"That, my dear Jones, is solely your problem. Ta-ta."
Those are the last words DS Ben Jones hears from his superior, DCI Tom Barnaby, before the older detective heads out the door to start his holiday.
Ben drops his pen and hides his face in his hands, groaning slightly. He really had hoped for a word of advice on how to deal with an annoying neighbourhood argument that keeps flaring up regularly each day when the involved parties return home from work. You can set the clock by it.
While he's sitting there, pondering the injustice of his fate, the sound of giggling reaches his ear from behind. He lets his hands fall to his desk and pushes himself around to face WPC Gail Stevens who's been helping out with cases on occasion and has been assigned to the CID for the time of Barnaby's absence. "And what's it you find so amusing?"
"Oh just..." Gail leans back in her chair to check if the DCI might not be returning before she continues, "'My dear Jones'? He said that exactly the way I always imagine Sherlock Homes would say 'my dear Watson'."
Ben considers it for a moment, then grins at Gail. "You know, you're probably right. And if I'm Watson, it explains why I have to do all the paperwork! He had to write up all of Holmes' cases, too."
"Haha, yes. And next the DCI will show up with a chequered cap and a pipe!"
"He's already got a magnifying glass somewhere," Ben adds, his misery momentarily forgotten.
They quip for a moment longer before each focuses back on his work. But Gail doesn't remain silent for long.
"Of course, other times, he says it differently."
"Says what differently?" Ben twists in his chair to look at her over his shoulder.
Gail has turned around and is facing him. "'My dear Jones', sometimes it sounds like you two are an old married couple."
"Oy!" Ben grabs his rubber off his desk and throws it in Gail's direction, but she evades it and it bounces across her desk to finally fall onto the floor on the opposite side.
"I'm not picking that up," Gail states and busies herself with some papers on her desk.
Ben glares at her back for a moment before getting up to retrieve his rubber. He's not really mad at her anyway. It's just that remarks like that always make him wonder if the old rumour of Barnaby and his ex-sergeant Gavin Troy being lovers has somehow evolved into Barnaby and his current sergeant being lovers. Ben has had nightmares of people thinking that of him!
A couple of days later, Tom and Joyce Barnaby stand outside a souvenir shop in sunny Spain.
"Joyce? What do you think of this one?" Tom holds up a postcard to his wife.
"A postcard? I thought we didn't want to send any this time. We can send our own photos with our mobile phones. And it's faster, too."
"I am aware of that," Tom patiently explains. "But I am still going to send a postcard to Jones."
"Well, it's nice you're thinking of him, but he's a young man, surely he won't mind getting a photo to his phone instead?"
"And when did you become so tech-savvy, love?"
"Cully showed me how to do it," Joyce announces, pride for her clever daughter swinging in her voice.
"That's very good of Cully. And yet, I intend to stay the old-fashioned copper I am and send a postcard. So what do you make of this one?" He holds it up once more.
"Well, it is nice."
"Thank you, I'll just go and pay for it then." Tom enters the store without checking if there was anything his wife would like to take along. As it happens, there was, and she follows him in, putting a small framed painting, or probably just a reproduction of one, on the counter next to the postcard.
"Oh, you found something then," Tom says. "And who is this for?" He studies the picture while they wait for the clerk to come to the check-out.
"Susan."
"Why do we need to buy a present for Susan?" Tom asks, slightly irritated.
"Because she's watering the flowers while we're on holiday. Oh Tom, I told you about that last week!"
"Oh yes, so you have," Tom says, not remembering it. But he knows better than to argue with his wife.
After dinner, Tom sits on the balcony of their hotel room. The postcard is supported by a book on his lap and he's got a pen in hand. The postcard contains no more than the address of DS Ben Jones at Causton CID when Joyce comes out onto the balcony.
She notices her husband's pose as she sits down in a chair and opens her book. "Please send him my love."
"Your love? He's my sergeant not our son."
Joyce drops her book and looks at her husband, rather taken aback by his strong reaction to her innocent request. "Well, phrase it differently then. Tell him I said hello." She raises her book again.
Little does she know that her husband finds it a difficult task to write this postcard. As it is, he can't even decide how to begin. "Dear Jones?" He calls him that on the job occasionally. It seems too formal for holiday greetings. Just "Jones"? Too gruff. "Ben"? "Dear Ben"? That would feel just like sending him Joyce's love. In other words – wrong. Too intimate. Anyone can read a postcard after all. He likes the young man a great deal, but one rumour about him having an affair with a junior partner was enough to last him a lifetime; once bitten, twice shy. And he doesn't want to put another young man through that experience, either.
