Death Knocks Twice. Robert Thorogood

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      ‘What’s that, Camille?’ Richard asked.

      ‘Nothing, sir,’ Camille said in her most grown-up voice. ‘But I think Dwayne’s right. That shirt would really suit you.’

      ‘It wouldn’t,’ Richard said.

      ‘I think it would, sir.’

      ‘It wouldn’t, Camille. I just said.’

      ‘But why not? It’s fun.’

      ‘Fun?’ Richard squeaked in a high falsetto that, frankly, surprised all of them. He coughed to put the gravel back into his voice. ‘You call that aberration of a shirt “fun”?’

      ‘I reckon so,’ Dwayne said. ‘And Camille’s right. You’d look great in it.’

      ‘Right, that’s it,’ Richard announced, standing up from behind his desk. Having commanded his team’s full attention, he shot the cuffs of his white shirt, did up the middle button on the jacket of his woollen suit and stepped out into the centre of the Police Station.

      A trickle of sweat slipped down from Richard’s hairline, and he glanced at Police Officer Fidel Best’s desk, to check that he had gone back to his work. As the youngest member of the team, Fidel generally stayed out of the skirmishes and outright civil war that could sometimes engulf the office. Richard was pleased to see that Fidel was looking at his monitor in a way that suggested that he was indeed keeping himself to himself.

      Richard pulled a hankie from his jacket pocket, wiped the sweat from his face and turned to face Dwayne.

      ‘I’m your commanding officer, and I’m telling you to put that…garment down. Right. Now.’

      ‘But seriously, Chief,’ Dwayne said. ‘I’m only trying to help. You have got to get into some lighter clothes. That woollen suit in this climate will be the death of you.’

      Richard jutted out his jaw. He found his subordinates’ desire to get him into more casual clothes deeply irritating. Didn’t they appreciate just how very elegantly he was already dressed? And hadn’t they any idea just how hard it was keeping his black brogues polished to a parade ground sheen when most of the island was covered in fine grade aggregate – or, as the tourist brochures were so intent on calling it, ‘sand’?

      ‘I’ve worn a suit every day of my working life, and I’m not going to stop now just because I’ve had the misfortune of being posted to the bloody Caribbean.’

      Dwayne exhaled.

      ‘Okay, Chief.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Dwayne’s face brightened as he grabbed up another shirt from the pile of clothes on his desk.

      ‘Then how about you try this one?’ he asked, before realising that the shirt he was now holding was a billowing confection of gold satin with silver tassels.

      Even Dwayne was surprised.

      ‘Okay, maybe not this one. But how about this?’ he said, putting the disco shirt down and picking up a far more acceptable shirt in a sky blue colour.

      ‘Dwayne,’ Richard said with the rattle of death in his voice. ‘That shirt doesn’t even have sleeves.’

      It was true. It wasn’t so much a shirt as a vest with ideas above its station.

      Richard strode over to Dwayne, grabbed the shirt from his hands and dashed it back onto the pile of clothes on the desk.

      ‘Dwayne. Let me be clear. Hell would have to freeze over before I’d wear any of these clothes.’

      ‘Although, sir,’ Fidel said, finally joining the conversation. ‘If hell did freeze over, you wouldn’t want to be wearing shorts and Hawaiian shirts anyway.’

      Richard turned and looked at Fidel to see if he was winding him up. It was clear from his helpful smile that he wasn’t.

      ‘Tell you what,’ Dwayne said. ‘The guy on the market said there was no rush getting these back to him. He was having problems selling them anyway. So how about I just put them in the back office? You can look at them another time, when you’ve got a moment. What do you reckon to that?’

      As though Richard had just agreed with his plan, Dwayne picked up the pile of shirts and shorts from his desk and went through the bead curtain that led to the cells.

      Richard finally let out a breath that he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. At least that was that problem dealt with.

      ‘Good morning, team,’ a mellifluous voice announced, and the island’s Commissioner of Police, Selwyn Patterson, sauntered into the room, his hands thrust deep into the trouser pockets of his rumpled khaki uniform.

      ‘Good morning, sir,’ Richard said, knowing that the Commissioner’s arrival was never good news.

      Selwyn removed his peaked cap, held it delicately between forefinger and thumb, and gave the office a once over.

      ‘So,’ he said. ‘Busy?’

      ‘Of course, sir,’ Richard said, knowing that he and his team were nothing of the sort. In truth, things had been frustratingly quiet for the last few weeks. The only incident that had required any proper policing was a dispute between two neighbours, one of whom owned a cockerel that had taken to crowing every night from midnight to dawn. The dispute had threatened to escalate into violence until Dwayne had taken the offending rooster into custody, killed it, cooked it, eaten it, and then pronounced the case closed. Such was island life sometimes.

      ‘Then I’m sorry,’ Selwyn said, looking nothing of the sort, ‘but I’ll be adding to your burdens.’

      ‘What have you got, sir?’

      ‘A very important case.’

      ‘Of course,’ Richard said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out his notebook and silver propelling pencil. He flicked the notebook open to a fresh page and waited in anticipation.

      ‘You see,’ Selwyn said, ‘I was at a charity rum tasting yesterday afternoon, and I got into conversation with the man who owns the Fort Royal Hotel.’ Richard knew the hotel well, having once solved the murder of a bride there. ‘And he says his hotel guests are being scammed by a ruthless criminal with no concern for the consequences of his actions.’

      ‘They are, sir?’ Richard said, his interest piqued. Finally, was this going to be a case worthy of his and his team’s talents?

      ‘Apparently so.’

      ‘And what’s this criminal doing?’

      ‘Well, he’s set up a roadside stall and he’s selling bottles of bootleg rum.’

      Richard’s pencil remained hovering above his notebook.

      ‘He is, sir?’

      ‘It’s affecting sales in the bar at the Fort Royal.’

      ‘And… СКАЧАТЬ