Talk to Me Now I'm Older

This is part 51 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.  As we have now moved into the second half-century of instalments, I thought it best to re-vamp the ‘Story so Far’ section to see if I could make it easier to understand. Not that I would encourage people to stake short cuts, I would still prefer people start from Part One, but I thought a better recap would help the occasional readers.

So, the recap is now updated and any thoughts or observations you may have about it would be most appreciated.

Finding quiz questions related to the part number is getting quite hard, still I managed one for today and here is the answer.

OK, the quiz question out of the way, here is my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opener known as Part One.   

The troublesome recap has now settled into its new home. You can find the recap here!

Now read on...

After a fitful sleep, Jones awoke to find that Pippa was already up. He turned to check the alarm clock. It was not yet six am. The sound of the shower running let him know where Pippa was. Jones lifted himself up to a sitting position.

He had a dull headache, his neck was stiff and he still felt tired. He rolled his head a few times, wincing at the sharp jolt of pain as the stiff muscle objected to exercise. Jones winced as he stretched his legs and arms.

Pippa was only wearing a towel when she entered the bedroom. Jones stopped stretching and watched her as she slowly came across to the bed, crawled up to him on all fours and kissed him slowly.

“Morning sleepy head.” Pippa purred.

“Morning.” Jones reached out and pulled Pippa in for a second kiss. “That towel really suits you.”

Pippa laughed. “Well don’t get any ideas, lover. I have to get into work early. Do you feel better after a night’s sleep?”

“I’m not sure those pills you gave me were organic.” Jones grumbled and flexed his complaining muscles again. “I feel rather stiff.”

“Stiff, eh?” Pippa raised her eyebrows and pulled off the towel. “I think I have just the cure for that.”

The cure delayed Pippa in her attempt to get to her office early. The idea that they save time by showering together afterwards, delayed her further.

Eventually, they left the house together, sharing a long, lingering kiss on the doorstep before jumping into their cars and heading to work.

Once in the Datsun and heading North towards the river, Jones attempted a whistled tune. It sounded like the a gale attacking a loose window pane.

“Preep-poo-proop?” The Datsun cut in.

“Yes, OK, but she instigated it.” Jones gripped the steering wheel a little harder and drove a little faster.

“Proop”

“I know, I have to tell her, but what can I say?” Jones accelerated as hard as the Datsun would allow overtaking a stationery llama cart, and causing a group of youths in boaters to scurry to the safety of the pavement.

“Pree Proop?”

Jones scowled and slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

“Yeah, and that will convince her I’m mad. She’ll throw me out on my ear in a flash.” Jones paused as he negotiated a roundabout thronging with people purchasing breakfast at the sausage stand at its centre. “Sorry, love. I know you think we’re married, but I don’t ever remember courting you and marrying you. This ring appeared on my finger on Monday and when I got home, my house had changed from a two up two down semi into an art deco mansion. So rather than finding out what was going on, I thought I might as well enjoy a husband’s perks and...”

“Poop Poo-Preep?” The Datsun queried.

“He’s not a real priest, besides I’m not religious.” Jones glared at the business card poking out of the dashboard. “What good will he do?”

“Proo-proop peep preep-poop” The Datsun responded.

Jones swore under his breath and viscously poked the power button on the radio. The car filled with the voices of the breakfast show presenters previewing the Light Entertainment Championships. Having seen his stations entry, Jones couldn’t help feeling that the event was being hyped in such a way as to set a ridiculous level of expectation.

His finger hovered above the power off button, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it off. The presenters were gushing enthusiasm over the news that there were going to be large TV screens in parks across the country screening the event live.

Jones wanted to swear under his breath again, but with his jaw dropped so far, he had to content himself with shaking his head in disbelief.

 

I wore my .44 so long, I made my shoulder sore.

Delayed by my soapbox and foray into mobsourcing, along comes part 44 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. Given my recent foray into trying to change the world, getting back to writing has been bliss.

There is another quiz question associated with the part number. This is an absolute stinker, even with the picture clue, so you’ll need the answer although the original artist is actually here.

OK, the quiz question out of the way, here is my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opener known as Part One.    

The troublesome recap has now settled into its new home. You can find the recap here!

Now read on...

Jones lifted up his left hand and inspected it closely, repeated the process with his right, pursing his lips, and then giving a big sigh.

