Sunday, February 01, 2009
It was unusual for the police to knock on the door of Laverstone Manor. Unusual in that Harold would normally be warned of their arrival a good ten or fifteen minutes in advance – plenty of time to hide anything suspicious.*
“Can I help you?” he said, his voice an accidental falsetto.
“Mr. Harold Waterman?” asked Sergeant Mike Brandsford.
“You know me, Mike,” said Harold. “What’s up?”
“Are you the registered keeper of a green van, registration BET 5Y?”
“You know I am. Betsy’s my PJ.”
“Pride and Joy.”
“Ah.” Mike took out his pocketbook. “You’ve been driving it without a valid Road Taxation Licence.”
“It’s vintage,” said Harold. “Exempt.”
“No, My Waterman,” Mike handed Harold a slip of paper. “The plate is vintage, but the van is only two years old. Here’s you summons. Good night.”
*Not that Harold intentionally did anything illegal, but sometimes the imps did and it was difficult to pin the blame on invisible, supernatural beings.