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Late August evening, Christmas Day,
Boxing Day morning
A beautiful early evening in late August, the sort of evening that
middle-aged people think that every evening in late August was like when they
were young, only usually of course they weren’t. Mind you, those same people
looking at photos of themselves taken during those misremembered beautiful
evenings in late August always seem to remark that somehow or other they
miraculously look slimmer, chicer and altogether more attractive than they felt
themselves to be when the photos were taken. This only goes to prove that
either most middle-aged people need to visit an optician as a matter of some
urgency or they missed an awful lot of opportunities when they were younger.
Situated in a picturesque small river valley surrounded by gently rolling
heavily-wooded hills and built in the 1950’s complete with thatched roof,
authentic oak-type beams and a tourist-tempting history that was total bollocks
but nethertheless highly imaginative and vaguely entertaining, the old
Cornishire smugglers pub ‘The Cocked Pistol’ boasted a family-friendly garden.
A slightly rotund, pixie-like figure five and a half feet tall, un-
athletically built with a bald pate and a one inch wide band of curly hair
running around his head starting from his ears and meeting at the back, was
sitting on a quaint but uncomfortable and guano-encrusted wooden bench. Taking
a reflective sip of his pint of the acclaimed local bitter, Fetid Old Socks,
Detective Chief Inspector Leon Karno, inevitably ‘Fred’ to his schoolmates and
contempories, was looking at just such a photo, taken on just such an evening.
‘Guv’ to those detectives who worked under his somewhat quixotic direction in
the Cornishire CID and ‘bastard’ to a fairly impressive number of local and not
so local villains in Cornishire, he saw that the photo revealed a much younger
but still recognisable version of himself and a friend, William Hiscock, whose
cremation he had just attended. He and ‘Wild Bill’ had been quite the local
lotharios, able to out drink all of their contempories and still stand up after
six (usually claimed to be sixteen) pints of the local cider known as scrumpy.
They had the best chat-up lines most of which Karno fondly remembered as
starting with a cheerful ‘ello my luvver’. He also remembered that usually the
hoped-for romantic encounters ended with the friendly riposte of ‘my friend
says why don’t you fuck off and stop bothering her!’ Encouraged by this early
success with the opposite sex which he put down to his manly physique and air
of latent authority, Karno had got a haircut and graduated from the police
training college at Hendon, eventually to become a Detective Constable in the
CID. Wild Bill graduated from the local scrumpy and eventually became a fully-fledged
alkie and professional ‘gentleman of the road’. They had kept in irregular
touch, meeting whenever Karno’s beat took him past whatever hedge Wild Bill was
currently residing in. Middle age found the two old pals respectively a DCI and
a DOA, Wild Bill having been found genteely decomposing under a chic hedge in a
more upmarket part of Cornishire, clutching a half-empty bottle of non-vintage
Chateau Methalaite, the preferred tipple of his later years. Karno’s
professional suspicions had been mildly raised by this because he thought it
unlikely that the Wild Bill he knew would voluntarily leave a half-full bottle.
Doc Carver, the duty police surgeon, had said that he didn’t have much choice
in the matter due to a massive heart attack. Karno had to concede that that
would in all probability prevent Wild Bill from finishing the bottle, and had
been the sole attendee at his send off. A sudden, harsh roaring sound from
above interrupted his reflections on the strange twists and turns that life
could take, and he looked skywards. Drifting over the top of the tree line, a
lurid blue hot air balloons’ propane burner had been switched on and the
contraption rose rapidly and gracefully into the calm evening air. Karno was
just thinking that Wild Bill’s last few seconds of bodily existence must have
been accompanied by much the same sound and that it was all right for some,
swanning around in balloons on a summers evening, when there was a bright
flash, an explosion and a flaming fiery plunge towards the tree-clad sweet-scented
hill on the other side of the river. Just before the impact there was a further
explosion and the balloon, a now unrecognisable ball of fire, settled onto the
sweet-scented, attractively colourful and picturesque hillside and set it
alight in a colourful and picturesque way. Pausing only to think ‘fuck me’ and
then ‘fuck it’ when he realised that there was no mobile phone signal Karno
rushed into the pub to find that young Everard the barman was already calling
the fire brigade. Unable to think of anything else that he might usefully do he
ambled back out to the garden to find that some bugger had quaintly finished
-off his beer.
