The Curious Incident Of The Chocolate Brownie, And The Definition Of A Happy Marriage

Gah. I'm sure Greg's concussion isn't as bad as he claims, but he says the room keeps spinning around whenever he talks to one of the usual suspects. I thought that was normal but, anyway, he goes home again mid-morning and leaves me stuck in the office with Vicky - who seems to think I have turned into Irma Kurtz.

"Molly," she says. "How long have you and Max been married?'

"Centuries," I say. "Why?"

Vicky starts inspecting her nails. I do wish she wouldn't do that, as they put me right off my brunch. No-one's nails are supposed to be square at the ends.

"Do you think Andrew and Trish are happily married?" she says, while wielding that annoying buffer thing.

"Yes," I say. "Of course they are. Though I'm not sure how you assess what happily means, now I come to think of it. But why do you want to know about The Boss' marriage, anyway?"

"No reason," she says. "Just curious, that's all."

Huh - I think we all know what that means, so I don't enquire any further. I don't want to be burdened with anyone's guilt apart from my own. It's very bad for the psyche, let alone the blood pressure.

"I assume you wouldn't say you were happily married?" I say to Johnny, when I email him later in the day.

"Yes, I would," he says, which comes as a bit of a shock.

"So what are you doing having a virtual affair with me, then?" I ask.

"That's the bit that makes my marriage happy," he says. "Obviously. I do wish you'd keep up sometimes."

I'm not at all sure I follow his logic, but I'm reluctant to appear too stupid, so I let it go. And, anyway, I've got more important things to do - like asking the Coroner to hurry up and establish the cause of death of a woman of forty-five, who only went into hospital for a routine operation.

She had three children, and her husband tells me that he's convinced that she died from dehydration, but that the Coroner's apparently still waiting for the hospital to provide some missing notes. It's already taken months, and the poor man can't even bury his beloved wife. He starts to cry while he's on the phone and, although I rack my brains, I can't think of anything to say to make him stop.

That sort of case really puts things into perspective, though - or, at least, it does until I get home, and make the mistake of asking Max whether he thinks we are happily married. I'm hoping he'll say something to suggest he'd be bereft without me, but he doesn't.

"I'm not clear what you mean, Mol," he says. "Sometimes I'm happy, and sometimes I'm not. Isn't that how it is for everyone?"

"Don't ask me," I say. "I have trouble keeping up - apparently. Though what is the thing that makes you happy when you are? Or should I say which person?"

Max gives me a funny look, and I suddenly wish that I had nails worth contemplating.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "As usual. And are you still going to that poetry reading thing?"

"Yes - seeing as Greg says he's now recovered, and the girl he fancies is going to be reading her poems. It's bound to be bloody awful, but I promised I'd go with him because he says I'm better at arty-farty conversation then he is," I say. "Shit, is that the time? I've got to leave in ten minutes."

"Yes," says Max. "But the meal's not ready, so you'd better grab a snack."

I throw a slice of ham between two pieces of dry bread, and pop a gherkin left over from Christmas on top for good measure. I'm quite impressed with my creativity, but Max looks completely appalled.

"Molly, is that really the best you can do?" he says. "You didn't even put any butter in that sandwich. No wonder you're so skinny - your attitude to food sucks."

"Thanks," I say, chewing furiously. "I'd love to have a foodie conversation but, tragically, I've got to go. Where are the car keys? In your pocket?"

I rummage around in his jacket, marvelling at all the random drill bits, receipts and losing lottery tickets he carries around - until I try the breast pocket, and my hand sinks into something soft and slimy.

"Yuck," I say, pulling my hand out and peering at the revolting brown slime coating the ends of my fingers. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"Home-made chocolate brownie," says Max. "Bambi - sod it, I mean Gemma - brought it into work for me today."

And we all know what they say about the way to a man's heart being through food, don't we? Now Vicky's not the only one who's curious about the state of someone's marriage. I hope there's no love poetry this evening, or I may struggle to applaud.

A Licence To Kill

Oh God, I hate Fridays. I'm on the phone to DEFRA this morning when The Boss arrives, dumps his briefcase on my desk and opens it. A crumpled shirt and five pairs of obviously dirty Y-fronts fall out. He fishes around for a folder, and then buggers off to do an interview, leaving me staring at skid marks. I have a degree!

Andrew returns after lunch, just in time for surgery. There are the usual collection of total nutters, interspersed with the odd sane person with a really serious problem. I'm disturbed by yet another case where a middle-aged patient has apparently died unnecessarily while an in-patient at the local hospital. From dehydration.

That's the fifth or sixth case in the last three months. Honestly, I'm not at all sure that care is improving since they started making nurses do degrees. I make a mental note to contact the advice agencies and see if they've heard about any other cases, as I'm getting a bit worried about what's going on.

The Boss doesn't seem quite as exercised by death as he does about the ban on docking Boxer dogs' tails. This probably has less to do with Andrew having a secret desire to mutilate dogs, than with the fact that the constituent in favour of it turns out to be a reasonably attractive woman in her late forties.

She flirts outrageously with The Boss, who flirts outrageously back. Before I know it, he's agreed to consider bringing a Private Members Bill to reinstate docking, and she leaves in a presumably-hormonal tizz.

Andrew's still flushed with success when I show Mr Beales in, and greets him like a long-lost friend. Does The Boss have to do that? The usual suspects need no encouragement.

Grinning like an idiot, Mr Beales pulls out a piece of paper, ignores my outstretched hand and passes it to The Boss.

"If you could just sign that, Andrew, I'll be on my way," he says.

Since when does Mr Beales call The Boss Andrew? It doesn't seem to bother anyone but me, though - and The Boss flourishes his biro.

"At least read it first!" I say - sotto voce, or at least, that's what I hope, but Big Ears Beales hears me anyway. He pushes his double-barred paedophile glasses to the end of his nose and peers over them at me. His eyes are cold.

"It's just my shotgun licence application," he says. "Your Boss knows me -"

"Indeed he does," I say, "That was rather my point. Andrew, are you sure you don't want to wait and think about this first?"

The Boss finally notices my expression, which Greg says is the one that makes me look like the Infected  in "28 Days Later," and reacts.

"Ah, Edmund," he says. "Molly's right, you know -"

"Thank God for that," I say, under my breath, but then The Boss continues,

"She's forgotten to type up that reference for the court. Tell you what, she can go and do that now, and I'll sign this while you wait."

Of such incidents are armed serial killers made. I give up.