“This is different, Mike.” Jones gripped his hands together then rested his chin gently on them. “Last time it was like the whole world was trying to get me. Now it is a bit like I’ve been transported to a different place. Like I’m on the very edge of the world looking in. Not the same at all.”

“Yeah, like you’re sort of detached from everything.”

Jones dropped his hands and stiffened. Smithy’s eyes seemed focussed on a point several feet above Jones’s head.

“I’ve felt like that a bit recently.” Smithy continued slowly and deliberately. “It soon wears off though. You just have to roll with it. I find if you try and question it, things just feel... worse. Better to just go with the flow.”

Jones waited for Smithy to provide an explanation, but it never came. Instead Smithy just sort of apologised for running to the Superintendant whenever Jones behaved a little oddly and said it wouldn’t happen again.  It seemed a little flat and unfulfilling. Jones wanted to explore it further, but Smithy just laughed and then excused himself on the grounds he was taking his wife shopping for an ornamental windmill for the garden.

Leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands across his stomach, Jones watched him go back to his desk, gather up his things and rush from the office. For a while, Jones just sat and stared blankly at the empty office. In the end, he gave a sigh and headed back to his desk.

However hard he tried, Jones found his mind wandering from the paperwork in front of him. In the end, he did the bare minimum needed for bailing Dunker Phil and decided to call it a night. He’d started to tidy his desk, but when he found himself lining up the pencils, his hand had shot back as if scalded. Jones looked at the pencils before slowly, very slowly, reaching out and disorganising them. His hand lingered over them for a moment before Jones grabbed his flying jacket from the back of the chair and resolutely striding from the office.

As Jones entered the car park, the Datsun chirruped loudly, flashed its indicators furiously and flung open the driver’s door. Jones gave a smile as he walked over to the car and climbed in.

“At least you will talk to me, eh girl?” Jones patted the steering wheel as he closed the door.

The Datsun gave a “pre-preeep” in response.

Joining the evening rush hour traffic, they crawled through the London streets. Jones turned on the radio. Two politicians were discussing the need for greater social responsibility. Jones turned the radio off again.

A protest march brought any progress through the traffic to a halt. Hundreds of people danced in the street to the accompaniment of a traditional folk band. As they danced, the crowd swelled as others came from side streets, shops, offices and houses to join in. The growing crowd were parading banners and placards demanded a state funeral for Horace Adkins.

 For a while, Jones contented himself with reading the various banners until one caused him to look again. At first reading, he had taken it to read ‘Entertainer’, but he suddenly realised it read ‘Entrepreneur’. Jones pursed his lips and stroked his moustache before he swore under his breath. The Datsun gave a “Proop” of admonishment.

“I may have had a breakdown, but I am not mad.” Jones stated as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

The “preeeeooop” from the Datsun was taken as agreement by Jones.

“Looks like we’d be better taking the long way round tonight!”

Flinging the Datsun into gear, Jones made a U-turn in the road, narrowly missing a group of grey haired ladies carrying a bust of Horace Adkins made out of low fat cheese. The ladies swore at the retreating Datsun. Jones smiled.

Is it a Gun Is it a Knife Is it a Wallet This is Your Life

Before I let you loose on part 41 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”, I should offer my apologies at the lack of updates in the last week. This was down to a very busy week and a particularly difficult part of the plot to put into words.

I normally write a couple of episodes ahead of what I am posting. Before I start writing anything new, I give the previous couple of episodes a read and a quick edit. Then I do my writing, then another edit on the piece I am due to post. Sometimes this also involves tweaking earlier bits in my manuscript. Well, such were the difficulties in part 43; this has taken a lot longer to reach you than I would have hoped.

Now, I think that the lyric today is an easy one, so instead I give you a picture I took last week, but as always, I give you the answer.

OK, the quiz question out of the way, here is my mantra. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the opener known as Part One.    

The troublesome recap has now settled into its new home. You can find the recap here!

Now read on...

David Heatherington, the security man pressed his palms together and rested his nose on his two forefingers. Despite steeling himself as soon as Heatherington started the move,  Jones found himself giving  a shudder.

“An interesting response, Inspector.” Heatherington dropped his hands and gave a smile that, for once, managed to implicate his eyes. “However, we really do not have time to explore it further. I need to ask a couple of favours.”

“I see.” Jones stared at the lift door.

