Chapter 64 In which the Old Bill start to investigate goings-on in Piddlebackside

"Mr Staedtler, Mr Staedtler." It was the voice of one of the office cleaners, trying to rouse John from what seemed like a very deep sleep, judging by his snoring. He was at his desk, head tilted back, and looked quite peaceful and contented.

"Eh, what?" he grumbled as he regained consciousness. "Where ..?, what ..?"
"Mr Staedtler, have you been here all night?"
John rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. Christ, seven o'clock! How had that happened? Then the events of the previous night came racing through his mind. Obviously they must have been a dream, but they seemed so real. He ran his hand over his chest, then felt stupid for having done so. Then he remembered the email from French. Maybe there was a clue in that. He fired up the computer that sat on his desk and opened his email. The one from French warned him not to go outside. Had that triggered his imagination and been the seed for that most vivid of nightmares? But according to the computer the email hadn't been opened. Staedtler suddenly felt very uneasy; he wasn't prone to panic attacks, but he had been going for it of late, working like a Trojan. Suddenly he called out to one of the cleaners who was emptying a bin at a nearby desk: "Maureen, this may sound like a daft question, but this is Westphalia-on-Sea, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, Mr Staedtler, course it is. Why ever do you ask?"
"Oh, it would take too long to explain. Have you ever been to Piddlebackside Maureen?"
"Piddlebackside? I've never even heard of it. Is there such a place?"
"Yes, it's, er ..., not far from here."
"Well I'm sure I've never been there, and I wouldn't fancy going there neither, judging by the name. Are you sure you haven't been dreaming Mr Staedtler?"
"Funny you should say that actually. I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, but the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had ..."
"Well, it is a mad world sometimes Mr Staedtler. Can I get you a coffee or something? You look rather pale."
"N-no, I'm fine, but thanks anyway."
Staedtler kept thinking of previous conversations he had had with French - the postcards, the warnings. Rather than helping him unmask the Piddlebackside blogger Staedtler now had the feeling that French was actually involved in all this, and not in a good way. If that was the case he'd better stop all contact with him. No, he could do better than that - he would call the local constabulary and tell them all he knew and let them investigate. He picked up the phone and dialled - after a couple of automated messages he was talking to the desk sergeant at the local police station.
"So let me get this straight," said the bemused voice at the end of the line, "you want to make a complaint about a blog, is that correct?"
"Yes, exactly," confirmed Staedtler.
"And what exactly is a blog, sir?"
"Well, it's like an on-line diary, but this one is a kind of story."
"So you want to complain about a story?"
"Yes, well it's more than a story because all the characters are real people."
"Oh, real are they? So who's in it then?"
"Well lots of people, including me. And I've just been murdered."
"Murdered you say? And when did this happen sir, if you don't mind me inquiring?"
"Last night, outside my office."
"Hmm, I may be pointing out the bleeding obvious here sir, but you do sound quite perky for someone who's just been murdered. And this happened in Westphalia-on-Sea, did it?"
"Yes. No. Well, in Piddlebackside. But Piddlebackside is Westphalia-on-Sea."
"Ah, now you're starting to confuse me even more sir. Are we talking about murder in Westphalia-on-Sea or murder in Piddlebackside? You see, I can't have my crime figures contaminated by rogue data from this Piddlewhatsit place."
"Look, I know it sounds a bit far-fetched the way I've explained it but ..."
"With all due respect sir, I think someone has lost the plot. If there had been a murder we would need a victim, and hopefully a murder weapon and some suspects."
"Yes, I've just told you, I'm the victim."
"But you're still alive sir. You have to be dead to be a murder victim. That's the law I'm afraid sir. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them. And what about a weapon and suspects?"
"It was Mrs Brolly. She stabbed me with her umbrella."
"And what does this Mrs Brolly look like?"
"Short, with grey hair. In her early sixties I'd guess."
"So a little old lady called Brolly stabbed you with a brolly? That's a strange coincidence, isn't it, sir? Tell me, is there a carer or other health professional with you at the moment sir?"
"Of course not. What are you implying?"
"Well, it just sounds a little bit Cluedo-ish to me sir."
"Look sergeant," began Staedtler, beginning to get a little irate, "I don't care how it sounds to you, I'd like you to do something about it."
"What like? Arrest Mrs Brolly? Can't the boys in blue in Piddlewhatsit do it?"
"No, don't be ridiculous. Piddlebackside doesn't really exist, and neither does Mrs Brolly. It's French, Paul French. He's your man. I want you to call him and tell him that you know he's involved and that they've gone too far."
"Right you are sir. And this Mr French, would he be in the Westphalia-on-Sea phone book or the Piddlewhatsit phone book?"
"I can give you his number."
"That would be very helpful sir. Save a lot of valuable police time that will, sir. I shall call him immediately and tell him how disturbed you are."
"No, don't tell him it's me. I don't want to look foolish."
"No, of course not sir. I can see that you wouldn't want to be murdered and look foolish - that would be a bit traumatic."
Staedtler gave the sergeant French's number and put the phone down. Back at the police station the sergeant hung up the phone and turned to his colleague.
"I think I've heard it all now," he said. "Just had someone asking me to investigate a fictional murder - what a flamin' nutjob! Who does he think I am - 'Ercule bloody Poirot?"
"Or Sherlock bleedin' 'Olmes," agreed his colleague. "I knew that 'care in community' was a flawed policy. We should've kept all the nutters locked up so we could keep an eye on them - would make our life a lot bloomin' easier."
"Yeah, sometimes I think this whole town has gone mad. Right, load those boxes in the car and let's get down the harbour - those flip-flops are going to get handed out by magic you know."