Master & Mrs Baker

The screaming from within was somehow reassuring.

Not a bloodcurdling ‘I might have to run in and save someone’ scream. That could mean that our presence was actually required in a Policey-type role. As it wasn’t the 29th of February with a full moon out, I wasn’t expecting to hear one of these.

No, this was a ‘We can’t manage to sort out a minor dispute and are in need of someone sober with an IQ higher than their age to play referee’ type screaming. Made all the easier for everyone to hear by the front door being left open. Maybe this had been done in an attempt to fumigate the house. It wasn’t working. There’s nothing like the aroma of eau de chat pee on a sultry evening.

Resorting to my oft practiced breathing through my mouth technique we ambled over the sticky hall carpet towards the source of the noise. The retching noises from behind confirmed that today’s able assistant had missed that particular training school lesson.

The parlour cum bedroom cum dining room contained Mrs Baker, with more than enough facial hair to provide a covering for all four of her chins, Master Baker and at least twelve cats. Our appearance seemed to shock them into silence. Sadly it didn’t last long.

“Who the **** called you?”

Unwilling to answer her probing question with ‘Half the street’ as this would mean using my mouth for something other than breathing and therefore increasing the possibility of inhaling the stench through my nose, I beckoned for Master Baker to follow me back outside. I paused just long enough to give my able assistant a pitying glance.

“I didn’t do nuffing.”

Even without the double negative, the instant denial and the inability to look me in the eye confirmed that I had the guilty party. Now all I needed was a crime to make the Positive Arrest policy makers dance with joy.

This wasn’t long coming. In what must have been the fastest investigation in living memory, able assistant almost ran outside with some good news. We had an allegation of criminal damage. Wow! A real offence. This could mean promotion. Sadly, my dreams of being able to wear a cheap suit and garish tie to work were short lived.

“He ripped a loaf of bread to bits.”

The whole sorry tale came out then. Mrs Baker had sent her thirty-eight year old son on an errand with a portion of her hard-earned state benefits. A lifetime spent living under the same roof hadn’t been long enough for Master Baker to realise that mother was on a fibre avoidance diet. Granary bread just wasn’t allowed in the house. After being berated for this oversight, the youngster had destroyed the offending loaf in a fit of pique.

Unable to see how I was going to sneak this one past the custody Sergeant, it was time to consider the alternatives. Having confirmed that the offender still had some of his pocket money left he was despatched on his second errand of the day.

Able assistant seemed pleased at this course of action. I don’t know why. Someone had to go back in and get the rest of the details required for the crime report. Having pointed this out to him, I made my way back to our car.

I hoped he didn’t throw up.