Earlier that same evening Denzil Kliskey, owner and sole pilot of The
Flaming Great Balloon Company, had welcomed his latest punters to the field
known locally as Bigton International Airport, adjacent to his rambling manor
house. Demelza (nee Mutton) and Julyan Lamb, self-proclaimed local dignitaries
and scrap metal merchants, had decided to celebrate ten years of happy marriage
in style and so for their thirtieth anniversary succumbed to Denzil’s marketing
hype and booked an evenings flight and supper on the St Louis, the large blue
balloon currently sitting half-inflated at Bigton International. Denzil’s
original marketing ploy had been ‘look down on those you despise and drop
chicken bones on them’ but the Civil Aviation Authority (CAA or ‘Campaign
Against Aviation’ as it was sometimes referred to) had objected pointing out
that it was illegal to drop chicken bones or indeed anything else from a
balloon. Having generated a lot of local press comment, not to say several
‘Incensed and Outraged of Bigton’ letters to the Cornishshire Clarion, Denzil
now marketed his balloon experience flights with the slogan ‘look down on those
beneath you’ and honour was satisfied all-round. Mind you, he hadn’t hit upon
this snappy advertising slogan immediately, no siree bob. His first
alternative, ‘enjoy a scenic flight and piss on the buggers below’, had also
attracted much comment, a reminder from the CAA that this could also be
construed as dropping something from a balloon and an unamused letter from the
County Council’s environmental health officer. Other options he considered but
eventually rejected included “Why not pop round for a balloon flight?’ and
somewhat prophetically ‘Wanna burn up in my balloon?’
Provisions on the supper flights consisted of cold roast chicken, potato
salad, coleslaw, pâté de fois grás, a brace of baguettes, locally produced blue
cheese, biscuits and the obligatory bottle of bubbly. Another advertising
slogan that briefly saw the light of day was ‘pop your cork on an evening
flight’ but after one particularly memorable occasion, due to a slight
misunderstanding as to what the slogan actually referred to Denzil had changed
it to save his further blushes. Be that as it may, not realising that this was
their usual evening out attire, Denzil was pleased to see that the Lamb’s had
apparently entered into the spirit of things, dressing in Edwardian clothing
for the flight. He took pleasure in informing them that the odd chicken bone
lobbed over the side of the basket would probably go unremarked by those below
but was immensely satisfying nethertheless. Once all three were safely
ensconced in the wicker basket, Scrotum the faithful old Kliskey family
retainer manhandled the groaning picnic hamper up after them, it’s groans only
being matched by his own groaning comments about his lumbago. Playfully
smacking him around the head to ‘take your mind off your lumbago you malingering
old sod’, Denzil told him to follow the flight in the support vehicle and
instructed him to keep young Jethro off the scrumpy until after they’d deflated
the balloon and put it onto the trailer. With that, he fired the propane burner
and inflated the balloon, which obligingly rose to the height of its tethering
ropes and bobbed uncertainly in the calm evening air. Judging his moment
carefully, he shouted to Scrotum and Jethro to release the tethering ropes,
dropped a bag of sand ballast on them which always amused the punters and the
St Louis rose majestically into the evening sky to go wherever the wind blew
it.
“I’ve got a special surprise for you” he told the entranced couple.
Six months later, Detective Chief Inspector Fred Karno was looking
forward to his Christmas lunch with considerably pleasure. Having received a
seasons greetings card from his ex-wife expressing the sentiment that she was
bloody glad he wasn’t there (a condominium in Florida) and that the kids didn’t
miss him much either, he’d decided to cheer himself up and push the boat out
for Christmas lunch and the hell with the expense. Weighing-up the exotic and
traditional options offered by the local food emporium and jealous of his
departmental-wide reputation for culinary expertise, he’d gone the adventurous,
non-traditional route and plumped for a curried Cornishire pasty (Madras)
served with slightly al dente oven chips and marginally burnt baked beans. To
finish he’d decided on a spectacular microwave pudding and proposed to wash it
all down with a couple of bottles of vintage scrumpy. Having just finished
resetting the house’s electric circuit breakers after spectacularly forgetting
to remove the pudding from its foil container, he sat down and was about to
open the first bottle of scrumpy when the phone rang.
