Well Sweet Little Sista's High In Hell

Here is Part 65 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.  We are now at a point where two things happen.

Firstly, I need to point out that from here on in, reading the recap then jumping into the middle of the story will rather ruin it. The recap will now start to include some major spoilers on the plot which, up until now have just been hints and clues.

Secondly, I need to get some feedback on the next four parts. There are some explanations of sorts about what might be happening – or they could be major red herrings. I need to know if these parts sound plausible and that I haven’t opened up a major plot hole. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t give much away in my responses to your feedback – there are a few twists and turns in the plot to come!

In my search for the oddest of news, I read that article and found myself frustrated. You would have thought that the journalist could have told us if the gambler behaved like this because he was winning!  

After what was the easiest of quiz questions, today’s question must rank up amongst the hardest. You will probably need 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...

“He’s an odious man.” Professor Ibsen muttered as he speared a scallop with his fork. “I’d rather take a chair in an American backwater than live in a country with Terence Cauldron as Prime Minister.”

The scallop was lifted half-way to the professor’s mouth, where it paused.

“I didn’t mean for that to be said out loud. Sorry” The scallop found its way to the professor’s mouth where it was savoured. “That man is the reason we lost the unfortunate Sergei.”

“You think that Sir Terence was involved in his death?” Jones spluttered.

“Good Lord No! He has other methods to achieve his ends. I meant that we lost Sergei to academia.” The professor paused as he took another mouthful of his starter. “Now, the witch he has as head of research, I wouldn’t put anything past her, but Sir Terence is far more... subtle.”

“Who is his head of research?” Jones smiled and raised a friendly eyebrow.

Professor Ibsen didn’t answer.  His brow furrowed and he carefully replaced his cutlery onto his plate before gently massaging his temples with both forefingers. “I’m normally so good with names, yet hers alludes me. I cannot even bring a picture of her to my mind.”

“That’s OK. I’m sure it will come to you.” Jones said quietly. “Just tell me what happened.”

It hadn’t taken long for Professor Ibsen and Sergei to develop an excellent working relationship. The research was going well and Sergei was tutoring a number of undergraduates. After about 6 months, Sergei had come to see the professor to talk to him about a theory he was developing.

“It was farfetched and fanciful.” Professor Ibsen took a pause to allow himself to fully appreciate his last scallop.

“Totally wrong you mean.” Jones took a piece of the crusty bread and buttered it.

“It was a theory. The problem was that he had based it on scant observations and other theoretical work. He hadn’t considered how he could scientifically test it. The best science often starts with a seemingly farfetched theory. When they are tested and validated by scientific method, everyone tends to say ‘that is so obvious, why didn’t I think of that? ” 

The professor had discussed the theory with Sergei who was very keen to seek funding to pursue the idea further.  The professor had been against the idea, feeling that it was better that Sergei complete his PhD first. They had discussed it long into the night and Professor Ibsen had felt he had dissuaded Sergei.

Jones then questioned the professor on whether the discussion was in fact an argument, but Ibsen was adamant that it had been friendly and constructive.

The discussion between Jones and Ibsen was interrupted by a waiter in a pale yellow kimono clearing the plates. Professor Ibsen ordered ‘his special’ bottle of wine without checking with Jones before continuing with the story.

Somehow, Cauldron and his head of research got involved. About three months later, Sergei announced that he was going to take a sabbatical from his PhD and go and work for Cauldron’s electronics company to develop his theory and see if it had practical applications. The professor had tried desperately to dissuade him, but Sergei was adamant and had left UCL.

“So you did argue.” Jones stated flatly.

“Not at all.” Professor Ibsen replied calmly. “In fact, we stayed in touch. He would often come to speak to me about his research and we would discuss it - often over a long dinner in this very restaurant.”

The wine waiter, resplendent in a shimmering pale green kimono arrived with the wine. Ibsen tasted it and declared it excellent.

“Ah!” Ibsen placed his forefinger to his lips. “I forgot, you are on duty. I suppose you will not be taking wine.”

Jones inspected the label on the bottle of Pierre Luneau-Papin Muscadet Brut de Cuve Number 3. His hand quivered for a moment, but stayed on his lap.

“Well, professor.” Jones smiled broadly than ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. “On this occasion, I am prepared to make an exception to the rule.”

 

When I Get Older, Losing My Hair.

Here is Part 64 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”.  

I’m not really into the news today; I have other things on my mind. Instead I give you the oddest video. It is one of those videos that really needs the sound on and to be watched through to the end.

 Never being one to ignore the obvious, this is probably the easiest ever of my quiz questions. Despite that, I will still 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...

