Mister Osborne’s driver and Artimus shared gentle conversation all the way through London. By the time they were pulling up outside Scotland Yard, discussions had turned to why George still slept with his favourite teddy, Hammy the Harmondsworth Hamster.
As Neil exited the vehicle, he tried to stretch the knots out of his back. It was pointless. Today was going to be a long, horrible experience. Why people chose to drink, especially frequently like Artimus, was beyond him.
There were so very few times Neil ever even got close to drunk in his life, his twenty-first birthday at university being the one occasion that stood out.
Neil was never part of the in crowd. Thus, social gatherings at university were usually subdued affairs. Not that Neil minded. As Artimus has pointed out and Neil knew all too well, he was not the most extroverted individual. However, his twenty-first birthday was different.
Born in May, his birthday coincided with the last exam of his finals. As soon as his classmates realised the happy coincidence, the planned binge was given all the excuse it needed to get out of control.
Beer, cider, shots, cocktails; the night’s indulgences were as varied as they were excessive. The next morning, sitting on a couch with a wet towel wrapped round his head to hold his brain in place, Neil vowed to never get that drunk again.
As he shambled after Artimus, he wished it was a promise to himself he had kept.
Artimus led the way through the building, arriving at Neil’s desk and taking a seat.
“How did you know this was mine?” said Neil, knowing there was no nameplate or pictures on its surface.
“Take a look around you Mister Townsend. How many other desks look like they have been set out for the day’s work by the detective in question’s mother?”
Neil did not need to look. “Point taken.”
“Not so far it hasn’t been.” said Artimus, smiling politely to a passer-by. “But we’ll get there, Neil. I promise.”
“What are we talking about again?” asked Neil.
“Loosening you up.” said Artimus, patting Neil on the shoulder. “You don’t think I’ve given up just because the whole homosexual angle is done, do you?”
“What homosexual angle?” said Wordy, arriving behind the men and startling Artimus.
“Don’t sneak up on people.” said Artimus, wheezing a little.
“Sorry Artimis.” said Wordy.
“Artimus.” said Neil, squeezing his temples at the thought of having to deal with Wordy in this state. “Artimis is a type of cologne.”
“Like the city?” said Wordy, pleased. “Cool.”
“What?”
“I’ve got this Neil.” said Artimus, turning to Wordy. “There’s something I need you to do for me John.” As he spoke, Wordy leant close. “Fuck off. Anywhere will do, but away from here and for at least an hour.” John stared, as Artimus began waving him away. “The sooner you begin fucking off, the sooner that hour will be over.” Smiling as John stumbled away confused, he turned back to Neil. “You see, easy.”
“Insulting my staff, are we Artimus?” said Henry, standing in his doorway.
“I think it unfair to state my actions were insulting in any…”
“My office, now.” said Henry, walking back inside and closing the door.
Great, thought Neil, just what he needed.
Upon entering the room and sitting next to Artimus, Neil looked up at Henry, his face wracked with worry.
“One day, and already you appear to have broken one of my detectives Mister Crane.” said Henry, glaring at Artimus.
“I did not realise the youth of today were so fragile.” said Artimus, shrugging his shoulders. “Especially the healthier examples.”
“And what do you have to say for yourself, Mister Townsend?” said Henry, disgust written all over his face. “I assume the words no, more, and thanks have only been removed from vocabulary on a temporary basis?”
“Yes sir.” said Neil, meekly.
“You had better make damn sure it’s yes, Mister Townsend.” said Henry, slumping into his chair. “I left you on this so you could keep Artimus on the straight and narrow. Not have him riding roughshod over everything. Did our first conversation into the importance of this damn case not sink in?”
“Henry,” said Artimus, in his most disarming tone, “there’s no need for the theatrics. I may have been…”
“Shut the hell up Artimus!” snapped Henry, his demeanour unchanged. “Yesterday evening I was contacted by the secretary of one Clara Robertson MP and asked what my officers were doing interviewing one of her staff about the activities of Miss Robertson herself. Do you know what I told that woman?”
“I’m not sure.” said Artimus, leaning forward. “Mind your own fucking business you dumb cow?”
“Pardon?” said Henry, stunned.
“We never asked about Miss Robertson’s activities.” said Artimus, grinning. “Neil, tell him.”
Neil caught the expectant stare of Henry and closed his eyes. The memory started playing, but it skipped and jumped. It was clear his abilities were not in good working order today. Just to be certain, he replayed it four or five times to try to capture every fragmented moment and then try to piece them together. Ten seconds later, both Henry and Artimus looking on worriedly, he opened them again. “The only question asked that had anything to do with Miss Robertson was one regarding who she let go during the staff cuts, and Missus Grayson refused to answer it. There were no questions about her activities.”
“Then why did I get contacted by her office?” said Henry, accepting the truth of the comment, but remaining angry.
“Now that, Henry,” said Artimus, standing, “is the most intelligent thing you’ve said all morning.” Helping Neil to his feet and moving him toward the door, he turned back. “Anything else whilst I’m here Henry?”
“Results.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector.” said Artimus, walking out of the room and sitting Neil down. “You need water; preferably with electrolytes.”
“Do you need me to get you anything?” said Dawn, arriving at the desk.
“Ah, perfect timing Miss Hartley. Can you go and get Mister Townsend a sports drink of some kind?”
Dawn glanced from Artimus to Neil and back. “Is he hung over?”
“Significantly.” said Artimus, staring. “You seem shocked.”
“I am.” said Dawn, pouting slightly. “I don’t think I have ever seen him drink before, let alone have a hang-over.”
“Really?” said Artimus, as Dawn disappeared. “Is it losing control you’re afraid of?”
“Not today Artimus.” said Neil, almost pleading. “My head can’t take it.”
The next five minutes passed in blissful silence, the shuffling of feet on carpets around the office and the occasional rumblings of distant conversations the only things disturbing Neil’s tranquillity.
Neil would not be spending time discussing anything other than the case today; he simply did not think he had the energy or the gumption to do so.
It was true he did not like losing control. Not because he was uptight, as Artimus continually asserted, but because he was not sure he liked the person he became when he did. However, that was not a discussion for today, if ever.
Dawn returned with half a litre of orange-looking drink and Neil gratefully downed it. It was awful. Mostly sugar with a flavour more probably derived from a can of paint in the appropriate colour than the fruit of the same name.
As he belched upon finishing the drink, Neil was not sure imbibing the solution was a good idea.
“Feel better for that?” said Artimus, patting Neil on the back.
“Not really.” said Neil, honestly.
“I’m sorry you feel bad Neil,” said Dawn, looking a little agitated, “but your interviewees are here, and have been for quarter of an hour now. It’s what John and I came over to try and tell you.”
“Shit!” said Neil, righting himself clumsily. “I almost forgot.”
&nb
sp; “Forgot? Bollocks.” said Artimus. “You got distracted. That’s all. Lead on Dawn.”
They followed Dawn down three flights to the interview rooms on the ground floor. After signing in with the desk Sergeant, Artimus asked Dawn to show the men in one at a time and ushered Neil into the interview room booked.
“Do you want to leave the questions to me?” asked Artimus.
Neil felt awful. His skin was clammy and waves of nausea were washing over him. “Please.”
“I shall attempt to brief, Mister Townsend. Just hang on as best you can.”
Chapter 19
Three Blind Mice