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…
Thursday, September 29, 2005
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.
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