by Denis Byrne
Mrs. Pearson, never in her life having been stuck for words before, was dumbfounded. She wondered if she’d heard correctly, even though she was absolutely certain she had.
Dermot sat across from her looking totally at ease, as he smiled back at her angelically. There was something seriously the matter with his mind. There could be no other possible explanation. She’d heard of such cases in the past. Perfectly rational people suddenly losing their sanity within the blink of an eye.
Mrs. Pearson was certain it was something like that. She recalled reading of one unfortunate woman having to phone the emergency services to take her husband away to the local lunatic asylum. And it had happened at the breakfast table too. She’d just placed a boiled egg before him, when he abruptly demanded a second one to be balanced on top of the one he hadn’t even taken the top off, threatening that if she didn’t do it immediately, he’d burn the house down. Mrs. Pearson decided to try to get to the bottom of Mr. Pearson’s lunacy once and for all.
‘Dermot,’ she demanded as soon as she’d recovered her speech. ‘Are you feeling all right? Because if you are - -’.
‘I’m, feeling fine, dear, really I am. I’ve never felt better in my life. I’m feeling so well, I phoned work and told them I wouldn’t be coming in today. That’s how well I’m feeling.’ Mr Pearson informed her, deliberately hammering home how well he felt, just in case there was any misunderstanding as to his state of well-being. ‘And please pour me another cup of tea, if you’d be so kind. And be quick about it! Come along, hup-hup-hup!’
Mrs Pearson was so shocked at being ordered what to do, she automatically arose from the table and did as she was told. As she was fetching the teapot, she took a note of where the matches were on the dresser shelf and, as soon as she’d refilled Mr. Pearson’s cup, she made it her business to place them out of sight behind a row of plates.
She resumed her seat opposite Mr Pearson in silence, eyeing him surreptitiously from beneath her eyelashes as she pretended to sip some tea. This was dreadful altogether. There was no knowing what he might take it into his head to do next. He looked perfectly normal, thought considerably happier looking than she could ever recall seeing him before, but there was definitely something seriously wrong with his brain-box. There had to be.
Mrs. Pearson was considering what would be the best thing to do in the circumstances. Should she slap him a few times across the face to bring him to his senses? Grab him in a headlock and demand he apologise immediately for having the effrontery to speak to her in the manner he had?
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. How dare he! Telling her what to do! All that nonsense about her beloved gin! And hup-hup-hup! if you don’t mind! If she hadn’t been so surprised at being ordered to pour him more tea, she’d have emptied the milk jug over his head instead! And might still do it if he didn’t quickly come to his senses.
Yet, for all Mrs. Pearson’s mounting anger, she couldn’t help but have this niggling feeling that maybe Mr. Pearson really had gone crazy. She decided she wouldn’t pounce on him for at least another five minutes. Not until she’d investigated things more thoroughly. She’d pretend, no matter how difficult it was going to be, that her pipsqueak of a husband hadn’t said any of the things he had.
‘Dermot,’ she said, with what was for her a great deal of patience, deciding she’d start the conversation she’d commenced some time ago all over again, just to see if she’d imagined it all. ‘I had the most peculiar dream last night.’
‘Of course you had, dear,’ Mr Pearson said in the most maddeningly condescending way. ‘You were floating over the bed and spinning around in circles, not to mention imitating the pendulum of a grandfather clock.’ He gave her a wink the likes of which she wouldn’t have believed unless she saw it with her own eyes. ‘It’s about time you decided to take some exercise. After all, dear, you really could do with losing a good deal of weight.’
‘How – how – how - -’, Mrs. Pearson commenced to say, but couldn’t quite complete the question she wanted to ask, in her astonishment having hardly heard the allusion to how fat she was.
Mr. Pearson leaned towards her in a conspiratorial manner, tapping the side of his nose to convey he knew what she was trying to ask him, ‘It’s all right, dear,’ he said soothingly. ‘You don’t have to mention another word about it.’ Again he winked knowingly at her. ‘I’ve recently qualified as a professional mind-reader.’
