Talk About Handicap — I'm a One-eyed Negro Jew

Still smarting that I have failed to knock a televised three way thing from the headlines and thus failing to become an overnight Internet sensation, I salve my wounded ego and bring you Part Seven of the Horace Adkins saga. My previous advice still holds true. Those who have not already done so, should acquaint themselves with the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two , Part Three, Part Four, Part Five and Part Six . Due to the fickle nature of fame, I find myself forced to once again distance myself from Part Horse.

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 it is, but is sure that swimmer who drowned in the Thames was murdered. Unfortunately, Horace Adkins is presumed dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. Horace’s two employees, Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil are very much alive and where 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.

Apart from that, the Inspector is sure that the world is turning odd. He suddenly finds himself married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist whose stories are upsetting his Superintendant. He discovered his car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry. 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, forced to deal with feral Girl Guides and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr.

Now read on...

As Jones left the office, the receptionist reached out from her hiding place and thrust a card in the Inspectors hand.

“Thank you for your visit” her muffled voice came from the undergrowth. “Your views are important to us, please complete the feedback card and you could win tickets to the Police Light Entertainment Championships”

Thrusting the card into his pocket, Jones stepped into the list which provided him with handy tips for composting while it counted down the floors towards his office.

Walking slowly back to the office, he pondered the meeting with the Superintendant, shook his head. A small piglet chose an inopportune moment to venture out from behind the filing cabinets. Jones aimed a kick at it, but missed. The miniature porcine ran back to the filing cabinets with a high pitched squeal.

At his desk, Jones picked up a pen and wrote the name Horace Adkins in the middle of a blank piece of paper. He drew a fluffy cloud around it, and then added the name Darrius Kipling which he outlined with a spiky cloud. After adding John Doe, he paused and stroked his ginger moustache before outlining it with a coffin shape.

Turning to his computer, he typed in the name Archie McRamie and scribbled down the address that popped up.

“SMITHY!” he yelled across the office. “Fire up the Zephyr, we are going to answer one of modern literatures greatest questions.”

Jones added the name Archie McRamie to his doodle and outlined it with a picture of a book. He started to get out of his chair, paused and in very small letters in a bottom corner, he wrote “Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon” and next to that “Vera Anne Adkins & Violet Ann Adkins” which he decorated with an ornate question mark.

As the two policemen entered the car park, the Datsun Cherry chirruped and flashed its indicators. When Jones walked on past towards the Zephyr, the chirrup died away and the glow in the indicators faded mournfully. As Jones climbed into the Zephyr, the Datsun gave a disconsolate “preeeeep?”

“Did you see that?” Jones asked Smithy. “Don’t you think it odd that a car behaves like that?”

Smithy shrugged. “It’s Japanese isn’t it, Guv? Mighty clever these Japanese.”

The Ford Zephyr growled aggressively as Smithy cut into the slow moving city traffic.

“Well, there was no need for that, was there?” the camp voice of the Sat-Nav admonished Smithy. “Keep going all the way along here and turn right at that delightful hat shop by the lights.”

“This isn’t normal, Smithy.” Jones slammed his down on the deep crimson leather of the bench seat of the Zephyr.

“Sorry, Guv” Smithy responded. “The traffic is bad as a lot of roads are closed ready for the London Egg and Spoon Race.”

Inspector withdrew into a sullen silence that was only punctuated by the voice of the Sat-Nav giving Smithy directions or scolding him for driving indiscretions.

“Guv!” Smithy shook the inspectors arm. “We’re being followed!”

Looking over his shoulder, he recognised the expensive Mercedes and Pippa at the wheel.

“OK, Smithy.” The Inspector growled. “Lose them!”

“Ooooo, what fun!” The Sat-Nav interjected. “Mind that Llama cart!”

