by Chris Dolley
oOo
The next day came with an assertion by Nan that the only possible ‘non-dead day’ itinerary was a trip to Castlenau. Even the threat of indigenous toiletnappers couldn’t persuade her otherwise.
Gypsy cast her vote likewise. Staying in the house was a ‘dead day’ for dogs as well. Only Shelagh voted to stay at home but I wasn’t having any of that. If Nan and Gypsy were going then so was she.
A frank exchange of views ensued. She’s your mother. She’s your dog. No, she isn’t. Yes, she is.
Ten minutes later, the Great Detective, two willing passengers and one very unwilling one, set off for the Great Stakeout of Castlenau.
And twenty minutes after that, the Great Detective veered towards the ranks of the unwilling. He was hot, uncomfortable and having to drive with all the windows up. Not through choice, but because his dog had just told his mother-in-law that she didn’t want the windows down.
It was like driving with Sooty and Harry Corbett in the back seat.
“What’s that, Sooty? You feel a draught?”
Needless to say, no such exchange of views had taken place – Gypsy couldn’t care less whether the windows were up or down.
But Nan did. And being Nan, anything so direct as, “do you mind closing the window, I can feel a draught,” was totally out of the question.
Hence the invocation of the beast from Hell.
Well, two could play at that game.
I craned my neck back. “What’s that, Gypsy? You’ve changed your mind? You’re hot and want the window down?”
An elbow caught me in the ribs. Quickly followed by a hissed “Stop it!”
I drove for miles with my clothes sticking to the seat.
Summer in the Sud did not stop for October.
The car, however, never failed to stop for tight bladders.
“What do you mean, you need to go!” A pretty meaningless question even for a rhetorical one, but I was a hot, sticky driver on his way to meet Moriarty.
“I can’t help it,” replied Shelagh. “It’s something to do with the early mornings.”
And drinking two cups of coffee with breakfast.
“Why didn’t you go before we left?”
“I did!”
There’s not a lot else you can say after that. But a driver will always try. All drivers having an intrinsic urge to complete their journeys with the minimum number of stops.
“Can’t you hang on? We’re nearly there. It’s only another ten minutes to Castlenau.”
“Ooh you don’t want to go there. They don’t have proper toilets.”
Thank you, Nan. Only a hole in the ground or a bush tucked behind the end tables, I’d heard.
“Can’t we sit in a car for five minutes these days without the word ’toilet’ cropping up?”
“Gypsy probably needs to go as well.”
“Oh well, that makes everything all right then. Gypsy wants the windows up, Gypsy wants to stop, Gypsy wants a bottle of sherry!”
I snapped.
I was hot, my shirt was welded to the back of my seat, my imagination projecting images of imminent confrontations with an army of enraged David Jarvis ninja clones and all anyone could talk about were dogs and toilets!
It had to stop!
I declared the car a toilet-free zone. We would stop – this once – and then that was it. No further discussion to be brooked. No bushes located, no bladders allowed to tighten.
End of discussion. The driver had spoken.
oOo
The journey continued in silence, my mind alive with every permutation imaginable and some beyond even that. Where was the best place to take a picture from? Where should I park? What if David Jarvis’s car had photon torpedoes?
His office was on the side of one of the town squares. Other than market day, the square was a car park. Should I park there? Wasn’t that how they did it in films? Wind the window down and snap away as the suspect climbed out of his car?
Except with my luck the car in the next bay would pull out just as David Jarvis arrived. He’d park next to me. I’d fall over backwards onto the passenger seat in a desperate attempt not to be seen and shoot off twelve perfect close-ups of his right ear lobe.
So I decided against the town square and voted in favour of our usual car park.
First problem solved, next one located.
Our camera.
It was old. Almost as old as me. Not one of those modern point and click affairs but one of East Germany’s finest from the early Cold War era. I had to select the shutter speed, select the aperture, focus with the aperture fully open, stop it back down again, click and wind on. It took brilliant pictures. Of landscapes, nuclear missile silos and all things stationary. But a moving target?
I’d tried it several times with the cats. By the time I had a tail in focus, the whisker end had disappeared between my legs.
Best to keep the target at a long distance, I decided. At least twenty yards to make the focussing easier and hope he stood still long enough for me to get a few pictures off.
I tried a few practice focussing attempts on Nan’s back as she shot off towards the town centre. It’s amazing the speed an eighty year-old can clock up once the smell of the shops hits the nostrils. Shelagh set off in pursuit, leaving me alone with Gypsy who, now that Nan had left, had surprisingly little to say.
I left Gypsy in the car and slowly walked up the hill towards the old market square. Part of me excited, part of me wishing I was somewhere else. Perhaps he wouldn’t be there, perhaps he’d take the day off or be away visiting clients?
Or maybe he’d be lying in wait?
Imagination had given up writing reports. Glossy brochures had been ditched in favour of shouted warnings – get the hell out, come back tomorrow!
