Chapter 4: THE MAN WHO DIDN'T HAVE A GIMMICK

DCI Barnaby Smith was concerned.

Not only had several people in the town disappeared without a trace, including his own DS) but he was also reading reports in the Newtown Gazette of people shrinking. He was looking at one right at that moment.

LOCAL WOMAN CLAIMS SHE HAS LOST SIX INCHES

Mrs Amelia Price (58) claims she has lost six inches in height over the space of six months. “I just don’t understand it,” she told our reporter, “I thought Madge was messing me about when she told me she was shrinking – I just thought she was going doolally and I laughed it off.”

   Madge Allsopp (63) began shrinking six months ago. Once a tall slender woman of 6’ 3”, she is now just short of 5’ 9”. “It’s happening all over Newtown,” she said. “People are beginning to shrink. You don’t notice it at first because it happens so slowly, but then you realise that your clothes are getting too big and your shoes of slipping off your feet. Nothing like this happened before Arnold Chemicals moved here.”

   A reporter was sent to interview Clifford Stine about this phenomenon but he has yet to file his report.

 

Barnaby read the article with concern – He thought: what the hell is happening here? And what has it got to do with Arnold Chemicals? He hadn’t liked Clifford Stine from the moment he’d met him – he seemed to him to be arrogant, pompous, conceited, haughty, egotistical, big-headed, superior, supercilious, self-important, condescending, patronising, vain and smug.

Barnaby was putting the Thesaurus back onto the shelf behind his desk when the duty sergeant poked his head around the corner. “Sir, there’s a bloke with a funny accent in reception – says he’s from New Zealand.”

“Right - that’ll be Jim Cook. Send him straight in sergeant.”

A few moments later Jim was sat in Barnaby’s office with a hot cup of coffee in his hand. “That sergeant’s a bit strange,” he said in his now familiar Kiwi accent, “I had to keep repeating myself. I kinda got the feeling that he didn’t really understand what I was saying.”

 “What?” asked Barnaby.

Jim looked at his friend and then began to laugh. Before long they were both laughing and talking about the good old days in New Zealand when, with the assistance of Herbert Bogart and Buster Duran, they had attached electrodes to Martin Garré’s testicles and then turned up the power until his hair caught fire and he started to talk (in a comedy Japanese accent) about the extent of his cheese smuggling operation.

Barnaby wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Life was so simple back then, wasn’t it,” he said. Amidst the tears there was a touch of sadness in his voice.

Jim looked at his friend and saw that he wasn’t himself. “You know, when all this is over you can come back to New Zealand with me and start working for The Big Top on a full-time basis.”

“I don’t know, Jim.”

“It’s not like you're happy, is it? You’re not married . . .”

“I was.”

“I know. I know. We researched you before you came over on your exchange visit. You were perfect for us because you had just about all the right qualities required for being a DCI in the British police force. You were divorced; you had an estranged daughter who had grown into a moody teenager; your in-laws still liked you but they didn’t trust you; you have a particular liking for Asian prostitutes; your parents died in a car accident when you only ten; your sister was murdered by a serial killer who is still at large; you listen to classical music and you’re a recovering alcoholic. You ticked all the boxes except one, mate.”

“Which was?”

“You didn’t have a gimmick.”

“A what?”

“A gimmick. You know – you’re not a cook or an antique dealer or a gardener; you can’t see dead people; you don’t have OCD or any form of autism; you’re not confined to a wheelchair; you can’t fly or run faster than the speed of sound; you don’t have the ability to talk to animals; you’re not a black female lesbian with one leg, you don’t come from outer space and you don’t wear a colourful spandex costume. If you’d had any one of those gimmicks along with your other qualities when you took the Big Top’s aptitude test you’d have scored one hundred percent. As it was, you scored eighty-five, which was a perfectly acceptable ‘A’ minus.”

Barnaby frowned. “But you don’t have a gimmick,” he said, feeling slightly irritated and inconsequential.

“Yes I do,” replied Jim, “I’m an expert in cheese.”

“Speaking of cheese, why don’t I take you along to lab and you have a gander at what we found in William Beck’s house.”

“Lead the way.”

They left the office and Jim followed Barnaby down a maze of corridors until they reached a set of double doors, above which was a sign that read: NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL. Barnaby punched a four letter code into the security lock beside the doors and the two men stepped in the Buckinghamshire Constabulary Laboratories.

Reggie Dwight was examining a piece of evidence through a microscope. He had his back to the door and didn’t hear the two men enter. Barnaby tapped Reggie on the shoulder. When he turned around Barnaby and Jim noticed he was wearing a pair of sunglasses.

“How the hell can you see anything through those?” Barnaby asked him. “Take them off and let’s see those blue eyes of yours.”

Reggie groaned. “Rough night, was it?” enquired Jim. “Although I must say those shades make you look like a honky cat.”

“You’d better believe it, it went off like a rocket, man,” said Reggie. “It’s a wonder I’m still standing.”

“Don’t go breaking my heart, Reggie,” said Barnaby. “Where were you last night?”