“In the spirit of co-operation, I wondered if I could see Phillip Duncan’s statement?”

Jones opened his folder and pulled out a copy of Dunker Phil’s statement which he passed to the security man.

“Sir Terence hates Horse Racing, you know.” Heatherington stated as he started to read. “Yet, on the spur of the moment, he decided he wanted to host a small gathering at Newmarket on the 15^th. He took the hospitality box next to Vera, Veronica and Violet Adkins. Among his guests was Sir Andrew Witherspoon.”

“That is, as you would say, interesting.” Jones watched Heatherington as he continued to read.

“Indeed.” Heatherington turned the page slowly. “Victoria Adkins worked for Sir Terence’s electronics company in Research and Development. Gossip suggested that they had an affair, although I cannot substantiate such tittle-tattle.”

“Victoria Adkins? A fourth sister?” Jones closed his eyes and clenched a fist. “Why didn’t I...”

“Memory playing tricks? I know how that feels. Even now it takes an effort to recall her. ” The security man continued to read. “She’s gone underground. Nobody seems to have seen her for nearly two weeks. Sir Terrence has had his feelers out trying to find her. I want to find her first.”

“Mr Heatherington, wouldn’t we better off discussing this in an office, in the form of a case review?” Jones asked the security man who in response plucked the folder from under Inspector Jones’s arm.

“It is the old cliché, walls have ears.” Heatherington opened the folder and slipped Dunker’s statement back into it.

“Lifts have walls.” Jones curled his lip.

“I’ve checked. I would describe this lift as a deaf mute where it not for the loquacious manner in which it mutilates the classics.” Heatherington flipped through the pages in the folder. “I would be very grateful if you did not interview Sir Terrence or Sir Andrew unless you clear it with me first and it would be beneficial if you did not pull Darrius Kipling in just yet. My men are keeping a close watch on Darrius, he is more use to us on the streets at the moment.”

“That’s three favours.” Jones paused and stroked his moustache. “Besides Darrius Kipling is my prime suspect in the murder of an unidentified man whose body we dragged from the Thames.”

“You have the evidence to support that?” Heatherington snapped shut the folder and looked at Jones who nodded. “A further complication, but my request still stands. I’m rather hoping that Mr Kipling will lead me to Victoria Adkins.”

“Why do you think he would?”

Heatherington handed back the folder and punched the button for the ground floor. “Just a hunch.”

The two men stood in silence observing each other as the lift counted down the floors and regaled them with the timeline of the English Civil War.

The two men left the lift and walked in silence to the car park.

“Inspector, can I rely on you to respect my wishes on those little favours?” Heatherington asked as he offered his hand to Jones. “In return, I will make sure that you are immediately informed of any developments from my end.”

“I’ll not interview Sir Terrence or Sir Andrew.” Jones shook the security man’s hand. “And I will give you the weekend to follow your hunch on Darrius, but after that we’ll have to see.”

The security nodded and gestured towards an old Bentley S3 Continental in the far corner of the car park.

The Bentley moved around and stopped next to the security man. A chauffeur dressed as William Pitt the younger leapt out and opened the rear door.

“That seems fair given the circumstances.” Heatherington climbed into the Bentley. “I will be in touch on Monday.”

The chauffer closed the door and leapt back into the driver’s seat. Jones watched the Bentley leave and then glanced at the Pink Zephyr and his own Datsun. Shaking his head, he thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and sauntered back into the station.

In Everything I Do I Take Complete Control

This is to mark the arrival of part 27 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. It is one of those strange synaptic tangents that make nonsense of maths. Maths tells us that 27 should be a particularly lucky number because it is 3 cubed (or 3 x 3 x 3). I’ll leave it up to you to work out the tangent. As I am older than my readership, the title and the picture are clues.

I should give a quick repeat of my mantra for you all. This is a serial. Any new-joiners should start with the alien vibration known as Part One.    

With that out of the way, I shall fling you headlong into a recap that is getting out of all control. It would be great if somebody could come up with a better way to deal with this recap beast. It is getting quite unwieldy.

The world has gone mad. Inspector Glynn Jones believes that everyone else is out of step not him. A view encouraged by the man from the State Security Services dressed in green lycra he discovered in his kitchen. Later, when trying an experiment, the engraving on his wedding ring mysteriously changed when Pippa gave a different wedding day for their marriage than was originally on the ring.