‘Dermot!’ she screeched at the top of her voice, deciding that enough was enough, and that she was finally going to put him in his place once and for all, whether or not he had flipped his lid. ‘Shut up!’
‘Tsk-tsk-tsk!’ Mr. Pearson replied calmly. ‘You really should try and control that temper of yours. It’s definitely getting worse.’
‘That’s it!’ Mrs. Pearson bellowed, totally losing it, leaping up from her chair to once and for all put manners on her mouse of a husband. ‘I’ll show you what’s what!’
She came rushing around the table. Well, more wobbling than rushing, heading for her prey just about as fast as she could manage it. Mr. Pearson stayed where he was, smiling at her benevolently. His invention was balanced on his knee. He lifted it above the level of the table, then pressed the freeze button. Nothing happened. Mrs Pearson continued to close in on him. Mr. Pearson’s serenity evaporated and panic replaced it, surging through his bloodstream like wildfire. But his agility came to his rescue. Just as Mrs. Pearson reached out to haul him from the chair, he ducked beneath her hands, and went dashing out through the kitchen door, his legs all but buckling beneath him.
Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong! The words were fashing through his head as he fled. What can it be? What can it be? What can it be? As he was contemplating whether he should rush upstairs and lock himself in the bathroom, or head for the hall door and the safety of open space, it struck him.
He’d forgotten to insert the batteries after he’d removed them last night! He couldn’t believe he’d been so careless after all his meticulous planning. Only he was so nimble on his feet and Mrs. Pearson so ponderous, heaven knows what might have happened to him. He could be halfway into the electric blender by now if she’d caught him.
‘Dermot!’ Mrs. Pearson was puffing in his wake. ‘Co –me bac-k here th-is instant, you mis-er-ab-le li-tt-lle ex-cu-se for a man!’
Mr. Pearson tore up the stairs like a maniac. The batteries were lying on his bedside locker. The staircase was shaking as Mrs. Pearson trundled her way up after him, being slowed by the fact that she insisted on bellowing what she was going to do with him when she cornered him, something that was making her stop and gasp for breath every so often
Just as well, Mr. Pearson thought, as he slid the batteries into place with shaking hands. There were eight of them, and he only barely had the last one in when Mrs Pearson burst open the bedroom door almost in a state of collapse. Her face was like a ripe tomato, and even though she was snatching great draughts of air into her heaving lungs, she had a look on her face like a particularly pleased lioness who’d finally run down an elusive gazelle. She filled the entire width of the doorway, so there was no hope of the rebellious upstart escaping.
Mrs. Pearson waited until she’d regained some form of composure, all but licking her lips at the prospect of restoring her dominance over the wilting weed seated on the bed with what looked like a television remote control in his hand. As her breathing returned to what was normal for her, she was contemplating what sort of punishment would be the most appropriate for Mr. Pearson’s impudence. She was still finding it difficult to believe that he’d spoken to her as he had. And she was certainly going to discover how on earth he was able to tell her what she’d been dreaming about last night. Not to mention the fact that he’d dared phone the electronics plant and taken the day off work without first asking her permission.
But maybe that was all for the best. She’d have more time to hang him out the window by his ankles and shake the tr
uth out of him. But one thing was still bothering her. Yet again, Mr. Pearson didn’t seem in the slightest bit concerned. Just sitting there on the edge of the bed with that same insufferable look of confidence on his face, almost as though she wasn’t there at all waiting to get her breath back before chastising him.
Then the phone rang downstairs in the sitting room. ‘There’s the phone, dear,’ Mr. Pearson said rather unnecessarily. ‘Don’t you think we’d better answer it?’
‘Let it ring!’ Mrs Pearson snapped ominously, breathing more evenly now. ‘I’ve more important matters to attend to at the moment.’
‘Oh, no, dear,’ Mr Pearson said. ‘We couldn’t possibly do that. It might be important. I’ll get it.’ He stood up with the intention of doing as he’s said. ‘Now just get out of my way, there’s a good woman.’
