Poirot is a hero

 

One day, Poirot went missing. He occasionally absconded for a day or so, usually when the nights were short and the hormones raging, but he had never been away for three nights in a row. Barry and Aggie scoured the streets; Aggie muttering when the slow-moving tourists would not get out of the way of her wheelchair.

‘Make way! Make way! Crippled coming through! Oh, for fuck’s sake, get your arse in gear, woman! I’d like to get there before Christmas!’

It was futile. After two days of searching, Barney stuck little notes on lamp posts.

‘Missing! Have you seen Poirot?’ With one of the nicest photos of Poirot he could find. Well, anyway, one where the cat wasn’t poised to sink his teeth or his claws in an unsuspecting leg.

The staff and the residents in the care home were quietly hopeful that Poirot would not return. When the staff made moves to get rid of the paraphernalia of cat owners – the litter tray and the tin opener- Aggie had to use all her powers of persuasion (and some choice language) to keep them from doing that.

So far, the summer had been very hot and dry. On evenings the residents sat outside, warmly wrapped and sweating in blankets and hats, fearful that the temperature would suddenly drop, and they would all die from the common cold. Barney and Aggie sat at a distance from the rest. Barney had smuggled in a half bottle of vodka and the pair got quietly sozzled on vodka and lemonade. Suddenly there was a commotion in the shrubbery. They heard a familiar screech and Poirot emerged. He hissed at the residents who tucked in their extremities in fear and flung himself on Aggie’s lap.

‘Poirot! Where have you been? Ugh, you’re minging. Get off me and get washed’ Aggie noticed paint splatters in Poirot’s fur. Mint green, or, as she usually referred to any green colour: vomit green. ‘You poor thing. Barney, shift your arse. He needs a wash.’

A little unsteady on the legs, Barney fetched a basin, got a bottle of Lynx and primed the garden hose.

For the next ten minutes, Poirot was very vocal in his disapproval, but after a good rub-down and a bowl of nibbles, he calmed down. Poirot was back, but where he had been, was a mystery. They were not able to get all the paint out. Aggie cut our the worst blobs with nail scissors.

The next morning at breakfast, Aggie was nursing a slight hangover. She wasn’t in the best of moods. One of the other residents, a woman with an English accent that could cut glass, was loudly complaining about the care staff. Oblivious to the fact that the staff was serving breakfast and so could hear every word, she deplored the fact that many of the people who cared for her, were not, in fact British. Or white.

‘Don’t you agree?’, she looked around to find support. Some of her table mates were nodding, some looked away embarrassed. ‘They are all very nice and all, but you can’t even see whether their hands are clean! And I often can’t understand them, their English is so bad, and they are muttering in French to each other.’ One of the care staff, who was from the Democratic Republic of Congo, heard every word. She averted her eyes and slunk away from the table. Aggie had heard the exchange. Nothing wrong with her hearing.

‘He! Excuse me! Yes, you! When you sit on the bog and she wipes your sorry ass, she doesn’t need to be a polyglot, does she? Anyway, she speaks French, the language of culture, a few tribal languages and enough English to get by. “Et vous, madame conasse, parlez vous Francais? Oder Deutsch?” No? I thought so.’

The woman glowered, but Aggie had a dangerous expression on her face, so she backed off.

Later that day, the staff member approached Aggie, ostensibly to offer her a cup of coffee.

‘You are police, no?’ she said.

‘Not anymore hen. Why? Do you need help?’

The woman didn't reply.

‘What's your name love?’

‘Masika. That means “soir”, or “evening.”’

‘Well Masika, it doesn't look like I am going anywhere anytime soon. If you need any help or information just let me know. I can keep a secret and I still have some contacts in the right places.’

Just then the care home manager, a thick-set man of around forty with little hair and too many bits of golden jewellery came in.

‘Everything alright here? Any complaints? Anyone? Good, Good. Don't want you ladies to be unhappy here. That would screw up the five star reviews. Now, Masika, you are on kitchen duties from now on.’

‘Yes, Mr McLean. May I know why? People unhappy?’