There was a squeal of tyres as the Zephyr accelerated past the Llama cart, cut between two buses, mounted the pavement and then roared away. Three youths in boaters dropped their waxwork of Sammy Davies Jnr in Siamese dress and aimed obscene gestures at the rear of the Zephyr.

“i’ve come over all peculiar.” The Sat-Nav panted. “You turn left at the all night haberdashers, love.”

Jones watched the rear window and when the Mercedes failed to come into sight, he apologised under his breath to Pippa.

The house of Archie McRamie was in a quiet, tree lined street in North London. As the Zephyr drew up to the large metal gates, the swung open noiselessly.

Leaving the Zephyr, the two policemen admired the neoclassical mansion.

“Does this look familiar to you?” Smithy asked

Jones nodded as the pair climbed the five white marble steps to the door. Jones pushed the doorbell. Deep inside the mansion, there was the tolling of a bell.

The door was opened by a butler in full regalia.

“Why Inspector Jones!” the butler greeted the pair warmly as his bow tie twirled manically. “How wonderful to see you again. Please come in.”

Does Your Chewingum Lose its Flavour

Despite not yet becoming the Internet sensation it deserves, the tale continues with a slightly longer entry today. You find yourself in line to pick up your copy of Part Six. Previously, I have suggested that those who have not already done so, should acquaint themselves with the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two , Part Three, Part Four and Part Five. And yes, I am really sorry if any of you ignored my advice and visited Part Horse – I won’t include the link again.

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. Inspector Jones is still not sure what it is, but is sure that swimmer who drowned in the Thames was murdered and that this murder is linked to Horace Adkins, the renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario. Unfortunately, Horace Adkins is also dead after his Georgian Mansion was blown up in the course of his suicide. However, Horace’s two employees, Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil are very much alive and where 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.

He also believes that an old paperback discovered in an evidence bag on his desk is related to the case as the main character in the well-thumbed paperback appears to be none other than Horace Adkins.

On the plus side, he has discovered that he is married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist with a reputation amongst members of the force and they share a rather nice art deco house.

On the flipside, he also discovered his car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry. Since the case has started, he has 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 and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr. While Jones investigates why London life has become odd, his Superintendant believes he is investigating an international macramé racket and wants to know why Jones suspects the late, lamented Horace Adkins, of being involved.

Now read on...

Back at the station, Jones made a beeline for Sergeant Collins who was busy filing in the records office. Jones waited patiently as Collins catalogued a pile of Perry Como CDs.

“Hello again, Inspector.” Collins greeted Jones cheerfully. “What can I do for you today?”

“I wondered if I could have two extra tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships.”

The sergeant sucked in breath loudly, then went over to the door and closed it quietly. “I shouldn’t yer know? These are the last two, but as it’s you...”

The tickets were retrieved from a strongbox hidden behind a pile of old sheet music. Four crisp twenty pound notes changed hands. The sergeant offered the Inspector a cup of tea and the two chatted for a while over the state of the Wembley turf and whether Collins would need to change the routine to cater conditions.

The tea drunk, the Inspector headed up the stairs towards his desk. As soon as he entered the room, Smithy stopped him.

“The Superintendant wants to see you.” Smithy paused, looked around the room and added in a hushed whisper, “Immediately he said.”

Ignoring the summons, Jones went to his desk and checked through the small pile of new cases that had come in overnight. Two were reports of illicit macramé dealers lurking around tourist hotspots, one was a missing shipment of Columbian colouring pencils, another of a power blackout at a coleslaw plant and the remainder where reports of a feral pack of Girl Guides performing random handicrafts on the passing public in Hyde Park.

Jones picked up the folders with the reports of the feral Girl Guides and took them over to Tom Taylor who was preening his afro.

“Aw, Guv!” Tom whined as he saw the subject of the files. “Why me? Can’t one of the other guys deal with it?”

“You’ll be fine, Tom.” Jones reassured him. “Take a squad from uniform and just make sure that you take plenty of cleaning materials. Oh, and remember, whatever you do, don’t blow any whistles.”