That was it as far as Mrs. Pearson was concerned. Good woman, indeed! ‘Dermot!’ she screeched, lumbering towards him with all the determination she had at her disposal. ‘You’re not going anywhere until I’ve dealt with you!’
‘Oh, yes, I am, dear,’ Mr. Pearson informed her politely, aiming his invention and pressing the freeze button, stopping Mrs. Pearson in her tracks, caught comically in the act of reaching out to grab him in a bear-hug, one leg stretched out behind her as though she was about to compete in a hop, step and jump competition.
All she needed was a pedestal, and she’d have made one of the funniest looking statues in the world. Mr. Pearson skipped past her and nipped down the stairs to answer the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Minister for Justice was stalling for time. He had Matthew Dawson on the other end of the line. He’d been expecting a phone call, but not from Matthew.
He’d already had two calls during the last week from the kidnapper’s spokesman, a highly articulate man who’d laid out his demands with cold calculation. In the first call, the man said there was no question of negotiation. The Minister had been warned that any attempt at horse trading would be merely a waste of breath.
Five hundred million to be transferred to a secret bank account in a country that wasn’t at all interested in where their client’s wealth had come from. The bank in question could be relied on to deny access to anybody other than the account holder. They hoarded countless millions received by electronic transfer, destined for the accounts of criminals and tax-dodgers, shady businessmen and corrupt dictators. No questions asked, no fear of their ill-gotten gains being denied to them, or information being given to Interpol as to where it had come from.
Since the initial demand, the Minister had had his office fitted out with electronic tracking and recording devices in an effort to trace future incoming calls. Six senior Garda operatives, experts in the field of land-line and mobile tracking, were now installed in the Minister’s office, working in shifts around the clock, patiently awaiting the next phone call. Despite their expertise, they’d been unsuccessful in tracing the second one, the call in which the deadline for the ransom to be paid had been given. Otherwise, the caller had declared icily, the consequences for what befell the hostages would be on the Minister’s head. Their fates were in his hands.
The man had predicted the failure to trace his location even as he’d been talking to the Minister. He assured them he knew he was being monitored by so-called experts. His technology, he’d mockingly advised the listening officers, was so far ahead of theirs, that they may as well sit back and have a nice cup of tea while he gave his ultimatum. If they had tea-leaves in the bottom of their cups, he taunted them, they’d tell them more than their out-dated machines. And as for the mobile phone companies being able to assist, please, don’t make him laugh. He’d already spiked their surveillance apparatus where his own personal communication system was concerned. No point in even contacting them. Full stop.
Myles may as well have been in the room with them, listening to himself on their speaker-phone. The officers felt as though he was. And wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d also managed to have images of their downcast faces transmitted to him by means of satellite television while he was at it. Whoever he was, they realised that the man they were dealing with was far too clever for them. No matter how hard they toiled to run down his signals, all their efforts bounced back at them from the magnetic shield protecting his location.
Which, naturally enough, upset the Minister greatly. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the abductions. The media were slaughtering him, calling him every name under the sun, plus a few more while they were at it. The forthcoming election was continually in his thoughts, and he was having nightmares about it whenever he did manage a few hours sleep.
The future didn’t bode well for him if he didn’t manage to somehow turn the tide and bring the kidnappers to justice. And the prospects of doing that were several degrees below zero at the moment. The only small satisfaction he had was in berating the Chief of Police at every opportunity he got. If things didn’t look up, he’d yelled at Carter the last time he’d had him in his sights, the pair of them would end up busking in the town’s main shopping centre trying to earn a few euros.
But now, this phone call he’d just received from Matthew himself gave the Minister a faint ray of hope. He signalled to the officers manning the equipment to get to work as he told Matthew to hold on a minute. The Minister took his time in settling himself into his chair behind his desk, gesturing furiously in all directions, awaiting the thumbs-up signals from the officers to assure him that everything was up and running to start the trace. Taking a deep breath, the Minister placed the receiver to his ear and said, ‘Matthew, rest assured we’re doing everything possible to bring this dreadful business to a successful conclusion. Are – are you all right?’
