Subtitle: No blowdarts please, we’re British
After my white-knuckle ride on the Tea-Tray Express, I found myself in a small, darkened room, filled with esoteric memorabilia. From shrunken heads (I’m sure one of them was Lorraine Kelly) to huge dusty tomes filled with mystical incantations, Jonathan covered the whole world of the occult.
As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I became aware of the faint sound of rhythmic chanting. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from, but as I moved further into the murky room, I discovered that it was coming from behind the panelled wall at the far end of the fireplace. I briefly wondered whether or not to investigate further, but a sharp pain in my thigh brought me back to my senses.
Jonathan was lying in the footwell of the antique desk into which I’d just walked. He appeared to be unharmed apart from a gash above his left eyebrow. He sat up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the desk, and collapsed back to the floor. As he came round, I manoeuvred him to a sitting position, propped against the drawers of the desk.
‘How long was I out?’ he asked blearily, gingerly rubbing the large bump on his forehead.
‘Oh, only a few seconds,’ I replied. ‘What on earth is happening? Dawkins is upstairs. He’s been shot in the leg. Tarquin is tending to him as I speak.’
Jonathan hesitated for a few seconds before answering, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he pondered his reply.
‘I suspect that the Cosa Nostradamus has tracked you from the moment you returned home after the atrocity at the carnival.’
‘But… but… how?’ I spluttered. ‘We were hidden in your car the whole way. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the smell of that travel rug out of my hair.’
Jonathan suddenly stretched out a hand and plucked a stray sequin out of my hair.
‘How about this?’ he murmured.
I was just about to point out that it would be fairly impossible to track anyone with the aid of one measly sequin when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. Fortunately it was Tarquin, who’d taken advantage of the unexpected ceasefire to creep downstairs.
He peered at the sequin and asked, ‘Is that a Track-o-matic 5000 Mk III? Where did you get it? They’re very difficult to obtain these days.’
‘I fear it was planted on young Kats during the confusion of the carnival. We’re dealing with extremely dangerous people.’
I gaped at Jonathan and Tarquin in open-mouthed astonishment.
‘But... but… I… I… ‘ I stammered, for the moment unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
Tarquin gulped nervously and revealed that he had been (some time ago) a member of the elite security wing of MFI, a crack unit dedicated to solving crimes involving flatpack furniture.
‘It’s more widespread than you might think. We worked closely with the Homebase Guard and on an international basis with Ikeapol.
‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say before something flew through what was left of the window and struck me on the side of the neck.
I shook my head as the room seemed to shift ever so slightly out of focus and I put my hand to my neck and plucked out a small feathered dart. I stared at in confusion for a moment before everything started to grow dim and I sank slowly to the floor…
Monday, October 31, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Nextest Episode
Subtitle: A very big house in the country
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
I came to several minutes later, to find myself being carried by the lovely Tarquin out to Jonathan’s car, a vintage Toyota Previa in lime green and turquoise. Apparently, as I found out later, it’s camouflage for the terminally colourblind.
We set off shortly after I was bundled unceremoniously on the floor of the car, Tarquin flinging himself bodily atop my inert form. Jonathan then covered us with an old travel rug, that smelt distressingly of Dettol and bakewell tart.
‘Just a precaution,’ he told us cheerily.
I managed to stop myself from pointing out that he’d be a damn site less cheerful if he had some mangy rug stuck over his head when I saw how worried poor Tarquin looked, in the smelly gloom of the back seat footwell.
Fortunately, once we got out onto the open road, we pulled into a service station, where we were able to change out of our rather conspicuous taffeta and crimplene dancing outfits into the clothes that Tarquin had hastily packed whilst I’d been blissfully unaware, passed out on the sofa.
Once suitably attired, we jumped back into the car and sped off in the direction of Jonathan’s country seat. I’d have preferred a whole house myself, but needs must when the devils steals your muesli, as my (slightly mental) granny used to say.
Several hours later, I awoke with a stiff neck from where I’d nodded off in the car. The aroma from the travel rug had combined with Tarquin’s slightly overindulgent use of Brut to create a narcotic gas. Fortunately, Jonathan was impervious to this, as one of his little foibles is to drive in full face mask. We alighted from the car, and found ourselves in front of an imposing mansion house.
‘Impressive frontage Jonathan,’ I remarked.
‘You’re not doing so bad yourself, young lady’, he replied with a wink at Tarquin, who reddened visibly.
We refrained from further banter, as it was getting dark. Dawkins, Jonathan’s butler was waiting by the front door to take our bags and show us to our rooms.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of releasing the hounds, sir, and have switched on all the fences.’
‘Thank you Dawkins, could you also see to Tarquin and Kats? They’ll be bunking in the Taupe Room. Dinner at 8 as usual.’
We followed Dawkins up the magnificent staircase to the first floor, where we were shown into a bedroom so huge we could have played touch snooker in it and still had room for a disco.
We unpacked our meagre belongings, then sat and digested the events of the last day or two. We were just coming up for air when suddenly the alarm sounded and metal grilles descended over all the windows.
Tarquin rushed out into the hallway, to find Dawkins slumped in a corner, with a bullet wound to the leg. We dragged him into our room, where I administered rudimentary first aid, though we had a spot of bother with the recovery position, and ended up just propping him up against the sideboard.
We had no idea if Jonathan had been injured, so one of us had to go and find out. We decided to draw straws, and as my picture was the more realistic of the two, I won. I like to think that my addition of a yokel and a couple of field mice swung things in my favour but I digress. I quickly fashioned some protective clothing from an occasional table and a silver tea tray and edged my way out into the corridor.
The scene was utterly chaotic – the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the vase at the top of the stairs had been smashed into a million pieces. (Though I can’t verify that, as I didn’t have time to sit and count them all.) A bullet whizzed past my right ear, and I huddled behind the table. Cunningly using the tea tray as a periscope type device, I was able to plot a fairly safe course to the top of the stairs, at which point I was stuck. Until I decided that speed was of the essence and jumped on the tray and slid down the stairs, in an insane parody of the Winter Olympics luge run.
I reached the ground in a matter of seconds, and, after pausing to catch my breath, ran headlong into what I assumed was Jonathan’s study…
You’ll find out what it really was in the next thrilling episode.
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Next Episode
Subtitle: A bit of a shock
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
As you can imagine, after the outrage perpetrated by the Sons of Thrower, the gay carnival atmosphere had turned to one of fear, anguish and distrust. Tarquin and I were trying hard to remain upbeat in the face of such devastation (and the jam splodge on his cummerbund was really rather distracting). We did try to search for some clues, but in our dancing outfits we looked rather conspicuous. There was nothing for it but to head back home and see if we couldn’t piece together some more of this mystery.
However, fate had other plans in store. We trudged home, only to find the front door in splintered pieces. We ran through the door, only to find the place well and truly ransacked. We did a quick inventory (being the organised sort, I have a checklist and clipboard kept in the wall safe – which hadn’t been touched, luckily) and found that nothing was missing, apart from a set of computer discs that I’d carelessly left out on the table.
I knew at once who was behind the break-in and turned to Tarquin, who had by this time recovered from his initial shock.
‘It’s the Sons of Thrower! I know it is! We’re definitely onto something here.’
He just stood there, with a curious look on his face, holding a sheet of what looked to be fairly ordinary A4 sized paper.
‘I think you’d better read this, while I put the kettle on.’
My normal response of ‘It won’t suit you, darling’ seemed highly inappropriate, given that his pallor matched the startling white brilliance of the paper.
I started to read the note, which was as follows:
Kats PI, you were warned. Cease and desist your prying. What you find out will do you no good. Especially where you’re going.
In accordance with prophecy, you have now been marked. For Death.
I was hoping that either the words ‘by Chocolate’ or ‘Only joking’ would appear, but it was not to be.
Trembling with fear and not a little indignation, I walked into the kitchen to find Tarquin rattling the teacups slightly too loudly.
‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see’, I said, with an air of breeziness I wasn’t expecting.
‘I only hope you’re right,’ he replied, with a tremble in his voice that I found oddly touching. ‘I know someone who can help us. He’s on his way round now.’
Just at that moment, there was a knock at the door, or more correctly, on the wall next to where the door had been. A cheery ‘Hello, anyone there?’ accompanied it.
Tarquin scurried to the door, and greeted our visitor warmly. He was a fairly stocky man, in his mid to late fifties, with a distinct air of Captain Birdseye about him. He advanced towards me, hand outstretched.
‘You must be the Kats I keep hearing so much about. Tarquin wasn’t exaggerating. I’m Jonathan. Jonathan Ffolkes, though the F is silent.’
I was a little thrown by the man’s charm, and the fact that he had a glass eye. In a small bottle, hung on a chain round his neck.
‘Ahh, you’re admiring the eye. The eye of Brize Norton. A powerful tool for necromancy.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’, I asked.
‘No, you’re thinking of necrophilia. Quite a different kettle of monkeys that.’
I was momentarily lost for words, but fortunately Tarquin came to the rescue with a large pot of tea and a slightly damaged pear and walnut cake that he’d rescued from the carnage at the carnival.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our tea, and then the table was cleared, and the note we’d received was thrust at Jonathan, who read it, a frown appearing on his face as he did so.
‘Hmmm, this is worse than I feared. It appears you’ve attracted the attention of a particularly nasty cult.’
‘Please Mr Ffolkes, there are ladies present!’ I exclaimed.
He ignored my rather pathetic attempt at humour and pressed on. ‘You see this part here – ‘in accordance with prophecy’ – that’s a phrase used exclusively by one organisation. The Cosa Nostradamus.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘But… but…’ I started.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, ‘but you and Tarquin are going to have to go into hiding for a while. These people will stop at nothing to dispose of the pair of you. You’ve disturbed some pretty powerful people. The best place for you to hide will be at my country house. Go and pack, and we’ll set off straight away.’
My mind was reeling. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
It appeared, however, that he was. Not only that, but Tarquin had already packed our bags.
‘Don’t worry dear heart,’ said Jonathan, ‘we’ll have this all sorted out in no time.’
At this point, I did the only thing I could, and dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
And what transpired after that, will be revealed next time…
Friday, October 07, 2005
Yet another episode
Subtitle: Ballroom Bliss
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.
The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.
Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.
We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.
I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.
We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!
Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.
Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.
We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.