Jones turned on his heel and ignored Tom’s sobs.

The superintendant’s office took up most of the top floor of the station. Jones took the elevator which announced each floor they passed and threw in random quotations from W.C. Fields for good measure.

The lift doors opened into the atrium of the Superintendant’s office. Avoiding the kittens playing with confiscated yarn and ducking to avoid a swooping bird of paradise, Jones left the lift.

“You can go straight in, Inspector.” The voice of the receptionist came from a thicket of aspidistra. “The Superintendant is expecting you.”

At the huge brass, double doors, Jones paused and instinctively went to tidy up his dress. Jones swore as he realised his blue suit trousers had become purple corduroy and the jacket was now leather and proudly proclaimed “Skiffle on Tour”.

“Language, Inspector!” The camouflaged receptionist admonished him as the huge brass doors swung open.

The Superintendant was at his grand piano in the far corner of the room, eyes closed, swaying in time to his expert rendition of a medley of Jimmy Young hits. Three athletes sat behind the counter of the cocktail bar, hand jiving furiously.

Positioning himself carefully on the Persian rug to avoid standing under the chandelier where several large macaws were squabbling over a bag of Nobby’s Nuts, Jones waited for the piano recital to finish. As he did so, a man in the green lycra bodysuit preferred by the State Security Services stepped out from behind the ornate Japanese lacquered screen.

“Ahhh, Inspector Jones” the Superintendant stopped playing and rose from the piano to polite applause from the athletes. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, take a seat.”

The Inspector sat in one of the large G-Plan easy chairs. The Superintendant sat in the other.

“I’ve been reading your report.” The security man said, while prowling behind the Superintendant. “It is all very, very interesting.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The security services made Jones nervous. This one, with his numerous sponsors’ patches on his lycra suit singling him out to be particularly senior, made him even more so.

“You do realise that to the people of this country, the name of Horace Adkins is uttered with pride and no little respect” The security man paused and waited for Jones to nod. “Indeed, this is an election year and Prime Minister Cowell doesn’t want any bad publicity.”

“None whatsoever” the Superintendant butted in to stress the point. “The last thing we need is that busybody reporter, Pippa Hucknell broadcasting stories like she did this morning that link Horace Adkins to the Macramé Trade.”

Jones blushed slightly.

The security man pressed the tips of his fingers together and leaned forward in an impression of a praying mantis that drew involuntary gasps of admiration from the athletes.

“Indeed.” The security man looked at the Superintendant and extended his prowl to circumnavigate the water feature. “Fortunately we have been able to serve a gagging order to the troublesome Ms Hucknell.”

“So you are telling me to stop investigating the affairs of the late Horace Adkins?” Jones snapped at the two men.

“Late Horace Adkins?” the security man gave a cold laugh. “He is only presumed dead, Inspector. We have yet to recover a body and all this speculation over a state funeral is purely that – speculation.”

“But I am still to shutdown this investigation.” Jones thumped the arm of his chair causing the leg rest to fly out and a small cloud of dust to rise into the room.

“Oh no, on the contrary.” The security man smiled in a way to cause Jones to fear for control of his bladder. “We want you to continue and most of all we want to know why his daughters visited Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.”

A gesture from the Superintendant indicated that the meeting was over. Jones rose from his chair and headed for the doors.

“One more thing, Inspector.” The security man spoke as Jones neared the doors. “If this goes wrong or anything happens that could embarrass Prime Minister Cowell, we will deny that this conversation ever took place.”

“These are strange times.” The superintendant butted in.

“Exactly!” the security man shot the Superintendant a fierce some stare. “If this thing blows up, to every Daily Mail reader you will be just another rogue cop who overstepped his stereotype. I hope you understand?”

He paused and gave another smile that made the Inspector’s bladder twitch. “Good Day, Inspector.”

