No Arrest Record
In which everybody overreacts completely correctly...
The atmosphere inside Charles Cross police station had changed completely.
The broad-faced polecat sergeant had disappeared through a side door carrying the copy of the Daily Gerbil. Radios crackled somewhere deeper in the building. Another officer was already taking notes from Hedgehog while a second typed rapidly at a terminal without looking up.
Nobody was humouring anybody anymore.
Octavia Briefcase stood beside the custody desk, very still, watching the station’s Bank Holiday indifference vanish. She turned sharply to Hedgehog. “Call the Bluestocking,” she said. “Now.”
In the Bluestocking, Maud snatched up the phone. “Hedgehog? Have you got Gosie?”
“No.”
The single word changed the atmosphere of the pub at once.
“What’s happened?
“Maud,” Hedgehog said, “there’s no arrest record.”
At the Bluestocking, the pub fell silent. Even the Choirbils had stopped singing.
Maud froze. “What do you mean,” she said, “there’s no arrest record?”
Hedgehog’s voice crackled faintly down the line beneath the distant sound of radios and traffic. “I mean Gosie was taken by people pretending to be police.”
For one long moment nobody in the Bluestocking moved at all. Then Gubbins whispered, “The sea has got her.”
Instant pandemonium.
“I KNEW IT WOULD BE THE SEA.”
“WE SHOULD NEVER HAVE TRUSTED WATER.”
“GOSIE’S BEEN TAKEN BY SMUGGLERS.”
One Choirbil burst into tears so dramatically that two others had to support her onto a bar stool while continuing to cry themselves.
“IS IT PIRATES?”
“IT IS NOT PIRATES,” Maud snapped. Nobody listened.
“THEY’VE DEFINITELY TAKEN HER TO INTERNATIONAL WATERS.”
“THAT’S HOW JURISDICTION WORKS.”
“THEY’VE DEFINITELY WEIGHTED HER DOWN.”
“WITH CHAINS.”
“AND ANCHORS.”
“THE SEA IS FULL OF MURDER.”
“IT IS NOT MURDER,” shouted Maud, even though she was not entirely certain herself.
“Hedgehog,” Maud said, “what happens now?”
“Well,” said Hedgehog, “we start a search. But on a hot Bank Holiday Saturday with half the South West wandering about eating ice cream, where exactly do you begin?”
A shriek sounded faintly down the line. Maud frowned. “I can hardly hear you. What’s all that noise?”
“Screeching gulls,” she said. “They’ve been bothering us since we arrived.”
From a windowsill near the Bluestocking front door, @Chickadeeinme listened with increasing concern. She suddenly sat bolt upright. No. The answer was obvious.
She flew out of the Bluestocking to the waterfront in Portland, muttering darkly about time zones and the regrettable limitations of tiny wings. Calling in at Free Range Fish and Lobster, hard by Becky’s Diner on Commercial Street, she ordered one extremely large Maine lobster to be mailed express delivery to Kevin and Steve in Plymouth.
“It’ll take them so long to work out how to get the meat off that bugger,” she chortled, “that it will totally shut them up for a few hours.”
As Chickadee arrived back at the Bluestocking, Maud ended the call and looked around the pub. “All right,” she said. “I was wrong.”
That got their attention.
“I said earlier that we did not need an international rescue operation.”
Several gerbils nodded tearfully.
“We now need an international rescue operation.”
Three gerbils began applauding.
“I TOLD YOU WE NEEDED THE ROPE.”
“THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT THE SEMAPHORE FLAGS WERE FOR.”
“THIS IS WHY I LEARNT KNOTS.”
One Choirbil cried even harder with vindication.
“All right,” said Maud suddenly. “Lanterns. Rope. Medical supplies. Get everything down to the dock. Move. NOW. If Gosie’s out there somewhere, we are not sitting here waiting for the tide.”
The Bluestocking erupted into motion.
Gerbils sprinted in all directions carrying entirely disproportionate quantities of rope. A capybara thundered past with three lifejackets and what appeared to be a harpoon. Somebody began packing emergency Tunnocks. Two Choirbils attempted to carry a crate significantly larger than either of them while continuing to cry. Near the stairs, a badger was arguing passionately for the inclusion of soup.
Then Maud stopped speaking.
Beyond the open doors, the dock lay empty beneath the harbour lights.
The galleon had gone.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/no-arrest-record