Come in to My Parlour

Here is the special delivery of Part Seventeen of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. I only hope that the writing is conveying all the thoughts that bounce around in my skull about what I hope to achieve.  

When I am happy that I have sorted out the tweaks and changes, I will update some of the entries, but until then, if you want to start this serial from the beginning you will have to make do with the original 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 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. Darrius works for Horace Adkins, the beloved Barbers Shop Quartet impresario who is presumed dead after a massive explosion at his Georgian Mansion which the local police have suggested was suicide.

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. Vera Adkins had gone there to instigate a defamation case, but her sister Violet arrived and talked her out of it.

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...

When Jones got back to the station, his office was empty. He busied himself with getting all his paperwork sorted, making sure that he printed copies off and filing them in his desk. Occasionally, his attention wandered and he found himself staring at the coloured birds in the office aviary and mumbling “what is THE question?” under his breath before returning to his computer.

Paperwork finished, Jones picked up the message card propped against his phone, turned it over in his fingers for a few moments before dialling the number for Archie McRamies’s agent. The line rang before switching to her voicemail that informed him that she was struggling to return to the UK due to volcanic ash.

Jones left a message, slammed the phone down and swore under his breath.

Smithy chose that moment to return to the office, a huge grin spread across his face.

“What are you so happy about?” Jones snapped.

“Well...” Smithy drew up to his full height and dusted some imaginary fluff off his designer blazer. “The forger of the Light Entertainment Championships tickets is in the cells and is ready to make a full confession and all the forged tickets are safely in the evidence locker.”

“Well done” Jones slapped him on the shoulder. “And my tickets?”

Smithy produced the four tickets from his pocket and told the Inspector the price. Jones swore and left the office to find a cash machine muttering.

The office was full on his return. First, Jones went to Smithy and reluctantly handed over the £400 for the tickets. He then checked on progress with Brown and Johnson. Neither officer had anything positive to report.

Jones stomped off down the corridor to see if the uniformed constables had better luck with the door to door enquiries.

In the briefing room, a knot of uniformed constables stood chatting as Sergeant Collins briefed the team for the Light Entertainment Championships. As Jones entered, one of the constables broke away from the group and came over to him.

“Afternoon, sir.” The constable stood to attention and saluted. “I’m afraid we didn’t get much, but one lady remembered a big black car parked at the end of her drive at about the time that McRamie was taken.”

Jones nodded. “I don’t suppose that she was a car expert or collected car registrations?”

“No, sir.” The constable seemed to shrink a little. “But I was going to have a look at some of the local CCTV footage later and see if I could spot something.”

“Thanks, lad.” Jones patted the constable on the shoulder. “Leave your report on my desk when you have it.”

Jones left the briefing room and walked back to his desk as the opening bars of ‘Oklahoma’ filled the corridor.

At a little after five, the Datsun Cherry greeted Jones with a chirrup as he walked across the car park. Jones climbed in and sat staring into the distance for a few minutes, before he started the engine, threw the car into gear and set off.

On the way home, he visited Tom Taylor in the hospital. There were fewer tubes and wires and Tom seemed to be improving. The visit still unnerved Jones. As soon as he entered the hospital he’d been followed around by a burly porter who had stood, his huge arms crossed as Jones chatted with Tom and had watched him intently until his car left the car park.

There was no Mercedes on the drive of his house when Jones arrived.

“Looks, like I’m cooking dinner again.” Jones told the Datsun which chirruped in response.

Jones unlocked the door and walked through to the kitchen.

“Ahhh, Inspector Jones!” The security man in the green lycra body suit rose from a kitchen stool. “How lovely to see you again! I’m afraid the delightful Pippa will be about another hour. She got an unexpected invitation to a press launch.”

“How did you get into my home?” Jones spoke slowly, ignoring the offered hand.

“I thought I smelt gas. It was a matter of public safety that I gain access. Once inside, I thought I should wait and reassure you that nothing is amiss.” The security man gave that smile.

Jones gave an involuntary shudder.

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."