Pimple and Cecelia sat around the dining table with Jack and Amanda Austin. They chatted amiably about this and that, though Jack wanted to talk more about this rather than that, but Amanda insisted they talk about that, and that was that.
The telephone rang.
Jack looked at Amanda and it was clear by the look in his wife’s eyes that, although he was considered to have retired, it would fall upon him to answer the phone. By the time this overly acted, silent-movie contretemps, carried out in facial gestures with the occasional shoulder shrug, had been played out by the loving, elderly couple of ex-coppers and ex-spooks, now d**k and Duck gumshoes, the phone had ceased ringing. Jack looked relieved, he never did like admin and just as he had settled back to his Girl Grey tea, which had bee
