Earlier that morning, while god fearing folk were all abed, because it was dark, and the chances of being caught minimal, Crombie’s smile remained in place as he crept out from the marital bedroom and downstairs, avoiding the creaky step to tiptoe into the kitchen. Before the florescent light flickered fully on, he glided to the double door American style fridge which acted as a white board, and added a note under his wife’s neatly printed reminder for Sunday.
D. Don’t forget. Paul and Sandra for Sunday Lunch to discuss wedding seating arrangements & bridesmaids’ bouquets. .
Three red lines of marker ink underlined ‘Don’t forget.’
Still grinning broadly, Crombie drew a frowny face, and then scribbled: “Sorry sweetheart. Gotta a phone call from the top. They want me at the Yard.”
Rummaging through the ironing basket he found a not too wrinkled polo shirt and a pair of jeans. The only socks he could find were ‘Mister Men’ novelty socks, but no one would see them. Snatching up his jacket from behind the front door, he eased open the dead bolt, and peered outside at the car blocking his drive: Crombie could just make out the uniformed driver by dawn’s first light.
The ominous disembodied voice demanding his presence at Scotland Yard should have filled him with foreboding, instead, Crombie thanked his lucky stars rather than cursing his misfortune. He knew his wife would handle the in-laws-to-be just fine. In fact, things would probably go smoother without his presence.
With barely a twinge of guilt, Crombie eased himself into the passenger seat, buckling his belt as the car purred away, heading towards Central London.