“Up the stairs, first on the left” said the helpful
stranger with the face of a Persian prince and the voice of a Cockney barrow boy. The carefully constructed blonde in Prada heels smiled thanks and sashayed
up the narrow staircase, fully aware of the impact on those watching.
In the gloom behind unwashed windows obscured by
towers of box files, an equally unwashed man took a furtive swig from the coke
bottle in the nearest one and summoned his best Sussex Downs accent to bid the
shadow at the door enter.
In walked a vision of statuesque but studied femininity.
Arched brows, a slash of red lipstick, eyes that kept you guessing - and the merest hint
of an Adam’s apple.
(‘When’s a dame not a dame?’ the PI thought in his
best Raymond Chandler inner narrative.)
“Aloysius Lark at your service, dear lady. You can
call me Al. How may I help you?”
“I’ve come up from Brighton,” came the husky reply.
(‘Figures.’)
“My name’s Bambi Fancipants and I manage The Wayward
Strumpets drag and burlesque troupe. Maybe you know them?”
The PI grunted and shifted uncomfortably is his swivel
seat.
The cool blonde’s composure suddenly melted as she
gushed: “Help me, Mr Lark. You’re my only hope! Madrigal’s being held to ransom.”
Madrigal was her ancient one-eyed tomcat. Sounded like
a thoroughly vile creature to Lark, but Fancipants seemed distraught at the
thought of anything hurting a hair on his scabby tabby head. Days after Madrigal
stopped turning up at her seafront villa for his morning kedgeree, she’d
received a ransom note from Hamish McFarb, her silent partner in the Wayward
Strumpets business and owner of Bundlewood Fun Fur Factory. His demand? Complete
control of the Strumpets’ assets – or the cat would become mittens.
“I’m a wealthy
woman and there’s nothing I won’t do to have Madrigal safely back where he
belongs – except surrender the Strumpets to that beast McFarb! He’s
gone to ground and I need someone local to ferret the weasel out."
She paused, before continuing coyly: "And let’s face it, no-one’s going to believe I’m a simple check-out girl at the Tesco superstore, are they?”
She paused, before continuing coyly: "And let’s face it, no-one’s going to believe I’m a simple check-out girl at the Tesco superstore, are they?”
After giving Lark her details, a
description of the mangy Madrigal and the last known whereabouts of McFarb,
Fancipants turned on her exquisite heels and left, leaving the PI intrigued,
but faintly miffed.
Final demands spilling onto the
floor witnessed the fact that he needed the cash. But this was no
run-of-the-mill ‘Toy Boy does a runner’ or ‘Mrs Goggins loses her dentures’ case.
It would take real leg work – and that meant he’d have to leave his second-storey
office, venture downstairs and hit the mean streets of Sussex.
First, though, there was no harm
in a little Googling to gird his loins for the task ahead. Nothing could have prepared
him for what the results revealed…
The Sussex Sentinel – 27 July
2009:
Freak ice boulder kills movie star and spinster
Hollywood and a Sussex village are reeling after a freak accident claimed the lives of one of Tinsel Town’s hottest properties and the local librarian.
Hollywood and a Sussex village are reeling after a freak accident claimed the lives of one of Tinsel Town’s hottest properties and the local librarian.
Rick Rivers and Bambi Fancipants died instantly
when a 500lb block of ice and frozen waste plummeted onto the stage at the
Holthorne-by-Sea fete, where Rivers was presenting prizes in the cooking competition.
Investigators believe it had formed as a result of a faulty valve on the toilet
of a plane that took off from Gatwick Airport 20 minutes earlier. The frozen
sphere is thought to have fallen off just before the aircraft crossed the
English coast.
Rivers is best remembered for his impromptu
performance of “The Lumberjack Song”
when accepting the Oscar for his supporting role in “Mounting Miss Maisy” this year. Born Dickie Pond in
Holthorne-on-Sea, he had returned to the village to conduct research for a
documentary about his rise to fame – and to open the annual fete.
His agent Barbra Heinschleck said: “Since Rick
arrived in LA, he had turned our world upside-down with his cute English accent
and penchant for playing bad guys. The tragedy is that he was poised for
greatness – both professionally and personally. Not only had he been on the
verge of signing for a major new movie deal, we were about to announce our
engagement.”