We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Episode something or other
Subtitle: Something Nasty in the Woodshed
As described in the last cliffhanging episode (despite the distinct lack of geological features in the locality) I found myself at the mercy of a hidden gunman (or woman – the criminal underworld is an equal opportunities employer these days you know) in the potting shed of the local park. Wayne/Bry, my (no-longer) anonymous source, was in there with me, which could have caused irreparable damage to someone of my upstanding reputation, had it not been the early hours of the morning and had I not managed to fashion us a moveable (and more importantly, bulletproof) shelter, McGyver-style, from some left over bits and bobs. (Just for future reference, and so that the inevitable TV-movie is factually accurate, the bits and bobs were, some plastic sheeting, a small Black and Decker Strimmer, some discarded wellies, some broken terracotta plantpots and some privet for camouflage purposes.)
We crept out of the shed and edged our way carefully along the very edges of the children’s playground, the swings creaking mournfully in the early morning breeze. After all my careful preparations, it appeared that the mystery gun-person had disappeared, but we were taking no chances. It did take some time for us to shuffle our way to the relative safety of the outside porch where Tarquin, visibly concerned, was waiting for us.
I effected cursory introductions, not knowing all that much about Wayne/Bry, and I have to admit, with a frisson of illicit pleasure, that it took several minutes of soothing (and the promise of an intimate dinner for the two of us) for Tarquin to calm himself down and bring out the cocoa he’d been simmering whilst waiting for me to arrive home.
Wayne/Bry – whose real name was Albert Simmons, and who worked in the local post office (and obviously had a penchant for dressing up) – was still extremely nervy, but revealed to us that The Sons of Thrower had put out a contract on myself and Tarquin. It appeared that we were on the right track and getting dangerously close to finding out what was going on, all of which came as a bit of a surprise to me. Albert then revealed that they were planning some kind of surprise attack at the local carnival which was due to take place in two weeks time. Then came the shock revelation that Mr Loomis, our erstwhile client, was also a Son of Thrower, something he’d kept very quiet during all our consultations. It was clear that we had our work cut out for us during the next fortnight.
At this point, Albert suddenly remembered a pressing appointment with his tailor and with a carefree wave, he stepped out of our door, only to be mown down by an out-of-control Robin Reliant. We rushed him to the local hospital, but we were too late, he would never be able to wear plus-fours again. As you can imagine, he was devastated, but you’ll all be glad to know that he did make a partial recovery and is currently appearing in cabaret on a cruise ship sailing between Hull and Tromso.
All this was fairly shocking stuff, even for a hardened PI like myself, but we had no time to lose. We decided that the best course of action was to prepare ourselves for the carnival dance competition (freestyle, of course) so there followed several all-night stints at Mondo Bizarro, where Tarquin and I tangoed, merengued and waltzed our way to exhaustion, followed by a flurry of sewing, pinning, embellishing and preening, until at last, we were ready to face the competition, resplendent in our hand-crafted costumes – a peach coloured evening suit for young Tarquin, featuring some constrasting sage-green piping and cummerbund, and a tangerine gown for myself, with added ruby sequins in the shape of the M25.
And just what happened after that, will be revealed in the next thrilling episode…
As described in the last cliffhanging episode (despite the distinct lack of geological features in the locality) I found myself at the mercy of a hidden gunman (or woman – the criminal underworld is an equal opportunities employer these days you know) in the potting shed of the local park. Wayne/Bry, my (no-longer) anonymous source, was in there with me, which could have caused irreparable damage to someone of my upstanding reputation, had it not been the early hours of the morning and had I not managed to fashion us a moveable (and more importantly, bulletproof) shelter, McGyver-style, from some left over bits and bobs. (Just for future reference, and so that the inevitable TV-movie is factually accurate, the bits and bobs were, some plastic sheeting, a small Black and Decker Strimmer, some discarded wellies, some broken terracotta plantpots and some privet for camouflage purposes.)
We crept out of the shed and edged our way carefully along the very edges of the children’s playground, the swings creaking mournfully in the early morning breeze. After all my careful preparations, it appeared that the mystery gun-person had disappeared, but we were taking no chances. It did take some time for us to shuffle our way to the relative safety of the outside porch where Tarquin, visibly concerned, was waiting for us.
I effected cursory introductions, not knowing all that much about Wayne/Bry, and I have to admit, with a frisson of illicit pleasure, that it took several minutes of soothing (and the promise of an intimate dinner for the two of us) for Tarquin to calm himself down and bring out the cocoa he’d been simmering whilst waiting for me to arrive home.
Wayne/Bry – whose real name was Albert Simmons, and who worked in the local post office (and obviously had a penchant for dressing up) – was still extremely nervy, but revealed to us that The Sons of Thrower had put out a contract on myself and Tarquin. It appeared that we were on the right track and getting dangerously close to finding out what was going on, all of which came as a bit of a surprise to me. Albert then revealed that they were planning some kind of surprise attack at the local carnival which was due to take place in two weeks time. Then came the shock revelation that Mr Loomis, our erstwhile client, was also a Son of Thrower, something he’d kept very quiet during all our consultations. It was clear that we had our work cut out for us during the next fortnight.
At this point, Albert suddenly remembered a pressing appointment with his tailor and with a carefree wave, he stepped out of our door, only to be mown down by an out-of-control Robin Reliant. We rushed him to the local hospital, but we were too late, he would never be able to wear plus-fours again. As you can imagine, he was devastated, but you’ll all be glad to know that he did make a partial recovery and is currently appearing in cabaret on a cruise ship sailing between Hull and Tromso.
All this was fairly shocking stuff, even for a hardened PI like myself, but we had no time to lose. We decided that the best course of action was to prepare ourselves for the carnival dance competition (freestyle, of course) so there followed several all-night stints at Mondo Bizarro, where Tarquin and I tangoed, merengued and waltzed our way to exhaustion, followed by a flurry of sewing, pinning, embellishing and preening, until at last, we were ready to face the competition, resplendent in our hand-crafted costumes – a peach coloured evening suit for young Tarquin, featuring some constrasting sage-green piping and cummerbund, and a tangerine gown for myself, with added ruby sequins in the shape of the M25.
And just what happened after that, will be revealed in the next thrilling episode…
Thursday, September 08, 2005
More excitement than you can shake a stick at...
Monday October 12th 2004
Well, I know it’s been a while since I got back to you, but Tarquin and I had to go into hiding for a while, as we were targeted by a rubbish gangster hitman from the mean streets of Chipping Sodbury.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here, so I’ll go back to the point at which I left you last time.
We had just discovered a society by the name of The Sons of Thrower, a little known offshoot of the Royal Horticultural Society. It appeared that their aims were the propagation of new and improved species of dangerous plants, carnivorous if possible, but at the very least, those able to give you a nasty rash.
It sounded rather ominous and I became quite distressed at the thought of these dastardly villains. Luckily, Tarquin, as ever, was on hand to calm my frazzled nerves with his culinary genius (and a generous helping of parsnip and valium wine). We feasted on chickpea rissoles in a tomato and banana sauce, accompanied by turnip dauphinoise. This was followed by home-made lychee and yam ice-cream, topped with crushed indigestion tablets. And people say vegetarian cuisine is boring!
Sadly, after our magnificent repast, Tarquin had to leave, as he’d agreed to work an extra shift at Mondo Bizarro, to cover the regional tiddlywinks championship. He asked if I wanted to go with him (apparently people come from miles around), but I thought it was best if I stayed and did a little more research. It was to prove a most interesting decision.
No sooner had a bid Tarquin a (very) fond farewell, than I noticed that the email icon on my computer screen was blinking. I went to take a peek and there, nestling snugly between emails asking me if I wanted a bigger penis and those offering me herbal Viagra (why couldn’t I have some different and interesting spam for a change, I’d kill for a mail offering me double glazing or the secret of Richard Whiteley’s appeal, but I digress) was an email enticingly titled ‘No subject’. I clicked on it, half expecting it to be veggie porn, but it turned out to be a thinly veiled threat, with just the merest hint of intrigue. It read:
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep away from the Sons of Thrower. They are men of influence and have spies everywhere. You are already in danger, and they won’t hesitate to kill (or maim) to keep their secrets.
If, however, as I suspect, you still want to know more, meet me at the bandstand at 3am. Come alone.
Regards,
A well wisher
Obviously I couldn’t pass up an invitation like that, so I donned my brushed Kevlar vest (bulletproof and thermal) and grabbed my trusty detective bag. I barely had time to scribble a note to Tarquin (New development in case, gone to bandstand. Will be back soon. Kats xxx) before I had to dash out of the door.
I reached the bandstand with a couple of minutes to spare, so had just enough time to check for hidden obstacles, should I need to escape in a hurry. As I did so, a figure emerged from the darkness and picked its way carefully across the parquet flooring of the bandstand.
‘Kats, PI?’
‘The same,’ I replied, with a nonchalance I thought impossible at 3am. ‘I presume you are my well-wisher?’
The figure, which I could now see was a young man, gulped nervously and nodded. ‘My name is Bry. Bry…err… Nylon.’
He was lying, of course. The hesitation was a dead giveaway and, besides, his McDonald’s name badge told me he was called Wayne. I pointed this out, not unreasonably, and he told me that he couldn’t tell me who he really was, as he’d be marked for death. Just at that moment, a shot ricocheted off the ceiling, missing us by inches (sorry, haven’t gone metric yet). I flung myself to the ground, pulling Wayne/Bry with me. More shots rang out, and it seemed as if we would be trapped there. However, I put my black belt to use and fashioned a crude shield from some left-over sheet music, and we ran to the safety of the potting shed.
I managed to contact Tarquin and he agreed to meet us at home. Which is where the next part of my story takes place.
dramatic chords, fading to theme tune
Well, I know it’s been a while since I got back to you, but Tarquin and I had to go into hiding for a while, as we were targeted by a rubbish gangster hitman from the mean streets of Chipping Sodbury.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here, so I’ll go back to the point at which I left you last time.
We had just discovered a society by the name of The Sons of Thrower, a little known offshoot of the Royal Horticultural Society. It appeared that their aims were the propagation of new and improved species of dangerous plants, carnivorous if possible, but at the very least, those able to give you a nasty rash.
It sounded rather ominous and I became quite distressed at the thought of these dastardly villains. Luckily, Tarquin, as ever, was on hand to calm my frazzled nerves with his culinary genius (and a generous helping of parsnip and valium wine). We feasted on chickpea rissoles in a tomato and banana sauce, accompanied by turnip dauphinoise. This was followed by home-made lychee and yam ice-cream, topped with crushed indigestion tablets. And people say vegetarian cuisine is boring!
