Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (19 page)

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 truth 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.

T
he 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.

When Sergeant Neville got his dropped jaw back into place to ask him where he'd been for so long, Harrington added to his bewilderment by placing a finger to his mouth to indicate secrecy. Before he could be reminded he was being insubordinate to a superior officer, Harrington had disappeared in the direction of the Superintendent's office. The last to arrive was Mr. Pearson.

Neville groaned, wondering what that battleaxe of a wife of his had sent him to complain about
this
time, but before he could say a word, Superintendent Clifford came out to greet Mr. Pearson and usher him into his office as though he were a long-lost friend. Sergeant Neville was left scratching his head in puzzlement.

*

Harrington thought he was hearing things as Danny outlined the manner in which he'd received the message Aloysius had left on the door of his shack. Of course, he told himself, he shouldn't be surprised by anything any more. After witnessing Charlie transform into a dog, then hearing about Mr. Pearson saving his life when he fell off a pterodactyl, he supposed by this stage he should be capable of taking everything he heard in his stride where Danny was concerned.

But a dart-blowing stag convening a meeting of the woodland animals in response to Danny's request that any help he could get from them regarding the case would be appreciated. Well,
that
was a little hard to come to grips with. But the proof was there before Harrington's eyes in the form of the message lying on the Superintendent's desk, which had only minutes ago been read out to them. And it could just possibly be the break they'd been waiting for.

*

It was one of Mrs. Vixen's cubs who'd been the source of the information. Unwittingly, let it be said. Ferdinand was a handful at the best of times, but ever since he'd had his fortune told by Geraldine Gypsy Moth one day at a fete Madam Noseybeak had organised to raise funds for the recently widowed Wendy Wren, he'd become worse. He was missing whenever Mrs. Vixen wanted him to sweep out the den when it was his turn to do so. Even at meal times, when she called his name to come in, nine times out of ten, Ferdinand was nowhere to be found.

An unknown member of the wren community had been responsible for the death of Wendy's husband when a practical joke had gone disastrously wrong. Wilfred and a large number of his male friends had been on a night out to celebrate the forthcoming twig-lifting competition which was held annually. Wilfred had been victorious the previous year, hoisting several ounces more than any of the other competitors could manage.

No one knew how the celebrations got out of hand, but it was whispered that there was toad-licking involved. This had never been established one way or the other, as none of the wrens could remember anything about what had gone on after the first half-hour.

This was initially treated with scepticism. Herbert the hare voiced the opinion that a cover-up was taking place. Ollie the otter wheezed in agreement, while also informing all and sundry that he really should be in bed as he was suffering from a life-threatening bout of pneumonia at the moment.

Lie-detector tests revealed nothing one way or the other, and it was finally accepted that the general amnesia amongst those who attended the party was genuine. But the fact remained that Wilfred's wings had been super-glued to his body, resulting in him plunging to his doom from the topmost branch of an oak tree in which the celebrations were being held. It was taken as the truth that the culprit wasn't even himself aware his foolish prank had been responsible for Wilfred's demise.

The fete was a great success, and a wonderfully generous woodland community contributed handsomely to the fundraising. They felt so sorry for poor Wendy, they thought it was the least they could do after her terrible loss. Those who could, such as Geraldine Gypsy Moth, set up stalls and tents, gladly giving of their time and abilities in order to ensure Wendy and her fledglings would lack for nothing in the future.

Madam Noseybeak oversaw the whole thing with her usual impeccable organisational skills. She sifted through the various applications of those prepared to render assistance, passing some, discarding others, and leaving a number of disgruntled individuals wondering why their offers had been rejected.

Owen Owl's suggestion that a hooting competition be included was given short shift. Owen had proposed a substantial prize be awarded to the winner. Madam Noseybeak pointed out to him that as he was the one most likely to win it, she thought it was nothing but a self-serving ploy which was beneath contempt. Owen's outrage at the slur being cast on his integrity didn't impress those who heard it as being in any way genuine. They were well acquainted with Owen's acting talent, as his great grandfather had been the well known Shakespearian thespian, Sir Laurence Oily Owl.

Porcupine-juggling was also given the cold shoulder, as was the milk-drinking contest proposed by old Mr. Fantail. But there were more than enough events for everyone to enjoy.

And so it was that Ferdinand found himself in the queue for Geraldine Gypsy Moth's fortune-telling tent, just moments after he'd blown six unsuccessful darts at the board in Aloysius's stall. Aloysius had given a demonstration beforehand. He'd made it look simple to hit the required numbers to win a prize. Watching him, Ferdinand thought he'd have a go. But had he known how difficult it would be to get the necessary score, he'd have fashioned himself a telescopic sight to place on the blowing-reed beforehand.