A few steps later, I entered the square. It was a typical old Gascon market square: lines of shops set back beneath protruding first floors supported by huge stone pillars, creating a protected walkway against sun and rain. The square in the middle – sometimes a car park, sometimes a sea of stalls and striped canvas.
Today, it was a car park. And very busy.
I positioned myself behind a pillar within sight of David’s office.
And waited.
If I’d been a tourist looking for a close-up picture of a church tower or an artist searching out subjects for a portrait, I’d have been fine. But I wasn’t. I was a private detective waiting to take clandestine snaps of a suspect and felt as though everyone knew it. I might as well have had a sandwich board with ’Detective on Stakeout’ writ large upon it.
And it was dangerous, wasn’t it?
People were killed these days for less than a pound. And if that was the going rate what would someone do for our nest egg – wipe out Eastbourne in a fit of pique?
I was trying to work out the population of Castlenau, when I saw his car.
Anticipation, fear, excitement. My heart may not have been in my mouth but it was close to my tonsils.
I watched him climb out of his car, only twenty yards away. I raised the camera, focussed, waited for him to turn his head ... and ... and...
He didn’t.
Not once.
It was back of the head all the way to his office door. Not even a look to his right as he crossed the road. Did this man not know his Highway Code?
What do I do now? Plan B – wait for twelve o’clock and lunch?
Or Plan C – scream so loud that he’d be forced to leave his office to see what all the noise was about?
A plan I had not been considering but an unexpected hand on the shoulder and a nose in the crotch can work wonders. The hand belonged to Nan and the nose to Gypsy. The result couldn’t have been more spectacular had the ownerships been reversed.
To say I screamed would do an injustice to the superb acoustics of the Castlenau covered walkways.
Unfortunately, even that wasn’t enough to tempt an estate agent from his lair.
Though easily enough to te
mpt Gypsy into a frenzied bout of high-pitched yipping.
I couldn’t have been more conspicuous if I’d spent the last ten years in constant preparation.
Why me?
I was on stakeout. Gypsy was supposed to be safely locked away in the car and Nan in the throws of a shopping frenzy. What had happened?
“Gypsy wanted a walk,” came the reply.
I could think of something else Gypsy wanted. But I’d drawn enough attention for one morning.
Luckily Nan caught sight of set of tea towels in a shop opposite and they both left.
Leaving me alone with my nerves. I could hardly keep the camera still.
I tried calming thoughts. I am not a suspicious character, I am invisible, at one with the pillar, no one can see me.
“Aaaarrrggghhh!”
Deja vu minus the nose in the crotch. Was my shoulder magnetised? Couldn’t anyone walk by without feeling impelled to grab it?
“How’s it going?” asked Shelagh.
“Great,” I replied. “Every five minutes I scream and all of Castlenau comes to a halt. Another half hour and I’ll become a tourist attraction – the screaming detective of Castlenau, you can set your watch by him!”
“You haven’t seen Nan, have you?”
“She’s with Gypsy.”
“Back in the car?”
“No, she’s taking Gypsy for a walk.”
It was Shelagh’s turn to scream.
“She’s what!”
Nan wasn’t that steady on her feet and Gypsy had a tendency to uproot anyone foolish enough to grab the other end of her lead. A rumour of a bare leg sighted in the neighbouring village or a pigeon flapping its wings three fields away – and she’d be off.
And now so was Shelagh.
I watched, powerless, as three figures moved between the pillars on the far side of the square: Nan, determined to prove she was still young and fit; Shelagh, determined to save her mother from being dragged across the town square and Gypsy, the most determined of the three, in search of a pack of giant Martian bunnies.
There’s something about imminent disaster that affects the space-time continuum. Everything slows down. You can watch it unfold but can’t do a thing about it. Time stretches into slow-motion action replay mode.
And memory captures it all.
As Gypsy approached a narrow alley off the market square her canine nose detected that which canine noses regard above all others.
Ah, the sweet smell of urine.
And brought to mind that old European proverb: a urinating Frenchman is worth two Martian bunnies any day.
Gypsy was away, dragging Nan into an unexpected and swift left-hand turn down the alley.
The man caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately recognised the warning signs: large dog approaching, teeth bared, old lady in tow.
Large Dog lunged forward, Old Lady screamed, Urinating Frenchman screamed.
Shelagh arrived.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t see much of what happened next. It was a only a small alley and easily filled by three people and a large dog.
I tried my telephoto lens.
Pointed ... and saw a familiar face cross my field of vision. It was David Jarvis. He must have left his office while I was distracted. Click, I had him. But had he seen Shelagh? I turned the lens back towards the alley. Unlikely. The current view of Shelagh was not one that normally adorned passports.
I turned the camera back to David, tracked him to his car, all the shots so far were in profile, if only he’d turn this way ... click. I had him, just as he turned to open his car door.
I stepped back behind the pillar and spent the next five minutes hoping he’d driven past and it was safe to come out. And wondering what was happening in a certain alley on the other side of the square.
Something, unfortunately, I’d never adequately ascertain.