The restaurant was well lit and modern. The decor was all light woods and chrome with contemporary sculpture and lighting. The tables all laid with crisp white linen, silver cutlery and shining glassware. When Jones announced himself at reception, he was informed that Professor Ibsen had not yet arrived and he was shown up a spiral staircase to a small bar. Jones ordered tonic water, paid for it, filed the receipt in his wallet and went and sat down on a cream sofa next to the chrome railings of the balcony.

The dining area was busy. Most of the tables were occupied by city types, resplendent in designer waistcoats and cravats. A string quartet played sea shanties from a small stage in the far corner. Occasionally, diners would break from their meal and join in. At the end of each song, polite applause rippled around the room.

A polite cough caused Jones to turn around. A small man dressed in a crumpled white linen suit over a lurid purple and green Hawaiian shirt stood expectantly, clutching a red duffle bag tight to his chest.

“Professor Ibsen?” Jones asked politely as he stood and offered his hand.

“Yes, and you must be Inspector Jones” Professor Ibsen shook the hand warmly. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. Our table is ready.”

The professor led the way downstairs where they were met by a pretty young girl wearing a peasant dress and a white apron. She handed them a menu each and led them to a table where they were met by a waiter wearing a pale blue kimono. The waiter pulled out a chair for Jones who sat and watched the process repeated for the professor.

“Would you mind if we order before we have our chat?” The professor asked in his chocolaty baritone. “I hate to be a bore, but I’m afraid I am on a tight schedule.”

“Not at all, professor.” Jones picked up the menu and studied it closely.

“Thank you.” The professor paused. “Over the page there is a section for the less sophisticated palate.”

Jones flicked the page, saw that it consisted of various pies and battered fish and flicked it back quickly before continuing to study the main menu.

The waiter in the pale blue kimono returned and they ordered. The professor chose scallops and king prawn risotto, Jones a Thai fish soup with lemongrass and lime with sea bass to follow.

“You surprise me, Inspector.” The professor gave a broad smile. “You do realise that the Thai soup will contain a lot of spices and exotic herbs?”

“Hardly, exotic. A few onions, garlic, ginger, lemongrass, chilli, wine and fish stock mainly.” Jones did his best to return the smile. “Why does my choice surprise you?”

“I have been guilty of applying my stereotype of a policeman upon you.” The professor smiled again. “I hadn’t expected that a policeman would be aware of and educated in matters of the epicurean and the elite. All the policemen I have met have been part of the cakes and circuses brigade.”

“I guess I am an enigma. A privileged man who has never cared for Huxley.” Jones raised an eyebrow as under the table his fist clenched and unclenched.

“Touché, Inspector.” Professor Ibsen gave another smile as he leaned back in his chair. “However much I would enjoy arguing over merit of utopian visions...”

“Or dystopian.” Jones interrupted.

“Err, quite.” The professor scratched his chin and observed Jones. “I fear we need to focus on the purpose for our meeting, the unfortunate Sergei Plutov. What happened to the poor man?”

The explanation Jones gave was bald and non-committal. Professor Ibsen nodded the entire time it was being delivered.

“Given that you came to talk to me in person, can I take it you believe he was murdered?” The professor leaned forward and observed Jones closely.

“It is too early to take a view on that.” Jones stroked his moustache and straightened his cutlery. “At the moment, I am working on a theory that the death is connected to another case I am working on.”

“Hmmm...” The professor gave a low baritone rumble. “It is real shame. Sergei had such talent. As well as a physicist he was an international class tri-athlete. If he had been able to set his priorities correctly, he could have really been a name in astro-physics.”

As they waited for their starters, Jones carefully coaxed information about Sergei from Professor Ibsen. Sergei had been born and brought up in Moscow, by his well off parents. His father, who died in a skiing accident, was a prominent bio-chemist. His mother, a philosophy professor had recently retired. Sergei had a sister who had visited on a couple of occasions. The professor thought that she worked for an American bank in the Far East.

Sergei had attended the finest schools and had an exceptional record, attaining a top class degree from one of Russia’s finest University. When he applied to do a PhD at UCL he had been snapped up and granted a generous bursary. He didn’t socialise much outside of the athletics and swimming clubs, but his work was always of the highest calibre.

The starters arrived. Both men examined them closely. Jones wafted a hand over his dish to speed the scent of his soup to his nostrils.

As Jones reached for his spoon, he became aware that a man in a bright pink silk waistcoat had approached the table. The stranger was tall and of average build. His mop of sandy coloured hair flopped over one blue eye.

