Masquerades and Operas

Time to give you Part Fourteen of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. The summary is getting rather long; I think it may be time to take the pruners to it.

That means that you really should try to read this from the start which means going to the strangely named Part One. I should also point out that this is very much a draft. There are things that need developing in the edit, couple of plot holes to fill and some ideas that I want to weave in. I’m not quite sure how I will get to share those with my loyal readers. However, if any readers think they have spotted any errors, I would appreciate it if you let me know.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Glynn Jones is investigating the abduction of Archie McRamie, the theft of industrial generators, forged tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships, feral Girl Guides, the smuggling of illegal Macramé yarn, and a suspected murder of a ‘John Doe’ dragged from the Thames. His biggest obstacle to solving all the cases is that Jones believes he is going mad.

Since the case started, he has found himself married to Pippa Hucknell; found that he driving a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy; suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions; keeps re-growing a ginger moustache; bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships; had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks; had one of his team hospitalised by the feral Girl Guides and found the camp Sat-Nav unit in the pink Mark III Ford Zephyr is developing a personality and cannot be switched off.

Doctor Wilkins, the famous TV Pathologist has confirmed the unknown swimmer drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The Fruit Fancies of his last meal are being linked to Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit only to find that both he and Smithy had been there before but cannot remember anything about it. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished.

Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

Now read on...

Jones thrust his phone back into his pocket and started to walk back to the station.

Outside the Brass Workers Hall, he stopped. A small shrine had been placed on the pavement. Candles flickered in glass jars. Flowers with small handwritten notes had been tied to the railings. A group of garden gnomes dressed in stripy waistcoats and boaters paid silent homage to a barber quartet. In the centre of the tributes, a picture of Horace Adkins draped in black lace.

Jones stooped down and read some of the tributes before straightening up and shaking his head. As he was about to walk away, three teenage girls in pinafore dresses delivered a small stuffed rabbit then stood dabbing at their eyes with paper tissues. Shaking his head, Jones walked away.

The streets were busier now. Takeaways and restaurants offering every imaginable British regional cuisine were preparing for lunch and the air was filled with the smells of baking and frying. Llama carts and buses clogged the streets. Pedestrians added splashes of colour with garish blazers and multicoloured pinafore dresses. A woman with two cherubic children in a pushchair clipped Jones as he slowly walked towards the river. They both apologised in unison and both gave a nervous laugh before going on their way.

There was something about the scene that reminded Jones of the childhood game where random items were placed on a tray and he was asked to memorise them before they were covered with a cloth, one removed and, when the cloth was taken away, he had to identify what was missing. There was something missing, Jones was sure of it, but the more he tried to grasp it, the more elusive it became.

A little further up the street there was another impromptu shrine to Horace Adkins. Outside the Adkins Garden Gnome Factory, there was the familiar collection of candles in jars, gnomes, flowers, scarves and cuddly toys around a huge oil painting of Horace. Jones squatted down and read some of the messages accompanied to the sound of the workers inside singing and hammering to the Disney sound track of ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’.

Jones checked his watch and straightened up. He watched a traffic policeman trying to clear a delivery cart carrying nine identical, near naked waxworks of Prince Albert from a junction. The ensemble of Prince Regents, their modesty covered with loin cloths, watched impassively as the policeman tried to tempt the recalcitrant llama across the junction with carrots.

Jones walked on, turned a corner and found himself opposite the offices of Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon. He paused for a few seconds before heading towards a pub a little way down the street.

Jones entered the ‘Lamb and Ledger’ and headed straight to the bar. A fresh faced girl with freckles, pigtails and wearing a pink gingham pinafore greeted him warmly. Jones ran his eyes down the various beer pumps and selected a pint of Adkins IPA. The girl poured his beer, took his money and then skipped along the bar to serve another customer.

Taking a slow sip of his beer, Jones looked around the pub. The lunchtime rush hadn’t started and there were plenty of tables available. He selected one in the corner with the best view of the door.

Twenty minutes later, Johnny Jackson entered and looked around the bar.

“Glyn! My old mate!” His face lit up in a huge grin as he rushed over and gave the Inspector a huge bear hug. “How are you my old mucker?”

After ordering two more pints of IPA and two plates of pie and mash, the two went back to the corner table.