Candice Bull and the Seven Tumbler Lever Lock

This tale has been going on for a while now. You may now find yourself thrown into (not yet) the middle of this broiling pot. Previously, I have suggested that those who have not already done so, should acquaint themselves with the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two , Part Three and Part Four. However, at this point, I would like warn casual visitors that this story has no connection whatsoever with Part Horse.

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

Inspector Jones is still a policeman with problems. He has discovered that he is married to Pippa Hucknell, the investigative journalist with a reputation amongst members of the force. He lives with her in a rather nice art deco house. On the flip-side, he also discovered his car is now a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry. Since the case has started, he has 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 and found he is quite fond of a pink Mark III Ford Zephyr. Sadly, he is no closer to working out what the case actually is. His Superintendent believes he is investigating an international macramé racket and wants to know why Jones suspects the late, lamented Horace Adkins, the renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario, of being involved.

On his desk, Jones has discovered an old paperback in an evidence bag. The main character in the well-thumbed paperback appears to be none other than Horace Adkins. Also, he has decided on the basis of some fruit fancies that the body of an unknown man that was dragged from the Thames has something to do with the case. The post-mortem on the poor soul suggesting he was a victim to a tragic accident caused by swimming too soon after taking a large high tea.

Now read on...

There was a smile playing on Jones’s lips when he awoke the next morning. Some would say that it wasn’t so much a smile as a huge great grin, but Jones made no effort to get it under control. Next to him, a Pippa Hucknell shaped depression in the silk sheets. The air was heavy with her scent and a smell that hadn’t assailed the Inspector’s nostrils for quite some time.

Of Pippa there was no sign. Jones went to the bathroom and performed his ablutions while humming Gregorian chants. After dressing in a blue suit, white shirt and maroon tie, Jones went downstairs. In the kitchen there was a note from Pippa propped against the full coffee pot apologising for having to shoot off early.

Jones read a couple more chapters from ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie while he ate his cereal and drank the coffee.

The Datsun Cherry in the drive chirruped and blinked as Jones locked the front door. As he approached it, the driver’s door swung open and the radio tuned itself to a station playing big band interpretations of Gilbert & Sullivan operettas. Jones started to sing along.

At the first set of lights, Jones ran his thumb and forefinger above his top lip and smiled when he touched bare skin. He smiled when the traffic ground to a halt due to a protest about the levels of llama dung on London streets. He smiled when he got cut up by two men on llamas. In fact, Jones’s jaw was beginning to ache through over-smiling.

Rather than go straight to the station, Jones decided to go via the Mortuary. When he arrived at the neon lit dome, queues for gallery tickets for the day’s post-mortems were already zigzagging back towards the parking lot. As Jones ignored the queues and walked straight towards the doors, some customers started cat-calling and shouting abuse, but the leather clad security guards moved in quickly with their whips and quelled all signs of discontent.

Jones found Doctor Wilkins, the pathologist in his dressing room, preparing for the day’s events. He leapt out of his chair when the Inspector entered, leaving a scowling make-up girl standing with a mascara brush in hand.

“Inspector! My main man, how are you doin’ Bro’?” The doctor held up a hand for the Inspector to high five.

The Inspector obliged and the two men made small talk while the make-up girl improved on her scowl.

“I came to find out about the drowning of the swimmer in the Thames.” Eventually Jones got to reason behind his visit.

“Which one?” The doctor moved towards a rack at the back of the room.

“The John Doe” The Inspector looked at the blank faced Doctor and added, “The one hauled out at Putney Bridge.”

“Oh that one!” The Chinese doctor pulled a large box from the rack and placed it on his desk. “He’d been in the river up to twelve hours by the looks of the cadaver. He could have entered the river anywhere.”

The inspector eagerly peered into the box. It contained the skimpiest pair of Speedos and a key. “Is that it?”

“He was swimming, Inspector.” The doctor spoke slowly and over emphasised the word swimming.