“That you Karno?” The voice of Assistant Chief Constable (should have
been Chief Constable but the force is still sexist and if I’d have been a man
the perfectly-understandable shooting of the seven Japanese tourists who had
been mistaken for a North Korean terrorist cell hell-bent on photographing to
death the local flower show would have overlooked) Miniver Vanne demanded.
Karno carefully considered his options. He could simply deny it claiming
a wrong number; he could admit to it on the admittedly unlikely off chance that
his boss was ringing to wish him a ‘Happy Christmas’ and claim to be pissed if
it turned out that she actually hadn’t rung for that reason or he could remain
non-committal until he found out exactly what it was she wanted. He opted for
the non-committal approach and decided to use the local patois (not to be
confused with the local pâté).
“Err….” He began.
“Right; there’s been a terrorist attack in Letsbe Avenue, get down there
before Special Branch grab all the glory.” So much for the non-committal
approach then; he looked ruefully at his rapidly cooling gourmet lunch. Well
OK, he looked ruefully at the two bottles of vintage scrumpy that were
seductively sighing ‘drink me, drink me’ and regarded the pasty with a
speculative air. There is an art to eating a pasty generously smothered in
mango and lime chutney whilst driving at high speed and Karno had never yet
mastered it but always speculated that one day he might. Who was to say, today
might be that day?
“What’s the address?”
“Letsbe Avenue. I think you’ll find that it’ll probably be the house with
the fire engine outside and the gnomes in the front garden tastefully decorated
with various body-bits. You’d better get the rest of your circus on the job as
well. I want a preliminary report by tonight.” The phone was forcefully put
down, which coincidentally mirrored Karno’s thoughts on what the future ought
to hold for Assistant Chief Constable Miniver Vanne.
Muttering irritably to himself, he gathered up the rapidly cooling pasty,
wrapped it in a sheet of paper kitchen towel and headed for his front door.
During the drive to Letsbe Avenue he proved conclusively to himself that today
wasn’t to be the day that he mastered the pasty eating whilst driving at high
-speed technique and he pulled up to a screeching, colourfully-stained-trouser
halt outside number seventeen. Throwing open the car door he narrowly failed to
catch it with his hand on its abrupt return but luckily managed to insert his
right knee between the rapidly- returning dented door and the undented car body
when it bounced off the unfortunately placed lamppost. He hobbled along the
pavement to number twenty-one, where a group of firemen were admiring the
interestingly decorated front garden.
“Hello Freddy Boy; dragged you out as well have they?”
“Yeah. Still never mind, I’ve recorded the Queen’s speech so I won’t miss
anything important. What happened?”
Divisional Officer Cotton Levi removed his helmet and scratched his
close-cropped grey hair with a suspiciously stained fingernail.
“Err, don’t quote me on this but some sort of bomb, I reckon.”
“Err right. Couldn’t have been something they ate, I suppose?”
Levi turned to look at him, glanced at his interestingly stained trousers
and speculated on the probability of Karno’s suggestion.
“Err could have been; tricky thing, eating. All sorts of unexpected
things can happen when you least expect it, particularly if you’re a bit off
with your aim like.”
“But you’d put your money on it being a bomb?”
“Err right; most likely. I might be wrong of course and I wouldn’t want
to commit myself at this early stage in the investigation you understand.
However, my first impression, taking all things into consideration, is it’s
probably a bomb. The fact that the three people in the room were blown to bits
and the fact that remains of the dining room wall have been found on the other
side of the road, well I just thought it was more suggestive of a bomb than
some sort of digestive malfunction.”
“Hmmm; well I can follow your reasoning; still, let’s not jump to
conclusions eh? Soco here?”
“Inside, along with Special Branch.”
“Bloody hell, they were a bit quick off the mark weren’t they?”
“Yes and no.”
“How so?”
“Special Branch lives directly opposite and a gnome which had been hit by
a bit of blasted masonry got launched through his dining-room window and landed
in his soup. Made a right mess of his shirt, maybe you could buy it off of him,
it would go lovely with your trousers.”
