LITMIR.BIZ

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your interest: while nobody was willing to admit to having had a letter stolen during the theft, two people were determined to make it publicly known that the letters written in their names were not penned by their own hands (the first, Rita Bramwell, as mentioned previously; the second, Tom Augustine, whose letter about a little incident at the public toilets I found especially informative, Rog – if deeply unedifying).

      A final, brief aside, Rog: I couldn’t help remarking on how many letters had been sent on the day of the robbery. The number seemed unusually high in these text- and email-friendly times (even taking into consideration the pre-Christmas rush). I was about to launch some half-cocked investigations re The Royal Mail (Consignia, et al.) when PC Hill happily set my mind at rest on the issue.

      It transpires that an extremely attractive, young lady – Nina Springhill – has recently started work in the post office, and, since her employment there, the volume of post being sent from the village has significantly increased (not only that, but an unprecedented number of pensioners – all male – have reverted to the traditional way of receiving their bi-monthly pay-outs: at the counter, as opposed to having it paid directly into their bank accounts).

      I was only too happy to check the veracity of this tip-off myself, Rog, a week or so back, when I dropped into the PO to buy a book of stamps (in fact I bought three – two more on successive visits) which Sandy later came across – on wash day – while going through my pockets.

      When I staggered home from work that night, there they all were, formally arranged on the kitchen table, like pieces of evidence – in fact I think there may have been five of them, in total – and Sandy standing next to them, pointing, with a face like thunder, demanding to know who I was planning to write to, and why.

      (I mean all this fuss and nonsense over seven little books of stamps, Rog! Whatever next, eh?!)

      So that’s pretty much the sum of it, Rog. I do hope my paltry insights have proved moderately useful as I step graciously aside – severing the spell-binding umbilical of this case once and for all – and redirect my energies to solving Skipton’s ever increasing backlog of run-of-the-mill murders, arsons, rapes, indecent assaults etc. (and, of course, in case I ever get too smug and complacent: the perennially fascinating mystery of Mrs Compton-Rees’s nomadic recycling bin; they found it in Hurston on Friday, then, on Sunday, a bemused call from the Laundromat in New Leasey…).

      Hush, my boy! Hush! What’s that I hear? Is it the trusty rattle of Mrs Spokes’s tea trolley?

      Before it arrives, Rog, I should probably alert you to the fact that Timmy Dickson, our main suspect for the crime (this type of activity is right up his street, Rog – or should I say ‘right up his back alley’, Rog? Arf! Arf!), has a perfect alibi. He was bedridden in hospital in Leeds that week, after his electronic tagging device rubbed up against the delicate flesh of his calf, generated a blister, and provoked a nasty case of cellulitis (transpires he’s allergic to penicillin, Rog, and blew up like a balloon when they pumped him full of the stuff!).

      Fishing Saturday week, Rog? It’s been too long! How are your shifts? I’m free in the p.m. from one, if that’s any good to you. The following week I’m thinking of heading off to Royal Dornoch for a round or two (they say it has the same latitude as Moscow!) with Richard Usbourne (always useful to have a shrink handy on the links, eh, Rog? Although in your case, a pathologist might be more in order!).

      I do think I’ve earned it, Rog, all things considered. PC Hill’s little problem put the kibosh on me joining Sandy on her annual pilgrimage to County Wicklow to lay flowers on her father’s grave (I was planning to join her for the first time this year – possibly taking the opportunity of popping in on Druid’s Glen, afterwards, on the sly!). Sandy’s still bearing quite a grudge after making the trip on her own.

      When I mentioned that I might be heading off to Royal Dornoch over breakfast this morning (which, for the record, I made myself – there’s still quite an atmosphere of rancour in the house over the ‘stamps issue’), Sandy suggested that I might enjoy ‘taking a short trip up my own backside’, instead, then added, as a vague afterthought, ‘Although that might be a little difficult, Laurence. I’m not sure if you’ve actually returned from the last one yet.’

      Ho ho!

      The truths we speak in jest, eh, Rog?

      All the best,

      Sergeant Laurence Everill

      PS To touch, Rog: tango, tangis, tangit, tangimus, tangitis, tangunt…

      PPS Hmmn. A lovely warm slice of Treacle Spice Tray-bake and a steaming mug of tea! Yes. That’ll do nicely, thanks.

       [letter 1]

      For the exclusive attn of

      Ms Linda Withycombe –

      Environmental Health Technician,

      Wharfedale District Council

      The Retreat

      Saxonby Manor

      Burley Cross

      21.12.2006

      Dear Ms Withycombe¹,

      Here is the information as requested by yourself on Friday, December 19, during our brief conversation after the public meeting re ‘the proposal for the erection of at least [my itals] two new mobile phone masts in the vicinity of Wharfedale’. (I don’t think it would be needlessly optimistic of me to say that the ’nay’s definitely seemed to have the best of things that day² – so let’s just hope those foolish mules³ at the phone company finally have the basic common sense to sit down and rethink what is patently a reckless, environmentally destructive and fundamentally ill-conceived strategy, eh?)

      Might I just add (while we’re on the subject of the meeting itself) that I sincerely hope you did not take to heart any of the unhelpful – and in some cases extremely offensive – comments and observations made by the deranged and – quite frankly – tragic subject of this letter: Mrs Tirza Parry, widow⁴ (as she persists in signing herself in all of our correspondence; although on one occasion she signed herself Mrs Tirza Parry, window, by mistake, which certainly provided we long-suffering residents of The Retreat with no small measure of innocent amusement, I can tell you).

      Because of her petite stature, advanced years and charmingly ‘bohemian’ appearance (I use the word bohemian not only in the sense of ‘unconventional’ – the white plastic cowboy boots, the heavy, sometimes rather coarse-seeming⁵, pagan-style jewellery, clumsily moulded from what looks like unfired clay⁶, the pop-socks, the paisley headscarves – but also with a tacit nod towards Mrs Parry’s famously ‘exotic’ roots, although, as a point of accuracy, I believe her parents were Turks or Greeks rather than Slovaks, Tirza being a derivation of ‘Theresa’, commonly celebrated as the Catholic saint of information which, under the circumstances, strikes me – and may well strike you – as remarkably ironic. NB I am just about to close this scandalously long bracket, and apologize, in advance, for the rambling – possibly even inconsequential – nature of this lengthy aside. Pressure of time – as I’m sure you’ll understand – prohibits me from rewriting/restructuring the previous paragraph, so it may well behove you to reread the first half of the original sentence in order to make sense of the second. Thanks), Mrs Parry has it within her reach to create, if not a favourable, then at least a diverting first impression during fledgling social encounters (I remember falling prey to such an impression myself, and would by no means blame you if such had been your own). There is no denying the

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