Sadly, after our magnificent repast, Tarquin had to leave, as he’d agreed to work an extra shift at Mondo Bizarro, to cover the regional tiddlywinks championship. He asked if I wanted to go with him (apparently people come from miles around), but I thought it was best if I stayed and did a little more research. It was to prove a most interesting decision.
No sooner had a bid Tarquin a (very) fond farewell, than I noticed that the email icon on my computer screen was blinking. I went to take a peek and there, nestling snugly between emails asking me if I wanted a bigger penis and those offering me herbal Viagra (why couldn’t I have some different and interesting spam for a change, I’d kill for a mail offering me double glazing or the secret of Richard Whiteley’s appeal, but I digress) was an email enticingly titled ‘No subject’. I clicked on it, half expecting it to be veggie porn, but it turned out to be a thinly veiled threat, with just the merest hint of intrigue. It read:
If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep away from the Sons of Thrower. They are men of influence and have spies everywhere. You are already in danger, and they won’t hesitate to kill (or maim) to keep their secrets.
If, however, as I suspect, you still want to know more, meet me at the bandstand at 3am. Come alone.
Regards,
A well wisher
Obviously I couldn’t pass up an invitation like that, so I donned my brushed Kevlar vest (bulletproof and thermal) and grabbed my trusty detective bag. I barely had time to scribble a note to Tarquin (New development in case, gone to bandstand. Will be back soon. Kats xxx) before I had to dash out of the door.
I reached the bandstand with a couple of minutes to spare, so had just enough time to check for hidden obstacles, should I need to escape in a hurry. As I did so, a figure emerged from the darkness and picked its way carefully across the parquet flooring of the bandstand.
‘Kats, PI?’
‘The same,’ I replied, with a nonchalance I thought impossible at 3am. ‘I presume you are my well-wisher?’
The figure, which I could now see was a young man, gulped nervously and nodded. ‘My name is Bry. Bry…err… Nylon.’
He was lying, of course. The hesitation was a dead giveaway and, besides, his McDonald’s name badge told me he was called Wayne. I pointed this out, not unreasonably, and he told me that he couldn’t tell me who he really was, as he’d be marked for death. Just at that moment, a shot ricocheted off the ceiling, missing us by inches (sorry, haven’t gone metric yet). I flung myself to the ground, pulling Wayne/Bry with me. More shots rang out, and it seemed as if we would be trapped there. However, I put my black belt to use and fashioned a crude shield from some left-over sheet music, and we ran to the safety of the potting shed.
I managed to contact Tarquin and he agreed to meet us at home. Which is where the next part of my story takes place.
dramatic chords, fading to theme tune
Monday, September 05, 2005
Another exciting instalment...
Monday September 13th 2004
Just time to give you a brief (☺) update on the ongoing investigation of the filthy blackmailer.
Friday night was a rare night off, despite repeated phonecalls from Mr Loomis, who appears to think I should be working 24 hours a day until the case is solved. Normally, I’d share his enthusiasm for the hunt for felons and wrongdoers, but when fate throws you a lifebelt in the shape of Tarquin Gaylord, you’d be daft to kick a gift horse in the nadgers. As my old gran used to say.
As it happens, a good deal of the evening was spent discussing the case. The rest of it was spent doing a particularly difficult jigsaw of Slough at night and having a rubber or two of strip Snap, which Tarquin appeared to be playing to lose. It’s amazing what a couple of glasses of elderberry wine can do to a man.
Anyway, moving swiftly on, we decided that it was probably a good idea to stake out the bus station, as the deadline was fast approaching. We discussed this with Mr Loomis on Saturday morning over breakfast at the local diner, the Café de Frites Graisseux. It’s an upmarket kind of place, a little on the camp side, but they do a fantastic all day breakfast, apparently. Sadly they have little in the way of vegetarian cuisine, so I had to make do with Sugar Puffs and toast.
Mr Loomis wasn’t thrilled with the idea of paying the blackmailer, but a mini librarian death stare from me soon stopped him whining. He agreed to our stakeout plan, so Tarquin and I sped back to put on disguises. We decided that the teenage sweethearts one really wouldn’t work (sadly), but instead plumped for the ticket collector and the cleaner, which was later to have dire consequences.
We arrived at the bus station at 11.15, plenty of time as the money was going to be placed in locker 415 at 12 noon. Tarquin stationed himself at the departure gates, ticket punch in hand, whilst I got my floor polisher out and started whizzing across the check-in areas. I got quite carried away at one point and made myself quite dizzy as I sped across the floor, but I managed to stop myself before there was a nasty accident.
All too soon it was nearly 12, and the tension was building in the air, so much so that you could almost smell it. I’m sure we would have done had it not been for the stinkbombs let off by that group of nuns. I stationed myself near the plants next to the lockers, and hadn’t been polishing leaves for too long when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a suspicious looking character lurking near locker 415, wearing a dirty grey hooded top, grubby tracksuit bottoms and baseball boots. I signalled to Tarquin and we both approached him. Sadly he was alerted to our less than stealthy approach as Tarquin managed to kick over my mop-bucket with a fairly loud clang. The suspicious looking man sprang into action and raced across the concourse, with us in hot pursuit, quite literally in Tarquin’s case, as the mop-bucket had been filled with very warm water.
I could see that he was heading for the side exit, so ran to head him off at the exit barriers. I managed to stop him with a flying tackle, whereupon he rounded on me and grabbed me roughly by the arm. I reached into my apron pocket to grab my trusty can of mace, only to find that all I had was a can of Mr Sheen. Well, any port in a storm, so I depressed the button and sprayed him with a fine mist of furniture polish. It seemed to do the trick, as he was unable to maintain his grip on me. Sadly, it also meant that I was unable to detain him either, as he slipped from my grasp and fled towards the shopping centre.
Tarquin arrived seconds later, and after picking me from the floor, and retrieving my polish for me, he asked if I’d recognised the assailant. ‘No’, I murmured, ‘though he did seem a little too familiar with my tabard.’
Sadly neither of us had enough time to work out who it could have been, as we then had to make a hasty retreat, before we were arrested for causing a breach of the peace, something which I could see becoming a bit of an occupational hazard.
We decided at that point that it was best to head back home and take another look at the letters. I got out my Fisher Price blackboard and we compiled a list of suspects: Sir Alan of Titchmarsh (missing presumed drowned in jam), Gregory Spalding, Obadiah Sleaze or… someone else.
I decided to do a little research on the internet, while Tarquin prepared a light supper. I decided to start looking for horticultural organisations, as this all seemed to centre around rare plants and seeds. Having done the rounds of the usual sites, I managed to hack into the RHS (which reminds me I’m right out of cough medicine). Here I discovered several interesting pieces of information. Firstly, both Obadiah Sleaze and Gregory Spalding were both known associates of the master criminal, Sir Alan of Titchmarsh. Secondly, they’d both done time for tax evasion and being thoroughly bad eggs. Thirdly, and most importantly, they were both members of an organisation known as The Sons of Thrower. What could it all mean? This was fast becoming a full-blown conspiracy.
More soon.
Just time to give you a brief (☺) update on the ongoing investigation of the filthy blackmailer.
Friday night was a rare night off, despite repeated phonecalls from Mr Loomis, who appears to think I should be working 24 hours a day until the case is solved. Normally, I’d share his enthusiasm for the hunt for felons and wrongdoers, but when fate throws you a lifebelt in the shape of Tarquin Gaylord, you’d be daft to kick a gift horse in the nadgers. As my old gran used to say.
As it happens, a good deal of the evening was spent discussing the case. The rest of it was spent doing a particularly difficult jigsaw of Slough at night and having a rubber or two of strip Snap, which Tarquin appeared to be playing to lose. It’s amazing what a couple of glasses of elderberry wine can do to a man.
Anyway, moving swiftly on, we decided that it was probably a good idea to stake out the bus station, as the deadline was fast approaching. We discussed this with Mr Loomis on Saturday morning over breakfast at the local diner, the Café de Frites Graisseux. It’s an upmarket kind of place, a little on the camp side, but they do a fantastic all day breakfast, apparently. Sadly they have little in the way of vegetarian cuisine, so I had to make do with Sugar Puffs and toast.
Mr Loomis wasn’t thrilled with the idea of paying the blackmailer, but a mini librarian death stare from me soon stopped him whining. He agreed to our stakeout plan, so Tarquin and I sped back to put on disguises. We decided that the teenage sweethearts one really wouldn’t work (sadly), but instead plumped for the ticket collector and the cleaner, which was later to have dire consequences.
We arrived at the bus station at 11.15, plenty of time as the money was going to be placed in locker 415 at 12 noon. Tarquin stationed himself at the departure gates, ticket punch in hand, whilst I got my floor polisher out and started whizzing across the check-in areas. I got quite carried away at one point and made myself quite dizzy as I sped across the floor, but I managed to stop myself before there was a nasty accident.
All too soon it was nearly 12, and the tension was building in the air, so much so that you could almost smell it. I’m sure we would have done had it not been for the stinkbombs let off by that group of nuns. I stationed myself near the plants next to the lockers, and hadn’t been polishing leaves for too long when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a suspicious looking character lurking near locker 415, wearing a dirty grey hooded top, grubby tracksuit bottoms and baseball boots. I signalled to Tarquin and we both approached him. Sadly he was alerted to our less than stealthy approach as Tarquin managed to kick over my mop-bucket with a fairly loud clang. The suspicious looking man sprang into action and raced across the concourse, with us in hot pursuit, quite literally in Tarquin’s case, as the mop-bucket had been filled with very warm water.
I could see that he was heading for the side exit, so ran to head him off at the exit barriers. I managed to stop him with a flying tackle, whereupon he rounded on me and grabbed me roughly by the arm. I reached into my apron pocket to grab my trusty can of mace, only to find that all I had was a can of Mr Sheen. Well, any port in a storm, so I depressed the button and sprayed him with a fine mist of furniture polish. It seemed to do the trick, as he was unable to maintain his grip on me. Sadly, it also meant that I was unable to detain him either, as he slipped from my grasp and fled towards the shopping centre.
Tarquin arrived seconds later, and after picking me from the floor, and retrieving my polish for me, he asked if I’d recognised the assailant. ‘No’, I murmured, ‘though he did seem a little too familiar with my tabard.’