From Holthorne-by-Sea the Rev. Obidiah Digby,
vicar of parish church St. Mary’s-On-The-Side, said the community was struggling
to come to terms with the tragedy.
“Naturally, we’re deeply saddened by the death
of little Dickie Pond – I mean, Mr. Rivers,” he said. “But the greatest blow is
the loss of Miss Fancipants - she represented everything great about rural
English life. The very soul of discretion, she was always eager to serve in any
way she could.”
Neither Rivers nor Fancipants left any family.
However, a Last Will and Testament found in the spinster’s cottage bequeaths
her collection of Anne Summers memorabilia to the Brighton Home for Wayward
Strumpets and expressed the desire that her cottage be converted into a new 20th
Century Erotica wing of the county library.
Well! The dame in his office a while ago sure hadn’t seemed
dead, but it seems she’d wanted it to look that way five years ago.
Al couldn’t help thinking that a simple name change
might have made the ruse rather more effective.
He sighed heavily, laced up his boots and lumbered
down the dingy staircase to street level. That’s where he had to be to track
down the fiendish McFarb – he was sure his contacts wouldn’t let him down.
He was wrong.
Neither the knots of teenage gangstas defacing
the town’s walls, the friendly landlords, the not-so-friendly betting shop
managers, or the philosopher tramp who held court in the bandstand knew a thing.
Or if they did, they weren’t talking.
He even approached the sweet-faced lady in a pink
hijab greeting indifferent Waitrose shoppers with a hopeful smile and “Wiggy Shoe?” as she tried to sell them copies of ‘The Big Issue’. Nothing.
Then, inspiration stuck. He shuffled into the saloon
bar of ‘The Poisoned Pen’ where he found old Harry, business correspondent of
the local rag, propping up the bar like one of the historic pub’s ancient beams.
“McFarb, old chap?” chirruped the hack after Lark told
him who he was trying to find. “Piece of cake! I was at a junket at his place
just last week. Launched a new line of pet warmers - dreadful idea. Probably
make him a fortune. Quite an arse really, but the man knows his single malt.”
In vino veritas, indeed...
...Two hours later, buoyed with renewed hope and a
skinful of Dewars, Lark hailed a taxi and headed for Clayfield Flats, the
not-so-secret hide-out of the plush goods magnate.
An eerie silence descended over the damp landscape as
the cab sped away and the PI started tramping up the muddy private lane towards the
sprawling mock-Tudor monstrosity. Rooks cawed a creaky welcome and something
rustled in the hedgerow.
The house seemed deserted. No hum of TV or radio
betrayed a presence within, nor did any lights brighten the inner gloom. But a
sound from the rear alerted Lark’s attention. An insistent, mechanical tak, tak, tak, tak accompanied by a
scent of scorched metal that grew stronger as he skirted the sodden lawn and headed
for the back door. Unlocked, it opened easily to reveal an artfully
reconstructed ‘olde worlde’ kitchen
packed with 21st century stainless steel and halogen hobs. An
old-fashioned kettle was rocking on the hotplate as the heat warped its faux copper
base.
A flight of worn steps led down to the basement scullery,
from where what sounded like a miniature pneumatic drill could be heard. Lark
descended the stairs and peered into the darkness at the bottom. The steady,
defiant gaze of a single gold-green eye staring out of the face of the biggest
cat he’d ever seen floated out to greet him.
Of course. The famous Madrigal.
“Well, that was easier than I expected,” said Lark out loud as he bent down to scoop up the feline.
He jumped back abruptly as a sharp-clawed paw swiped at him, threatening to sever something vital. Only then did he spot what the animal was sitting on. The lifeless chest of a moon-faced man with a 1970s porn star moustache and a tartan tie. There was a sticky pool of half-dried fluid on the far side of his face that was turned away from the dim light.
Madrigal was idly playing pat-a-cake with a round
glutinous object. A small trail of slime and blood showed the progress of the
cat’s plaything from its original owner’s eye socket.
Aloysius Lark screamed.
Once the shock of realisation passed, he took out his
last century cellphone and dialled his client’s number. “Miss Fancipants, I
don’t think McFarb is going to be troubling you anymore.”