“Oh.” Jones picked up the key. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this is for?”

“Hmmm” the doctor stroked his dreadlocked beard. “Manufactured by Candice Bull & Co, I would say. Probably in March 2006. It’s for a seven tumbler lever lock, so I would say it is for a secure office or our swimmer was paranoid about home security. Find the lock this key fits and you will find the poor man’s beach towel.”

Jones nodded.

“One more thing, doc.” Jones looked deep into his eyes. “Could we be dealing with murder here?”

The doctor paused and stroked his beard again “You think The Baker could be involved? Hmmm, it certainly his M. O., but that’s difficult to prove. I’ll do some tests on those Fruit Fancies. I should let you have the results in a couple of days.”

The two men shook hands warmly.

“Thanks doc.” Jones grinned at the pathologist. “If there is anything you want, just let me know.”

“Well, now you come to mention it,” the doctor gave a sly grin, “I would quite like a couple of tickets for the Police Light Entertainment Championship.”

“I’m sure I can manage that.” Jones laughed.

As he turned to leave, he caught is reflection in the large makeup mirror and saw the ginger moustache was again nestling snugly on his top lip. Swearing under his breath, he headed to his car.

Where the Corn Grows Higher than your Eyes

Those of you who have come late to this tale might be interested in knowing that you are joining in the middle of the epic. May I suggest that you first acquaint yourself with the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two and then Part Three?

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

Inspector Jones is a policeman with problems. He appears to be married to person or persons unknown, he has grown a moustache that has turned out ginger and the case he is working on is making very little sense. Something inside his brain his telling him that he isn’t investigating the international macramé racket. However, his Superintendent believes he is and wants to know why Jones suspects the late, lamented Horace Adkins, the renowned Barbers Shop Quartet Impresario, of being involved.

Apart from the nagging doubts, bands of enraged Buddhist monks, marching bands and a growing affection for a pink Ford Zephyr Mark III, all Jones has to go on is an old paperback and the body of an unknown man that was dragged from the Thames after he drowned; the post-mortem suggesting a tragic accident caused by swimming too soon after taking a large high tea.

Now read on...

Jones took the evidence bag and locked it in the top drawer of his desk. Slowly and distractedly, he walked from the office. In the briefing room, four constables on night shift were practising for the upcoming championship. Sergeant Collins was leaning against the doorway observing. Jones walked over and stood behind him.

“Evening, Sergeant Collins.” He greeted the rotund sergeant cheerfully. “How are they coming along?”

The sergeant turned, held a finger to his lips to silence him and turned back to the four burly constables. They were well into their high energy dance routine, dressed as Judy Garland while singing a cappella to the title number from ‘Oklahoma’.

The dance routine ended with the four making a human pyramid. Jones stayed silent until the pyramid had broken up and the constables were towelling themselves down next to the lockers.

“Well, what do you reckon to our chances when we take on ‘C’ Division?” Jones asked Collins.

“I dunno.” Collins shook his head while sucking in breath noisily. “Losing Constable Singh to that trifle related injury was a big blow, best falsetto in the force he were, but yer know? I reckon we’ve got the measure of ‘em this year.”

Jones nodded and patted the Sergeant on the back. The inter-divisional light entertainment championships were a big event. Winning brought great prestige and a year’s subscription to a tanning salon for the winning station. Collins had drilled their entry for as long as anyone could remember.

Jones waited until he was downstairs before ringing his bookie and placing a bet on ‘C’ Division.

In the car park, Jones pressed the unlock button on his key fob. A Datsun Cherry flashed its indicators and chirruped happily. Jones tried again and the same lime green Datsun responded. Jones screwed his eyes shut and tried a third time, but the same car still chirruped cheerfully in response.

The drive home was relatively uneventful. Jones had to take evasive action when a llama carriage bolted along the Embankment and there had been some slight delays south of the river due the crowds waiting for a personal appearance by Saintly Sam Smiley and his Syncopated Souls.