Sadly neither of us had enough time to work out who it could have been, as we then had to make a hasty retreat, before we were arrested for causing a breach of the peace, something which I could see becoming a bit of an occupational hazard.
We decided at that point that it was best to head back home and take another look at the letters. I got out my Fisher Price blackboard and we compiled a list of suspects: Sir Alan of Titchmarsh (missing presumed drowned in jam), Gregory Spalding, Obadiah Sleaze or… someone else.
I decided to do a little research on the internet, while Tarquin prepared a light supper. I decided to start looking for horticultural organisations, as this all seemed to centre around rare plants and seeds. Having done the rounds of the usual sites, I managed to hack into the RHS (which reminds me I’m right out of cough medicine). Here I discovered several interesting pieces of information. Firstly, both Obadiah Sleaze and Gregory Spalding were both known associates of the master criminal, Sir Alan of Titchmarsh. Secondly, they’d both done time for tax evasion and being thoroughly bad eggs. Thirdly, and most importantly, they were both members of an organisation known as The Sons of Thrower. What could it all mean? This was fast becoming a full-blown conspiracy.
More soon.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Yet more excitement!
Friday September 10th 2004
Well, well, well, what a day I had yesterday.
I decided that I needed to do a little undercover work at the Spalding Institute. I needed to find out just what was going on at their HQ, as I had a shrewd hunch (it’s just a temporary condition, it goes away if I keep taking the pills) that someone there knew more than they were saying. Which, at the moment, was nothing.
I needed a disguise, something business-like, but handy for running in should my cover be blown. So, I went to my walk-in wardrobe and chose disguise no 532: An off the peg Chanel-style business suit in granite (the colour, not the material), a steel-grey wig, granny glasses and a briefcase.
I donned the garments, sorted my wig out, grabbed a fake id from the Detective Action Pack (in the name of Ariadne Jenkins, Health and Safety Inspector) and raced out of the door.
Luckily, as it was raining cats and dogs, I’d donned my protective helmet, so wasn’t too stunned when a poodle and a Siamese both hit me on the noggin. And soon after that my transport arrived (the number 78, every 15 minutes during peak hours), so I hopped aboard and sped Spalding-wards.
I arrived just after 11am, in plenty of time for my appointment with Mr Obadiah Sleaze, head of marketing. I was shown into his office, whereupon he greeted me in the Continental style – on all fours, kissing both feet. I was slightly taken aback, but regained my composure and sat down.
Mr Sleaze was a fairly tall man, with an unpleasantly greasy sheen to his skin. He had blonde close-cropped hair, though I couldn’t tell if it was natural or not (and I certainly wasn’t going to ask if the cuffs matched the collar.) I decided that it was best to use the direct approach.
‘You are Mr Obadiah Sleaze, head of marketing?’
‘Head of marketing, body of Adonis,’ he smirked. I almost gagged at this point (reflex action) but I managed to contain it.
‘I’m here at the request of your safety supervisor to do a site inspection, looking primarily at your hazardous materials.’
‘Oh I don’t think we need to bother ourselves with such trivialities Miss Jenkins.’ He’d moved round to the front of the desk, and was sitting, legs akimbo, right in front of me. ‘I’m sure we can come to some…arrangement that will be mutually beneficial.’ He leered lasciviously at my shirt (which was, I must admit, straining to contain my rather copious bosoms) and manoeuvred himself to an even closer position.
‘Mr Sleaze..’ I began.
‘Call me Obadiah, I insist. And may I call you Ariadne?’
‘Mr Sleaze, let me be frank with you.’
‘Only if I can be Justine.’
‘I will be forced to show you my inspection warrant.’
‘First time I’ve heard it called that.’
Well, that was just too much. I uncrossed my legs, catching him a glancing blow in the vitals, and while he was hunched over his desk, tears of pain streaming down his oily face, I moved to a place of safety at the opposite side of the room.
I took out my official inspection notice and threw it on his desk, where it landed with a satisfying thud. ‘Mr Sleaze, have your safety manager here in no more than five minutes, or I shall be forced to call my superiors and report your conduct.’
Shortly after that, the safety supervisor arrived and I was whisked away from Mr Sleaze. You can imagine my surprise when I realised that it was none other than Tarquin, the doorman of Mondo Bizarro. He explained that his job didn’t pay well, so he earned a little extra cash by entering bodybuilding contests (apparently he’s even managed to make one out of sticklebricks) and working the door at the club.
He led me to the storage facility, which was secured by a large golden padlock. Tarquin produced a key and we stepped inside to discover an alchemist’s paradise of bell jars, test tubes and those funny crackly generator things that don’t really do anything but seem to set the atmosphere in monster films.
I gasped in shock as I saw a familiar face grinning insanely from a poster. ‘It’s Sir Alan of Titchmarsh, the criminal horticulturalist,’ I cried. ‘I knew he wasn’t dead. Merely resting. Quite possibly pining for the fjords.’
It turned out that it was actually an old centrefold from Gardening World Monthly, but it gave me quite a shock, I can tell you.
We proceeded quickly to the hazardous materials section, to check on the levels of Evil Bunnyfoot, and, as we both had suspected, several specimens had gone missing. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve covered their tracks very carefully,’ murmured Tarquin. ‘I happen to know that only three people have access to this place though. Myself, the lovely Mr Sleaze, and Gregory Spalding, the reclusive founder of the institute. He lives in the the penthouse on the 34th floor of the building, but no-one here has ever seen him.’
I thanked Tarquin for all his help, and we arranged to meet over the weekend to discuss plans for further investigations. Seems I have a partner in crime, so to speak.
I’ll let you all know what transpires.
Well, well, well, what a day I had yesterday.
I decided that I needed to do a little undercover work at the Spalding Institute. I needed to find out just what was going on at their HQ, as I had a shrewd hunch (it’s just a temporary condition, it goes away if I keep taking the pills) that someone there knew more than they were saying. Which, at the moment, was nothing.
I needed a disguise, something business-like, but handy for running in should my cover be blown. So, I went to my walk-in wardrobe and chose disguise no 532: An off the peg Chanel-style business suit in granite (the colour, not the material), a steel-grey wig, granny glasses and a briefcase.
I donned the garments, sorted my wig out, grabbed a fake id from the Detective Action Pack (in the name of Ariadne Jenkins, Health and Safety Inspector) and raced out of the door.
Luckily, as it was raining cats and dogs, I’d donned my protective helmet, so wasn’t too stunned when a poodle and a Siamese both hit me on the noggin. And soon after that my transport arrived (the number 78, every 15 minutes during peak hours), so I hopped aboard and sped Spalding-wards.
I arrived just after 11am, in plenty of time for my appointment with Mr Obadiah Sleaze, head of marketing. I was shown into his office, whereupon he greeted me in the Continental style – on all fours, kissing both feet. I was slightly taken aback, but regained my composure and sat down.
Mr Sleaze was a fairly tall man, with an unpleasantly greasy sheen to his skin. He had blonde close-cropped hair, though I couldn’t tell if it was natural or not (and I certainly wasn’t going to ask if the cuffs matched the collar.) I decided that it was best to use the direct approach.
‘You are Mr Obadiah Sleaze, head of marketing?’
‘Head of marketing, body of Adonis,’ he smirked. I almost gagged at this point (reflex action) but I managed to contain it.
‘I’m here at the request of your safety supervisor to do a site inspection, looking primarily at your hazardous materials.’
‘Oh I don’t think we need to bother ourselves with such trivialities Miss Jenkins.’ He’d moved round to the front of the desk, and was sitting, legs akimbo, right in front of me. ‘I’m sure we can come to some…arrangement that will be mutually beneficial.’ He leered lasciviously at my shirt (which was, I must admit, straining to contain my rather copious bosoms) and manoeuvred himself to an even closer position.
‘Mr Sleaze..’ I began.
‘Call me Obadiah, I insist. And may I call you Ariadne?’
‘Mr Sleaze, let me be frank with you.’
‘Only if I can be Justine.’
‘I will be forced to show you my inspection warrant.’
‘First time I’ve heard it called that.’
Well, that was just too much. I uncrossed my legs, catching him a glancing blow in the vitals, and while he was hunched over his desk, tears of pain streaming down his oily face, I moved to a place of safety at the opposite side of the room.
I took out my official inspection notice and threw it on his desk, where it landed with a satisfying thud. ‘Mr Sleaze, have your safety manager here in no more than five minutes, or I shall be forced to call my superiors and report your conduct.’
Shortly after that, the safety supervisor arrived and I was whisked away from Mr Sleaze. You can imagine my surprise when I realised that it was none other than Tarquin, the doorman of Mondo Bizarro. He explained that his job didn’t pay well, so he earned a little extra cash by entering bodybuilding contests (apparently he’s even managed to make one out of sticklebricks) and working the door at the club.
He led me to the storage facility, which was secured by a large golden padlock. Tarquin produced a key and we stepped inside to discover an alchemist’s paradise of bell jars, test tubes and those funny crackly generator things that don’t really do anything but seem to set the atmosphere in monster films.
I gasped in shock as I saw a familiar face grinning insanely from a poster. ‘It’s Sir Alan of Titchmarsh, the criminal horticulturalist,’ I cried. ‘I knew he wasn’t dead. Merely resting. Quite possibly pining for the fjords.’
It turned out that it was actually an old centrefold from Gardening World Monthly, but it gave me quite a shock, I can tell you.
We proceeded quickly to the hazardous materials section, to check on the levels of Evil Bunnyfoot, and, as we both had suspected, several specimens had gone missing. ‘Whoever it is, they’ve covered their tracks very carefully,’ murmured Tarquin. ‘I happen to know that only three people have access to this place though. Myself, the lovely Mr Sleaze, and Gregory Spalding, the reclusive founder of the institute. He lives in the the penthouse on the 34th floor of the building, but no-one here has ever seen him.’
I thanked Tarquin for all his help, and we arranged to meet over the weekend to discuss plans for further investigations. Seems I have a partner in crime, so to speak.
I’ll let you all know what transpires.
Monday, August 22, 2005
And there's more...
Thursday September 9th 2004
Ok, time for the latest update.
I knew I didn’t have much time to track down the blackmailer, though I was plagued with a vague sense of unease. Something about this case just didn’t add up. Either that or the Lentil Bourgignon I’d had for tea didn’t agree with me.
