The Stars’ Tennis Balls by Stephen Fry

going?’
    ‘Well, there’s lots to talk about, isn't there? I thought perhaps we might go somewhere nice and quiet.’
    ‘Only, my girlfriend, you see … she doesn’t know where I am. And my father…’
    ‘We’ve a fair drive ahead of us, I’m afraid. I’d try and get a bit of shut-eye if I were you. I know I shall.’ Delft settled against the headrest.
    ‘She’ll be worried…’
    But Delft, apparently asleep in an instant, said nothing. Since the sleepless night of his watch on the
Orphana
and the anxious day that followed it, Ned had lain awake on a bumpy train from Glasgow to London. The next day, today – could that really be
today? –
he had travelled out to the airport and then back again to Catherine Street. There he did, it was true, spend time in bed, but he had not slept. Portia had dozed a little, but Ned had been too happy to think of sleep.
    But now, in spite of the strangeness of his circumstances, he found himself starting to yawn. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the rear-view mirror and Mr Gaine’ s cold eyes watching him.
     
    ‘You’ll have to forgive my brutal way with an egg,’ said Oliver Delft. ‘It started life as an omelette
aux fines herbes
but now I’m afraid it’s just scrambled eggs speckled with green. Non-stick! It’s just a phrase if you ask me.’ He pushed a plate towards Ned and smiled.
    ‘Thanks.’ Ned began to shovel the eggs into his mouth, amazed at how hungry he was. ‘Very good.’
    ‘You honour me. While you eat, we can talk.’
    ‘Is this your house?’
    ‘It’s a place I come to sometimes,’ said Delft. He was leaning against the Aga rail, a glass of wine in his hand.
    ‘Are you a policeman?’
    ‘A policeman? No, no. Nothing as thrilling as that, I’m afraid. Just a humble toiler in the lower realms of government. All very dull. Here to get to the bottom of one or two things.’
    ‘If it’s about the drugs the police found, I
swear
to you I don’t know anything about them.’
    Delft smiled again. The smile was an effort. Inside, he was very bored and extremely annoyed to be there. The pleasurable long weekend he had been looking forward to for ages had already been ruined.
    Five minutes
… five blasted minutes were all that had come between Oliver and freedom. He had already locked his desk and had been in the very act of signing the duty log when Maureen had bustled in, twittering about a flash from West End Central.
    ‘Isn’t Stapleton here yet? I’m about to go off watch.’
    ‘No, Mr Delft. Captain Stapleton hasn’t signed in. There’s no one else.’
    ‘Bugger,’ Oliver had said, meaning it. ‘All right then, let’s have a look.’
    He had taken Maureen’s typed slip and read it through carefully. ‘Hum. Who’s in the Heavy Pool?’
    ‘Mr Gaine, sir.’
    ‘Get him to warm the car up. I’ll be out in three.’
    That had been something at least. Mr Gaine was Oliver’s man and could be trusted not to make life more difficult by ruffling feathers and stamping on sensibilities.
    Whatever Oliver had expected when he arrived at Savile Row police station, it certainly hadn’t been a worried schoolboy. The whole thing seemed ripely absurd. Undoubtedly a mistake, he had said to himself the moment he laid eyes on the floppy haired teenager jiggling his knee up and down under the interview-room table, a forlorn and bewildered look on his face. Delft may have been only twenty-six himself, but he had seen enough to be sure that Ned Maddstone was as innocent as a day-old chick. A day old
carrier pigeon
chick, he thought to himself. He was pleased with the image and made a note to include it in his report. His masters were old-fashioned enough to enjoy a pert turn of phrase.
    He looked across at the child now.
    Ned was sitting at the kitchen table, still jogging his leg on the ball of his foot, with an earnest pleading look on his innocent face.
    ‘Honestly,’ he was saying. ‘I absolutely swear. On the Holy