“I was at the Philadelphia Freedom Nightclub with Guy and Daniel. Benny and the Jets were playing there. I’d had a lot to drink, because it was Guy’s birthday. As a surprise I went up and spoke to the band to ask them if they’d play a song for Guy. As I was walking back to the table I ran into this tiny dancer. It must have been written in the stars because she was the one. I didn’t say anything at first, but then she said “Sorry seems to be the hardest word, doesn’t it?”  I apologised to her just as the band started to play some sad songs. I thought to myself: Can you feel the love tonight, man? And then I started to dance with her. She told me her name was Nikita and she danced like a candle in the wind. I whispered in her ear, “Are you ready for love?” And then it all went wrong. Guy came over and I said to him, “the band are playing your song, mate,” but he said, “Never mind that – the bitch is back!” meaning my ex-girlfriend. I could see she was angry with me for dancing with another girl so I tried to calm her down. I said, “There’s something about the way you look tonight, and I don’t like it.” Then she started shouting at me. “You don’t realise the sacrifice I made for you, do you!” Well, as a matter of fact I did realise – but she was an Ireland girl with red hair and a temper to match and without any warning she took a swing at me and caught me right in the eye. “Whoa!” I said, “Saturday night’s alright for fighting, but not tonight!”

“Sounds like a wild night,” said Jim.

“Tell me about it. Anyway, enough of my problems – I take it you’re here to see the evidence from the Beck place?”

“That’s right.”

“Follow me.”

Barnaby and Jim followed Reggie through a set of plastic doors and down a long corridor, at the end of which was a steel door, above which was a sign that read: NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORISED AUTHORISED PERSONNEL.

“Bloody security’s tighter than a gnat’s arse in here,” said Reggie. He took a security pass from his pocket and swiped it down the security lock on the left hand side of the door.

An LCD display flashed up above the lock. It read PEASE ENTER PASSWORD.

Reggie typed in a seven digit password on the key pad beneath the LCD display. Another LCD display flashed up: PLEASE CONFIRM PASSWORD.

Reggie typed in his password again and another LCD display flashed up: PLEASE ENTER DATE OF BIRTH.

“This is new,” said Reggie as he typed in his date of birth and another LCD display flashed up: PLEASE ENTER SPECIES.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Reggie said, and then typed in HUMAN. Another LCD display flashed up: PLEASE ENTER SEXUAL ORIENTATION.

Reggie stared in disbelief at the display in front of him. “What? What the fuck is this?” he said. Another LCD display flashed up. It read: ONLY JOKING! And then the door opened with a loud hiss.

As they entered the sterile room Reggie noticed the two young lab technicians sniggering in the corner. “Oh, very funny,” he said. “Hardy-fucking-ha!”

Reggie led Barnaby and Jim over to a large table, on which was a large Perspex box. It was completely sealed apart from two holes in one side that accommodated a pair of thick rubber gloves. Jim looked at the pink blob inside the box with interest. “What is it?” he asked.

“That’s just it,” replied Barnaby, “we have no idea.”

“That’s right,” said Reggie. “We know that it consists of several known chemical compounds and one that we can only speculate on – the only thing we know about that is that it’s some form of unknown cheese-like substance. It’s the reason why Barnaby called you in.”

“Do you want to examine it, Jim?” Barnaby asked.

“I’d like to smell it first,” said Jim, “if that’s alright with you.”

“That’s fine.” Reggie removed one of the rubber gloves from the box and Jim bent down and moved his nose close to the hole.

He sniffed.

At first he thought he mistaken, but after a second sniff he was convinced. He thought: But how? How could it have got here? Who was bringing it into the country?

“What is it, Jim?” Barnaby asked, noticing the look of concern on his friend’s face. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And if that’s the case this country may be in serious trouble.”

“But what is it?”

“It’s Australian Bitey Cheese!”

At that moment the telephone in the lab began to ring. One of the young technicians picked up the receiver and said, “War Office – do you want a fight?”

Barnaby could hear shouting coming down the line and the technician began apologising profusely. He put the receiver back onto its cradle and said in a cowed voice, “Err, Mr Smith – that was the desk sergeant – he says there’s someone with him that wants to speak with you urgently.”

“Did he say who it was?”

“No, but he sounded pretty pissed off.”

“All right, let’s go,” Barnaby said and he and Jim and Reggie left the lab. Just as he was about to exit through the door, Reggie turned to the two lab technicians, shook his head and said, “Little wankers.”

Then the door hissed closed behind him.

***

“He’s in Interview Room 3, sir,” said the desk sergeant.

Barnaby picked up a clipboard and entered the room. Sat at the table in the middle of the room was Paul Langdon, the head chef of the Stuart Hotel. He was clutching a black plastic bin bag.

“I FOUND THESE IN THE CELLAR OF THE HOTEL,” he bellowed, “BUT I THINK YOU’D BETTER PUT THESE ON BEFORE YOU TOUCH ANYTHING IN THERE.”

Paul handed Barnaby a pair of yellow Marigold gloves and the bin bag. Barnaby pulled on the gloves and extracted the contents of the bag. It was a set of clothes and they were covered in the pink gunk that he had just been looking at in the lab. The clothes belonged to DS Jones.

“Where did you say you found these?”

“IN THE CELLAR OF THE HOTEL,” the chef roared. “I WENT DOWN THERE THIS MORNING TO GET SOME TAPIOCA FOR THE OLD COUPLE THAT ARE STAYING THERE AND I FOUND THEM AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS.”

“Have you shown these to anyone other than myself?”

“NO!”

“I’d like you to keep it that way, if you don’t mind?”

“ANYTHING YOU SAY!”

“Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

"WELL, I'M GOING TO BE OUT OF TOWN FOR A FEW DAYS. GOING TO LONDON TO VISIT MY BROTHER, BUT I'LL LET YOU KNOW AS SOON AS I GET BACK."

"That's fine."

“OH YES, THERE IS ONE OTHER THING,” vociferated the chef.

"What's that?" 

“I THINK I’VE BEEN SHRINKING!”

 

 

 

The cover of the The Possum Book of Gimmicky Detective Stories, from which this chapter was taken.