“How’s life at the end of the long arm of the law then?” Johnny asked before quaffing down a third of his pint.

“Not bad.” The Inspector took a more conservative sip of his beer. “How’s the life of the chief clerk at Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon?”

A Weekend Lancashire Yarn

“A Couple of Tenors Short” has now passed 10 000 words – that is over 10% of a novel and I still have loads of stuff to throw into the mix. To start with, there is Part Thirteen which will see Inspector Glynn Jones take a haircut!

This is another longer segment. This is because ‘Chopper’ will be my cameo role when this is made into a feature film – so Hollywood Producers, please take note.

As always, I remind you that in order to get the best from any serial, you should start at the beginning which I decided on a whim to name as Part One. I should also point out that this is very much a draft. There are things that need developing in the edit, couple of plot holes to fill and some ideas that I want to weave in. I’m not quite sure how I will get to share those with my loyal readers.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Glynn Jones has made a big decision. Even if he is mad, that is no excuse for poor police work. Invigorated by this, he has decided to solve the various puzzles with which he is confronted. This is despite suddenly finding himself married to Pippa Hucknell and having to drive a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry with a tendency to behave like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, had one of his team hospitalised by feral Girl Guides and the Sat-Nav in the pink Mark III Ford Zephyr is causing a few problems.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Every clue appears to be linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Forensic tests seem to support Jones in his belief that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendent and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

Now read on...

Back in the Zephyr, as soon as the engine started, the Sat-Nav demanded to know where they were going. Jones tried the off switch a few times, but it still refused to work. Ignoring the pleading from the box, he gave directions to Smithy.

“Aww, come on, pleeaaase?” The Sat-Nav wailed.

“We are going to get the Guv’ner a haircut. Now shut up!” Smithy snapped.

“Well, I think you should go to see Nigel, turn left at the next set of lights.” The Sat-Nav didn’t shut up. “He would do a great job giving your hair a bit of body, a few highlights, maybe even a touch of colour so it matches that garish moustache.”

Jones ignored the advice and continued to give his own directions. Not discouraged in the slightest, the Sat-Nav continued to recommend various local stylists along the route.

When they reached Southall, Jones guided Smithy up a side street and had him park. Nestled between a Pasty takeaway and a newsagents, was ‘Chopper’s Place’.

The Sat-Nav wasn’t impressed.

Smithy made to get out of the car, but Jones stopped him. “No, I want you to go visit a few of the local ticket touts. Check they are not selling counterfeit tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships and if they are, find out where they got them. I’ll meet you back at the station.”

The Inspector got out and went to the door of the barbers shop. The frontage had seen better days. The brown paint was peeling, the red and white pole grimy, the gold lettering proclaiming ‘Traditional British Gentleman’s Haircuts and Shaves’ dulled. Jones paused, before pushing open the door.

As he entered, Jones turned the cardboard sign around to say ‘Closed’ and latched the door shut. Conversation between the barber and the client in the chair ceased.

“Good Morning, Inspector Jones.” The barber shouted. “How lovely to see you again... INSPECTOR JONES!”

There was the sound of shuffling from behind a beaded curtain that led to the back room and the sound of the back door slamming.

“Good Morning, Chopper.” Jones sat on the red leather bench and smiled.

The young man in the chair watched the Inspector intently in the mirror and beads of sweat started to show on his forehead. Chopper started a conversation with him about Morris Dancing and he relaxed slightly, but didn’t stop watching the Inspector.

The inside of the shop was immaculate. The hardwood panelling glowed with deep, rich colour. The brass fittings and mirrors sparkled under numerous lights and lamps. The place had a comforting scent of leather, soap, sandalwood and rum. Jones started to give a tuneless hum as he flicked through an ancient fishing magazine.

The haircut finished, Chopper held up a mirror to his client who nodded and leapt from the chair as if burned.

“Anything for the weekend, sir?” Chopper asked as he disappeared behind the curtain with the man.

Inspector Jones watched in the mirror as behind the swaying curtain, Chopper produced two balls of yarn which the man pocketed quickly. A few notes changed hands and the man hurried from the shop.

Jones settled himself in the chair and ordered a haircut and shave. Chopper draped a large cape around him and asked if he wanted to keep the moustache. Jones was adamant he did not.

“How’s business, Chopper?” Jones asked with a smile.

