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
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