“Professor Ibsen!” The stranger extended a manicured hand bedecked in heavy gold jewellery towards the Professor. “I’m so glad I have run into you. We need to have a chat. ”

The professor stood and shook the hand warmly. “How nice to see you, again! May I introduce you to my dining companion? This is Inspector Jones. He is a policeman.”

The stranger’s smile evaporated. He glared at Jones, then flicked his head to temporarily remove the hair covering one eye.

“Inspector,” the professor turned to Jones who removed his napkin and stood. “May I introduce you to Sir Terence Cauldron.”

“Delighted to meet you, sir.” Jones smiled and offered his hand which Sir Terence reluctantly shook.

“I can see you are busy, professor.” Sir Terence quickly withdrew his hand. “I shall have one of my people phone you for an appointment.”

With that, Sir Terence turned on his heel and headed for the exit. As he left, Jones thought he caught an expletive escaping under Sir Terence’s breath.

 

Oh, What a Night

Time to lob Part 63 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”out there for the world to see.

Strange news is a little thin on the ground today, this seems to be the oddest I could find.

 Back on track today with the quiz question. A really easy one related to the number 63. For people of my vintage it should be a doddle, but as always, you do get 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...

As Jones was putting away his phone, Smithy arrived back with another of the thugs. A few minutes later, Brown and Johnson arrived with their collars. Smithy interrogated the thugs while Jones chatted with the deaf Michael in sign language. It wasn’t long before an ambulance arrived

The ambulance men tended to the victim before announcing that they wanted to take him to the hospital to ck him over. Jones told Brown to travel with the victim to the hospital and get a full statement.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant Collins arrived in the paddy wagon, drawn by four black llamas. The four thugs were packed inside.

Jones checked his watch and swore under his breath.

“You two better get back to the station and deal with that lot.” Jones waved a hand towards the departing paddy wagon. “Charge them all with assault and throw the book at mine. I have to meet Professor Ibsen. I’ll catch up with you when I get back.”

Jones strode off down the street, dodging fellow pedestrians. He had barely gone a hundred yards when a Bentley pulled alongside. The rear passenger window glided open.

“Inspector!” David Heatherington smiled causing Jones to shudder. “How fortuitous! May I offer you a lift?”

Bending at the waist, Jones peered into the luxurious interior. The smell of sandalwood and leather wafted from within.

“It’s OK. I’ll walk, I’ve plenty of time.” Jones straightened up.

“I insist!” Heatherington opened the door and shuffled across the back seat. “Besides, it will give us time to catch up.”

With a sigh, Jones climbed inside the Bentley.

“Where too, sir?” The driver asked politely.

Jones told him and a glass panel slid up between him and the driver.

“It would seem that police expenses have improved somewhat.” Heatherington said in a dry tone, the hint of a sparkle in his eye.

Jones pursed his lips and stroked his moustache. “I am the guest of Professor Ibsen. It was the only time and place available for our meeting. Sometimes this is a terrible job, but somebody has to do it.”

“Indeed.” Heatherington gave a laugh.

“I assume that you want to see if I have any leads on Victoria Adkins?” Jones looked for a reaction from the State Security man. “Well, if you are, then I’m afraid I have nothing to help. Unless it wasn’t your men who went to search Sergei Plutov’s lodgings?”

There was the merest hint of a twitch from Heatherington’s left eye before he spoke.

“They were not my men, Inspector.” Heatherington inspected the back of his left hand. “Do you know what they took away with them?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell.” Jones stared out of the window. “Why is your driver taking us round and round the block?”

“Let me assure you that you will be on time for your luncheon.” Heatherington pressed a button on his armrest and a drinks cabinet opened. “Brandy?”

Jones declined.

“I assume that your wife has been reading between the lines for you on the latest news?” Heatherington asked as he poured himself a generous measure of brandy into a glass.

“Yes, she believes that Cowell will have to resign and that Sir Terence Cauldron will become the next Prime Minister.”

“Which makes the need for me to talk to Victoria Adkins all the more urgent.” Heatherington swirled the brandy in the glass while his staring at Jones. “Who is Sergei Plutov?”

The question caused Jones to raise an eyebrow in the direction of Heatherington. Jones stroked his moustache again and sat back into the red leather upholstery. The two men observed each other for a while before Jones told Heatherington about Sergei Plutov and the outcome of their visit to his lodgings. Heatherington listened intently while swirling his brandy in the glass.

“Could Mr Plutov’s lady friend be Victoria Adkins?” Heathrington asked when Jones finished.

Jones shrugged and said nothing.

“But you think that the muscled man in the shell suit could be Darrius Kipling.” Heatherington stated flatly.

Again, Jones just shrugged.

