right one.”

“You believe that?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“No, Mummy, you didn’t.”

“So what’s this algorithm you need?”

“I can’t tell you, you’re not old enough to understand.” Trish said this absolutely deadpan and Livvie nearly snorted her nose off.

“I might not be, but I know someone who might.”

“Who?” she looked totally bemused.

“Your sister.”

“What Livvie? Ha, she knows even less about puters than Lizzie does and she knows more than you.”

“Been teaching her have you?”

“Yeah, but only to access porn sites.” She sniggered this time and I knew she was on a wind up. I wonder if she’s related to Stella rather than me? “Okay, how did you know Brian Bannister was dead?”

“If you want to know, read the Guardian.” I smiled at her and went off to check my emails. To the gods of the internet I said, ‘It’s five o’clock on a Friday evening, don’t let there be anything urgent in my emails.’ They must have heard me because it was free except for the usual spam.

I looked again at the Guardian only this time on its website. It took me a moment to find it. ‘Montreal police are investigating the sudden death of Dr Brian Bannister a lecturer in computer science who apparently fell from a third story window onto a concrete footpath. There were no signs of violence. Dr Bannister was developing methods of analysing data to detect criminal activity, particularly with regard to use of social media. He is survived by his husband, bank director, John French.’

So the man was gay—no problem with that and the Canadians are pretty cool about such things, especially in academics, who are regarded as weird the world over. I wonder if Simon knows his husband, John French?

After dinner, Trish continued to pout like a mullet, complaining that it wasn’t fair. A not unusual conclusion in her thinking. She eventually marched off muttering and Simon looked at me obviously desiring some explanation as to what caused it this time.

I shrugged. “She was in communication with some academic at McGill university awaiting him to let her use some system he had for detecting criminal data—don’t ask me how or what—and he appears to have fallen from a window at the university and died.”

“What did she want his system for?”

“To discover or prove who killed the chap they found in our garden.”

“I thought the police had someone.”

“She claims it’s the wrong one.”

“Oh, but she can’t prove it without the system?”

“Exactly. Oh do you know a Canadian Banker called John French, International bank of Quebec or some such name?”

“John French, I did know a guy called French, but he was with Barclays—he might have gone to Canada, now I think about it. Nice guy but you know...”

“Know what?” I asked knowing exactly what he was meaning but I was enjoying his discomfort, which was entirely self inflicted.

“Uh, he was a shir—he was gay.”

“Sounds like it’s the same man who was married to Trish’s academic.”

“Married—oh yeah—it’s legal over there too, isn’t it?”

“Same sex marriage—yes, but then some would argue that’s what we did.”

“The only people who would argue that are ones who’ve never seen your body or better still made love to it. I know a female when I shag them.”

Stella who was taking a sip of water as he said this sprayed the carpet for about three square yards and spent the next few minutes coughing and choking. She became even redder in the face than Simon had been.

Simon’s phone peeped for a text message and he glanced at his BlackBerry—only to glance again. “Seen this?” he passed me his phone.

“Good lord, that’s a bit of a coincidence isn’t it?” I said on reading that John French had been found dead in his office with an empty bottle of pills and half empty bottle of scotch.

“Just a bit, grief perhaps?”

“Could be, or is there something going on that we’re not privy to that links with this chap in our garden.”

“Bit of a longshot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t like coincidences, even meaningful ones.”

“What?”

“Oh it’s Jung, blame Ann Thomas.”

“Who’s Ann Thomas?”

“My trick-cyclist, she’s always quoting Jung then falls about laughing.”

“Sounds like she needs a psychiatrist.”

“No she’s fine, it’s just that Jung had several weird ideas about all sorts of things including flying saucers.”

“Flying saucers as in UFOs?”

“Is there another?”

“Only when you’re throwing the crocks about.”

I glared at him, “I have never thrown crockery at you or anyone else.”

“I was joking, Cathy. Cathy put that plate down—no—not this suit—oh bugger.”

For some reason he went off to change in a hurry. It was only water that was on the plate—oh well.

“Muuumy?”

“Yes, Trish?”

“That man in Canada.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Well, you’ll never guess what?”

“His partner was found dead in his office at the bank, cause of death is thought to be a bottle of pills.”

Her jaw dropped and the pout went to a full goldfish. “How d’you know that? It’s only just come up on the Guardian as breaking news.”

“Some of us have it, some of us don’t.” I shrugged to emphasise the point, though which one I was making, I’d forgotten at this stage.

“Mucking fad,” she muttered to herself as she walked off shaking her head.

“Why is Daddy walking around in his underpants?” asked Meems coming into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t aware he was, oh I think he spilt some water on his trousers.”

“Why was he saying, he’d kiww hew, who’s she, Mummy? Why have you gone aww wed, Mummy?”

I explained I’d dripped some water on his lap and she giggled though she understood he didn’t find it quite as funny. Serves him right for not changing when he came home—he usually does—oh he wanted to see the weather forecast on the telly and David dished up just afterwards.