You Gotta Wait a Minute, Wait a Minute

Yes, that really is a picture of a fish pedicure. I think the way they use their little fins to apply the nail varnish is nothing short of miraculous.

Nothing came to mind when I tried to find a connection to the number 26. As a result, I entered ‘26’ into Google and found this worthwhile site. This is to mark the arrival of part 26 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.

Somewhere in this episode, 20 000 words pass by your eyes – well that is if you have remembered my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opening salvo known as    Part One .

For those of you who feel they need it, I shall attempt a recap. The snag with this is that the recap has now got larger than the individual episodes and so much has happened, rather like varnishing a very large floor in the dark, I’m bound to have missed a bit.

The world has gone mad, but Inspector Glynn Jones believes that everyone else is out of step not him. After finding the man from the State Security Services in his kitchen dressed in a green lycra body suit, he tried an experiment with the engraving on his wedding ring and discovered that it mysteriously changed when Pippa gave a different wedding day for their marriage than was on the ring.

Although he had no recollection of any marriage, he found himself hitched to Pippa Hucknell, an investigative journalist, in an arrangement he is enjoying. Other events are not so pleasurable. He has 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.

Then there are the strange cases he has to solve, 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.

Since the case started, 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.

It turns out that the missing author, Archie McRamie did not write ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’. The main character in the book appears to be Horace Adkins.

Constable Rory Tiddles has found some interesting CCTV footage related to the abduction of Archie McRamie. It shows Dunker Phil climbing into Archie’s car at a filling station unchallenged.

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 were 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. After reading an old newspaper that once wrapped a fish supper, Jones believes he now has the answer.

I hope that has made everything clear? Oh well, at least I tried.

Now read on...

Inspector Jones picked up the grease stained sheet of newspaper and studied it. Constable Tiddles watched him, his eyes opened as wide as his mouth. Jones caressed his ginger moustache with his forefinger, his head on one side.

“Where did you get your fish supper?” Jones asked the constable.

“I went to Fred’s Fry Fayre” Tiddles responded. “Not the best fish and chips, but it is just down the street and it stays open late. The fish at...”

Jones cut off his attempt at culinary critique with a wave of his hand. “Get me those copies of the CCTV footage and then go home and get some rest. And don’t tell anybody about this newspaper piece, you understand?”

“Yes, guv. But...” Tiddles started to protest, but Jones had already left the office.

Jones rushed to the nearest photocopier and made a copy of the article. As soon as the copy dropped into the output tray, he picked it up and compared it closely to the original. Satisfied that it matched, he made additional copies.

Picking up the pile of photocopies, he paused and looked around. Sergeant Collins was stood behind him watching him. Jones ignored him and grabbed an envelope from a pile on a nearby desk. He scribbled down his own address on the front, neatly folded one of the copies into it before sealing the envelope and dropping it into the post tray.

Jones picked up another envelope and repeated the process. This one he left on the desk as he rifled through his wallet before swearing under his breath.

“Have you got a stamp?” Jones asked Collins

“Just leave it in the tray, it will get franked.” Collins advised in a slow, measured tone. “Are you OK, Jonesey?”

“Of course, I’m OK. I just need a stamp.” Jones turned and glared at the sergeant. “Are you able to help me or not?”

The sergeant produced his own wallet and withdrew a book of stamps. He took out a single stamp and handed it to Jones. Jones thanked the sergeant and stuck the stamp to the envelope and put the envelope in his pocket.

Jones worked down the pile of envelopes and photocopies. Some he sent to himself in the internal mail. A couple of the copies he put in blank envelopes which he stuffed in his pockets. One he gave to the sergeant with strict instructions that it was to remain unopened in the station safe.

Finally, Jones took an evidence bag from his pocket, folded the page of newspaper so the article couldn’t be seen and sealed it in the bag. Collins watched him intently.

“Are you sure you are OK?” Collins fingered the envelope in his hand nervously.

“I’m fine!” Jones snapped as he strode away. “And if anybody needs me, tell them I’ve gone to the chippy.”

“It won’t be open!” Collins shouted to the Inspector’s back as he strode to towards the exit.

Jones ignored him and rushed out into the street.

A woman in a yellow pinafore dress blocked the pavement with a large pram, while she rifled through a large wicker basket. Jones stepped into the road to get round her and a llama carriage missed him by inches. The driver shouted at Jones to take more care in a colourful Anglo-Saxon. Jones continued to rush down the street, dodging fellow pedestrians as he headed for the red post-box on the corner.

As he approached the post-box, Jones stepped into the entrance to an alley between a newsagents and a wool shop. He pretended to tie his shoe laces before palming the stamped, self-addressed envelope. He straightened, took a deep breath, and then strode over to the post box. As he passed the box, his hand flashed out and deposited the letter in the slot without him breaking stride.

Smiling, Jones darted across the street, zig-zagging between the various cars, buses and llama carts to reach Fred’s Fry Fayre.

It was closed.

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.