Jones has no recollection of any marriage, but he is finding being hitched to Pippa Hucknell, an investigative journalist, rather enjoyable. 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, a suspected murder of a ‘John Doe’ dragged from the Thames, and the disappearance of a number of petty criminals.

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 and Dunker Phil both work 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.

Archie McRamie is a best-selling author credited with the book ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’. The main character in the book appears to be Horace Adkins. However, it appears that it is his wife and secretary, Elspeth Periwinkle that writes all his books.

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 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...

Jones hammered on the door frame of the fish and chip shop with the flat of his hand. After several minutes, a man appeared from the back of the shop. He peered through the glass between a poster for the Light Entertainment Championships and another for a Morris Dancing Extravaganza before gesturing with a finger towards the ‘Closed’ sign. He turned his back on the Inspector and started to saunter towards the back of the shop again. Jones started to hammer against the door frame with an increased tempo.

The man turned and Jones pressed his warrant card against the glass. The man gave a visible sigh, turned and unlocked the door.

“Thank you” Jones sidestepped around the bulk of the man and entered the shop. “Are you Fred?”

Fred nodded.

“I would like to look through your wrapping paper.” Jones smiled at the chip shop owner.

“My wrapping paper?” Fred observed Jones through half closed eyes. “What on earth..”

“Look, I can’t explain, I just need to go through the newspapers you use for wrapping the chips.” Jones gave another smile.

“Are you sure you’re a copper?” Fred crossed his arms across his ample chest.

Jones produced his warrant card again. Fred took it and examined it closely and shrugged. He closed the wallet and handed it back to Jones before leading him to a pile of old newspapers on the floor in the back room.

Jones fell to his knees and started to go through the pile.

“So what are you looking for?” Fred asked.

Jones sat back on his heels and stared at the wall. He ran a forefinger over his moustache.

“Copies of last week’s papers. Especially last Thursday’s copy of ‘The Sun’.” Jones remained motionless, staring at the wall.

“Old newspapers?” Fred wiped his hands on his vest. “Wouldn’t you be better off going to the library or something?”

Jones said nothing. He started taking papers off the pile and sorting them into two piles. Fred watched him.

There were two piles when Jones finished going through the pile. The much larger pile he pushed back to where the original pile had been. He examined the smaller pile. There were a number of last week’s papers, but no copies of ‘The Sun.’

“Where do you get your wrapping paper?” Jones asked Fred.

“They’re just old newspapers. Ted, the newsagent over the road brings them over and I give him a fish supper on the house.” Fred gave a shrug. “There’s no law against it is there?”

“Not that I know of. Do you mind if I take these?” Jones stood up, tucking the small pile under his arm.

“Knock yourself out.” Fred gave a shrug. “Is that it?”

Jones nodded and thanked Fred who showed him out, locking the door behind him.

The traffic in the street was in gridlock. A troupe of contemporary dancers dressed in lurid spandex with white face masks and bowler hats danced in and out of the vehicles. A jazz quartet walked slowly along the opposite pavement providing accompaniment. Young women dressed as Jane Austen heroines handed out flyers to passersby.

One of the dancers approached Jones and made to grab a newspaper from under the Inspector’s arm. Jones jumped back and made a fist with his free hand. The dancer laughed loudly and leapt back to join his companions in the road.

Jones watched him until he vanished behind a llama drawn brewery dray before heading back to the station.

Avoiding the main entrance, Jones entered the car park. The Datsun Cherry chirruped as he approached. Jones opened the boot and placed the newspapers inside. He then opened the passenger door and carefully placed one of the envelopes in the glove compartment.

The Datsun gave a questioning chirrup.

“It’s OK.” Jones patted the steering wheel. “Just some stuff that I want to keep safe. Look after it for me, won’t you, girl?”

The Datsun gave another Chirrup and then a conspiratory beep of the horn. Jones smiled, got out of the car and made sure it was locked.

Time for a Winterfest Polka

Over the last few days I have been distracted by the UK election. With the dust beginning to settle, I can now yell ‘Here it is!’  “A Couple of Tenors Short” reaches part twenty-one without anyone suggesting a mad themed party. I was told this story is a touch eccentric. I read it again, but I can’t see it myself. Am I missing something? Never mind. For those of you who do not speak Datsun, I had considered inserting sub-titles, but it is the 21^st century, everybody speaks Datsun, don’t they?