“I will get one of my men to contact your man Johnson to help him with the Russian Embassy.” Heatherington pressed another button on his console. “You are probably considering hauling in Darrius Kipling, aren’t you?”

“It had crossed my mind.” Jones nodded. “But I did say I would give you until Monday and what with the overtime situation the way it is...”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Heatherington smiled and then produced a piece of paper. “This outlines all of Darrius Kipling’s movements for the last few days. He has been trying to locate Phillip Duncan, but that apart, we have discovered very little. Can you spot anything?”

The paper was handed to Jones who studied it before shaking his head. “There is nothing obvious there, but I’ll give it a closer look later.”

Heatherington expressed his thanks and the two made small talk for a while before the Bentley drew up outside the restaurant. The two shook hands before Jones climbed out of the car which then pulled away, soon to be lost from view amongst the heavy central London traffic.

 

From a Feint Into a Slip and Kicking From the Hip

I am eternally grateful to the loyal band of readers who are sticking with my serial, “A Couple of Tenors Short”. I must admit is was concerned that people would lose interest or become so totally baffled they would drift away, but looking at the statistics of my site yesterday, I realise that despite the difficulties posed by the way I have chosen to publish it, people are sticking with it.

Your loyalty has lifted my spirits more than you will ever realise. So, Part 62 is dedicated to you with heartfelt thanks.

For those of you frustrated with your daily commute, take heart from today’s strange news story. If you ever find yourself complaining about the traffic on your way to or from work, consider this.

 Today I was unable to find a quiz question related to the number 62. So, you will just have to make do with finding the song, connected vaguely to today’s episode, from which the title is taken. I have given you a picture clue and of course, 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...

Smithy looked over to where Jones was pointing. It was a piece of waste ground. The security fence that surrounded it had been vandalised. If there had ever been a gate, it was now long gone.

At the far end of the waste  ground, four youths, dressed in orange and blue striped blazers and yellow trousers, were tussling with another youth wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans. The youth in the sweatshirt had his arms up around his head as the others pushed him around, occasionally throwing punches.

“On it, guv!” Smithy gleefully announced as he accelerated hard.

Smithy turned the Zephyr sharply to the left and bounced it up the kerb causing all the other occupants to cling on to their doors grimly. The Zephyr came to a halt just inside the gateway. The doors flew open and the four detectives rushed out.

They were half way between the Zephyr and the fracas when one of the youths shouted “Scarper! It’s the filth!” The four youths in blazers looked up then ran. Three took off in the direction of the right hand corner of the waste ground. There the fence had been almost destroyed, providing access to a side street. Smithy, Brown and Johnson took off in pursuit of the three. The fourth broke left and headed for a brick wall.

Before starting the chase, Jones looked over to the lad in the jeans and sweatshirt. He was half sat, half lying on the ground, dabbing at a cut above his eye, smearing blood across his face. Jones accelerated after the youth.

When the lad reached the corner he leapt up and grabbed at the wall to heave himself up. For a moment, it looked like he would be up and over, but then the bricks on top of the wall came away and the youth fell backwards.

“Give it up, son.” Jones slowed to a walk as the youth picked himself up.

The youth swore under his breath before snatching up a long piece of wood.

“Cummon, copper!” The lad jumped to his feet and swung the chunk of wood a few times.

Jones looked at the wood and a large, rusty nail that curled from the end. He shook his head.

As the youth swung the wood from side to side, it made a whooshing sound. Jones ignored the wood and concentrated on the thug wielding it, staying on the balls of his feet, feinting left and right, just out of range of the swinging length of two by four.

“You’re just going to make it worse for yourself, lad.” Jones spoke calmly, never dropping his guard for a fraction of a second.

The youth laughed and lunged forwards. Jones deftly moved to his left and let the club swung harmlessly past his right shoulder.

“You’re not very good at this are you?” Jones waved his hands, wriggling his fingers as he continued to bounce on the balls of his feet.

The thug swung his club violently from left to right. Jones danced backwards as it flew past his throat.

“Bloody coppers!” the youth aimed another swing, which Jones dodged easily. “Why are you so concerned for a freak anyway?”

The youth didn’t give Jones chance to respond, lunging forward swing his club. Jones dodged it easily and stepped inside the arc of the club. He grabbed the arm holding the club, he  pulled it. The momentum of the youth caused him fall forward. Jones twisted his body, while continuing to hold the arm, executing a perfect jujitsu throw. The thug fell to the ground. Jones twisted the arm he still held and expertly turned him over so that he was face down. Jones placed a knee on the thug’s back as he produced a set of handcuffs and fitted them tightly.

