One dreary Monday morning, Bertram was mopping the floors at Victoria Coach Station, humming along to The Rolling Stones on his battered headphones. After a decade of buffing those tiles, he could’ve mapped every scuff mark blindfolded.
Suddenly, a timid voice cut through Mick Jagger’s warbling. “Excuse me?”
Bertram turned to find a woman clutching a sleeping infant, two tired children clinging to her coat like limpets. Her puffy eyes suggested she’d been crying.
“Everything alright, love?” he asked, pulling off his headphones.
“I—I need tickets to Manchester,” she stammered. “My husband… well, he’s not exactly Prince Charming. I’ve got family up there. But I lost my purse, and—”
Bertram didn’t let her finish. He handed over his last twenty quid—the money earmarked for a proper Sunday roast—and bought the tickets.
“God bless you,” she sniffled. “Could I have your address? I’d like to repay you.”
Bertram, never one for grand gestures, scribbled it down just to hurry her along before he changed his mind.
That evening, he returned to his tiny flat in Croydon, where his daughter Poppy—a sprightly ten-year-old with more sense than most adults—was already kneading dough for their weekly “disaster pie” (her words, not his). They laughed over burnt crusts and terrible telly until bedtime.
The next morning, Poppy shook him awake. “Dad! There’s a mountain of boxes outside!”
Bleary-eyed, Bertram stumbled to the doorstep. Among the boxes sat an envelope:
*Dear Bertram,
These are the things I meant to take north. Sell them—consider it thanks.
Best,
Elena*
Poppy, ever curious, was already rummaging. A *crash* later, Bertram groaned—until he spotted something glittering in the shattered porcelain. A diamond. A real one.
“Blimey! We’re sitting on a fortune!” he gasped.
Poppy crossed her arms. “It’s not ours, Dad. We have to give it back.”
Bertram hesitated. But Poppy, with the moral compass of a saint, won out.
Or so he let her think.
At an antiquarian’s in Mayfair, a smarmy dealer named Nigel appraised the gem. “Remarkable! Worth at least £80,000. No paperwork, though? Shame. Best I can do is £8,000.”
Bertram balked, but Nigel “accidentally” dropped the stone—then handed back a convincing fake.
Bertram stormed home, scheming… only to find Poppy gone. A ransom note demanded the diamond. His blood turned to ice.
Racing to the address (a dodgy warehouse in Wapping), he faced a thug with a pistol and a scar like a misplaced comma. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Gem first,” the man sneered.
Bertram slapped the fake on the table. The thug’s face purpled. “This is glass!”
Panicked, Bertram bluffed: Nigel had double-crossed them both, keeping the real diamond. He showed a photo of Nigel tied up (courtesy of a hasty rope-and-phone stunt).
The thug roared, barrelling off to settle scores—leaving Bertram to free Poppy.
“Did you *kill* Nigel?” she whispered.
“Course not. But he’s about to have a *very* bad day,” Bertram grinned.
Sure enough, the Met arrived just as the thug kicked in Nigel’s door. Both crooks were nicked—though Bertram knew he’d face questions too. Still, as Poppy hugged him, he reckoned it was worth every penny of that lost Sunday roast.
