Daisy Gets Bumped
Even the most eager newshound can head off on a false trail – and almost miss the exclusive story right under her nose…
“Here’s close enough.” The pedestrian crossing lights were on red and if Daisy jumped out now, spur of the moment sort of thing, it would save Megan driving into the car park, finding a spot to pull in, turning round and barging her way back on to the main road. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Bye. Have a safe journey,” Megan called after her.
Daisy Lane, ace reporter for the Chilfield News, closed the door, waved, then dashed across the road while the traffic was stationary.
Her own car was in the garage after developing a cough at speeds above thirty, hence the lift from Megan to the railway station.
She was aiming for the nine fifty-seven, which would take her to the QE Hospital in pursuit of her story.
At least, that was the plan – until the man bumped into her.
He was examining his phone, taking no notice of where he was going – although admittedly, so was she – and they collided arm against arm.
“Crikey, watch it!”
“I am so sorry.” The man was tall, wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. Thick-rimmed glasses sat above hard, angular cheekbones and below Action Man hair. He had an accent too. Not that Daisy was good with accents. “Not looking where I was going.”
European definitely, as in vare I voss go-ink. His smile was apologetically polite, though.
“Yes, well, no harm done, I suppose.” She hurried on.
There was a Chilfield teenager – Charlie – at the hospital in Birmingham, doing his bit for charity with a web-based fundraising idea involving selfies, celebrities and clenched fists.
Freddie Cragg, editor of the Chilfield News, had sent Daisy to get the full story for a front-page spread to help the cause.
This was real human interest stuff, none of your usual rubbish collections, crooked councillors or road chaos nonsense, and she was determined to –
Hold on! She delved again in her Radley handbag for her purse. It wasn’t there.
She stopped dead, three paces from the ticket machine. Rummaged again. Frowned.
Her heart contracted painfully.
Stolen! It must have been! She’d had her purse in the car. She’d been digging out some coins for Megan, which she left in the little crevice above the gearstick. Which meant…
Her sharp reporter’s instinct, honed through years of investigative journalism, instantly thought: The foreign chap!
It was a classic scenario. Bump the mark, dip in the handbag, et voilà! Gone before the mark even knew what had happened.
Daisy dashed back out of the station and scanned her surroundings, like Arnie’s Terminator hunting down his next target.
She spotted the pickpocket, striding through the bus station opposite towards the newsagent, his leather jacket unmistakable.
The cry of “Oi!” hovered on her lips, but she managed to swallow it back. No point giving him the opportunity to flee.
She dodged across the road between the traffic – watching as the pickpocket entered the newsagent – and nipped along the first of the lanes in the bus station to come at the newsagent from an oblique angle.
The guy certainly liked to live life on the edge – there was a police car parked outside.
Maybe he was chasing the thrill of flaunting his ill-gotten gains right under the noses of the local constabulary.
She checked the lie of the land before entering.
Police Sergeant Eric Bloom was at the counter, in full uniform, talking to the young blonde assistant. Big and burly.
Bloom, that is. Not the blonde, who was petite and pretty.
This was good. Daisy knew Bloom already. It would save time with introductions and credentials.
The pickpocket was apparently perusing the displays of sweets, with not a care in the world. Brazen!
Daisy opened the door – ding-ding went the bell – and stepped inside. Three pairs of eyes turned her way.
The pickpocket looked away again, the picture of innocence.
Sergeant Bloom smiled. “Good morning, Daisy.”
“Hello, Eric.” She prepared herself to block the way, should the pickpocket try to make his escape. “Am I glad to see you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Arrest that man!” Daisy pointed.
“Eh?”
“Him! Arrest him!” She pointed with more vigour.
“Who? Him?” Bloom cocked his head at the pickpocket. “What for?”
“Me?” The pickpocket looked more than a little surprised.
“He stole my purse.”
“He did?” Bloom looked the guy up and down, clearly unconvinced.
“I did not. I have never seen this…” Then recognition. “Oh, it is you.” He nodded. “From the railway station.”
“Yes, me. The innocent victim you bumped into,” air-quotes with fingers for emphasis, “accidentally. Picked on the wrong girl this time, chum.”
“I know not of what she speaks.”
“Do you not?” Bloom looked at Daisy. “Daisy, what’s going on?”
“I was going into the station, over the road. He bumped into me. I got to the ticket machine. Purse had gone. I had it five minutes before, in the car.”
“This true, sir?” Bloom asked. “About the bumping?”
“Yes, it is true. I was not looking where I was going.” He took out his phone and held it up. “I am sending message. But I do not take her purse. I am not thief.”
“Make him turn his pockets out,” Daisy said.
“Would you mind, sir? I do know this woman –” Bloom gave her such a dirty look, as if he couldn’t believe she was doing this to him “– and she isn’t the sort who goes around making baseless accusations. Basically, I trust her and I don’t know you. So the quickest way to sort this out is to –”
The guy sighed. He removed his wallet from his jacket and held his arms up, as though accustomed to being frisked. Bloom patted him down.
“This purse, Daisy. How big is it?”
“Big. And overflowing.”
“Well, he hasn’t got it now.”
“Maybe he passed it to an accomplice. Outside.”