“It’s not like the old days, Inspector. But it’s not bad” Chopper started to busy himself on the haircut. “And before you ask, that was Lancashire embroidery yarn. I get it from a friend of a friend in Preston. I have all the invoices if you care to check.”

“But I bet if I get a couple of my constables to check that back room of yours they’d find a few bottles of Bay Rum in there, eh?” Jones gave a little laugh. “But that’s not why I’m here. Tell me the word on the street about stolen generators.”

Chopper had stopped cutting Jones’s hair and taken a step backwards. He ran his forefinger around the inside of his collar and swallowed hard before returning to his trade.

He didn’t answer the question. Instead he talked about how crime no longer paid as it did. How youngsters no longer wanted to follow in their father’s footsteps. How the government had made it impossible for entrepreneurs to make the money like they did in the ‘old days’. Jones listened patiently.

“It is all that Simon Cowell’s fault with his bloomin’ Ex-Factor show. It has turned the whole penal code into a televised circus.” Chopper waved his scissors at Jones’s reflection wildly. “He humiliates the criminal community by making them perform song and dance on the telly, lines his pockets when the public phone in to free their favourite and gets huge ratings when those High Court Judges decide which of the bottom two will have the televised execution. It ain’t right.”

Somewhere inside Inspector Jones’s head, something stirred. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Something lurking in the dark recesses of his brain wanted to get out. Under the cape, Jones clenched his fist, screwed his eyes shut and tried to grab the thought, but as quickly as it came, it vanished.

Jones relaxed in the chair and looked at Chopper. “But I want to know about the missing generators.”

Chopper stopped cutting again. “There’s nothing to tell. Whoever is taking ‘em isn’t part of the local gangs.”

“Is Darrius Kipling involved?” Jones asked while observing closely.

Chopper shook his head. “Never heard of ‘im.”

Reaching into his pocket, Jones took out his wallet; he lifted it up in full view of the barber and opened it. Choppers hand shot out and removed the two remaining tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships before Jones could react.

“Word was that Darrius had gone straight. Had got himself a proper job working for Horace Adkins.” Chopper stopped cutting and inspected his work. Terrible thing about Horace Adkins. Lovely guy by all accounts. He did loads of work around here for the kids and that. He’s the one that put up the money to save the Brass Worker’s Hall. He’ll be missed.”

Jones pulled a face swore and snapped back “I want to know about The Baker, not bloody Horace Bloody Adkins!”

“Temper, Inspector!” Chopper wagged a finger then leaned closer to the Inspector and spoke in a near whisper. “But I’m not so sure that Darrius isn’t doing a bit of work on the side. Heard talk that some woman was pulling the strings, but nothing more than that.”

Jones continued to try and pump Chopper about the woman and ‘the work on the side’, but got nowhere. The only consolation he had was that Chopper did give him a name to talk to about the counterfeit Light Entertainment Championship tickets.

With his hair cut and his face clean shaven, Jones walked out onto the street. The first thing Jones did after he left the shop was ring Smithy with instructions to get him two genuine tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships and where to check for the fakes.

Tears Idle Tears

Good News Everyone! I have found the title of this stew of my creative juices; it will be called “A Couple of Tenors Short”. In celebration, I bring you Part Twelve of what might yet prove to be a novel.

As always, I remind you that in order to get the best from any serial, you should start at the beginning which I decided on a whim to name as Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Glynn Jones has made a big decision. Even if he is mad, that is no excuse for poor police work. Invigorated by this, he has decided to solve the various puzzles with which he is confronted. This is despite suddenly finding himself married to Pippa Hucknell and having to drive a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry with a tendency to behave like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, had one of his team hospitalised by feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Every clue appears to be linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Jones is convinced that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

Now read on...

The briefing flowed from Inspector Jones from instinct. Facts were highlighted, evidence divulged, theories postulated. The assembled squad listened intently, some took notes, and others stared at the whiteboard as Jones spoke.

When the briefing ended Jones paused and looked around the room, trying to catch the eyes of everyone there. Satisfied, he called for questions and was disappointed that everyone stayed silent.

“OK then!” Jones slapped the flat of his hand down on the table causing some to jump. “Assignments!”

