Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  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.

  “Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.

  “Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn’t stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta—one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.

  I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theater. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.

  I watched as another figure came running across the pound toward a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jumper cables.” I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached them to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.

  I couldn’t get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.

  In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he maneuvered his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jumper cables to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.

  “Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.

  “My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.

  As I drove out of the car pound, I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they’d probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.

  I peered through the rain, searching the sidewalks for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.

  I dialed the restaurant and waited a long time for someone to answer.

  “Laguna 50,” said an Italian-sounding young girl.

  “Janice, is that you? It’s Mike.”

  “Yes, it’s me, Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the nearest meat-axe.”

  “Why?” I asked. “You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”

  “Nick chopped the top off one of his fingers earlier this evening, and Gerald had to take him to hospital. I was left in charge. He’s not pleased.”

  “Oh, hell,” I said. “But I’ve got …”

  “The sack,” said another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.

  “Gerald, I can explain …”

  “Why you didn’t turn up for work this evening?”

  I sneezed, then held my nose. “I’ve got the flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to half the customers.”

  “Would you?” said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theater.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.

  “Exactly what I said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two rows behind you at the Aldwych. They enjoyed the show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure, that he thought your date was ‘absolutely stunning’.”

  “He must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

  “He may have, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in to collect your paycheck, because there isn’t one for a headwaiter who’d rather take some bimbo to the theater than do a night’s work.” The line went dead.

  I hung up the phone and started muttering obscenities under my breath as I walked slowly back toward my car. I was only a dozen paces away from it when a young lad jumped into the front seat, switched on the ignition and lurched hesitatingly into the center of the road in what sounded horribly like third gear. I chased after the retreating car, but once the youth began to accelerate, I knew I had no hope of catching him.

  I ran all the way back to the phone box and dialed 999 once again.

  “Fire, Police or Ambulance?” I was asked for a second time that night.

  “Police,” I said, and a moment later I was put through to another voice.

  “Belgravia Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”

  “I’ve just had my car stolen!” I shouted.

  “Make, model and registration number please, sir.”

  “It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”

  I waited impatiently.

  “It hasn’t been stolen, sir. It was illegally parked on a double …”

  “No it wasn’t!” I shouted even more loudly. “I paid £105 to get the damn thing out of the Vauxhall Bridge Pound less than half an hour ago, and I’ve just seen it being driven off by a joyrider while I was making a phone call.”

  “Where are you, sir?”

  “In a phone box on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Warwick Way.”

  “And in which direction was the car traveling when you last saw it?” asked the voice.

  “North up Vauxhall Bridge Road.”

  “And what is your home telephone number, sir?”

  “081 290 4820.”

  “And at work?”

  “Like the car, I don’t have a job any longer.”

  “Right, I’ll get straight onto it, sir. We’ll be in touch with you the moment we have any news.”

  I put the phone down and thought about what I should do next. I hadn’t been left with a great deal of choice. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Victoria, and was relieved to find that this driver showed no desire to offer any opinions on