Bye Bye Baby

19

"I don't get it," Les said.

We were in Mrs Wilson's kitchen, me and Les standing by the worktops. Mrs Wilson was sitting at an enormous dinner table, necking a bottle of single malt.

"Why would someone send a finger?" Les asked. "Some kind of warning?"

"That's possible. It's standard in kidnappings," I said.

"Only if the family doesn't pay up, though. Clare was going to pay up."

Which was true. And there was no note to explain. No demands, nothing. Just a finger in a clear plastic bag. It had been dropped through the letter box within the last couple of hours.

I'd checked the neighbours who still had their lights on. Nobody had seen or heard anything.

"It's a sick joke," I said. "This whole thing is."

The finger was fake, of course. It looked realistic at first glance. Your eyes were drawn to the blood, and only then did you notice the colour and texture of the finger was wrong.

It was something you could pick up in a joke shop. Something Mrs Wilson could have picked up in a joke shop. Also something Les could have got hold of. But what I couldn't figure out was why either of them would do such a thing. There was nothing to gain. And, I couldn't deny it, Les really did look baffled.

"This finger," I said to Mrs Wilson.

She wiped her eyes. Took a sip of whisky. Nodded.

"You know it's not Bruce's," I said.

"Course I do. I'm not stupid. It's made of rubber and it's far too big."

"Yeah," I said. "That's why it's not Bruce's."

"Don't."

I looked at Les.

"Just don't, please," he said, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears. He walked round the table and sat next to Mrs Wilson. He put his arm around her.

I wanted to think it was for show, but I was beginning to believe Les Green wasn't such a scumbag after all.