Jones went around the room. The uniformed constables were sent out to knock on doors around the scene of Archie McRamie’s abduction and see if they could get witnesses. DC Brown was set the task of finding Archie’ McRamie’s car which seemed to have been lost. DC Johnson looked none too happy to be told to get an artist’s impression of the body from the Thames and get it into the papers to see if anyone recognised him, but warmed to it immensely when offered the alternative of rounding up the new pack of feral Girl Guides.

“And finally, Smithy, you are with me.” Jones rubbed his hands together and grinned broadly. “I want updates from all of you at tomorrow mornings briefing.”

Jones paused and watched people slowly rise from their chairs and head to the door before adding, “Remember everybody, let’s be careful out there.”

Smithy trailed along behind the Inspector as he left the station by a side door and took a route to the Zephyr that avoided passing his Datsun.

“Where to, Guv?” Smithy waited until they were both seated comfortably in the Zephyr before asking.

“Oh, yes! Do Tell!” the Sat-Nav piped up before Jones had time to answer. “I do so love visiting new places.”

Jones tried to switch off the Sat-Nav, but it stubbornly refused to power down.

“So? Where to, my cute adventurer with the ginger moustache?” The Sat-Nav asked impatiently.

The Inspector swore, checked his top lip and swore again.

“First, to the mortuary.” Jones announced.

Smithy threw the Zephyr into gear and edged out into the traffic. Throughout the journey, the Sat-Nav kept telling him to watch the road and slow down. Jones kept hitting the ‘off’ button on the unit to no effect. At one point, the Sat-Nav caused Smithy to break hard and nearly be rear-ended by a bendy bus by suddenly exclaiming “Oooo, Look! Shoes to die for!”

The Inspector sat with his arms crossed and stared straight ahead.

The queue for seats for the day’s post-mortems was always worse on Wednesdays. Since Prime Minister Simon Cowell had introduced the incentives for pensioners and the right to choose your own pathologist, it had caused a surge in demand for tickets. Most mortuaries had been forced to install extra seating. As the two policemen ignored the queues and walked straight towards the entrance, there were howls of protest, cat calls and abuse. The leather clad security guards moved in and cracked their whips to try and quell the crowd.

A full colostomy bag was thrown, narrowly missing Smithy and exploding against a waxwork of Alfred Lord Tennyson dressed in the garb of a Greek Sailor. Jones and Smithy made a run for the entrance. Once inside they watched as security slowly restored order before heading toward Doctor Wilkins’s dressing room.

“Wow, Doctor Wilkins!” Smithy gave a quiet whistle. “He’s one of my wife’s favourites, Guv. She just loves him in ‘Autopsies of the stiff and famous’ – never misses an episode.”

Jones ignored him, knocked on the door and without waiting for a reply walked in. A star-struck Smithy followed him in.

The make-up girl scowled as Wilkins jumped from his chair and greeted Jones warmly. They exchanged small talk for a while before Jones took out his wallet and withdrew two of the four tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships. He handed the tickets to the doctor who grinned broadly.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the final results yet, Inspector.” He said apologetically as he quickly thrust the tickets in his pocket. “However, the preliminary results do suggest that those Fruit Fancies were indeed baked by your friend, Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling. I’ll be able to give you the definitive answer tomorrow.”

“Thanks, doc.” Jones smiled and shook his hand warmly. “As soon as you have them, let me know.”

“Of course” Doctor Wilkins grinned back. “I’ll see you at the Championships!”

The Doctor shook Jones’s hand again then turned and shook the hand of Smithy who just whimpered.

“Come on, Smithy!” Jones grabbed Smithy’s arm and manhandled him out of the room. “No time to dawdle! It’s time I got a haircut!”

A Couple of Tenors Short

It hardly seems possible, but despite warnings that a Hung Parliament will cause jellies never to set and soft fruit to taste of anchovies, I managed to quell my fears and bring you Part Eleven of the provisionally titled ‘Horace Adkins Saga’.

As always, I remind you that in order to get the best from any serial, you should start at the beginning which I decided on a whim to name as Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Glynn Jones is beginning to wonder if he is going mad. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. His car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry with a tendency to behave like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, had one of his team hospitalised by feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Every clue appears to be linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Jones is convinced that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

Now read on...

The next morning, Jones awoke early to find Pippa still asleep beside him. He climbed out of bed very carefully and quietly.

