The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3. Paul Gitsham

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СКАЧАТЬ agreed with them that it was a farce and a disgrace, but seemed cheerful enough when they handed over their money.

      Warren kept his eyes peeled, looking for a garage. Finally, he spotted one and pulled into the forecourt. A plastic bucket by the front door held a single bunch of flowers. Warren didn’t know enough about flowers to even attempt to name the species, but he did know enough to see why these were the last bunch. Oh, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Entering the garage to pay for the flowers, Warren finally accepted that he had missed any chance of a meal at the restaurant. The small shop had a tiny refrigerator filled with cans and bottles of drink. He selected a bottle of Diet Coke for the caffeine, although he was tempted to go the whole hog and risk palpitations from one of the so-called ‘energy drinks’. The top shelf also held a couple of sandwiches and rolls. Picking through them, he saw that the selection included everything from mixed salad to ham and tomato and even coronation chicken, but no cheese. Not even something he could pick the crap off. The shelf below had a couple of Ginsters pasties — Spicy Chicken and Peppered Steak. Not even a Cornish or a cheese and onion slice. Warren’s stomach rumbled loudly. In desperation he turned to the snacks aisle. Finally, he settled on a couple of bags of crisps and a chocolate bar. As an afterthought, he also grabbed some strong mints to hide the smell of the crisps on his breath. Susan nagged him about his diet a lot. Since he’d met her, his palate had widened considerably; however Susan would eat pretty much anything and just couldn’t understand, try as she might, Warren’s faddy tastes.

      Back in the car, Warren texted Susan, telling her that he was in Cambridge and would meet her at the Corn Exchange, before setting off again. Warren disliked driving in Cambridge. The roads were narrow and the one-way system had no apparent logic. Added to that the seemingly endless roadworks and Warren could see why the park and ride, despite its limited running times, was so popular. Warren decided to follow the signs for the Grand Arcade car park, since that was the closest to the theatre. As ever, Warren kept his eyes firmly glued to the road, watching out for foreign students looking the wrong way when crossing and suicidally arrogant cyclists meandering from lane to lane without signalling.

      Somehow, Warren made it into the car park without any mishaps. He was exhausted. He tried to calculate how many hours he’d spent awake out of the past forty-eight, but his brain was too tired to process the calculation. He had a few minutes to spare and so devoured the crisps and chocolate bar. Temporarily sated, his stomach stopped rumbling for what seemed like the first time in hours. Unscrewing the bottle of Diet Coke, he chugged half of it before finally grabbing the flowers, locking the car and heading for the theatre.

      Warren arrived at the Corn Exchange at a quarter to eight. Pulling out his phone, he saw that he had just missed a text from Susan.

      ‘Inside. Your ticket’s at the box office.’

      No name or kisses. Damn, Susan must be pissed off, he realised. He’d hoped to at least make his apologies outside before going into the theatre, but never mind. Queuing impatiently, he finally retrieved his ticket.

      Glancing at the stub to remind himself what they were seeing, he realised that the show’s name meant nothing to him. He couldn’t tell if it was a comedy, a play or even a musical. Declining the offer of an exorbitantly priced programme from the young girl at the door to the auditorium, Warren made his way into the dimmed theatre. Whatever the play was, it was clearly popular. Almost every seat was filled. Naturally, his seat was in the middle of the row. Apologising profusely, he squeezed his way between the narrow seating, almost standing on Dennis’ foot, before finally reaching his seat. He was sandwiched between Susan and Bernice. At his arrival, he saw Susan relax. “Sorry,” he mouthed before turning to Bernice. “Happy birthday, Bernice, sorry I missed the meal.” He offered the flowers to her and pecked her proffered cheek.

      His mother-in-law had decided to go with what Warren privately termed her ‘Onassis’ look. A sharply tailored suit and bouffant hairdo, which accentuated her enviable figure. In all fairness to the woman, she was still elegantly attractive and could pass for ten years younger than her actual age. If Susan maintained her looks half as well as her mother had, Warren would count himself a lucky man. A faint whiff of Chanel No 5 completed the ensemble.

      The subdued lighting glinted off a pair of large earrings. With sudden inspiration, Warren decided on a gamble. “Are those new earrings, Bernice? They go well with your new haircut.”

      Miracle of miracles, Bernice actually smiled. “Yes, dear, Dennis bought me them. I’m glad you could make it.”

      “I’m sorry I’m so late. I’ll fill you in on everything when we get home. You’ll get to hear it before I give my press conference,” It was a shameless exaggeration, but it worked. Bernice looked impressed.

      Suddenly, the lights dimmed and music erupted from the orchestra pit. Warren quickly sat down, next to Susan. She held his arm and whispered into his ear, “Smooth operator, DCI Jones.” Warren simply smiled and kissed her on the lips.

      Susan frowned slightly. “Cheese and Onion or Prawn Cocktail?”

      On his way out of the theatre, Warren looked frantically for somebody selling a souvenir programme. Within two minutes of the curtain going up, the day’s stresses and strains had finally beaten him and he’d fallen sound asleep. He assumed that he hadn’t snored, otherwise Susan would have woken him up. He had no idea if Bernice had noticed. Nevertheless, he was determined not to get caught out by a grilling on the content of the show when he got home.

      No sellers were to be seen. Typical, he thought, they were practically forcing them on you on the way in. Warren made a mental note of the name of the play, deciding to do a quick Google search before driving home tonight. A basic familiarity with the plot and the parroting of a few reviews should let him bluff his way out of any awkwardness. Susan and Bernice were excitedly discussing what they had just seen, so, to play it safe, Warren tried to engage his father-in-law in conversation.

      It was like trying to interrogate a Trappist monk, he soon decided. It was a ten-minute stroll to the car park, during which time Warren ascertained that, yes, the garden was growing well; no, the recent dry spell hadn’t done the lawn any favours but the hosepipe was compensating, and no, Dennis didn’t think the England cricket team’s recent performance was a promise of the beginning of a new golden age for the English game.

      Finally, they reached the car park. Bernice and Susan got into her car on the ground floor. “Why don’t you go with Warren, dear? Susan and I have things to talk about.”

      Just great, thought Warren, no chance for a crafty Internet search to swot up on the play. Still, the look on Susan’s face suggested that she wasn’t looking forward to the drive home with her mother either. Warren had a feeling that the subject of grandchildren, or rather lack of, was probably on the agenda.

      Susan’s decisions to marry a police officer and become a Biology teacher — in a comprehensive school of all things — were perhaps less of a disappointment than her apparent unwillingness to produce a grandchild. Moments before the phone had rung the previous night, Bernice had been rummaging in her oversized handbag for the newest collection of photographs from her latest visit to Susan’s remarkably fecund younger sister, Felicity. This had almost certainly been the prologue to an uncomfortable discussion in which Bernice would have reminded Susan that she wasn’t getting any younger. Warren experienced a brief stab of guilt at the relief he felt that he had been spared that conversation.

      As for Felicity, married barely three years, baby number three had arrived only a few weeks ago. There was no suggestion that Felicity had married beneath her station; her husband Jeff was an investment banker in London earning at least ten times Warren and СКАЧАТЬ