OK, here is the standard bit about this being a serial and advising any new-joiners to take their dried frog pills and start with Part One.    

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap (which hasn’t really changed, but TODAY, well you have to read it to see if I am about to deliver a humdinger of a plot twist).

Inspector Glynn Jones thought he was going mad, but after finding the man from the State Security Services in his kitchen dressed in a green lycra body suit, he is not so sure. 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 has found himself married to Pippa Hucknell, he appears content with the arrangement, even though the world around him continues to confuse. 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.

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 the McRamie abduction, 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 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. The State Security man has also suggested that he does not believe the book is the cause of the defamation case.

Now read on...

At the door to the station, Inspector Jones paused and looked at his reflection in the glass. He shook his head slightly. His forefinger went to his top lip and straightened the hair in his ginger moustache. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and went inside.

The desk sergeant greeted him, but said nothing about his outfit. Neither did the two constables he passed on the stairs.

As usual, Jones was the first to arrive in the office. As he entered, two miniature pigs that had been cavorting in the middle of the room gave a squeal and ran back to their nest behind the filing cabinets.

Jones walked over to his desk. The two miniature pigs cautiously came out of their hiding place as Jones hung his flying jacket over the back of his chair and sat down. Jones watched them as they sprawled out in a puddle of early morning sunshine in the middle of the room.  Jones took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes closed and clenched his fists and concentrated hard.

When he opened his eyes, they were still there. Jones sighed, shrugged and turned his attention to his in-basket.

The pile of pastel files was higher and there were four buff folders at the bottom.

Four of the pastel folders related to missing generators. Two were reporting Macramé activities on the underground. One contained a long and unnecessarily detailed complaint about a pornographic garden gnome installation that had appeared outside a Women’s Institute. One detailed an attack on a blind man by a gang of youths. The last two were complaints of vandalism lodged by delicatessen owners.

Jones turned his attention to the four buff folders all of which were stamped ‘Low Priority’. All four were missing person reports. Jones idly typed the first name into the computer and sat up when it showed that the man had a long list of convictions for petty crime. He tried the other three and got the same result.

Gathering up the buff folders, he went to the briefing room and added the pictures of the four missing petty criminals to the white board.

The briefing itself didn’t go well. Nobody reported any progress and the inclusion of the four missing persons on the board had sparked a rather heated argument between Jones and his detectives.

Afterwards, Jones stomped back to his desk and sat sullenly as the detectives drifted off on their various assignments. A uniformed constable entered and approached Jones nervously. Jones glared at him.

“Yes?” Jones snapped causing the constable to take half a step backwards.

“There’s a lady in reception to see you, sir.” The constable mumbled. “A Joanne Schooner. She’s waiting in Interview Room Two.”

Jones stared blankly at the constable before realising that she was Archie McRamie’s agent. Grabbing a pad and retrieving his folder from the top drawer, he followed the constable downstairs.

Joanne Schooner could be aptly described as a striking woman. Standing a little over six foot tall in her diamante studded pixie boots and with shoulders to cause envy in a miner, she stood out from a crowd. She wore a shapeless, ankle length, tomato red dress that could double as an emergency shelter and on top of a shock of bottle blonde hair, a small, purple pill-box hat decorated with garishly coloured plastic squid. When Inspector Jones entered the room, she ceased examining the pictures from past Light Entertainment Championships that adorned the walls and glided over to greet him.

Jones offered his hand, but, choosing to ignore it, she hugged him tightly and engaged in an expansive display of air kissing.

“Inspector, darling!” she gushed as she released Jones from her grip. “How lovely to meet you at last. Do you have any news on poor Archie?”

“I’m afraid not.” Jones replied, gesturing towards one of two large wingback chairs. “Please take a seat, Miss Schooner.”

“Oh, please call me Jo.” Jo purred as she stroked Jones’s arm.

“OK, Jo.” Jones sat down. “Have you had any contact with Archie or any ransom demand?”

“Nothing at all.” Jo’s arms flayed as she spoke. “Totally typical of Archie. That man can find an adventure and publicity in a tea crate!”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Jones gave a weak smile. “This isn’t a publicity stunt is it?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” Jo gave a little laugh. “There’s no book to sell at the moment. Archie is the master publicist, Inspector. He would never waste time on stunts without a book to plug.”