I did one final check on the blackmail notes, but they didn’t really reveal anything useful, other than that the person who sent them was right-handed, drove a red, four-door Mondeo saloon, wore corduroy slacks and had a birthmark in the shape of the Thundercats logo on his right buttock. The mention of corduroy slacks made me hesitate for a moment. No, it couldn’t be… surely not Bill Oddie? I realised almost instantly that the lack of feathers or bird poo ruled him out as a suspect, but it was a good ten minutes before I recovered my composure.
I decided it was time to hit the pavement, in search of clues. Sadly, the pavement proved quite aggressive and attempted to hit me back, so I thought better of that idea quite rapidly.
How else was I going to find out who was behind this dastardly plot? There was only one thing for it – it was time to go to Mondo Bizarro, our premier nitespot and 24-hour bingo hall. I raced home, grabbed my best clubbing outfit (the black pvc jumpsuit, with integral cupholders and my thigh length dominatrix boots) and jumped into the nearest taxi.
We arrived a few minutes later (I would have walked, but in these boots, no way!) and I fell out of the taxi and into the arms of the Mondo doorman, Tarquin Gaylord. He seemed very pleased to see me (as he doesn’t carry a concealed weapon – as a rule) and rushed me through the check-in procedure.
He then steered me to a corner booth (the one with the banquette) and told me to wait there, he had something to show me. Well, I nearly fainted from shock as he whipped out his seed catalogue and pointed to page 43. There, right in the middle of the page, was an advert for the Spalding Institute, purveyor of rare plants. There was a small picture in the top right hand corner of the advert which I couldn’t quite make out, so I took out my magnifying glass from my Secret Agent’s Utility Belt™ and looked closer. ‘Why, that’s the Evil Bunnyfoot!’ I cried. Clearly the Spalding Institute needed further investigation. Tarquin had made a copy of the page for me, so I thanked him profusely and headed for the bar.
I took the only empty seat and ordered one of Mondo Bizarro’s now legendary cocktails, the Weekend Warrior. It’s a mixture of dark rum, white rum, purple rum, a splash of Lilt for extra flavour and topped off with a float of gun oil. Just the thing for a cosmopolitan private dick about town.
I’d only been at the bar for ten minutes, when I was tapped lightly on the shoulder. It was Merv Hughes, the Australian cricketing legend, asking me to dance. I tried to decline, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we took to the dancefloor just in time for the Gay Gordons. After two hours of tripping the light fantastic, my feet were killing me and the pvc jumpsuit was getting a shade warm. We sat down in a quiet corner of the bingo hall section to take a bit of a breather, at which point Merv leaned over and revealed that it was all a disguise and he was actually Jim from over the road. He’s always had a soft spot for me, ever since the time I rescued him from certain death at the hands of a crooked pie salesman. He thrust a crumpled envelope into my hands with the words ‘Take this and guard it well. It may save your life one day.’
At this point, one of the old ladies sitting further up the hall keeled over – nothing serious, she’d just had one too many Knicker Droppers – and in the resulting confusion I made my escape.
I raced home as fast as I could (which wasn’t particularly fast in the boots I was wearing) and once I’d got home and set the Stalkermatic 5000 security system, I opened the envelope. Inside was a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card from a Monopoly set, a plastic ID card in the name of Ethel Muggins and a small bronze key. This mystery was getting way too confusing, so I did the only thing I could and fell asleep in front of Bargain Hunt.
Stay tuned for more exciting adventures.
Ok, time for the latest update.
I knew I didn’t have much time to track down the blackmailer, though I was plagued with a vague sense of unease. Something about this case just didn’t add up. Either that or the Lentil Bourgignon I’d had for tea didn’t agree with me.
I did one final check on the blackmail notes, but they didn’t really reveal anything useful, other than that the person who sent them was right-handed, drove a red, four-door Mondeo saloon, wore corduroy slacks and had a birthmark in the shape of the Thundercats logo on his right buttock. The mention of corduroy slacks made me hesitate for a moment. No, it couldn’t be… surely not Bill Oddie? I realised almost instantly that the lack of feathers or bird poo ruled him out as a suspect, but it was a good ten minutes before I recovered my composure.
I decided it was time to hit the pavement, in search of clues. Sadly, the pavement proved quite aggressive and attempted to hit me back, so I thought better of that idea quite rapidly.
How else was I going to find out who was behind this dastardly plot? There was only one thing for it – it was time to go to Mondo Bizarro, our premier nitespot and 24-hour bingo hall. I raced home, grabbed my best clubbing outfit (the black pvc jumpsuit, with integral cupholders and my thigh length dominatrix boots) and jumped into the nearest taxi.
We arrived a few minutes later (I would have walked, but in these boots, no way!) and I fell out of the taxi and into the arms of the Mondo doorman, Tarquin Gaylord. He seemed very pleased to see me (as he doesn’t carry a concealed weapon – as a rule) and rushed me through the check-in procedure.
He then steered me to a corner booth (the one with the banquette) and told me to wait there, he had something to show me. Well, I nearly fainted from shock as he whipped out his seed catalogue and pointed to page 43. There, right in the middle of the page, was an advert for the Spalding Institute, purveyor of rare plants. There was a small picture in the top right hand corner of the advert which I couldn’t quite make out, so I took out my magnifying glass from my Secret Agent’s Utility Belt™ and looked closer. ‘Why, that’s the Evil Bunnyfoot!’ I cried. Clearly the Spalding Institute needed further investigation. Tarquin had made a copy of the page for me, so I thanked him profusely and headed for the bar.
I took the only empty seat and ordered one of Mondo Bizarro’s now legendary cocktails, the Weekend Warrior. It’s a mixture of dark rum, white rum, purple rum, a splash of Lilt for extra flavour and topped off with a float of gun oil. Just the thing for a cosmopolitan private dick about town.
I’d only been at the bar for ten minutes, when I was tapped lightly on the shoulder. It was Merv Hughes, the Australian cricketing legend, asking me to dance. I tried to decline, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we took to the dancefloor just in time for the Gay Gordons. After two hours of tripping the light fantastic, my feet were killing me and the pvc jumpsuit was getting a shade warm. We sat down in a quiet corner of the bingo hall section to take a bit of a breather, at which point Merv leaned over and revealed that it was all a disguise and he was actually Jim from over the road. He’s always had a soft spot for me, ever since the time I rescued him from certain death at the hands of a crooked pie salesman. He thrust a crumpled envelope into my hands with the words ‘Take this and guard it well. It may save your life one day.’
At this point, one of the old ladies sitting further up the hall keeled over – nothing serious, she’d just had one too many Knicker Droppers – and in the resulting confusion I made my escape.
I raced home as fast as I could (which wasn’t particularly fast in the boots I was wearing) and once I’d got home and set the Stalkermatic 5000 security system, I opened the envelope. Inside was a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card from a Monopoly set, a plastic ID card in the name of Ethel Muggins and a small bronze key. This mystery was getting way too confusing, so I did the only thing I could and fell asleep in front of Bargain Hunt.
Stay tuned for more exciting adventures.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Another bit!
Wednesday September 8th 2004
Time to update you all once more with the details of 'The Case of the Filthy Blackmailer'.
After my meeting with the mysterious Mr Loomis - his voice sounds strangely familiar, but I just can't place it yet - I hotfooted it back home to examine the blackmail notes more carefully.
I firstly dusted them for fingerprints, but it appears the only ones there belonged to myself and Mr Loomis (I'd managed to get his prints earlier, as he'd fingered my leather trenchcoat in a most unseemly fashion) which wasn't particularly helpful.
The actual text of the notes was fairly unremarkable. They were printed with an HP Laserjet 5000 series printer, using paper that could be purchased almost anywhere. The first one, dated September 1 2004, read as follows:
I know your secret. I saw what you did, last summer, in the conservatory, with the lead piping. And I don’t think the police would be too happy about it. But my silence is yours, for a price. I will contact you again soon with my fineanshal fienanshyal monetary demands.
The second note (dated September 1 2004) was slightly more sinister:
Do not cross me. I know you went to the police. I also know that they can do nothing yet, as you cannot reveal your foul crime. And, let’s be honest, the News of the World are just gagging for a story like this. But I will keep your secret, providing you pay me what I want. Put £50,000 into a briefcase and leave it in locker 415 at the bus station in three days time. I’ll be watching you.
Pretty serious stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. But I had to press on with the investigations.
Next to discover the source of the odour that permeated the notes. Mixed in with the exhaust fumes, pickled onion and eau de cologne, was another, much subtler scent. I managed to isolate it using my CSI™ Spectographic Analyser with in-built Smell-O-Matic. This told me that the scent in question belonged to a very rare flower, found only in the lower foothills of the Andes, the Mixamatosis Deadlyitus or, to give it the more common name, the Evil Bunnyfoot. It's a carnivorous plant, usually snaring small mammals, which it attracts by the cunning ploy of emitting high-pitched squeaks in code. What's even more interesting is that if you manage to extract the sap (without the loss of any vital organs or limbs), it can be made into a high-grade narcotic and all-purpose adhesive - a bit like Pritt, only more addictive.
I was sure of only two things, that the blackmailer obviously had horticultural knowledge, and that he couldn't spell 'financial'. None of which was much help.
After all that, I had another phonecall from Mr Loomis, who sounded very agitated. He said he’d had a call from the blackmailer, demanding that the blackmail money be paid, and that he stop cavorting with cheap hussies in the Safeway car park. He’d told him that he couldn’t get the money in time, and the blackmailer (who’d disguised his voice with one of those cheap microphone thingies from Woolworths) agreed to let him have two more days.
I was really livid about the cheap hussy remark (that trenchcoat cost me a fortune), but this was no time to get emotional. No, it was time to settle down with a cup of tea to watch The Vicar of Dibley on UK Gold and ponder my next move.
More news as it happens, folks.
Time to update you all once more with the details of 'The Case of the Filthy Blackmailer'.
After my meeting with the mysterious Mr Loomis - his voice sounds strangely familiar, but I just can't place it yet - I hotfooted it back home to examine the blackmail notes more carefully.
I firstly dusted them for fingerprints, but it appears the only ones there belonged to myself and Mr Loomis (I'd managed to get his prints earlier, as he'd fingered my leather trenchcoat in a most unseemly fashion) which wasn't particularly helpful.
