Chapter Twenty
After a short tea break of an hour and a half, during which Enid remonstrated with Pluck over his handling of the suspects, eliciting protestations followed by grudging promises to henceforth exhibit the kindest facet of his many-faceted persona, the interviews were resumed. Danny Drig, eldest of the Drig children, walked in and sat in the chair. He stared, openly, at Pluck, with no sign of respect for the inspector’s authority anywhere visible on his orange little face.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pluck moaned, and turned away. He rang the bell. Larry appeared. “Bring them all in,” Pluck ordered him, with reference to the Drig children, “the whole snotty brood.” Soon, the five remaining Drigs—in decreasing order of age, Charlie, Doobie, Eric, Betsy and Bo—marched in. They stood before the table; their shadows fanned out across the floor like a row of Russian dolls.
“We don’t have chairs for all of you,” said Pluck, “so remain standing and answer my questions quickly and honestly and you can go. Do you understand?”
They nodded, a little.
“Good. Now, then—who’s the oldest one? You, I suppose,” he pointed at Danny.
“That’s right.”
“Call me ‘sir’, you little shit.”
“Call him ‘sir’ or I’ll kill you!” screamed—who else?
“Now, where were you on October the third, three years ago?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Shut it, you little freak, if you want to leave this room alive. Where were you on October the third, three years ago?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I advise you to change your answer, and quick, too.” Pluck sighed, stood up and went around to the other side of the table. He sat down in the boy’s lap; the boy protested, audibly, and wriggled, and tried to throw him off; Pluck continued: “I want you to think, and think hard. Where were you, and your ragamuffin, idiot siblings, on that night three years ago? Think, blast you, think! That little one, the youngest—what’s his name?”
“Bo,” Danny squirmed.
“All right, Bo, the stupid ingrate who shits in corners—where was Bo three years ago?”
“He hadn’t yet been born”—it came from Betsy, the sole girl of the Drig horde, from her place in the line. Appalled, Pluck got up from Danny’s lap and walked over to her.
“What did you say?” he asked her.
“I said he hadn’t yet been born.”
“Go fuck yourself. Where was Bo on October the third, three years ago?”
“I tell you he hadn’t been born.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Where was he?”
“He’s just turned two, so he wouldn’t have even been in my mummy’s belly.”
“Fuck you. Answer the question. Where was he?”
She considered. . .the light from the fire coated her thoughtful face with a sheen of activity, playful flashes flickering. . .and finally shrugged, and answered: “A holding-pen in the Mind of God for unincorporated souls yet to be assigned a realisable existence on Earth?”
“Yes!” Pluck gasped. “Yes, you may have got it—we’re finally getting someplace! Yes!” He knelt down to her level, patted her head, and stared into the fire. “Yes. . .now, child, you bright young thing you, can you tell me where he wasn’t on that very same day?”
“You mean—” She looked at him, scrunching up her nose. “Earth?”
“Yes, yes, good, but where—where on Earth—specifically?”
She shrugged again. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“That’s right, that’s right—but where, specifically?”
“I can name lots of places—hundreds.”
“That’s right, my child. Wonderful. Ask at the front desk for paper—as much as you need—tell them Inspector Pluck sent you—and drown them in ink until you’ve listed them all.”
“All the places Bo wasn’t?”
“That’s right. Any other questions?”
She squinted at him. “What happened to your eyelashes?”
“Excellent question, dear, excellent question,” he chuckled. “It so happens that they froze when I went skiing out there in that rotten cold weather. Then, when I came inside and fancied an hors d’oeuvre, I broke them off, one by one, to use for spearing my olives. Isn’t that funny?”
She giggled. “It is.”
He hugged her. “I knew you’d understand. You, and you alone, my darling. Any other questions?”
“May we play with that dog?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid that’s up to Sam’s owner, Monsieur Bartoff. Bartoff, what do you say?”
“Of course!” he laughed, and threw the dog at the child; she caught it, barely, and managed not to fall down. The children played on the floor with the dog for a long time, while Pluck and Bartoff, sitting on the carpet themselves, watched them and exchanged pleasant observations about the innocence of children and animals, and Enid kept babbling about the need to acquire evidence for the investigation, but was ignored. When the bell sounded for supper, Pluck decided, within his gut, that hunger was a more pressing concern than further appreciation of childhood innocence, and so stood to see the little ones out.
“Now hurry off to the front desk and get that paper. And take your idiot brothers with you. Bye-bye, now. Bye-bye!”
“You may play with Sam anytime you like!” promised Bartoff.
“Thank you, Inspector!” called Betsy as she left.
“Goodbye, precious child. Goodbye.”