“Err yeah, well I’ll bear that in mind, thanks Cotton.”
With that, Karno wandered inside through the remains of the wall and
sought out Special Branch.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Go on, clear off out of
it, bloody tourist!” The speaker was a tall man with short brown hair and a
colourful shirt that would have invited approving comments at a Caribbean
Carnival. Karno turned to face him and was recognised although he didn’t recall
having seen the man before.
“Oh sorry, didn’t recognise you from the back. We haven’t met,” he held
out his hand,” Trees, Jonathan Trees, Special Branch. Just been transferred
down here, thought I’d escaped all this sort of thing.”
Karno took the proffered hand whilst eying up the man’s shirt. “Karno.
Pity, wrong size it might have gone quite well.”
“What?”
“Sorry, just thinking out loud. What have we got here?”
“Looks like a bomb.”
“A bomb? In Paignmouth? Bit of a turn up for the books that. The DO said
there were three people in here?”
“Yup. Dad and two kids, Mum was in the kitchen.”
“Ah, that would account for it then.”
“Account for what?”
“The fact that everybody seems to know there were three people in here.
You officially investigating?”
“If it is a bomb then I think that falls into SB’s province, don’t you?”
“If it’s a bomb then maybe. On the other hand why don’t we pretend for
just a minute that it doesn’t and you tell me, thinking of yourself as an eye
witness like, what it was you saw.”
“More of an ear witnesses really Karno. Bloody great bang and then a
gnome landed in my soup. I can give you a description if you like?”
“The soup?”
“I was thinking more of the gnome, but since you asked carrot and
potato.”
“The gnome?”
“The soup.”
“Ah; no doubt tasty as well as very fetching, my compliments to the chef.
Who were the deceased?”
“Now there you have me, only moved in two days ago.”
“Right, right. Still, surprised that Special Branch wouldn’t have checked
out their new neighbours?”
“The local boys gave me the OK.”
“Of course. Bit causal though; I mean if the bomber had taken the same
approach, well he might have blown up the wrong house. Didn’t upset anybody in
your last place did you by any chance?”
Trees shook his head. “Barking up the wrong tree.” He said.
“Oh very good; yes I like that, barking up the wrong tree, very droll.
Well, if you’re not here officially maybe you’d like to get back to your lunch
and I’ll get on here. Don’t let me keep you.” Karno half turned away and caught
the eye of a uniformed sergeant.
“Endean, isn’t it?”
“Err yes sir.”
“Well what have we here sergeant?”
“Err parts of the Kory family sir, Henry Icarus Kory, or at least what
remains of him, son Damien and daughter Demelza. The missus, Maria, is next
door lying down; she was in the kitchen when the explosion occurred. Lucky for
her.”
“Convenient at any rate. Right well I’d better let Soco get on with their
job and I’ll limp round next door and talk to the widow Kory. If anybody wants
me, you know where I am. Which side?”
“Err, number twenty three; the one on the left as you stand on the
pavement looking towards the houses.”
“Thank you sergeant; I expect the number on the door would have given me
a clue but you’ve help preserve what’s left of my eyesight. Wouldn’t want to go
and use it all up before I retire, now would I?” He limped off.
The following morning saw the rest of the circus, displaying various
degrees of enthusiasm and alertness, assembled in Karno’s office.
“Right Boys and Girl, what we have here are three dead members of the
Kory family. Henry Icarus Kory, a classic car restorer who won’t be celebrating
his forty seventh birthday next week, daughter Demelza Imelda Kory aged
seventeen and a bit and Damien Oscar Kory aged fourteen and three quarters.
Over here, we have Maria Una Kory nee Trebartha. The more astute amongst you
may have noticed that her picture is where we usually have pictures of any
suspects and may possibly be asking yourselves why that is.”
Detective Constable Gordon Fetcher, newly arrived circus member who had
immediately acquired the nickname of ‘Go’ and hadn’t yet worked out why,
stirred himself.
“Err yeah, Guv. I was wondering why Ma Kory’s picture was where we
usually……..”
