A Quirky Crime Mystery Book Series

Kind Hearts And Martinets by Pete Adams

Series Excerpt

Approaching the bottom of the two flights of stairs to the station reception, 'Jack Austin, Olympic champignon,' he'd seen his son do this, easy-peasy, jumped the last three steps whilst swinging off both handrails.

Spread-eagled on his back, Jack had a faraway view of the stairs ascending as if to heaven. Heads hovered, not Gods, but the pale, emaciated, red-lipped, crescent-mooned face of Hissing Sid, and the rounded, florid, face of Dickey; Martin managed a lick when he could get his snout in. The twanging Pompey (Portsmouth) tones of hissing Sid burst his fantasy, ‘Y’alreett, Jane, nasty bang, needs a few stitches you dooos,’ and imitating the sentiment was the lyrical Welsh inflection of Dickey, but it was Martin’s slobbering that brought Jack to his senses, that, and a celestial view up Amanda’s skirt as she leaned over the upstairs landing, an Olympian Goddess.

‘Oooh err, I prefer cream silk...’ Jack said, unable to stop himself, ‘...sorry, florets...’

‘Jane Austin, you’re a twat,’ Mandy said and tossed her head for a parting shot, ‘you’re disturbed, and so am I to put up with you and your Tourette’s,’ and she disappeared, shooing the team back into the CP room.

Jack’s developing Superintendent fantasy was spoiled by Dickey’s hymns and arias, ‘Yer Jane, it’s Mickey Splif's boy, Keanu, you knows ‘im, a good lad, and Gail will go barmy, and his dad, well, he’s a bit fed up. Osama says he’ll 'ave the fucking bastard, but I didn’t fink Muslims swore, anyway, if you’re in the family way you often fancy something weird, my Dyliss fancied coal and not cause she’s as Welsh as me neither, something in it, Amfracite? So, Bombay mix and pineapple chunks, stands to reason?’

Sid inveigled in a Dickensian, very ‘umble way, ‘Bombay Mix or the contents of the till...’ Jack thought, it’s like Stratford-upon-bleedin'-Avon here, ‘...a crime, is a crime,’ and rising, he struck a pose the Bard and Mincing-International would be pleased to see.

'There’s never a Z-car around when you want one,' Jack thought and said, to whomever might be interested, as he was mainly talking to himself, ‘should it not be Mumbai Mix now?’

Martin was relieved his master was back to normal. Lifting his star-swimming head, Jack looked through the glazed screen into the spacious reception lobby, where, in assorted states of merriment, was Mickey Splif with his son Keanu, WPC Alice Springs Herring, gorgeous in her uniform, standing next to a spotty drip of a youth in a suit from Sainsbury’s, who could only be the duty solicitor, and everyone stood clear of Little shoe big shoe, the Big Issue salesman. What was immediately obvious, though, was everyone could see up his shorts, which didn’t worry Jack unduly, except Alice was laughing uncontrollably; a minor dent to his ego.

‘Dickey, old Chap, a hand-up, and, Sid, a plaster for my forehead, please,’ Jack said, fingering a gash on top of a bump, oozing blood, which would likely be gushing if Martin had not been licking it.

‘‘Ave to be toilet paper and sellotape, we got no plasters,’ Sid replied, disappearing.

Toilet paper and sellotape on my toe and now my head, Jack thought, and promising himself a couple of Paracetamol like it was a pint after work, he went into the reception vestibule to be assailed by a plethora of pleas.