Jones nodded and doodled on his pad. “The ideal author for an agent to have a client.”

“In all but a teensy respect, Inspector.” Jo laughed again. “He can’t write for toffee!”

“What?” Jones looked up suddenly. “I’ve just read ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’. I thought it was excellently written.”

“Oh it is, Inspector”. The agent nodded. “But it wasn’t written by Archie McRamie.”

Jane Annie or the Good Conduct Prize

The synaptic tangents to get today’s title are amazing! I wonder if anyone knows why that title sprung up without the aid of Google? The picture is a clue.

I’m sorry that I have delayed bringing you “A Couple of Tenors Short” with part twenty, but I have rather been caught up in the aftermath of our General Election. With no single party having a majority, there are a lot of negotiations going on to decide the shape of our future government.

Here we are several days after the election without a clear view of what is going to happen. It would be easy for me to allow myself to be caught up in the excitement of it all, but in the end, it seems better to get back to my writing secure in the knowledge that we will be going all of this again next year!

If you want to start this serial from the beginning you will have to make do with the original Part One, the updated version will be posted when I am sure that it matches up with my ideas for the plot.  

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

Inspector Glynn Jones thought he was going mad, but after finding the man from the State Security Services in his kitchen dressed in a green lycra body suit, he is not so sure. 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 has found himself married to Pippa Hucknell, he appears content with the arrangement, even though the world around him continues to confuse. 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.

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 the McRamie abduction, 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 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. The State Security man has also suggested that he does not believe the book is the cause of the defamation case.

Now read on...

Jones kept his eyes closed and waited. He sat still, frightened to make any sound and listened to the silence in the kitchen. He listened for the noise that indicated that Pippa was still in the room.

After what seemed an age, he heard the sound of Pippa’s heels clicking slowly closer across the tiled kitchen floor. They stopped next to him. He felt her arms wrap around him. He smelt her perfume mingled with a hint of white wine and cigar smoke, he could feel her breath on his neck and hear her soft breathing, but still he kept his eyes closed.

“You, Glynn Jones,” Pippa whispered in his ear, “are an incurable romantic.”

Pippa licked his ear softly. She traced light kisses across his neck, his chin, his lips, before lowering herself onto his lap. Jones opened his eyes to see Pippa smiling broadly. He found himself kissing her deeply, pulling her closer, his hands roaming her back.

Pippa broke the kiss.

“I love you.” Pippa purred and kissed Jones lightly on the nose.

“Do you know something really odd?” Jones stared at Pippa, kissed her on the nose and squeezed her gently. “I think I love you too.”

“You!” Pippa laughed and gave Jones a playful slap on the arm. “Now finish dinner, I’m starving!”

The next morning, Jones let Pippa choose his outfit. It felt odd to be going to work without a tie, the turquoise dress shirt was a touch scratchy, the pale blue corduroy trousers a little tight and the pale green leather flying jacket heavy. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

They ate an early breakfast and left the house together, pausing to exchange a long kiss on the doorstep before heading to their respective cars. The Datsun gave a chirrup as Jones approached then a ‘preep’ as Jones turned away and went back to Pippa and kissed her again.

When Jones returned, the Datsun gave a series of loud chirrups and threw open the driver’s door to welcome him.

As soon as they were on the move, Jones started to whistle something that might have been a tuneless medley of nursery rhymes. At one point, he pulled over to watch a group of middle aged ladies dressed as Cleopatra, complete an ice sculpture of J.M. Barrie with chain saws. A group of schoolchildren in frock coats watched for a while before breaking into a Morris dance.

“Proop?” Went the Datsun when Jones didn’t swear after being cut up by a group of unicyclists in lurid blazers and bowler hats.

“What?” Jones looked the Datsun square in the speedometer. “It’s a beautiful day, why shouldn’t I be in a good mood?”

“Preep proop preep?” went the Datsun.

“Guilt?” Jones paused and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I have nothing to be guilty about.”

The lights turned green. Jones, gunned the engine and overtook a bakers cart and a couple on tandem.

“I don’t want to hurt her. She loves me.” Jones swore under his breath. “Why the hell am I explaining myself to a pile of nuts and bolts?”

The Dtasun considered this for a moment then gave a quiet “proop!”

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.