Chapter One
Did you know that time travel doesn’t need any high tech equipment or scientific knowledge? That there’s a lot of painful bumping about and serious queasiness and you can’t steer? No, me neither, but I certainly have the bruises to show for it – body and heart. Let me tell you about it. It all began with a talking bear…
‘May I help you, Officer?’ the stuffed bear at the back of the antiques shop enquired. It had a precise, somewhat elderly, voice.
‘Er…yes.’ Keep calm. They hadn’t warned me about this in training. There certainly was nothing about talking taxidermy in any of the required reading.
Then the shadows shifted to reveal a slight gentleman in a sagging beige cardigan. Much of his face was obscured by large black-rimmed spectacles but he was definitely man, not bear.
I huffed out a breath and aimed for a more confident and professional delivery. ‘Good morning. I am Special Constable Cassandra Lawrence and I’m distributing this month’s list of stolen art and antiques.’ I held out the flyer, reluctant to risk causing damage by squeezing through the clutter. The dealer merely smiled and gestured me forward.
The china statuette of a shepherdess with a stupid-looking sheep at her feet swayed wildly on a pie crust table. I grabbed for it and my baton knocked against a copper kettle with a clang that echoed around the cluttered shop like the dinner gong in a stately home. I glared at the simpering figurine in my hands and she smirked back while I scanned the interior for more hazards.
I’m not a size zero, I’d be the first to admit, but being hung about with equipment was taking some getting used to. Perhaps it was like learning to drive a car and my awareness of my personal space would expand to allow for baton, handcuffs, radio, CS spray, notebook, hat, shoulder bag and a fluorescent jacket that was quite capable of standing up by itself. If that was the case, it hadn’t happened yet in three outings as a Special Constable.
‘I haven’t seen you before have I, Officer? The kettle has just boiled. Would you care for a cup of tea? Earl Grey?’
I almost glanced over my shoulder for a of glimpse of the aristocracy, then remembered that this was a type of tea, something far removed from my usual Economy Special tea bags. It was tempting after the raw cold outside.
‘Thanks, but I’ve got a whole list of addresses to deliver these to and I’ve only just started. Perhaps another time Mr…?’ Learn people’s names, make connections, that was advice from early on in training. It was one reason for taking the stolen goods lists round personally, as well as ensuring the recipients didn’t simply, and conveniently, ‘lose’ the message in their spam folder.
‘Grimswade. Aristotle Grimswade.’ Gramma Lawrence would have said that someone had to be called Aristotle Grimswade. I couldn’t see it myself, but perhaps being called Cassandra makes me abnormally sensitive to names. I usually go by Cassie, people tend to giggle otherwise. And that includes the men.
‘Mr Grimswade. Right. Well, we’d be grateful if you’d have a look through the list as usual and let us know if anyone approaches you with anything similar. There’ve been a series of domestic break-ins recently, a lot of small stuff taken – silver, miniatures and so on.’ I reached the battered desk which served as a counter without actually knocking anything over and looked vainly for somewhere to set down the list.
I glanced at it. ‘Cow creamers, for example.’ Goodness knows what one of those was. How did you cream a cow anyway? And why would you want to?
The antiques dealer darted forward and took the list from my hand. He bent over it, revealing the shiny top of his head. I gave him extra points for not attempting a comb-over. ‘Miniatures you say? I acquired a few of those from Hickson’s auction rooms last week. Six in fact, all in a pretty Tunbridge box.’
Mr Grimswade wove his way through the shop like a skinny alley cat, negotiating the obstacles with an ease which made me feel even larger and more unwieldy. He rummaged on a shelf, then shook his head. ‘No, not here. I remember now, they’re in the back room. I hadn’t got round to looking at them since I brought them back. Let’s do that now over a nice cup of tea.’
I followed him through a doorway hung with a tattered shawl in lieu of draft-proofing and into a marginally less cluttered living room behind. An ancient gas fire spluttered in the grate and piles of auction catalogues made unstable coffee tables for everything from cups to snuff boxes. It smelled of dust and old leather and, faintly, of bacon.
My host gestured towards a sagging armchair and I sat down. Various pieces of equipment dug into my hips and ribs as I tried to get comfortable, reminding me that wandering off for unscheduled tea breaks without reporting to base was probably not an approved activity.
They usually send us out in twos, but the local PC and Community Support Officer pairing were down the High Street somewhere and sending a just-trained Special out with the stolen items list was apparently considered safe enough. Welhamstead is not exactly the crime capital of England, unless you count high-level white-collar frauds – we’re prime London commuter country and the locals have to pay the mortgage and train season ticket somehow.
‘I’d better just call in.’ Aristotle Grimswade hardly looked like a crazed axe murderer, but then, how do you tell?
He tactfully turned his back and busied himself with his tea-making with an electric kettle balanced precariously on an old sewing machine case while I used my radio. ‘I’m at St Christopher Antiques in Church Street,’ I reported. ‘The owner is just checking some items against the list.’ That sounded suitably official and would cover me for as long as it took to drink my tea.
I accepted th