“I’m arresting you for suspected assault. “ Jones hauled the thug to his feet. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“What?” the thug sneered and spat. “Don’t I even get a ‘you’re nicked, son’?”

Jones said nothing, just gave him a shove to move him back towards the victim of the assault, who was now sat up.

“Are you OK?” Jones shouted over.

The young man remained seated and continued to feel his various bruises and checking his hands for blood.

“Are you OK?” Jones rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder, then pushed the thug over to the wall.  “I’ll get you an ambulance. Get somebody to check you over.”

“I can’t hear you when you look away.” The young man spoke in a monotone, without inflection. “I’m deaf. I have to see your lips.”

After manhandling his suspect so that he was seated facing the wall, Jones came back to victim and crouched besides him.

“What is your name?”Jones signed

“Michael Langreen.” He signed back.

“See, he’s a bloody freak!” the thug shouted. “People aren’t safe if they let freaks like him roam the streets.”

Ignoring the thug, Jones completed his signed conversation with Michael before taking out his phone and calling for an ambulance and then a wagon to take away the thug. 

 

Oh God Said to Abraham 'Kill Me a Son'

Hot on the heels of Part 60 comes Part 61 of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. I had considered introducing some kind of random numbering system or perhaps start giving the various parts names like they do with hurricanes, but I resisted – for the moment at least.

You remember that writing stint yesterday? When I rattled off 1500 words in no time at all? I read it again this morning. Sad to report that the joy was short lived, it is now down to less than 500 words. What was I thinking?

It isn’t news as such, but they have announced the shortlist for the statue to fill the empty fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. I thought you might be interested in seeing pictures of the shortlist. My favourite is the Cash Machine that triggers a giant organ on the top of the plinth whenever it is used. Sadly, I do not know what tune it will play. I will leave that open for suggestions!  

I’m able to continue the sequence for the quiz question. This one should be really easy (hence why I put one of my photos at the top there). Yet, I will still 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...

The interview with Mrs Ford continued and Jones continued to poke around Sergei’s flat. After a little while, Jones resigned himself to not discovering anything else and he signalled to Smithy to wind the interview up.

While Smithy scribbled down the last of the anecdotes from Mrs Ford, Jones stepped out into the hall and ordered a forensics team to perform a better search and see if they could find something to identify the people who removed Sergei’s belongings.

When the four detectives met at the Ford Zephyr, it became clear that Johnson and Brown hadn’t discovered much either. A lot of the neighbours commented that they often saw him out running, but none really knew him.

“Perhaps we will have better luck with local athletics clubs.” Jones said as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the Zephyr.

“What makes you think that, guv?” Smithy asked as he buckled his seat belt.

“There was a pin board with bits of silk hanging from the pins and there were a lot of square shapes in the dust on the bookshelves which could have been trophies.” Jones spoke dryly as he looked at the sheet of notepaper in the evidence bag.

“That’s impressive deduction, guv.” Brown gave a low whistle from the back.

“It’s nothing really.” Jones gave a smile. “The real giveaway was all the different athletics vests and tracksuits in his drawers.”

The revelation was greeted by groans and a weak laugh from Johnson.

“So, Brown! I want you to follow up on that for me. And Johnson...” Jones paused and allowed himself a smile. “I want you to follow up with the Russian embassy to see if we can get in touch with his family.”

“Yes, guv” Johnson responded meekly.

Taking out his mobile phone, Jones dialled the number written on the paper.

“Hello?” a deep baritone voice answered.

“Hello. This is Detective Inspector Glynn Jones. May I speak with Professor Ibsen, please?”

“Oh.” There were a few seconds of silence. “This is Professor Ibsen. So it was Sergei then.”

“Errrm...” Jones gave a start at the response. “Can I ask why you say that?”

“I saw the picture of the dead man found in the Thames in the evening paper and thought it might have been Sergei Plutov, my former research assistant. However, I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t ring. That was remiss of me. ”

“I’m sorry to tell you that we believe it might be Mr Plutov.” Jones voice conveyed sympathy. “I wondered if you could spare some time to help us discover more about him and how he came to be swimming in the Thames?”

“I’ll be willing to help all I can, but...” Professor Ibsen paused for a moment. “I hate to compound my original oversight, but I fly out to a conference tomorrow and am unavailable all afternoon. Unless we could meet over lunch? I’ll happily pick up the tab.”

The two arranged to meet at one o’clock at a small restaurant near the college. It was a restaurant with a reputation for fine seafood, the anticipation caused Jones to look out of the window and salivate.

“Smithy! Pull over! Over there!” Jones shook himself from his daydream about sea bass and pointed to a fight going on a patch of waste ground.