The actual text of the notes was fairly unremarkable. They were printed with an HP Laserjet 5000 series printer, using paper that could be purchased almost anywhere. The first one, dated September 1 2004, read as follows:
I know your secret. I saw what you did, last summer, in the conservatory, with the lead piping. And I don’t think the police would be too happy about it. But my silence is yours, for a price. I will contact you again soon with my fineanshal fienanshyal monetary demands.
The second note (dated September 1 2004) was slightly more sinister:
Do not cross me. I know you went to the police. I also know that they can do nothing yet, as you cannot reveal your foul crime. And, let’s be honest, the News of the World are just gagging for a story like this. But I will keep your secret, providing you pay me what I want. Put £50,000 into a briefcase and leave it in locker 415 at the bus station in three days time. I’ll be watching you.
Pretty serious stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. But I had to press on with the investigations.
Next to discover the source of the odour that permeated the notes. Mixed in with the exhaust fumes, pickled onion and eau de cologne, was another, much subtler scent. I managed to isolate it using my CSI™ Spectographic Analyser with in-built Smell-O-Matic. This told me that the scent in question belonged to a very rare flower, found only in the lower foothills of the Andes, the Mixamatosis Deadlyitus or, to give it the more common name, the Evil Bunnyfoot. It's a carnivorous plant, usually snaring small mammals, which it attracts by the cunning ploy of emitting high-pitched squeaks in code. What's even more interesting is that if you manage to extract the sap (without the loss of any vital organs or limbs), it can be made into a high-grade narcotic and all-purpose adhesive - a bit like Pritt, only more addictive.
I was sure of only two things, that the blackmailer obviously had horticultural knowledge, and that he couldn't spell 'financial'. None of which was much help.
After all that, I had another phonecall from Mr Loomis, who sounded very agitated. He said he’d had a call from the blackmailer, demanding that the blackmail money be paid, and that he stop cavorting with cheap hussies in the Safeway car park. He’d told him that he couldn’t get the money in time, and the blackmailer (who’d disguised his voice with one of those cheap microphone thingies from Woolworths) agreed to let him have two more days.
I was really livid about the cheap hussy remark (that trenchcoat cost me a fortune), but this was no time to get emotional. No, it was time to settle down with a cup of tea to watch The Vicar of Dibley on UK Gold and ponder my next move.
More news as it happens, folks.
Monday, August 08, 2005
The second case for Kats PI!
Tuesday September 7th 2004
I just thought I'd keep you all up to date with what's been happening.
Since my little adventure with the lovely Dale (who says hello and thanks for all your support), things have been really busy.
I studied hard to get my private investigator licence, and managed to pass the test with flying colours (the colours in question being puce, canary yellow and taupe). Basically, I was given a plot from an episode of 'The Professionals' and told to re-enact it with the aid of plasticine and pipe cleaners. Then I had to solve a few brain teasers and explain exactly why I wanted to become a private dick (so to speak). I think my answer really impressed them, centring as it did on the use of obscure martial arts (I have a black belt in origami) and a McGyver-style ingenuity to get me out of any tight spots. The examiners also had a glowing recommendation from Dale, which I think helped too, though I think the lavender-scented notepaper was taking it a shade too far.
Anyhow, I'm now official and working on my first real case (I can't afford a desk yet). Last night, just as I was shutting up shop, I received a phonecall from a mysterious stranger. I think it was a man, but his voice was quite muffled, so I couldn't be completely sure. He seemed very anxious, so I kept things to the point and asked him how I could help.
He asked me to meet him in level 3 of the local Safeway's car park, a den of iniquity if ever there was one. So, at the appointed hour, I picked my way through the discarded cartons of Ribena Extra (for kids who want something a little stronger) and cigar butts (we're very upmarket in this neighbourhood you know) and waited just by the trolley park.
Sure enough, out of the darkness loomed a looming figure. 'My name is Mr Loomis, and you, I presume, are Kats, PI.' I answered in the affirmative, and the figure proceeded to describe what he wanted me to do. I slapped him, as I'm not that kind of girl - and anyway, pink pvc aprons just don't suit me. He apologised for being so forward, then revealed his real reason for asking me to meet him. It turns out that he's being blackmailed by a filthy blackmailer. He wouldn't say what the blackmailer had on him, but he did hand me some of the notes he'd received, along with one or two rather interesting pictures of Barbara Woodhouse in the nude.
I gave him the photos back, as they really weren't going to help my investigations. The notes looked like your bog-standard blackmail notes, though the paper was interesting. It had a faint odour of pickled onions mixed with exhaust fumes, with just a hint of eau de cologne.
I told him that I'd have to take them away to study them (I've just taken delivery of my CSI forensic action pack so I'm all set) and we went our separate ways.
I've got the notes at home just waiting for my investigations to continue. I'll let you know what I turn up.
I just thought I'd keep you all up to date with what's been happening.
Since my little adventure with the lovely Dale (who says hello and thanks for all your support), things have been really busy.
I studied hard to get my private investigator licence, and managed to pass the test with flying colours (the colours in question being puce, canary yellow and taupe). Basically, I was given a plot from an episode of 'The Professionals' and told to re-enact it with the aid of plasticine and pipe cleaners. Then I had to solve a few brain teasers and explain exactly why I wanted to become a private dick (so to speak). I think my answer really impressed them, centring as it did on the use of obscure martial arts (I have a black belt in origami) and a McGyver-style ingenuity to get me out of any tight spots. The examiners also had a glowing recommendation from Dale, which I think helped too, though I think the lavender-scented notepaper was taking it a shade too far.
Anyhow, I'm now official and working on my first real case (I can't afford a desk yet). Last night, just as I was shutting up shop, I received a phonecall from a mysterious stranger. I think it was a man, but his voice was quite muffled, so I couldn't be completely sure. He seemed very anxious, so I kept things to the point and asked him how I could help.
He asked me to meet him in level 3 of the local Safeway's car park, a den of iniquity if ever there was one. So, at the appointed hour, I picked my way through the discarded cartons of Ribena Extra (for kids who want something a little stronger) and cigar butts (we're very upmarket in this neighbourhood you know) and waited just by the trolley park.
Sure enough, out of the darkness loomed a looming figure. 'My name is Mr Loomis, and you, I presume, are Kats, PI.' I answered in the affirmative, and the figure proceeded to describe what he wanted me to do. I slapped him, as I'm not that kind of girl - and anyway, pink pvc aprons just don't suit me. He apologised for being so forward, then revealed his real reason for asking me to meet him. It turns out that he's being blackmailed by a filthy blackmailer. He wouldn't say what the blackmailer had on him, but he did hand me some of the notes he'd received, along with one or two rather interesting pictures of Barbara Woodhouse in the nude.
I gave him the photos back, as they really weren't going to help my investigations. The notes looked like your bog-standard blackmail notes, though the paper was interesting. It had a faint odour of pickled onions mixed with exhaust fumes, with just a hint of eau de cologne.
I told him that I'd have to take them away to study them (I've just taken delivery of my CSI forensic action pack so I'm all set) and we went our separate ways.
I've got the notes at home just waiting for my investigations to continue. I'll let you know what I turn up.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
A successful conclusion...
Wednesday August 25th 2004
Yes, Dale has been saved from certain death by your very own Kats, PI. (I'm just like Magnum, only I have no tash and better taste in shirts.)
I'm sure you want to know what happened.
As I suspected, the FTFA took the bait (along with the money and pork scratchings) and nicked off with the ransom just after I'd gone home to eat bonbons and watch Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen put up a dado rail clad only in a Noddy posing pouch and purple sparkly nipple clamps. (It's UK TV Style Late - the latest in pay per view tv, in case anyone's interested.)
Well anyway, the homing device (a hole in the money bag and two leaky jumbo sized tubs of Hundreds and Thousands) worked, and soon I was hot on their trail. It led, inexorably, to the park, past the paddling pool, round the bandstand twice and up towards the swings. Shockingly, the trail ended here, and in a fit of grief and rage, I had a bit of a go on the swings. Higher and higher I swung, in a manner befitting the daring young man of flying trapeze fame. All at once, it hit me (the overhanging branch of the tree), and I was forced to cut short my swingy antics. I was momentarily dazed, but then had another flash of inspiration (I'm going to have to stop doing that, it's most unseemly for a lady of my... proportions). This is exactly what the kidnappers had done. No, not the flashing, the swinging thing. I retraced my steps (missing out the branch in the face) and was able to deduce that they'd made for the local biscuit factory (closed down since the custard cream blight of 1953). The building was still standing, though looking the worse for wear (with broken windows, peeling paintwork and some quite shocking graffiti - I know for a fact that Mrs Golightly at No 30 does not show you a good time, she can't even make a decent cup of Nescafe for goodness sake.)
I crept silently towards the side of the factory, where the security fence had been weakened by rust and the application of wire cutters. From there it was an easy task to gain entrance to the building. It was quite terrifying inside, the machines which lay idle all looked like instruments of torture. I may never eat garibaldis again. I heard muffled sounds of arguing coming from the first floor offices, so I crept up there and peeked in through the window. There on the floor, bound and gagged was Dale! He didn't look too happy, though there were no visible signs of injury. There was a side entrance to the office, so I crawled inside, and round to the side of the desk against which Dale had been propped. I removed his gag, probably not the best idea I'd ever had as he let out the campest shriek I've ever heard and whispered (in a voice loud enough to be heard three streets away let alone in the next room) 'Ooooh let's go wild in the aisles!!!'
I tried to shush him, but my powers were weak. Instead I tried reasoning with him.
'My name is Kats, I'm here to rescue you from the FTFA. The police didn't take my report of your kidnapping seriously, so I had to take matters into my own hands'
'Are you mad?' he replied.
'Mad? I'm bloody furious, I'm missing Eastenders for this you know.'
Fortunately this seemed to pacify him, though I think the sedative I had injected him with might have had something to do with it. It was a mixture of camomile, lavender and ground up copies of Hello!, distilled into a tincture which I carry everywhere.
I needed a diversion, so crept back downstairs and turned on the bourbon and jammy dodger machines. With no biscuits to fill, the place was soon knee deep in chocolate flavoured filling and jam. A sticky situation, I'm sure you'll agree. Fortunately I managed to fashion a crude coracle-type boat from one of the large buckets which had previously held the toppings for Iced Gems. I levered Dale into the bucket, grabbed a coat stand to use as an oar and off we set.