“Thank you DC Fetcher. Glad to see that you’re on the ball. She’s a
suspect because very conveniently she was in the kitchen getting a corkscrew
when whatever it was that blew up the rest of her family went off.”
Detective Inspector Rosetta Stone, the highly computer literate but
somewhat anally retentive geek of the circus raised an elegantly manicured
finger.
“Convenient Guv? Lucky certainly but convenient?”
“Convenient. See whilst you lot were enjoying your lunch yesterday I
spoke to Madame Kory and had a poke around the house. In the kitchen, I found
four bottles of Chateau Le Boot in a cardboard case. Two bottles were missing
from the case…”
“Six in a case Guv.”
“You astound me Fetcher; I step back in sheer amazement; how did you work
that out?”
“Err well see……”
“It was a rhetorical question. What do you think happened to the other
two bottles? That’s an actual question by the way.”
“Err; drunk I suppose.”
“Drunk or on the dining-room table ready to be drunk with the Christmas
lunch. Yes well done Fetcher. Now I can’t say that Chateau Le Boot is a
particular favourite of mine, a bit rubbery on the tongue and the bouquet is
always a little overwhelming in my opinion, but the thing is that Madame Kory,
according to her, went into the kitchen to get a corkscrew…..”
“Seems a natural sort of thing to do Guv.” Commented Detective Sergeant
Henry (Preppie) Pyle.
“Yes indeed, it would be except for one thing. Chateau Le Boot, fine wine
that it undoubtably is, comes in convenient, no corkscrew required screw top
bottles. Now if this was a new wine to maison Kory then I wouldn’t have thought
anything of it, but according to Madame Kory it was a family favourite; one
they would always drink and not just on special occasions like a successful
business deal, some sporting feat of the boy, listening to a favourite radio
program or Christmas lunch.”
“So she would have known that it had a screw top.”
“Indeed she would.”
“Brilliant! Cracked it Guv. What’s the next case?”
“What’s next DC Gundry is we wait for forensics to tell us exactly what
it was that went off. In the meantime, the widow Kory is a suspect and we need
to find out what she had to gain by murdering her entire family. Rosie, I want
you to see if you can turn up any recent insurance policies taken out, or even
not so recent come to that. Old hat, bloody obvious I know but nethertheless
that’s what I want you to do. Gundry, Fetcher; talk to the neighbours. Any
whispers of La Kory, or Herr Kory come to that, playing away from home; any
angry words between them, any crying on somebody’s shoulder for sympathy, you
know the sort of thing but be discreet though. Pyle, you and I are going to
take a gander at Herr Kory’s car restoration business. I can’t imagine why
anybody would want to kill a car restorer, but just in case, we’d better take a
look at it. Actually, bearing in mind my one foray into the world of restored
cars I can imagine why somebody might want to kill a car restorer. Right; back
here for tea and crumpets at four and let’s see if we or forensics have come up
with anything interesting.”
Got lots of potential but keep your day job.
ReplyDeleteAlas too late Harry, I gave up the day job four years ago! Still, I'll take that as a positive assessment, thanks for your comment.
ReplyDeleteLike the humour, and there aren't too many typos (mainly hyphens and apostrophes, and 'pâté de fois grás' should be 'pâté de foie gras'). If I'd read this as a sample on Amazon I'd be tempted to buy (if the price was right), and not just to help out a friend.
ReplyDeleteEncouraging, again thanks for taking the time to post. Careful though, a chap might think you were 'volunteering' to proof-read.
ReplyDeleteHi Pete, what do I know but...
ReplyDeleteIf this is really one chapter, for me, there is far too much in it. You lost my attention about three quarters of the way through it. I think for a humorous book, short chapters are good. The humour is good but sometimes there a bit too much of it - e.g.some of the characters names are a bit OTT. I think some of the sentences are a bit long too. But that's just my opinion. Keep going, you can write!
You're a reader Mandy, so you know a lot! Humour is a little individual, but I'll take a look at the long sentences. Chapter length is again a tricky one, usually in a novel I aim for 5000 words per chapter, here I'm looking at around 3500. In general, I try to gauge what people will read 'at one sitting'.
ReplyDeleteThanks for your thoughts.