Pippa was still asleep after he had showered and shaved off his ginger moustache. He stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and watched Pippa sleeping as he considered what to wear. He was running out of suits, but eventually decided on a grey suit, cream shirt and pale blue tie.

After taking a light breakfast, he made a fresh pot of coffee and left a short note propped against it along with some aspirin. He got to the front door, turned back and added a few kisses to the end of the note.

When he got back into the hallway, Pippa was making her way down the stairs very gingerly.

“Morning, love.” Jones spoke quietly, walked over to her, climbed a few steps and kissed her softly. “There’s fresh coffee and aspirin in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Pippa gave a kiss in return. “I may have said this before, but I am never going to drink again.”

They both gave a little laugh as they hugged on the stairs.

“I have to...” Jones waved towards the door.

“It’s OK.” Pippa edged past him and headed towards the kitchen. “I need to get some coffee and try to remember last night.”

The Datsun Cherry chirruped merrily and flung open the driver’s door as the Inspector left the house. As the Inspector fitted his seat belt, the Datsun started the engine.

Traffic was light as they headed North towards the river. Most of the llama carts and their drivers were still having breakfast.

At a set of lights, Jones watched as a young lad wearing a loud blazer and boater suddenly produced a fiddle. Jones checked his bare top lip as the bus queue organised themselves into an impromptu square dance in the early morning sunshine. Further along the road, a group of middle aged ladies were decorating a traffic enforcement camera with strings of paper flowers.

“Am I going mad?” the Inspector asked aloud.

The Datsun gave a quiet “prooop” and Jones laughed nervously.

Apart from the strains of ‘Oklahoma’, the station was quiet. Jones greeted the desk sergeant and started towards his desk.

“Dammit, Jones!” the Inspector shouted as he stopped half way up the stairs. “Thinking yourself a couple of tenors short of a choral society is no excuse for sloppy police work!”

With that he took the rest of the stairs two at a time and almost ran to his desk.

There was a small pile of pastel coloured message cards. Most were from the Superintendant, written in rhyming couplets, but basically demanding progress on why Vera Anne Adkins had visited Adkins the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon. Amongst the rest which were mainly people he barely knew or remembered asking if he had spare tickets to the Light Entertainments Championships, was one from Archie McRamie’s agent. She apologised for being unable to come and see the Inspector, but she was still stuck in Latvia as a result of a volcanic ash cloud.

Jones took the pale yellow card with Archie’s agent’s number and placed it against his phone. The rest he threw in the bin.

Next, Jones went through the folders containing the new cases. Two were reports of Macramé dealers approaching old ladies in Trafalgar Square. One contained a report of the seizure of counterfeit tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships. Another was the hijacking of a shipment of turbines and the last reported sightings of feral Girl Guides on Hampstead Heath.

Jones distributed the folders amongst the team on his way to the Incident Room.

The blank whiteboard stared back at Jones for what seemed an age. Jones fiddled with the marker pen and fought to control his breathing before eventually writing the name ‘Archie McRamie’ at the top of the board. Consulting his notes as he went, he presented the sum of his knowledge about the case on the board, including the body dragged from the Thames. Finally and with no small amount of hesitation, he added the name ‘Horace Adkins’.

As he was standing back, admiring his handiwork and wondering if he should remove the reference to Horace Adkins, his squad started to file into the room along with a couple of uniformed constables, one of which was the one who handed him the whistle when he was visiting Tom Taylor.

The Inspector turned and glared at his audience until everyone stopped talking. Drawing himself up to his full height, he clasped his hand behind his back. With a precision that would have made his Hendon instructor swell with pride, he stood on his toes, lowered himself again, and then slowly bent his knees.

“Mornin’ all.” Jones gave the audience a wink. “Today we are going to kick some cans.”

I Survived Mutant Rodents

Having survived the weekend which, in part at least, required my to evict a mouse from the garage, I find myself able to bring you Part Ten of the provisionally titled ‘Horace Adkins Saga’. Those of you who doubt the courage required to bring you this need to know that the mouse was the size of a small cat, had teeth resembling steak knives and appeared to be growing wings. I have put these mice mutations down to its diet of cat litter (best not to ask!).