While he crawled through the crowds in the congested traffic, he listened to the news. It was all about the untimely death of Horace Adkins and the myriad of conspiracy theories already warming the circuits of the internet.

Eventually, Jones turned the Datsun into his quiet South London street, bounded by rows of neat, terraced houses before swinging it into his driveway, narrowly missing the expensive Mercedes parked in front of the double garage.

Jones looked at the large, whitewashed art-deco house with its sweeping curves and geometric features. He got out his wallet and checked the address against his Driving Licence. They tallied.

“Well, this is getting odder by the minute” He muttered to himself as he got out of the car.

Getting to the front door, he tentatively tried his house key in the lock. It worked perfectly. Jones took a deep breath and walked in.

The sight of the leggy blonde stopped Jones in his tracks. She was stood in the archway that led to the kitchen posing provocatively wearing only a short, pink, silk robe trimmed with white fur. Blue eyes sparkled under her straw blonde fringe as she pouted and winked at the Inspector.

“There you are, Darling” Her voice oozed, causing Jones to shiver. “Does my poor, overworked, husband need to be relaxed?”

“Pippa..” Jones stopped himself before adding Hucknell. “What are...”

“What am I doing here?” She sashayed slowly towards the Inspector before pausing mere inches in front of him. “I’m here to welcome my husband home after a long, hard day in the office.”

Pippa run her hands slowly down Jones’ chest, adding, “to make all that horrible stress disappear.”

The kiss that followed was long, slow and made Jones moan. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed like that by a beautiful woman. He couldn’t remember when he had been last been kissed. His hands started to glide over Pippa’s back and pull her even closer and the lack of memory didn’t worry him.

Pippa broke the kiss.

“Why don’t you get comfortable while I rustle up some dinner?” Pippa’s eyes sparkled. “I know it’s only Tuesday, but I have had a big scoop today and I want us to celebrate.”

Pippa turned and walked towards the kitchen, paused, looked over her shoulder and gave a playful growl. “I hope you have some energy left, tiger.”

Jones bolted into his study. It was just as he remembered it, cluttered and lined with shelves that bowed under the weight of hundreds of books. He went directly to a shelf and pulled out his hardback copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie.

He sat down in his leather wing-back chair and started to read. The first paragraph made him give a start.

“Mr Adkins arrived for his appointment twenty minutes early, dressed in his third best grey suit, white shirt and crimson tie. His black shoes shone as brightly as the faux diamond in his gold tie-pin.

He looked around the empty waiting room and the dozen or so tubular chairs for several minutes, before selecting the one in the corner furthest from the door.

Very deliberately, slowly, he lowered himself into the chair. He sat upright, knees and ankles pressed as tightly together as his thin, pale lips. Small, well manicured hands, with white knuckles clutched an ornate box on his lap. His grey eyes flitted around the room.

Occasionally, his head would twitch violently and a strand of oiled black hair would fall from across his balding pate and over his face. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Horace Adkins would lift it back and meticulously place it back before the hand darted back to the box.

"This is it then, Horace Adkins." he spoke to himself in slightly shrill adenoidal tones. "This is good, very good. We will certainly make an impression today."

John Kettley is a Weatherman, a Weatherman.

Inspector Jones is finding life confusing. For a start, he has discovered he is married to person or persons unknown. There are is also the problem with organised Macramé gangs flooding the streets of London with cheap imported yarn. Further complicating matters are the George Washington Marching Bands, waxwork historical figures in Highland Dress, mobs of young girls brandishing bratwurst and the way his young detective constable drives the pink Ford Zephyr Mark III.

Jones knows that something odd is going down and that somehow, the death of Horace Adkins has something to do with it. He also knows that if you really want to follow this you should start by reading the innovatively named Part One followed, in the nature of radical nomenclature, by Part Two.

Now, if you are sitting comfortably and tending your facial hair, read on...

