The Dave Mystery

He was Mr Dependable. You asked for something to be done. He did it with bells on and a flourish of style. Dave worked at the Fire Department. High Flier but his own man. Sometimes at odds with management but respected by his crew. He had seen some bad stuff in the service. Car and occupants blended with trees, half dressed and intoxicated women stuck in the tidal mud, overdone bodies in city centre flats, ungrateful cats rescued from trees. In amongst all this he was able to keep a sense of reality.I had been with him in the car one night when we had come across a RTA. Motorcyclist versus car, no contest, car won.We were the first on the scene not paralysed by fear. Instantly Dave's instincts kicked in. He made the car safe against igniting the pool of fuel in the road. Set up a road flow system to stop rubbernecking. Briefed ambulance crew, police and his colleagues when they arrived. Got some girls phone number. Competitive at sport he was a good all rounder at cricket. Played once as a ringer for the Diocese of York and cleaned up for the Bishop's team. Unlucky in love, mostly. One for the ladeeze as they say. Daughter, great gal and a credit to Dave. In relationships, out again. Happy and then holidaying with us in melancholy mood. Married briefly but all fell apart so quickly. Sad and soul searching times.
That morning, Dave went missing. Strange. Very much out of character. The job had been arranged. Garage doors to top coat. The unseasonally warm and dry weather was perfect for outdoor work. Time not however on our side with dusk approaching by mid afternoon. I had communicated with Dave by text a couple of days earlier. No problem. Called him with heads up for favourable weather the day before. He was working nights, the red-eye shift with a new vehicle and partner. Would be home and ready by 9.40am. I rang him as he left the forecourt of the fire station. Could I pick him up on the way? Would that be easier? No, he said. Something he had to do in town, would explain later. Loose end or affair of the heart I thought. I said I would meet him 'there'. On reflection I should have been more precise on where 'there' was. There were a few possibilities. Westwood Road to collect the keys, Costa Coffee, on the wide road out of town, anywhere in the HU17 postcode district. I would be there from about 11.15am. Caught up in a blue gloss haze and inhalation of paint fumes on a still day it was about noon when I realised that Dave was a no-show. The garage was down a narrow unmade track off the main drag. Quiet, behind houses and with, I counted only three private residences off. Only two passers by, one a postman, the other could have been a daily. No active neighbourhood watch to challenge my scruffy paint covered attire. No offer of refreshment either from the well to do residents.I could have murdered a cup of Joe. Thought about reaching for my phone. My hands were caked with blue gloss. Not a practical thing to do. I developed a painting pattern of three to four strokes and then a look up the lane, three to four, look, reload paintbrush, three to four, look. I felt I was going mad. Three, Four, look. It was getting on for 1.35pm. Time had flown, the blue paint had run. I was now crouched down touching up the lowest planking. It made a change from stretching to paint the lintel. I stretched and grimaced with muscle cramps. I was startled by my phone going off in my inside pocket. Panic set in. I quickly wrapped an old cloth around my sticky paw. Club fisted it was difficult to extricate the phone. It fell to the ground,catching and deflecting off the rim of the open paint tin. A narrow miss. It was notification that lunch was ready at the house. Then I saw the text message. It was from Dave. I feared the worst. He had been kidnapped and the perps were using his phone to notify the ransom demand. He had fallen and was lying prone somewhere. Ungrateful cats had wreaked their revenge. The mud caked drunken woman had recognised Dave in town and they had eloped. The text was tense and to the point. Where was 'there'. It had been sent about 11.15am. I called the number. Dave answered. He was half miffed, half apologetic. His interpretation of 'there' was outside my Ma's house on Westwood Road. He had parked up at 11.10am and waited. Engrossed in a book and watching a cat climb a large tree he too had entered that phase where time flies by like stink. Now that we agreed that 'there' was a matter of personal interpretation we agreed to meet at my Ma's and partake in a ham salad sandwich with side order of crisps. We laughed at our misunderstanding in the warmth of the kitchen. As we left, still the best of friends I slapped him on the back. Our longstanding friendship would surely now be put to it's stiffest test as I noticed that I had left a large, perfect blue hand print on the left shoulder of his best going out jacket.