After my epic battles with supersized rodents, I find it particularly boring to remind you that in order to get the best from any serial, you should start at the beginning which I decided on a whim to name as Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Inspector Jones is convinced that all of these are somehow linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Jones is convinced that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

At every turn, the Inspector is finding the world is turning odd. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. His car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, had one of his team hospitalised by feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Now read on...

Inspector Jones went straight through to the kitchen and laid out the ingredients for dinner. He stepped back, observed them for a while, and then adjusted them for best aesthetic effect. He issued a stream of oaths as he rummaged in drawers and cupboards to find all the utensils.

With everything in place, he went to the fridge only to find that it contained cans of diet soda rather than beer. He swore before stomping off to his study to retrieve a can of lager from the small fridge next to his desk.

He was almost at the door when he froze. He examined the can of ‘Adkin’s Premium Dutch Export’ in his hand, shook his head slowly before returning to the desk and picking up a framed picture of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and carrying both back to the kitchen.

Sir Arthur carefully positioned, Jones started meticulously preparing the evening meal, all the time holding a one-sided conversation with the picture about the nature of madness.

Pippa still wasn’t home when the preparations were complete, so Jones went and sat in the front room with his copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little after Two-thirty’.

The mournful baying of a llama interrupted Jones about an hour later. He looked out of the window to see Pippa spilling out of a llama hackney carriage then swaying alarmingly as she paid the driver.

Hiding the book under a cushion embroidered with the image of Winston Churchill, Jones went to the kitchen to complete the dinner. Pippa staggered in a few minutes later.

“I’m drunk!” she announced to make sure there was no doubt.

Jones looked at her and raised an eyebrow before returning to his pans.

“You are a very naughty boy.” She gave the Inspectors bottom a playful slap. “You didn’t tell me that Archie was involved in all of this Horace Adkins business.”

Pippa belched noisily and then fished around in her handbag before triumphantly holding a new paperback edition of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little after Two-thirty’ aloft.

“Do you know Archie McRamie?” Jones carefully kept his tone steady.

“Of course!” Pippa waved the picture on the back of the paperback towards Jones. “Everyone in the media knows Archie. You can always get a witty quote about anything from Archie. Olympic standard sack racer; best kept allotment winner for six years running; wine expert; panel game whiz; current holder of the lawnmower land speed record; judge for the Light Entertainment Championships and... and above all, absolutely fantastic in bed!”

“What?” Jones spun round to face Pippa

“No need to be jealous, darling.” Pippa steadied herself against the counter. “I haven’t had the pleasure, I can only base it on the gossip. Besides, I’m not his type. He likes his women a little more... demure.”

Pippa laughed hysterically and Jones caught her as she nearly fell.

“Not that.” Jones guided Pippa to a stool. “You said he’s a judge for the upcoming Light Entertainment Championships!”

“Yes and you know what else?” Pippa’s brow furrowed as she focussed on Jones. “He can write too. This book of his isn’t half bad. OK, the world he describes is very dark and not a lot of fun, but it is a gripping read. I bet Horace Adkins was really peed off to be cast as a smuggler and an industrial spy.”

Over dinner, Jones sat quietly while Pippa recounted tales of the achievements of Archie McRamie. It appeared that he had done everything from climb Mount Everest to breaking records for solving crosswords blindfolded. The scale of the anecdotes increased with the amount of wine Pippa imbibed.

After dinner was eaten and cleared, Jones sat on the sofa with Pippa lying across his lap. They both read ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’.

“Glynn, can I ask you an odd question.” Pippa asked slowly

Inspector Glynn Jones stiffened as he realised that for the first time since all of this started somebody had addressed him by his given name.

“It’s just this.” Pippa squirmed delightfully in Jones’s lap. “Do you ever get the feeling that you are in a dream and that something is stopping you from waking up?”

Glynn Jones looked down at Pippa, but before he could formulate a response, Pippa suddenly lurched from his lap, rushed to the bathroom and was violently sick.

Retribution of the Bean Bag

By twists and turns of fate and a dodgy batch of Dried Frog Pills, we find ourselves at Part Nine of the provisionally titled ‘Horace Adkins Saga’. The final title remains as elusive as ever and so you are stuck with me naming each segment will be titled according to a random synaptic tangent. For those of you who may be a tad confused, I suggest that you make sure you have read the previous parts, starting with Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Horace Adkins, the beloved and renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. In the mortuary, there is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The safety of the streets of London is threatened by the illegal importing of cheap Macramé yarn.