‘No, no, nothing like that, Masika, it is just that missus Hollingworth-MacDougal- Smith enjoys having a conversation with Maria. That’s all.’

And he swept out of the common room, leaving behind a cloud of insincerity and expensive aftershave. When Masika tidied Aggies cup she said: ‘Auntie, my sister Imeni works in the new waffle shop. Have you tried it?’

‘Not yet. Thanks Masika.’

So that afternoon Barney pushed Aggie around the corner to a small terrace. The sign said: ‘Belgian waffles. Simply the best.’  Poirot had hitched a lift on Aggie’s lap. At Aggie’s request, they choose a table out of earshot. The menu offered waffles of any kind, from the simplest with only a dusting of icing sugar to grand towers with fruits, ice cream, nuts and more. The waitress came out. She bore a strong resemblance to Masika.

‘Are you Masika’s sister?’

‘I am she said. I am Imeni and Masika has told me about you. You police?’

‘Well, Imeni, why don't you pretend going through the menu with us and tell us what the matter is. I may be able to help.’

She was quick to take up on the deception. She picked up the menu and went slowly through it with her finger.

‘I have no passport. I'm illegal. Are people like us arrested? Send back? No money. My sister and I work for little money and little food.’

‘Were you trafficked here?’

‘Traffic? Man came and put us in small boats. Crossing Channel. Very bad. Then all the way in dark bus to Scotland. We get a choice of work as a sex lady or work like this. Sex lady has more money. But we don't want to sleep with men for money.  We work hard, little sleep. No money, first pay off the costs of the journey.’

Then the manager came out. He bore a striking resemblance to the care home manager, including the aftershave. He saw Poirot and his eyes narrowed. Poirot hissed and put his back up.

‘Any problems here folks?’

‘Not at all,’ said Barney. ‘Your member of staff is going through all the allergens with us. Excellent service. We will both have the strawberries and cream, thank you.’

The waffles appeared. Barney had just enough time to ask Imeni to write down her phone number.

‘Phone not safe,’ she said. ‘Wait.’

Poirot was eying up the waffle. Tentatively he stretched out a paw. He touched the cream and got a big blob on it. He looked at it as to admire the white cream against his jet-black fur, then licked his paw clean. When he tried again, Barney gave a smack on his paw.

‘That’s ours, you greedy animal.’

Des despite the oily manager Aggie and Barney enjoyed their waffles.  Aggie asked for the bill. She tapped the card against the machine, again marvelling at the technology that made spending money so much easier.

Emeni asked: ‘would you like to the receipt? Aggie was about to decline but when she caught Emeni’s eye she said: ‘yes please.’

She got the receipt with an address scribbled on it.  61 Meadow Close.

‘Barney, it is time you step up, son. I would look like a fecking nun in a gambling den. You just look sleazy enough to play the part. Go and investigate. See you tomorrow. Bring booze.’

Aggie couldn't sleep with her window closed. Every night, come hail or shine, she opened it wide, enjoying the fresh sea air permeating her room. Though strictly forbidden, Poirot was slipping in through the window, nestling himself on Aggie’s bed. The arrangement suited both. The presence of the cat made Aggie feel less lonely. Poirot just wanted a warm body.

For some reason, she woke up in the middle of the night. Poirot was gone. She felt more than she saw that her room door was being opened. Someone entered her room without announcing they were or why they came in. Aggie felt the hairs on her neck standing up. This person had no good intentions. Aggie still had considerable upper body strength, but she had nothing beside her bed to defend herself with. She pretended to be asleep, hoping that the surprise would give her a slight advantage. Whoever it was they didn't come to rob her. The figure tiptoed straight to Aggie's bed. She could smell aftershave and knew who had come into her room. Everything happened at the same time. The care home manager launched, Aggie screamed and sat up in bed. Then, out of nowhere, came a hissing and spitting black creature, all nails and fangs. Poirot attacked the man where he was most vulnerable: his baldy head. A screech, a scream, a snarl and the black-clad attacker fled the room.