Twelve Red Herrings
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, “but I’ve just remembered that I’m meant to be somewhere else right now. I’d better run.”
“That’s a pity,” said Anna. “I was rather looking forward to finding out all about the restaurant business. Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime, whenever my husband next leaves me in the lurch. Goodbye, Michael.”
“Goodbye, Anna.”
I watched them climb into the back of a taxi together and wished Jonathan would drop dead in front of me. He didn’t, so I began to retrace my steps back to the spot where I had abandoned my car. “You’re a lucky man, Jonathan Townsend,” was the only observation I made. But no one was listening.
The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I rep
eated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I’d left my car.
I walked up and down the street in case I’d forgotten where I’d parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the handset and jabbed three nines into it.
“Which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance,” a voice asked.
“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.
“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
“I think my car has been stolen.”
“Can you tell me the make, color and registration number please, sir.”
“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”
There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.
“No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”
“Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.
“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification and a check for £105 with a banker’s card—that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”
“One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.
“That’s correct, sir.”
I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theater.
I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.
I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.
“Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.
“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.”
I frowned.
As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rainswept posttheater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.
When we reached the car pound, I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second line that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form Scotch-taped to the counter.
I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driver’s license, then writing out a check for £105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over with my check card to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s sheer bulk was the only reason I--didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.