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.