The guy sighed again.
“I am simply trying to purchase mints. I suck last one on train.”
He took off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, before replacing them, anger beginning to show on his rugged face.
“Is this hidden camera TV programme?”
“Erm, excuse me,” said one of the squeakiest voices Daisy had ever heard. She looked round, before realising it was the blonde assistant who had spoken.
“Don’t you know who that is?” The blonde pointed at the pickpocket.
“No. Do you?”
“It’s him. Off the footie. World famous, he is. Harold something or other. He’s Russian.”
Bloom took a better look. “Would you mind removing your glasses again, sir?”
The guy did so, and posed as if presenting himself for a photograph.
“Crikey, it is him. Neizen. But he’s Swiss, not Russian.”
“Actually, I am German.”
“Don’t you recognise him, Daisy?”
“Not in the slightest. But then I don’t really follow football.”
She didn’t read any sports pages, to be honest, even in her own newspaper.
“He’s just been signed by the Wanderers,” Bloom said.
“No, United,” squeaked the blonde.
“City,” said the guy, replacing his glasses. “And my name is Hans.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Bloom grinned, looking like he was thinking of asking for the guy’s autograph. “Big Hans, they call him. Because he’s the goalie. And he has big hands, see.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Daisy said. “So he’s a footballer. Big deal.
“That doesn’t stop you arresting him.”
“I need evidence, Daisy.”
“I am not thief. I do not know what is happen to the purse of this woman.”
“But –” Her mobile rang then. She snatched it out of her bag and swiped it open, holding up a finger for silence. “Megan. What’s up?”
“Daisy, where are you?”
“Newsagent. Bus station. Long story.”
“Only I have your purse and I was wondering how –”
“You’ve what?”
“You must have dropped it and it rolled under the seat. It just rolled out again when I parked.”
Daisy screwed up her eyes and felt heat rise from her chest into her cheeks. “Ah…”
“So you’re not on the train?”
“Not yet, no.”
“I’ll be two minutes. Meet me outside.”
Daisy stowed her mobile. Well, the good news was that she could now catch the next train to the hospital.
The bad news was… She opened one eye to find everyone staring at her.
“Yes, about my purse,” she said. “Apparently…”
Daisy was good at apologies though. For some reason she did seem to have a lot of practice. Even Mr Neizen – Herr Neizen – didn’t seem too put out.
Daisy bought his mints for him as compensation. Two packets, actually.
So what brings you to Chilfield then?” Daisy asked, when they were outside. Megan had been and gone, returning Daisy’s purse. “You playing here or something?”
She didn’t really understand how football matches worked. Did the players arrive one-by-one, by train? It seemed unlikely.
“I am, how you say…” He frowned, struggling for the words. “Having relations in the area.”
“I beg your…! Oh, you mean you have relatives round here.”
He nodded. “I go to visit. And I like riding the trains. Is hobby.”
“Aren’t you worried about being recognised?” Bloom asked.
“I wear the spectacles, no one notices.”
Well, they did have pretty thick rims. With specs: ordinary Clark Kent. Without: goalkeeping superman. If you knew who he was to start with, obviously. Which suddenly gave Daisy an idea.
“Actually, Herr Neizen –”
“Hans, please.”
“Yes, Hans, right. You’re an actual real life celebrity, aren’t you?” She looked at Sergeant Bloom. “Does he qualify as a celebrity?”
“As celeb as they come,” Bloom said.
“Then how would you like to help make money for charity?”
“Charity?” Neizen’s eyebrows twitched up, high above his glasses. “How so?”
“I’m off to the hospital in Birmingham. There’s this teenager there – Charlie. Got this rare illness, which is kicking the stuffing out him, but he’s still raising money for the children’s ward.
“He’s contacting as many celebrities as he can and he takes selfies doing fist-bumps with them.” Daisy demonstrated with her own fists, bumping them together.
“They all get posted on his web page and people donate money to look. It’s a brilliant idea.
“I was on my way there when, erm… we bumped into each other.”
“I should explain,” said Bloom. “Daisy is not some random nutcase, she’s actually a nutcase who is also a local newspaper reporter.”
“Did I not say? I’m going to be writing a feature.”
“Ah, the publicity,” said Neizen, his whole demeanour brightening. “I suggest taxi. I pay. We go now. My relations, they can wait.”
And so off they went. Daisy got her story – interviews all round, including family, nurses and doctors – and she even got in a few of the photographs herself.
It wasn’t until she saw the newspaper a couple of day later that she realised her editor, Freddie Cragg, had altered the focus of her feature slightly.
There was a photo of Neizen, the goalkeeper, and Charlie, the teenage fundraiser, bumping fists. There were more photos of Charlie with celebrities. Also a photo of Daisy and Charlie.
But the biggest photo was of Neizen and Daisy bumping fists. Right in the centre of the front page. And the caption…
“I’m sorry, Daisy,” Freddie Cragg said. “I just couldn’t resist it.”
Hans Neizen Bumps Our Daisy!
Daisy grinned. She’d got her scoop in the end.
We’re sharing another cosy crime story from our archives, every Monday and Thursday throughout April. Look out for the next one!