Unfortunately, by this time we'd attracted the attention of the kidnappers, who'd removed their balaclavas to reveal that they were none other than Sir Alan of Titchmarsh and Linda Barker. Jealous of the attention that the more orange celebs were getting, they'd embarked on a campaign to rid the world of them, so the whole ransom thing was just a token gesture. Well, after all the work I'd put in, I was pretty narked I can tell you. And Dale was none too pleased either. I drew myself up to my full height of 5'3", fixed Alan with the librarian death stare (level 1), and flicked rubber bands at Linda until she started to cry. Alan was stunned, and toppled over into the huge lake of jam/chocolate flavoured filling that was rapidly filling the ground floor.
Just at that moment, the doors were flung open and the massed ranks of the local constabulary (3 pcs, the desk sergeant and a rather harrassed looking alsatian) were covered in jam, as the sticky ooze.. well... oozed out of the doors. They'd apparently been called by the lady across the street who'd heard some gunshots (she'd forgotten that she was watching Kojak at the time.)
I spent the night in the cells for causing a breach of the peace and causing jam related injury to a policeman. Dale is none the worse for his ordeal, and as a thank you has offered me free seats to his Lottery show. Linda was detained in custardy (sorry, couldn't resist) and is due to appear in court in three weeks time. Sir Alan of Titchmarsh's body was never found. I suspect we'll be hearing from him again, but this time I'll be ready.
Keep 'em peeled.
Kats, PI - signing off.
Yes, Dale has been saved from certain death by your very own Kats, PI. (I'm just like Magnum, only I have no tash and better taste in shirts.)
I'm sure you want to know what happened.
As I suspected, the FTFA took the bait (along with the money and pork scratchings) and nicked off with the ransom just after I'd gone home to eat bonbons and watch Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen put up a dado rail clad only in a Noddy posing pouch and purple sparkly nipple clamps. (It's UK TV Style Late - the latest in pay per view tv, in case anyone's interested.)
Well anyway, the homing device (a hole in the money bag and two leaky jumbo sized tubs of Hundreds and Thousands) worked, and soon I was hot on their trail. It led, inexorably, to the park, past the paddling pool, round the bandstand twice and up towards the swings. Shockingly, the trail ended here, and in a fit of grief and rage, I had a bit of a go on the swings. Higher and higher I swung, in a manner befitting the daring young man of flying trapeze fame. All at once, it hit me (the overhanging branch of the tree), and I was forced to cut short my swingy antics. I was momentarily dazed, but then had another flash of inspiration (I'm going to have to stop doing that, it's most unseemly for a lady of my... proportions). This is exactly what the kidnappers had done. No, not the flashing, the swinging thing. I retraced my steps (missing out the branch in the face) and was able to deduce that they'd made for the local biscuit factory (closed down since the custard cream blight of 1953). The building was still standing, though looking the worse for wear (with broken windows, peeling paintwork and some quite shocking graffiti - I know for a fact that Mrs Golightly at No 30 does not show you a good time, she can't even make a decent cup of Nescafe for goodness sake.)
I crept silently towards the side of the factory, where the security fence had been weakened by rust and the application of wire cutters. From there it was an easy task to gain entrance to the building. It was quite terrifying inside, the machines which lay idle all looked like instruments of torture. I may never eat garibaldis again. I heard muffled sounds of arguing coming from the first floor offices, so I crept up there and peeked in through the window. There on the floor, bound and gagged was Dale! He didn't look too happy, though there were no visible signs of injury. There was a side entrance to the office, so I crawled inside, and round to the side of the desk against which Dale had been propped. I removed his gag, probably not the best idea I'd ever had as he let out the campest shriek I've ever heard and whispered (in a voice loud enough to be heard three streets away let alone in the next room) 'Ooooh let's go wild in the aisles!!!'
I tried to shush him, but my powers were weak. Instead I tried reasoning with him.
'My name is Kats, I'm here to rescue you from the FTFA. The police didn't take my report of your kidnapping seriously, so I had to take matters into my own hands'
'Are you mad?' he replied.
'Mad? I'm bloody furious, I'm missing Eastenders for this you know.'
Fortunately this seemed to pacify him, though I think the sedative I had injected him with might have had something to do with it. It was a mixture of camomile, lavender and ground up copies of Hello!, distilled into a tincture which I carry everywhere.
I needed a diversion, so crept back downstairs and turned on the bourbon and jammy dodger machines. With no biscuits to fill, the place was soon knee deep in chocolate flavoured filling and jam. A sticky situation, I'm sure you'll agree. Fortunately I managed to fashion a crude coracle-type boat from one of the large buckets which had previously held the toppings for Iced Gems. I levered Dale into the bucket, grabbed a coat stand to use as an oar and off we set.
Unfortunately, by this time we'd attracted the attention of the kidnappers, who'd removed their balaclavas to reveal that they were none other than Sir Alan of Titchmarsh and Linda Barker. Jealous of the attention that the more orange celebs were getting, they'd embarked on a campaign to rid the world of them, so the whole ransom thing was just a token gesture. Well, after all the work I'd put in, I was pretty narked I can tell you. And Dale was none too pleased either. I drew myself up to my full height of 5'3", fixed Alan with the librarian death stare (level 1), and flicked rubber bands at Linda until she started to cry. Alan was stunned, and toppled over into the huge lake of jam/chocolate flavoured filling that was rapidly filling the ground floor.
Just at that moment, the doors were flung open and the massed ranks of the local constabulary (3 pcs, the desk sergeant and a rather harrassed looking alsatian) were covered in jam, as the sticky ooze.. well... oozed out of the doors. They'd apparently been called by the lady across the street who'd heard some gunshots (she'd forgotten that she was watching Kojak at the time.)
I spent the night in the cells for causing a breach of the peace and causing jam related injury to a policeman. Dale is none the worse for his ordeal, and as a thank you has offered me free seats to his Lottery show. Linda was detained in custardy (sorry, couldn't resist) and is due to appear in court in three weeks time. Sir Alan of Titchmarsh's body was never found. I suspect we'll be hearing from him again, but this time I'll be ready.
Keep 'em peeled.
Kats, PI - signing off.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Yet another update
Tuesday August 24th 2004
I wasn’t sure how I was going to raise the money needed for Dale’s ransom, but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. The subscription to Zoo would be a bit more of a thorny problem, so I just set up an order with the local newsagent. When he asked who it was for, I just said that it should be collected by a hooded freedom fighter, which didn’t seem to cause too many problems. Thankfully, he also had some pork scratchings in stock, so I bought a few of those whilst I was there. Along with the Times Literary Supplement and a red carnation (that’s nothing to do with the story, I’m just trying out a matchmaking service later this week, though I’m not really sure Norman Cheeseman Esq is really the kind of man I’m after).
Anyway, back to the tale at hand. I could only think of one surefire way to make some cash, but I had no-one to hold my bag of change. And besides, I’d been cautioned the last time I’d been hanging around the docks. So, what else would work? All of a sudden, I had a flash of inspiration. (My case comes up next week.) I’d hold a Blue Peter style Bring ‘n’ Buy sale. Marvellous. Of course, it was a bit short notice, but there are plenty of old folks living in the area, and they’re always complaining that there’s not enough to do, apart from harassing the local bus drivers and smelling of wee.
I managed to persuade Mr Hopkiss, the local vicar to open the church hall late, and, with the aid of the churchwarden, I got all the tables set up. Word soon went round and soon we had old folk hurrying towards the sale, as fast as their zimmer frames and electric chariots would carry them. Luckily we had bargains a-plenty, and apart from two ladies fighting over a Damart thermal vest, it all went off fairly peacefully. Fortunately, we managed to raise £523.43, so Dale would be saved!
I sorted out all the cash, wrapped carefully as the note demanded in a Tesco carrier bag. I had the devil’s own job tracking down a Waitrose carrier bag, but as luck would have it, Mrs Jones from No 4 managed to find one that would do. I added a note of my own, informing them that the getaway car would be parked in the green section of the local multi-storey car park, with a sign in the window indicating that it was for the use of local villains. So, as darkness fell over our sleepy suburb, I crept out towards Oddbins. I also secreted a homing device in the folds of the carrier bag (also from my Detective Action Pack), so I’d be able to track the miscreants to their lair. I did wait to see if anyone picked up the ransom, but I had things I needed to do at home, and let’s be honest, time and Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen wait for no-one.
More news as it happens.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to raise the money needed for Dale’s ransom, but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. The subscription to Zoo would be a bit more of a thorny problem, so I just set up an order with the local newsagent. When he asked who it was for, I just said that it should be collected by a hooded freedom fighter, which didn’t seem to cause too many problems. Thankfully, he also had some pork scratchings in stock, so I bought a few of those whilst I was there. Along with the Times Literary Supplement and a red carnation (that’s nothing to do with the story, I’m just trying out a matchmaking service later this week, though I’m not really sure Norman Cheeseman Esq is really the kind of man I’m after).
Anyway, back to the tale at hand. I could only think of one surefire way to make some cash, but I had no-one to hold my bag of change. And besides, I’d been cautioned the last time I’d been hanging around the docks. So, what else would work? All of a sudden, I had a flash of inspiration. (My case comes up next week.) I’d hold a Blue Peter style Bring ‘n’ Buy sale. Marvellous. Of course, it was a bit short notice, but there are plenty of old folks living in the area, and they’re always complaining that there’s not enough to do, apart from harassing the local bus drivers and smelling of wee.
I managed to persuade Mr Hopkiss, the local vicar to open the church hall late, and, with the aid of the churchwarden, I got all the tables set up. Word soon went round and soon we had old folk hurrying towards the sale, as fast as their zimmer frames and electric chariots would carry them. Luckily we had bargains a-plenty, and apart from two ladies fighting over a Damart thermal vest, it all went off fairly peacefully. Fortunately, we managed to raise £523.43, so Dale would be saved!
I sorted out all the cash, wrapped carefully as the note demanded in a Tesco carrier bag. I had the devil’s own job tracking down a Waitrose carrier bag, but as luck would have it, Mrs Jones from No 4 managed to find one that would do. I added a note of my own, informing them that the getaway car would be parked in the green section of the local multi-storey car park, with a sign in the window indicating that it was for the use of local villains. So, as darkness fell over our sleepy suburb, I crept out towards Oddbins. I also secreted a homing device in the folds of the carrier bag (also from my Detective Action Pack), so I’d be able to track the miscreants to their lair. I did wait to see if anyone picked up the ransom, but I had things I needed to do at home, and let’s be honest, time and Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen wait for no-one.
