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.