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“Not at all, there was no answer.”
“Thank God,” Holms groaned gratefully.
“So I tracked down the number.”
“You did what?”
“Woman police constable who owed me a favour for services rendered,” I explained.
Holms jumped to the wrong conclusion. “I don't want to hear about it.”
“Medical services! She looked up the number and it belongs to a Mr James Henderson.”
It was the first time I’d managed to truly surprise my friend. “Henderson?” he exclaimed.
“I think our chap has kidnapped himself,” I almost giggled.
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“Don't you see, Holms, it's a publicity stunt.”
Holms shook his head at my idiocy. “What kind of publicity stunt doesn't want publicity? You heard Alexander’s instructions to us.”
But I had thought the thing through a little deeper than Holms imagined. “A publicity stunt organised by Jimmy Henderson to increase his value to his club.”
“How fiendishly devious. And he's had us running around like a pair of idiots.”
“It's the only logical answer. I rather think that's a large whisky you owe me, Holms.”
But Holms merely gave me a sardonic grin. “Not so hasty, Wilson, let us play this little game to the end. If Alexander receives any demands from Henderson then we'll know your theory is correct.”
“Of course it's correct, all the facts fit.”
“All the facts bar one, it's far too clever for a football player.”
This put-down of my sleuthing abilities was pushed to the background as Fergus Alexander appeared at our door.
“Mr Holms, Dr Wilson, there have been developments,” was his greeting.
“A demand from Mr Henderson perhaps?” I asked, perhaps a trifle over-eagerly, still bridling at Holms shooting down my theory.
“Wilson has a hypothesis that Henderson has faked his own disappearance in order to make inflated demands of the club,” Holms explained.
Alexander shook his head in dismissal. “No, no, lads, that's not a footballer's style. If they're looking for a bit extra they start a rumour that another club wants to buy them.”
Though crestfallen I asked, “So what are your developments?”
“Thing is, Liverpool have invited Jimmy to a charity function at Anfield.”
“Well, that's damned decent of them,” I remarked.
“Common courtesy, Doctor,” the manager added, “We'd do the same for their captain. Problem is, we don't have a Jimmy to send them.”
Holms grasped the implications immediately. “And if he fails to attend, the matter becomes public.”
“Exactly, but we can't just snub them.”