Family portraits were hung in a tasteful grouping over the minimalist granite fireplace. Brandon Coopertown was a good-looking older man in his mid-forties with black hair and narrow features. While Mrs Coopertown bustled, I surreptitiously took a photograph with my phone camera. ‘I keep forgetting you can do that,’ murmured Nightingale.
‘Welcome to the twenty-first century,’ I said, ‘sir.’
Nightingale rose politely as Mrs Coopertown bustled back in. This time I was ready and followed him up.
‘May I ask what your husband does for a living?’ asked Nightingale.
He was a television producer, a successful one, with BAFTAs and format sales to the US — which explained the seven-figure house. He could do even better, but his ascension to the higher planes of international production were entirely hampered by the parochial nature of British television. If only the British could stop making programmes that catered only to a domestic audience, or even cast actors who were the least bit attractive.
As fascinating as Mrs Coopertown’s observations on the provinciality of British television were, we felt compelled to ask about the incident with the dog.
‘That too is typical,’ said Mrs Coopertown. ‘Of course Brandon didn’t want to press charges. He’s English. He didn’t want to make a fuss. The policeman should have prosecuted the dog owner regardless. The animal was clearly a danger to the public — it bit poor Brandon right on his nose.’
The baby paused and we all held our breath, but he merely burped once and started crying again. I looked at Nightingale and rolled my eyes over at the baby. Perhaps he could use the same spell as he used on Toby. He frowned at me. Maybe there were ethical issues about using it on babies.
According to Mrs Coopertown, the baby had been perfectly well behaved until the thing with the dog. Now, well, now Mrs Coopertown thought he must be teething or have colic or reflux. Their GP didn’t seem to have a clue and was unforgivably short with her. She thought they might be better off going private.