Inspector Jones is convinced that all of these are somehow linked to Horace Adkins.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished. Not only that, but he and his sidekick Smithy have no recollection of their previous visit.

Jones is convinced that the ‘John Doe’ in the Thames was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

At every turn, the Inspector is finding the world is turning odd. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. His car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, been forced to deal with feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Now read on...

The hospital had put Tom in a private room at the end of a long corridor that smelt of pickled beetroot. When Inspector Jones lying still on the bed, his afro spilling across the white pillow. Wires and tubes went to all manner of contraption. All was quiet except for the steady beep from the heart monitor.

“Guv! You needn’t have come.” Tom’s voice was quiet, hoarse.

“Nonsense, of course I had to come.” Jones lay his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I want to make sure you are well enough to buy the first round at the Light Entertainment Championships.”

Tom gave a weak laugh which turned into a cough.

“I’m sorry, Guv.” Tom turned his head away from the Inspector. “I let you down.”

“Hey! You didn’t let anyone down.” The Inspector raised his voice a little. “You had a dangerous job to do and sometimes... well, sometimes don’t go as planned. What happened?”

“It was going so well.” Tom closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “The Girl Guides were easy to find, like everybody else in the park, they were watching the preparations for the lawnmower land speed record.”

Tom swallowed hard and clenched his right hand into a fist. “We had them all rounded up and back at the minibuses.”

Tom tried to lift his head to look at Inspector Jones, but winced in pain and let his head fall back on the pillow.

“It’s OK, Tom.” The Inspector spoke in soothing tones as he patted his shoulder again.

“It was awful, Guv!” Tom turned his head and stared wild eyed at Jones. “We were about to load them up when someone blew a whistle. They had bean bags. Loads of bean bags. The air was full of them. And the screaming, my God the screams...”

Tom thrashed about on the bed and a nurse with a starched wimple stepped from the shadows.

“I think that is enough for today, Inspector.” She said as she fussed over Tom’s bedding. “He needs rest.”

The Inspector nodded and promised Tom he would visit tomorrow before leaving the room to find Tom’s doctor.

The doctor reassured the Inspector that Tom would make a full recovery, but Jones still scowled as he walked slowly down the corridor towards the exit.

“Inspector! Inspector!” a voice called after him and Jones turned to see a uniformed constable running down the corridor.

“Yes, constable?” Jones looked at his torn and grubby uniform and his blood smeared face.

“We found this, sir.” The constable held up an evidence bag containing a silver whistle.

The Inspector took the bag and looked closely at the silver whistle with the engraving ‘The Bandleader’s Ear-buster Whistle. As used by Horace Adkins.’ The Inspector swore.

“Get this to forensics. Tell them I want a full report on my desk tomorrow.” The Inspector paused and then in a low growl added, “Tell them that it was used to try and kill Tom Taylor.”

Giving the bag back to the constable, Jones turned on his heel and walked briskly away.

As Jones approached the Datusun Cherry, it chirruped and flashed at him.

“And you can shut up, too” Jones spat as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

The Datsun went silent.

Jones just sat in silence for several minutes, staring up at the window of Tom’s room.

“I’m sorry.” Jones said at last as he patted the dashboard of the Datsun. “It’s just that none of this feels right. This just doesn’t feel... normal.”

The Datsun gave a little chirrup of agreement and started its engine.

Jones didn’t go back to the station. Instead, he decided to go home. One way, he stopped off at the Delicatessen and spent the rest of the journey working out a menu for that evening’s dinner.

There was no Mercedes on the drive when he got home.

“Pippa’s going to be in a foul mood when she gets back” Jones whispered to the Datsun. “I think I might be in her bad books.”

The Datsun gave a little chirrup of agreement and stopped its engine.

Gathering up his groceries, Inspector Jones went inside.

Exploding of the Black and White Cat

My tale continues as I bring you Part Eight the provisionally titled ‘Horace Adkins Saga’. As yet, the title of the piece has yet to present itself to me, so until it does each segment will be titled according to synaptic tangent. For those of you who may be a tad confused, I suggest that you make sure you have the previous parts, starting with Part One.

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Jones is stubbornly investigating a case linked to Horace Adkins, the renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario. Inspector Jones is still not sure what that case is and is finding that his grasp of reality challenged at every turn.