"Have we ever sent a postcard to Gavin?" He finally asks his wife.
Joyce replies without lowering her book or turning to face him. "I have. You never were a big postcard writer. I'm surprised you insist on sending one to Ben now. Why do you ask?"
"What did you write?"
"Oh, the usual holiday greetings: The weather's fine, the hotel's nice, we're having a good old time doing some sight-seeing."
That, of course, is not what Tom wanted to know. But he's a little ashamed of his trouble to come up with a suitable address for his junior partner, especially as he never told Joyce about the rumour that has made him consider his words so carefully, so he doesn't ask her for any more help with it.
"Very creative, then," he comments instead.
"More creative than you have been so far," Joyce says. She may still be looking at her book, but she is aware that Tom hasn't written a single word since she joined him on the balcony.
After a while, Tom begins to write, but there is white space at the top where the salutation is still missing. Finally he puts the card down, picture side up, and opens his book.
It's not before the next morning, that Joyce gets to see the postcard.
"Shall we take the card for Ben along? We can drop it in the box on the way to breakfast," she calls out to her husband who is shaving in the bathroom. She picks up the card and reads it - and of course she notices the missing address.
"I'll post it later," Tom calls back.
"I can see why," Joyce says in a low voice before replying, "Don't leave it too late, Tom, or we'll be back home before the card arrives."
After breakfast, Joyce asks another hotel guest to take a photo of her and Tom with her mobile phone. Back at their room, she sets about sending it to her daughter with a greeting. "B-u-e-n-o-s D-i-a-s C-u-l-l-y," she spells out loud enough for her husband to overhear. And she smiles to herself when Tom suddenly reaches for the postcard and scribbles something onto it.
"I'll just quickly post the card," he announces a moment later. "Send Cully my love."
"I shall," Joyce confirms.
Upon his return to work, Barnaby finds his sergeant and WPC Stevens at their desks in the CID office.
"Buenos dias, busy keepers of the law," he greets the assembled CID staff and proceeds straight to his desk.
Before Ben can reply, Gail catches his eye for a moment and Ben rolls his eyes at her before turning towards their superior. "Buenos dias, my dear Barnaby."
"Welcome back, Sir, did you have a nice holiday?" Gail asks from next to him. Ben hasn't noticed her approach.
Barnaby doesn't even look up from the mail he just picked off his desk. "Thank you, Stevens, I did indeed."
Gail throws Ben a smug look, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.
No acknowledgement of Ben's greeting, but that is just fine with the sergeant. He had expected worse for his uncommon greeting. "Thank you for the postcard, Sir!" He adds.
"Oh, good, it arrived then," Barnaby says, still not looking up.
But as Ben finds out later that day, his greeting has registered on the DCI's brain.
Once Ben has brought him up to speed with their closed and current cases, Barnaby bestows a stern look at him before the younger man can retreat. "'My dear Barnaby?'"
"Ah," Ben says, straightening up, looking as remorseful as he can manage. "You see, Sir, Gail, that is, WPC Stevens and I had a little bet going... that I lost."
"I see," Barnaby says quietly. "And that bet was about what?"
"That she could end that neighbourhood argument once and for all."
"Stevens managed that?" Barnaby asks, clearly surprised and impressed.
Ben nods. "Oh yes, Sir, one visit of hers and it's been quiet ever since. Uhm," he bends down to seek the right file in the stack he had brought along. "Here's the file, if you want to read the details." He merely points it out, but doesn't pull it out of the stack to offer it to the DCI.
Barnaby gets the message that maybe he doesn't want to know the details. "Case closed while you were responsible, that's good enough for me. I'll be busy enough with the open cases."
The relief is visible on Ben's face. "Yes, Sir!" He gathers up his files and turns to leave, but doesn't even have time to turn around before Barnaby addresses him once more.
"Oh, Jones?"
"Sir?"
"I hope you learned a lesson from that lost bet."
"Oh, yes, Sir. Absolutely: Some problems require a female touch to resolve them." With that, he hurries back to his own desk, due to which he doesn't see the astonishment on his superior's face.
"Some do, indeed," Barnaby says quietly, thinking back to the postcard.