A tight-lipped mother and daughter arrived back at the pillar. Shelagh firmly in control of Gypsy, the only one of the three who wanted to talk about the affair but lacking her usual band of telepathic channelers.
But I had a hunch there was at least one Frenchman who’d never use that particular alley again in a hurry.
I sighed. And assessed our morning’s work.
Again we had terrorised Castlenau. But the investigation had advanced. We had photographs.
And a thorough knowledge of all the best places to pee in Castlenau.
oOo
Driving back, my bladder was tightening by the minute. But I daren’t say anything after my earlier pronouncement. The car had been declared a toilet-free zone and a toilet-free zone it must remain.
So, I pushed the car faster. Swinging into bends and sending my rear seat passengers sliding into friendly piles against one window then the other.
“I don’t think Gypsy likes this,” said Nan.
I wasn’t too happy either.
Why do they design seat-belts to press on full bladders? I tried adjusting the tension, pulling some slack through and holding it there with my hand.
That didn’t work for long. I tried leaning forward, I squirmed, shuffled and hit the accelerator again.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
I’d had lessons from the master; no one was going to prise the word ‘toilet’ from my lips.
“What are you doing?”
More agitation in Shelagh’s voice this time. Has my husband been taken over? Is some alien creature about to explode from his chest cavity?
And why has he just unbuckled his seat-belt?
“Gypsy told me to.”
I tried changing the subject – pointing at anything strange that flashed past the windscreen. I tried to block all thoughts of bladders, tried a few bars of a song.
Nearly there, a few tyre-screeching turns, a quick acceleration and ... hit the brakes, open the car door and run.
I was into the house and running down the hallway before anyone else could move. Thank God for a house with five toilets.
Three Slim Blond Men
Less than an hour later we were all back in the car again, bladders empty and a film to process.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember how many pictures I’d taken in Castlenau, how many I’d taken before or what size of film I’d loaded. East Germany were not hot on such topics in the early sixties and although the camera had a picture counter, it never worked the way you’d expect – like adding one every time you took a picture.
Instead, it randomly rotated and reset itself at unexpected moments. I often wondered if I was missing a code book.
But we were well used to its idiosyncrasies and finished the film off with assorted pictures of the house, pets and Nan.
And then off we went to the Leclerc supermarket and hopefully one of those one hour development services.
Developing pictures is always a surprise in our family. Sometimes there can be as many as three years separating the first and last frames – strange pictures of people we’d almost forgotten, houses we’d stayed at, animals we’d known and hair I used to have.
One hour and a bit later, we ripped open the packet and there he was – a perfect rendition of David Jarvis. East Germany may not have been hot on user friendliness but they certainly knew how to build cameras.
oOo
Now, I’d seen my fair share of crime movies, and knew that detective don’t just hand over a single picture of the suspect and ask – is it him? They produce a selection – three or four people of similar appearance – and ask the witness to pick the perp.
We’d do the same.
Or at least that was the idea. Unfortunately a detailed perusal of our collection of photos did not produce many David Jarvis/Peter Kennedy look-alikes. In fact it didn’t produce many human look-alikes. Most of my pictures tended to be from office parties, where people were either in fancy dress or the final stages of inebriation – usually both. And Shelagh’s were almost entirely of animals. If David Jar
vis had been a rare-breed sheep or a red-eyed Tina Turner impersonator, we would have had a wealth of matches. Unfortunately he wasn’t, so we didn’t.
So I rang my sister and asked for a selection of slim, blond men.
“Aha.”
“It’s for an identity parade.”
“Of course.”
oOo
We drove over to Jan’s late that afternoon and swapped Nan for two slim blond men. I think hunting for toilets all day was veering towards a ‘dead day’ classification.
So, armed with our mobile identity parade, we set off towards Boulogne and its infamous hotel. Would we be able to find it?
I was confident. We may not have had a street map of Boulogne but what did that matter to a Great Detective? Boulogne couldn’t be that big. We’d drive around a bit, and if that failed, we’d ask someone. Ou est l’Hôtel du Midi didn’t even rate a script. We’d ad lib, what could go wrong?
Amazingly nothing.
We drove all the way to Boulogne without being stopped by a single gendarme or a faulty warp coil.
And once in Boulogne we quartered the town, driving slowly through its major thoroughfares.
No Hôtel du Midi.
We tried the less major thoroughfares.
Still no Hôtel du Midi.
Had it been stolen? Was it camouflaged?
We tried even smaller tracks, skirting the built-up areas and extending our search into the surrounding campagne.
And then we saw it.
The Hôtel du Midi.
I recognised it.
I’d been there before.
I could not believe it – and I am a person who has worn out those particular keys on my typewriter. But there I was, staring at the infamous address that had haunted our last fortnight and it was a place I’d visited only a matter of weeks previously!
I’d played football in the stadium opposite. It was a friendly against Boulogne and, as was the custom, after the match both teams had repaired to the home side’s local for free drinks.