There are not many clues to work with. There is the body of a swimmer who drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea that Jones is convinced was murdered by Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling, an employee of the Horace Adkins. Unfortunately, Horace Adkins is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

One piece of evidence he has is an old paperback written by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be none other than Horace Adkins.

At every turn, the Inspector is finding the world is turning odd. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. His car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy. Since the case has started, he has suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions, grown a moustache that has turned out ginger, bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships, had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks, been forced to deal with feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Now read on...

The butler performed a passable samba as he led the two policemen to the library. Smithy shot Jones a puzzled glance. Jones just raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

In the library sat a pretty woman wearing a grey dress and cardigan listening to Doris Day albums on an ancient gramophone. She gave a start when they entered before scurrying over to the Inspector, giving him the briefest of handshakes, mumbling something, blushing furiously and scurrying back to her seat. She sat, hands on knees looking down at her grey slippers with her long chestnut hair cascading down obscuring her face.

“I’m afraid that this terrible business has done nothing to alleviate Ms Perriwinkle’s systemic shyness” the butler said as he positioned himself next to the afflicted girl. “If you will permit, I shall act as translator.”

The butler bent at the waist. Ms Perriwinkle, shielding her face with her hand, whispered into his ear.

“Ms Periwinkle wonders if there is any news of Mr McRamie after his abduction.” The butler intoned in an emotionless tone that only butlers can truly master.

Jones shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Has there been any ransom demand?”

The butler bent at the waist. Ms Perrywinkle whispered into his ear.

“No, Inspector.” The butler paused. “We have had no news at all since your last visit. Mr McRamie’s empty car, drivers door open and engine still running was discovered down the street last week. This is most out of character and we fear the worst.”

The interview continued along the same lines. Inspector Jones would ask a question, the butler would bend at the waist, Ms Perrywinkle would whisper an answer, the butler would then convey to the policemen which Smithy would then scribble down in his Postman Pat notepad.

“Inspector,” the butler spoke without the preceding bob, “we have been through all of this before on your last visit.

“Ah, yes, I know.” Jones shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “But sometimes running over events again like this throws up information that was overlooked. It is all standard procedure.”

Jones shot a glance at Smithy who gave him a wink and a thumbs up signal.

When the interview ended, the butler escorted Jones and Smithy to the door, where he paused and fished out two green lollipops from his silver waistcoat and gave them one each.

“Herring flavour. The extra fish oil might help in your investigation.” The butler turned, paused and added. “I think Ms Perrywinkle has taken shine to you, Inspector. I have never seen her so animated.”

Walking back to the Zephyr, as Smithy was struggling with the cellophane wrapper of his lollipop, Jones spotted the Mercedes pulling away from across the street and smiled.

They climbed into the Zephyr and headed back to the station.

“Guv? Why don’t I remember this case?” Smithy’s voice was at a higher pitch than normal.

“Smithy, I have no idea what is going on.” The exasperated Inspector started to open his lollipop. “As I’ve said before, something odd is going on.”

“Still, no harm done.” Smithy suddenly perked up as an opportunity to overtake a candied asparagus delivery lorry presented itself. “Now I’ve had the extra fish oil, it will all come back to me.”

The Mark III Zephyr’s engine gave a throaty roar as it accelerated past the delivery van, knocked over the candelabra on the traffic island and swerved around the Yoga Group practicing on the roundabout. Smithy flicked the wheel and the Zephyr did a power slide around a waxwork tableaux depicting Florence Nightingale as part of a chorus line. When the Inspector opened his eyes, the road in front of them was clear.

“Smithy, doesn’t any of this worry you?” the inspector took a long suck on his lollipop and winced.

“Worry me? Nah, what’s the point.” Smithy gave a little laugh. “It will all work out in the end, it always does.”

Jones dropped the subject and they lapsed into small talk about the upcoming Light Entertainment Championships.

Back at his desk, the first thing the Inspector did was try to bring up the case notes on the McRamie abduction. There were no records on the computer. There was no folder on any of the desks in the office. Everyone he asked just shrugged and denied all knowledge, even Sergeant Collins.

Just when he thought his mood was not capable of deteriorating further, he got a call from the hospital. Detective Constable Tom Taylor had been admitted and he was in a bad way.