Matthew’s weary voice came over the line, ‘I’m being well treated, if that’s what you’re asking. But this has gone on long enough, Minister. Pay them. Any previous agreement between us you can now consider null and void. I don’t care what happens to me, but my granddaughter’s welfare is at stake. If the money isn’t transferred in the next forty-eight hours, they’re – they’re going – going to shoot her. You’ve got to – to --.’
Then there was silence on the line.
‘Matthew, are you still there?’ the Minister asked anxiously, at the same time staring at the officers manning the tracking devices, his eyebrows arching in question marks to enquire if they were having any success. ‘Matthew, say something. Don’t hang up! Please!’
But the voice that answered wasn’t Matthew’s. It was the well-spoken man’s. ‘I’m afraid Mr. Dawson is a little overcome at the moment, Minister, but I presume you understood the importance of his message. Forty-eight hours. Otherwise - -’
Then the line went dead altogether. The Minister looked hopefully towards the police technicians, but all he saw confronting him were disappointed faces and headshakes of negativity. The Minister was grimacing like a deranged bull as he slammed the phone down with such force that he almost broke it. The officers glanced at one another knowingly. Carter was in for another hauling over the coals.
*
‘Hello!’ Mr Pearson said cheerfully after picking up the phone.
‘This is Superintended Clifford, Mr. Pearson. I wonder - -’
‘I’m afraid she’s not available at the moment, Superintendent. ‘Mr Pearson told him, assuming the Superintendent wanted to speak to his wife in relation to Danny and the alligator episode. ‘She’s doing some balancing exercises and doesn’t wish to be disturbed.’
The Superintendent was surprised to hear Mrs. Pearson went in for exercise of any shape or form and, indeed, was at a loss as to what on earth balancing exercises could possibly be. Not that he was particularly interested. ‘ It’s you I wanted to have a word with, Mr. Pearson . I rang the electronic plant, but they told me you were off sick today. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.’
‘I never felt better in my life, Superintendent,’ Mr. Pearson informed him. ‘As a matter of fact, if I did feel
any better, I don’t think I could stand it.’
‘Indeed,’ the Superintendent replied, wondering if Mr. Pearson had a high temperature after all. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Do you think you could come down to the station for a chat? I understand from a mutual acquaintance of ours you could be of great assistance to us.’
Mr. Pearson wasn’t too sure whether or not he liked the contents of that statement. It sounded as though he was being invited to assist the police with their enquiries. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is in connection with, Superintendent?’
‘I need your help, Mr. Pearson, and I need it urgently,’ the Superintendent said simply. ‘It’s to do with these awful kidnappings I’m sure you’ve been reading about in the papers.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Mr. Pearson replied promptly. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Before he left the house, Mr Pearson sneaked upstairs and glanced in the door of the bedroom. Mrs. Pearson was still as he’d left her, rigid as though she’d been dipped in a vat of starch. He casually aimed a beam at her, designed to unfreeze her in exactly seventy-two seconds. As he started the car, he thought he heard the sound of her toppling over onto the bed. He couldn’t be sure, though, over the noise of the engine.
*
Mrs Pearson wondered what she was doing stretched across the bed on her tummy. She was fully dressed, and felt light- headed. Beyond that, she couldn’t remember anything about the last hour or so.
*
Sergeant Neville hadn’t a notion what was going on. And the Superintendent wouldn’t enlighten him when he asked. All he’d been ordered to do was make sure the meeting taking place in the Superintendent’s office was not disturbed for anything. First to arrive had been Danny Dempsey, a parrot perched on his shoulder. Long John Silver wasn’t in it. Then Harrington sauntered in wearing jeans, trainers, and a black tee-shirt with skull and crossbones printed on it in a white design. All he was short of was a couple of gold earrings, a black patch over one eye, and a pirate’s hat to complete the outfit.