More news as it happens.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Another update
Monday 23rd August 2004
Over the weekend, I decided it would be a good idea to stake out the paddling pool at the park, where the original ransom note was left. My main problem was choosing a suitable disguise. The first one I tried was that of a small hedge. However, it proved to be wholly uncomfortable, not least because four dogs decided that I was handy for use as a toilet, and the kids playing football were using my left edge as a goalpost and got rather irritated when I kept moving.
I then decided that I'd pretend to be a groundskeeper, so borrowed a rake and some shears from the man downstairs (well, he's not likely to be using them any time in the near future, given that the garden looks like the training ground for the Viet Cong) and headed out to rake and snip for all I was worth. Sadly, I managed to prune one lady's best Sunday hat, and nearly chopped off my own fingers.
So, third time lucky, I decided that I would be the ice-cream seller. If it was hot, I'd make a little money on the side, if not, at least I'd be indoors. So, anyway, there I was selling Strawberry Mivvi's like they were going out of fashion, when suddenly, there was a rustling from the bushes, and out stepped Sir Alan of Titchmarsh, brandishing another note-wrapped brick.
There was no time to lose, so I created a diversion by shouting 'The Mini Milks are on me!' In the ensuing rush, I managed to slip out the side entrance of the van, and was rushing headlong towards the pool. Unfortunately, in my haste I failed to notice the banana skin lying in my path. I slipped, flew gracefully through the air almost as if I'd been shot from a cannon, and landed in an ungainly heap in the middle of the paddling pool (fortunately, the water broke my fall). In the ensuing melee, during which I was cautioned by the police for causing a breach of the peace and being a danger to life and limb, Alan made his escape. However, no-one noticed the brick and note, which I was able to secrete about my person, before limping home.
Again, the same knot was used, as was the same rather interesting combination of words and pictures. This time their message was a little more sinister. 'Place the ransom money in a Tesco carrier bag, wrapped inside a Waitrose bag and leave it next to the bins outside Oddbins, no later than next Wednesday. If you do not do this, we will be forced to slay Mr Winton, in a most despicable manner. You have been warned.'
Still very polite, but with an undertone of steely menace that would indicate they're not people to be trifled with. I still need to do more detecting, I'll let you know what transpires.
Over the weekend, I decided it would be a good idea to stake out the paddling pool at the park, where the original ransom note was left. My main problem was choosing a suitable disguise. The first one I tried was that of a small hedge. However, it proved to be wholly uncomfortable, not least because four dogs decided that I was handy for use as a toilet, and the kids playing football were using my left edge as a goalpost and got rather irritated when I kept moving.
I then decided that I'd pretend to be a groundskeeper, so borrowed a rake and some shears from the man downstairs (well, he's not likely to be using them any time in the near future, given that the garden looks like the training ground for the Viet Cong) and headed out to rake and snip for all I was worth. Sadly, I managed to prune one lady's best Sunday hat, and nearly chopped off my own fingers.
So, third time lucky, I decided that I would be the ice-cream seller. If it was hot, I'd make a little money on the side, if not, at least I'd be indoors. So, anyway, there I was selling Strawberry Mivvi's like they were going out of fashion, when suddenly, there was a rustling from the bushes, and out stepped Sir Alan of Titchmarsh, brandishing another note-wrapped brick.
There was no time to lose, so I created a diversion by shouting 'The Mini Milks are on me!' In the ensuing rush, I managed to slip out the side entrance of the van, and was rushing headlong towards the pool. Unfortunately, in my haste I failed to notice the banana skin lying in my path. I slipped, flew gracefully through the air almost as if I'd been shot from a cannon, and landed in an ungainly heap in the middle of the paddling pool (fortunately, the water broke my fall). In the ensuing melee, during which I was cautioned by the police for causing a breach of the peace and being a danger to life and limb, Alan made his escape. However, no-one noticed the brick and note, which I was able to secrete about my person, before limping home.
Again, the same knot was used, as was the same rather interesting combination of words and pictures. This time their message was a little more sinister. 'Place the ransom money in a Tesco carrier bag, wrapped inside a Waitrose bag and leave it next to the bins outside Oddbins, no later than next Wednesday. If you do not do this, we will be forced to slay Mr Winton, in a most despicable manner. You have been warned.'
Still very polite, but with an undertone of steely menace that would indicate they're not people to be trifled with. I still need to do more detecting, I'll let you know what transpires.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Another bit!
Friday August 20th 2004
I'm sure you're all simply dying to know what I found out about the kidnapping of a certain Mr Winton yesterday.
Well, once I got home last night, I opened my Detective Action pack, placed the deerstalker hat on my heed, placed the 'Kojak' lolly in my gob and set to work. I grabbed the magnifying glass, the mini notebook and pen and my fake ids, and off I went. Firstly, I scoured the road junction where the 'incident had occurred' (they tell you all the technical language you need in the handy guidebook that comes with the pack). Apart from some tyre marks, which only indicated that it was a front wheel drive vehicle, was manufactured in the late 90s, was driven by a heavy-set man with rather bad dandruff and that they'd paid little heed to the Highway code, it didn't really tell me much. I tried some door to door enquiries, but after three hours of saying 'No, I'm not selling encyclopaedias, I'm trying to solve a crime', I gave up.
However, just when I was about to turn for home, I noticed a trail of blue smarties, leading across the road into the local park. I followed it for a while, and it led to the children's paddling pool, in the middle of which a note was left tied to a brick. Fortunately there was no water in the pool, as I'd completely forgotten to bring my galoshes, and my suede effect brothel creepers don't react well to getting wet.
Anyway, I retrieved the brick, untied the note (noticing as I did that they'd used a clove hitch knot, with a double salco - ice skating sailors perhaps were involved?)
The note was one of those classic ransom notes, with letters cut from magazines to make up the words. I think it was either Playboy or Gynaecologist's Weekly that they'd used as there were some rather interesting images to accompany the letters, but I digress. It read: If you want to see Winton alive again, we want five hundred pounds, a getaway car and a subscription to Zoo. Oh, and some pork scratchings. We will leave another note telling you where to leave the money. Thank you.
Very polite for kidnappers, but still no clue as to who they are. I'll keep investigating.
I'm sure you're all simply dying to know what I found out about the kidnapping of a certain Mr Winton yesterday.
Well, once I got home last night, I opened my Detective Action pack, placed the deerstalker hat on my heed, placed the 'Kojak' lolly in my gob and set to work. I grabbed the magnifying glass, the mini notebook and pen and my fake ids, and off I went. Firstly, I scoured the road junction where the 'incident had occurred' (they tell you all the technical language you need in the handy guidebook that comes with the pack). Apart from some tyre marks, which only indicated that it was a front wheel drive vehicle, was manufactured in the late 90s, was driven by a heavy-set man with rather bad dandruff and that they'd paid little heed to the Highway code, it didn't really tell me much. I tried some door to door enquiries, but after three hours of saying 'No, I'm not selling encyclopaedias, I'm trying to solve a crime', I gave up.
However, just when I was about to turn for home, I noticed a trail of blue smarties, leading across the road into the local park. I followed it for a while, and it led to the children's paddling pool, in the middle of which a note was left tied to a brick. Fortunately there was no water in the pool, as I'd completely forgotten to bring my galoshes, and my suede effect brothel creepers don't react well to getting wet.
Anyway, I retrieved the brick, untied the note (noticing as I did that they'd used a clove hitch knot, with a double salco - ice skating sailors perhaps were involved?)
The note was one of those classic ransom notes, with letters cut from magazines to make up the words. I think it was either Playboy or Gynaecologist's Weekly that they'd used as there were some rather interesting images to accompany the letters, but I digress. It read: If you want to see Winton alive again, we want five hundred pounds, a getaway car and a subscription to Zoo. Oh, and some pork scratchings. We will leave another note telling you where to leave the money. Thank you.
Very polite for kidnappers, but still no clue as to who they are. I'll keep investigating.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
The very first bit...
A tiny bit of background to start with.
Kats PI came about as the result of a throwaway comment on a discussion forum. Being the person I am, I couldn't fail to take up the challenge of making the 'Good Morning' Thread just that little bit more interesting. Here's what happened the first day.
The case of the Dale Winton kidnapping
Thursday August 19th 2004
stumbles into the morning thread ridiculously late, with blouse all skew whiff and hair looking like it's been dragged through a hedge backwards...
Good lord, am I late? You just would not believe what happened to me on the way in.
Firstly, I witnessed the kidnapping of Dale Winton by the Fake Tan Freedom Association. Naturally, I rushed to the local police station to report it as soon as I'd recovered from the shock (with the aid of several large brandies and the assistance of Sven from downstairs.)
The police seemed to think I had something to do with it, and tried the third degree on me. Fortunately I knew all the words to 'When Will I See You Again' so they were out of luck there. They tried to rough me up, but I was far too rough for them, and used several words which made even the sergeant blush (and he used to be a docker!)
Anyway, they were just about to take me to the cells when I made a break for it, and had to run through the woods to escape them. They had the tracker dogs and everything, but I managed to throw them off the scent by laying a false trail of Impulse Body Spray.
Then all I had to do was get the bus and get to work. I think I'll go and have a lie down now.
Kats PI came about as the result of a throwaway comment on a discussion forum. Being the person I am, I couldn't fail to take up the challenge of making the 'Good Morning' Thread just that little bit more interesting. Here's what happened the first day.
The case of the Dale Winton kidnapping
Thursday August 19th 2004
stumbles into the morning thread ridiculously late, with blouse all skew whiff and hair looking like it's been dragged through a hedge backwards...
Good lord, am I late? You just would not believe what happened to me on the way in.
Firstly, I witnessed the kidnapping of Dale Winton by the Fake Tan Freedom Association. Naturally, I rushed to the local police station to report it as soon as I'd recovered from the shock (with the aid of several large brandies and the assistance of Sven from downstairs.)
The police seemed to think I had something to do with it, and tried the third degree on me. Fortunately I knew all the words to 'When Will I See You Again' so they were out of luck there. They tried to rough me up, but I was far too rough for them, and used several words which made even the sergeant blush (and he used to be a docker!)
Anyway, they were just about to take me to the cells when I made a break for it, and had to run through the woods to escape them. They had the tracker dogs and everything, but I managed to throw them off the scent by laying a false trail of Impulse Body Spray.
Then all I had to do was get the bus and get to work. I think I'll go and have a lie down now.
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