The report took Jones longer to complete than he hoped. There was the interruption when a gang of Buddhist monks arrived at the station reception demanding that he investigate the theft of their collection of Religious Temples Top Trump cards from their bus while they were worshipping in Bishopsgate Steam baths. Then Smithy had decided to leave early because he had promised his wife to pick up some new garden gnomes on the way home.

The main problem, however, was that the report was rather short on substance, the link to Horace Adkins was rather tenuous and his memory was playing rather nasty tricks whenever he tried to grapple with the facts.

Jones was sure that he’d been staking out a small industrial estate in South London. Just why was one of the facts that refused to leave his brain. The peach coloured pages of the report (just under the picture of the cute ducklings) said that he was staking out a lorry with a suspected illegal macramé delivery, but Jones was sure that wasn’t it. After ages struggling with his recalcitrant brain, he’d given in.

He was sure that there was a large, black Oldsmobile parked in an alley. The car was registered to ‘Horace Adkins Entertainment Ltd.’. The windows were heavily tinted, so he couldn’t see who was inside.

While he watched, the rear window slid open and a vintage bazooka poked through. Jones dived over a low wall. The bazooka fired a rocket propelled sweet bagel into the road between him and the lorry. Within seconds, the air filled with hyperactive garden birds, squabbling over the crumbs.

The confusion only lasted a few minutes, but when the air cleared, the lorry was gone.

He heard the Oldsmobile clatter into life and watched it head towards the South Circular. Hailing a passing Llama drawn Hackney Carriage, for the first time in his life he was able to utter the immortal words “Follow that Car!”

The Blackwall tunnel proved traumatic for the Llama. It took considerable coaxing and numerous carrots to coax the beast through by which time the Oldsmobile had got away.

On a hunch, Jones had the driver take him to the ‘Red, White and Blue’ club, the UK’s premier venue for catching top Barbers Shop Quartets and majority owned by Horace Adkins. The hunch proved correct. The Oldsmobile was parked outside with the engine still running.

As they drew up, Vera Anne Adkins, one of Horace Adkins daughters, came out of the club. As she approached the Oldsmobile, Jones overheard her instruct the driver to take her to Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones re-read the report several times, before swearing and throwing it down on his desk. Outside it was getting dark and a gang of choral lamplighters, in the style of Jim Reeves, were informing everyone that it was seven-thirty.

“This is hopeless” Jones exclaimed to the empty office. “What would Sherlock do in a situation like this?”

Taking the paper from the drawer, Jones started to go through it. His frustration grew as he realised that it contained very little apart from gossip about the latest reality TV shows and human interest stories arising from the grounding of all European air traffic because of volcanic ash.

He turned to his in basket. It was remarkably thin. He seemed to remember a tower of tottering beige folders, but instead there were six pastel shaded case folders awaiting his attention.

The first was a report of hijacking of a shipment of avocados, the second a missing industrial generator, then two reports of illicit Macramé Houses, an unidentified body dredged from the Thames and finally the mugging of a German Sausage Maker. He flicked the first four in turn, tossing them back into the wire tray with increasing frustration. He was about to do the same with the fifth when something caught his eye.

According to the autopsy, the person had drowned accidentally after swimming in the Thames too soon after taking tea. The contents of the stomach revealed that he had feasted on a dozen pastry fruit fancies, slabs of marble cake and Earl Grey tea before death.

“Bingo!” Jones threw the folder down in triumph. “Tomorrow, I will have a little chat with our friend Darrius Kipling aka the Baker.”

Jones stood up and pulled on his coat. Just as he was about to leave, he noticed something tucked behind the various matchstick models of famous weathermen that adorned his desk. Tucked just behind John Kettley and largely obscured by an action figure of Michael Fish and Ian McCaskill playing lacrosse was a plastic evidence bag.

Jones gently removed the bag and examined the paperback within. It was a well read copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie.