EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY SEVEN
Neither Denise Dagway
or her manager, Jane Pelham, were able to help the detectives in their
enquiries. Jane Pelham tugged her hair
as they were being questioned, and her body language seemed overtly sexual and
directed towards the detective sergeant, a ruggedly good looking man in his mid
thirties. Every time she answered one of
his questions, she tilted her head back, showing her neck, and her mouth opened
slightly. She hardly spared the
detective constable a glance. He was
tubby and still suffered from teenage acne, with cheeks pock-marked from an
over abundance of spots squeezed in front of the bathroom mirror. Even when the young constable threw her a
question, Jane managed to catch it quickly and direct her answer to the
sergeant.
‘So when someone donates videos or books to sell,’ the sergeant asked, ‘is
there any system you have of logging them in?’
Jane shook her head rapidly. ‘Sometimes
people are in a hurry. They might have
several large bags – maybe more – and might have left their car on the
double-yellow lines. So they’ll just
dash in, hand us the bags and rush out again.’
The sergeant sighed and threw the constable a glance. ‘That seems to be the same wherever we
go. None of the staff in a single charity
shop can remember any of the donors.
Unless it’s someone who has stopped to chat.’
Jane’s mouth fell open before she spoke.
‘You mean this has happened in other charity shops?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘That’s why we’re
taking it very seriously. So far, one in
Tonbridge, Paddock Wood, Crowborough and Sevenoaks. And now here in Tunbridge Wells.’
Denise Dagway, feeling she had been silent far too long, said, ‘Is that just
one charity shop in each town?’
The sergeant’s face was expressionless and he spoke in a flat tone. ‘There seems to be a pattern. The only charity shops that have been
targeted are those who make contributions to developing countries.’
There was a brief pause before Denise said excitedly, like a sleuth hitting on
a mysterious solution, ‘So this could well be the work of a racist.’
The constable scratched at his inflamed cheek and said, ‘We’re keeping an open
mind about it.’
The sergeant sighed and addressed Denise. ‘If we made an assumption that this
could be the work of a racist, has anyone come in here that might
look...well...’
Denise interrupted him. ‘Stereotypical
of that type, you mean? No, I’m sure I’d
remember him if I did.’
The constable smiled thinly as he stared at Denise. ‘Of course, we are assuming it’s a man. It could have been a woman.’
Denise struggled to find something to reply to this. Just then the shop door opened and Amy
Dorland shuffled in crabwise, breathing from the exertion of living.
‘Ghastly weather,’ she announced.
‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ Jane told her.
‘Detectives,’ added Denise importantly.
Amy Dorland looked excited, her eyes gained a spark of brightness and she
clutched her stomach. Denise hoped she
didn’t suffer from incontinence. She had
reached that time in life. She was
ancient, and still insisted on coming to work for three days in the shop, even
though she generally got in everyone’s way.
Jane explained why the policemen were there, speaking to her in a patronising
tone. When she had finished, the
sergeant asked:
‘I don’t suppose you noticed anyone bringing in children’s videos...anyone at
all. It would be a help.’
Jane started to say, ‘I don’t think Amy
– Mrs. Dorland – will remember...’
Suddenly, Amy Dorland’s terrier-like bark made them jump as she grew excited. ‘Yes, yes!
It was a young man....well, youngish.
Didn’t speak a word. Hardly any
hair on his head. Bit scruffy. Just handed me a bag. I happened to glance inside, and there were
some videos.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember any of the titles?’ asked the sergeant.
Amy tapped her forehead rapidly. ‘It was
one of those cartoon things. Um,
something about toys.’
With the exception of Amy, who was busy staring at the floor trying to
remember, the other four exchanged brief looks.
‘It wasn’t by any chance called Toy Story?’
prompted the sergeant.
Amy yelped again. ‘Yes! That was it.’
The sergeant rewarded her with a smile.
‘Anything else you can remember about this man?’
Amy thought for a moment, then nodded slowly.
‘There was that hideous tattoo.
It was freezing cold at the time, and I remember wondering why anyone
would want to go around exposing his arms in that weather. It must have been to show off his ugly tattoo.’
‘What sort of tattoo was it? Can you remember?’
‘Yes, it was a German swastika. And it
was quite large, and inside it had the union jack stripes. Disgusting!
Shouldn’t be allowed, that sort of thing. An insult to our country.’
The constable finished writing in his notebook and smiled at his colleague, who
thanked Amy Dorling.
Denise and Jane looked slightly miffed, especially as Amy preened and almost
hugged herself.
‘I know exactly what you’re going to do now,’ she told the policemen. ‘I expect you’re going to raid the tattoo
shops to question the owners. I wish I
was younger and could come with you. I’d
give that little thug a piece of my mind.’
*
When Ivor arrived home, he found his father standing in the middle of the
living room, rubbing his hands together, which was an ominous sign. Ivor knew this was usually the precursor to
an argument, and he dreaded the confrontation.
His father stopped rubbing his hands and consulted his watch.
‘I know you always go to the pub after work, son, and I’ve never minded, but
now you’re later than usual.’
Ivor smiled nervously. ‘I’ve gone and
done it, Dad.’
Jack Mold frowned and spoke precisely.
‘You’ve done what?’
‘Bought my plane ticket. For Thailand. This time in
three weeks, I’ll be out there.’
His father scowled and moved forward a pace.
Ivor cringed back.
‘You bloody little idiot. I was only
joking about a Thai bride when I showed you that advert in the paper.’
‘But I thought...’ began Ivor fearfully.
His father’s chin jutted out confrontationally.
‘Don’t think! Let me do the
thinking.’
‘But you said...you said about the benefits and that. How she’ll be able to cook for us. You know how much you like Chinese food,
Dad.’
‘Chinese ain’t the same as Thai food though, is it?’
‘It’s similar.’
‘I don’t care. I’ve changed my
mind. And I don’t want you flying off to
Thailand, leaving me on me own.’
‘It’s only for a week.’
Jack Mold screamed irrationally. ‘A
week!’
Ivor felt his bladder was about to burst.
‘Well, it’s not the sort of place you go for a long weekend, is it?’ he
said rather daringly.
‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you little toe-rag.’
He reached out to grab his son, who backed away quickly through the open
door.
‘Got to go to the toilet,’ said Ivor as he turned and fled.
‘Shouldn’t drink so much Guinness,’ his father shouted. ‘I’m off to the club. I’ll see you round there. You can buy me a few drinks, seeing as you
can afford trips to Thailand.’
*
Amy Dorling was on her own in the shop. Denise and Jane were in the kitchen at the
back of the shop, clearing up prior to going home. Amy started to move towards the shop
entrance, getting ready to turn the sign round to ‘Closed’, when a middle-aged
man barged in. He was overweight, out of
breath and sweating profusely. And he
was clearly angry about something. Amy
realised what it was as soon as he shook the video tape angrily in front of
her.
‘This tape,’ he shouted. ‘It’s supposed
to be Shrek, which I bought for my
youngest son. And it’s filth. Pure unadulterated filth. Blow jobs!
The lot!’
Amy felt herself shrinking with shame. ‘Oh
dear!’ she uttered timidly. ‘Let’s hope
it went over the little lad’s head.’
The man glared at Amy as if she was mad.
‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘a young child wouldn’t understand.’
The veins stood out on the man’s crimson neck as he shouted. ‘My youngest son’s fourteen. It was supposed
to be Shrek. Not...’
The man floundered, then suddenly lost control and exploded, hurling the video
across the shop. It hit a delicate
crystal vase which shattered.
‘I really don’t think that sort of behaviour’s necessary, do you?’ said Amy
Dorling. ‘And that’ll be five pounds for
the vase, which was Waterford crystal.’
IN EPISODE 138
The video hoaxer lays a false trail for the police.