Yaxley Farcett was in his flat at 25B Main Street, Barnham cooking breakfast. He had left Ealham Police Station the previous evening, had a hot bath on his return and the luxury of an early night. After Graham Trent's statement, that he had left Cauliflower Drove just as an apparently drunk Reg Dixon had staggered across a field to talk to John, he felt that he had taken things as far as he could for one day.
The problem was, he didn't believe a word Trent said. John Worthington had told him that he would sooner kill himself than Dixon. And Yaxley believed him. After filling his plate with bacon and scrambled eggs, Yaxley flicked his radio on. It was still tuned to Gasbag 109 from the previous day. It appeared that they only had one DJ, as the abrasive tones of Sidney Prince filled the room as Yaxley sat down to enjoy the wonderful aroma of freshly grilled bacon. 'Ok.. you're boring me now. Go away person who wanted to be on the radio!' he barked at a poor caller that was only trying to plug their bring and buy sale. 'Who's next on Gasbag ?...You'd better make it interesting. Our ratings are dying with saddo's like that last caller hogging the line'. Once more, a synthesised voice came out of the ether. But with a difference. This time the Stephen Hawking sound a like was confessing to the murder of a woman in Suffolk, whose body had been found a week previously.
'Is that you again Keith' shouted Sid Prince...'Now listen mate' he said becoming serious, 'Can you speak to me off air ? I'll play a CD and we can chat...You need help Keith. How many people do you think you've got rid of this week ? Stay on the line mate..You're sick. You need help'. Yaxley glared at the radio and realised that he had been led up the garden path by being a newcomer to the area. He finished his breakfast and rang Gasbag 109. After giving his details he was put through to Sid Prince, who unsurprisingly, was an extremely nice man off-air. He explained to Yaxley that Keith Shedd was a serial confessor. He regularly rang Gasbag and also had a habit of turning up on live TV audience participation programmes. The subject could be inflation, pollution or War in the Balkans but as soon as the microphone was pointed at Keith Shedd he would start saying that he had Shergar in his garage or that he had shot John Lennon. Security would cart him away...until the next time. Yaxley sighed, put the phone down and drew a line under that particular avenue of enquiry.
After washing up and tidying his room for the first time, Yaxley phoned Fiona Morgan and arranged to pick her up to have a walk around Ealham. Farcett was determined to have a normal day. John Worthington could wait until Monday. Just as he was about to turn off the radio, Sid Prince began the news bulletin. With his hand paused above the off switch Yaxley listened, as it would only be the usual two minute round up. The last item caused him to remove his hand from the switch and scratch his head. Prince revealed that a minor scandal had rocked the small village of Barnham as allegations of fraud had been made about local MP, Cedric Morgan and mentioned Thompson's Wood. 'Trent !' thought Yaxley. The bastard is retaliating first. Obviously has media friends at the radio station.
He picked Fiona up at her parent's house. Diplomatically, she was waiting outside, ignoring the attentions of the two reporters that had already turned up. Cedric Morgan stood on the doorstep shouting at the photographer to get off his property or he would be calling the police. Fiona climbed into Farcett's Escort and they left, leaving the Morgan's to do the doorstep show of solidarity that newspapers love. Pity the poor politician's wife having to pledge allegiance to the oily lying bastard that has been cheating on her ever since he learnt how to fiddle an expense account and operate a trouser press.
Fifteen minutes later and the couple were strolling round in the warm sunshine near the cathedral. It dawned on Yaxley that there were a lot of smartly dressed people around, many sporting cloaks and mortarboards. 'I know I'm being thick Fiona, but what's going on ?' 'It's the Open University Graduation Day. They hold it here most years. There'll be about seven hundred people getting their degree's today'. 'Ah...I remember' replied Yaxley. 'Isn't your dad going to be here ?' Fiona grimaced. 'Yeah, If they let him out of the house. He's presenting an award from the government department he's on. The silly old prat really has got himself in it this time. They'll follow him over here and hound him until they get a story'. Yaxley stopped her and said seriously, 'Wouldn't you rather be at home.He may need you'. Fiona clasped his hands, 'Yaxley...He's thick skinned, You don't get where he is without being like a rhino. Anyway, I don't agree with any of his politics, he's got to look after himself on this one'.
They passed a group of Barnham 'Broom Dancers' that were performing some strange manoeuvres over a couple of brooms like an arthritic river dance when a be-cloaked man walked up to Fiona and beamed. 'Oh You do look the part Jim. Hope it goes well for you'. The man thanked Fiona and moved on with his wife. 'Who was that Fi ?' asked Yaxley. 'That's Jim Floyd. He's getting his degree in Astro Physics today. He's a bit eccentric. A couple of years ago he was put on probation for killing a cat'. Yaxley frowned, 'Go on then...why did he kill a cat' 'Well' explained Fiona, 'He had this theory. If you pick a cat up a throw it in the air. It'll always land on it's feet. Right ?' Yaxley nodded. 'Well there's another theory that if you drop buttered toast on the ground it always lands buttered side down..right again ?' Yaxley nodded once more. 'Well' continued Fiona, 'Jim got hold of his next door neighbours kitten, strapped toast on it's back and threw it off the top of the cathedral !!'
