Magic for Me, Magic Make No Sound

Part 54 of “A Couple of Tenors Short” hangs in the air then drifts in on a scented breeze to cause you olfactory curiosity.

It is also Saturday. You see you can’t slip those little details past me once I’ve had a cup of coffee.

 Now that Summer is truly here (you can tell by the rain being warmer), you might be considering a few days out to the British seaside, who knows, you might even be considering a visit to Hastings. I’ve been there, you know. It is a very genteel place. Alexandra Park was recently remodelled by Charlie Dimmock.

The reason I mention this, is that Hastings yesterday was descended upon by 6 166 people dressed as pirates.

I’m not sure if the quiz question is easy or not, but as I mentioned Charlie Dimmock, it’s as good excuse as any to include her picture. So, you will probably need the quiz question 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...

The pile of pastel files took Jones attention. As he lifted them onto his desk, he noticed half a dozen buff folders underneath. Jones pushed the pastel folders to one side and studied the buff folders first.

All six were missing persons. Five were for missing petty criminals. The sixth folder concerned a missing convicted tax evader. Jones used his computer to see if he could find a link between the six or with the other missing persons’ cases. Nothing showed up.

Picking up the folders, Jones slowly walked into the briefing room and added the pictures of the new missing persons to those already on the board.

Returning to his desk, he turned to the pastel folders. There were five new cases of missing generators; three more reports of illegal Macramé activities and a report of a firework being thrust through the letterbox of a boutique.  Jones got up and shared the folders around this team.

As Jones was walking back to his desk, Smithy arrived. Jones turned and stood by his desk and waited for him to carefully hang his Armani blazer on a hanger and pick off some fluff from the shoulder.

The two greeted each other before Jones asked Smithy had seen the report from Dr Wilkins. Smithy hadn’t.

Swearing under his breath, Jones went briskly back to his desk and phoned Dr. Wilkins.

“Hello?” Came the irritated greeting.

“May I speak to Dr. Wilkins, please?” Jones remained calm.

“Who is this?” the voice demanded.

“Inspector Glynn Jones. I’m calling about some tests that Dr Wilkins is running for me.”

“This is Dr Ewan Bright. Dr Wilkins has been transferred to Northumbria. I have taken over his show and his cases.”

“Dr Wilkins transferred? Why?” Jones spluttered.

“Not that it is of any concern of yours, but his ratings had been dropping and it was felt that his look wasn’t appropriate for national television. It was felt that he was better suited to regional broadcasting.” Ewan Bright replied curtly. “As for your tests, they will be done according to the priority laid down by the broadcasters. We have our ratings to consider.”

“These tests are a priority...” Jones attempted to state his case.

“I’m afraid not, Inspector.” Dr Bright gave a condescending laugh. “At the moment the priority is the unfortunate case of a rather attractive, young female ice-cream seller who was found face down in a vat of her own raspberry ripple whilst clutching a whistle in her left hand. It is a case that the network is very keen to connect to the menace of feral Girl Guides. It appears that this is a menace that you and your colleagues seem incapable of dealing with, Inspector.”

“This is an important case....” Jones attempted to build up a head of steam.

“I’m sure it is - to you. However, that doesn’t alter the network’s priorities.” Ewan Bright cut him off mid-flow. “Now if you will excuse me, I have s how to prepare for. And Inspector, in future please go through the proper channels if you wish to talk to me. This is my private number. Good Day.”

The line went dead. Taking the telephone away from his ear, Jones just stared at it before slamming it back into its cradle and swearing under his breath.

 

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.