Part 3: Wednesday: The Kindness of Strangers
In hindsight, Anderson knew that he shouldn't have laughed at Sally Donovan when she told him about her strawberry hunting expedition. To his credit, he had apologized immediately, but that was mostly because she'd crossed her arms and given him that look which said he could look forward to some creative form of vengeance in the near future.
"Oh, so you think you can do better, then?" she'd said, indignant.
"Well, yes." Anderson tried his best to hide his smile behind his cup of water. "I'll pick up a box on my way home. Easy."
That had been enough to make Sally storm off down the corridor. He'd shouted another "Sorry!" after her, but he'd still been laughing.
No, true remorse came later, when he was clocking up the overtime, going over the evidence for the Amberley trial. Again. The prosecutor had insisted, and Lestrade had backed her up. She had even gone so far as to suggest that he shave his beard for the trial, on the grounds that it would make him appear more trustworthy (Lestrade had the good grace not to comment).
"You think my beard might put the jury off?" Anderson had all but shouted.
The prosecutor had shrugged, said something vague about how she'd lost a case because two members of the jury hadn't trusted the expert witness's handlebar moustache, repeated her request about the DNA results, and left him to it. Since that was far from the only pressing case he had on his hands, it also meant she was leaving him to another long and possibly thankless night at the lab. Not that he objected. It was part of the job after all, and Philip Anderson was nothing if not completely dedicated to his work. If he was irate and occasionally belligerent while he was at it, well, that was just his way.
It did not help that he couldn't stop thinking about strawberries. He thought of little strawberry pips as he read a horrific report on Cornish pollen. He remembered ropy strawberry plants while he checked that the cords used to bind a victim had been properly documented in the corresponding paperwork. He was unpleasantly reminded of strawberry jam when he examined crime scene photographs. And he didn't need any help when he checked in with the coroner and learned that a different victim's last meal had been steak, potatoes, and strawberry mousse. The DNA samples for the Amberley case were mercifully strawberry free, but reading the report reminded him of Donovan and how she would laugh at him when he turned up the next day.
The fruit was still on his mind when he shuffled, yawning, onto the Tube, so when he spotted the box of strawberries on the lap of the man sitting across from him, Anderson thought he was seeing things. He blinked and looked again.
The man looked like the sort of person who would be played by Sean Connery if his life were to be made the subject of a biopic. Or, if Sean Connery was unavailable due to scheduling conflicts, Albert Finney would have done just as well. And, yes, that really was a box of strawberries on his lap. They were definitely strawberries, and nice, fat, red ones at that. Anderson could see that because the box was transparent plastic, and, going by the lumpy bag of groceries between the man's feet, he guessed that they'd been plucked out of that for safekeeping during the commute.
Wicked thoughts raced through Anderson's mind. He could snatch the strawberries when they got to the next stop and make a run for it. He could sit next to him and make conversation so suave and intelligent that the man wouldn't notice that he'd nicked the strawberries and hidden them in his satchel until it was much too late. He could scream that he was with Health and Safety, and confiscate the strawberries, claiming that they were a public health hazard. Or – and this was the point at which Anderson realized that he just might have been working too hard – he could slip on a mask (he was sure there was a surgical one somewhere in his satchel), threaten the man with his syringe-shaped pen (it looked real enough), take the fruit, and read all about the mysterious masked strawberry thief in the morning papers.
It was just as well that the man was occupied with a crossword puzzle, otherwise he would have seen Anderson staring fixedly at the region of his crotch.
The crossword was giving him trouble, though. He frowned at it, scratched thoughtfully at his temple with the end of his pencil, and gently eased the box of fruit onto the empty seat next to him so that he could rest the paper on his knee and erase a few letters.
Anderson gaped. He went on gaping as the man resumed his crossword without retrieving the strawberries. And he goggled when, precisely at Anderson's stop, the man leapt up as though he'd been electrocuted and hurried for the doors, taking his crossword puzzle, his pencil, and his shopping. The strawberries were left where they were. Forgotten. Abandoned.
There was no time to think. Anderson snatched up the box, and made his own exit.
He honestly wasn't sure what he meant to do with the strawberries. It was one thing to think all those strawberry-stealing thoughts, and another thing entirely to act on them, even in so passive a manner. But…
The man was nowhere in sight. Surely nobody could blame him if he kept the strawberries now. It wasn't as though he could stash them with the Lost Property Office. The universe, Anderson thought, clearly wanted him to have them, and he was not about to argue with the universe. Visions began to dance through his head, of himself triumphantly entering Lestrade's office and laying the strawberries on his desk like a benevolent god. He was beginning to see himself generously waving away Donovan's offers to cover half of the cost when the door to the public toilets opened, and the man slouched out, looking morose. Almost tragic. Peter O'Toole could have done it justice.
He slouched tragically towards the exit, and Anderson followed, catching up with him just before the escalators in spite of the way he was dragging his feet.
"Excuse me," he heard himself say. "You left these on the train." And he saw his hand hold out the box, heard the man thanking him profusely as he took it back, and, in that moment, he hated himself for not being just a tiny bit more of a bastard.
"It's our anniversary," the man explained, beaming like anything. "Fifty-one years tomorrow, and I'd never forgive myself if I didn't have strawberries for Clarice in the morning. I'd given these up for lost," he went on, carefully putting the strawberries in the bag with the rest of his shopping. "Thank God for the kindness of strangers!"
And Philip Anderson cursed his luck the rest of the way home.
