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.

 

Chapter 3: THE MAN WHO WORKED IN THE HOTEL

Before the Industrial Revolution there was no town – just a nameless village that comprised of a few ramshackle dwellings that were home to an equally ramshackle clutch of inhabitants. There were no roads, no inns, no churches, no schools and no focus until William Schaalert, an entrepreneur of Dutch origin, built his first cotton mill on the outskirts of the village in 1790. William had inherited his vast fortune from his father Freidrich, a printer who published pamphlets containing explicit woodcuts such as Alleen Mannen, Groot en Rondborstige and Wide Open Bevers (which featured a popular section called Lezers Echtgenotes) and who would be forever remembered as being the father of the porn industry in the Netherlands.

William, a well-educated but humourless man, turned his back on his father’s profession and instead concentrated his energies on industry and the exploitation of the working classes. Within a couple of years of his first mill going into operation over seven hundred, most of them slums, had been built to accommodate the new workforce that had downed their agricultural tools to find employment in what they saw as the future. The village quickly became a sprawling mass of oppressed humanity and Schaalert, who was by then the richest and most powerful man in the area, took it upon himself to give the new town an identity. With no input from anyone but himself, in a rather grand ceremony in the newly-built Schaalert Hall, he proudly gave the new town the rather unoriginal name of Newtown.

Throughout the nineteenth century the town prospered as new businesses opened their doors, eager to make some serious money from its industrious centre. Shops appeared almost overnight – tailors, tobacconists, sweet shops, pie shops, haberdasheries, boot-makers, horse traders and glue factories all made their mark in their own small way in the development of the town.

The horse and cart gave way to trains, trams and motor cars and by the beginning of the twentieth century Schaalert’s mills, now run by equally dour descendants, were the main exporters of fine textiles throughout the length and breadth of the British Empire. The mills of Newtown produced uniforms for British troops in both world wars and business boomed for everyone until the early fifties when the market collapsed and unemployment, some that had never been heard of in the town for almost two hundred years, took hold. Many moved south to find work and never came back and all that was good about Newtown vanished, turning the once thriving hive of industry and human misery into a relative ghost town, with only the hotel and catering industry keeping it afloat.

In 1986, when Arnold Chemicals announced that it plans to set up a plant just outside the town, the news was met with great joy. The townsfolk saw this as a sign of renewed growth and wealth, a way out of the emptiness, despair and lack of oppression they had been living in for the better part of fifty years.

Paul Langton was probably the only one who didn’t welcome the arrival of Arnold Chemicals and he vocalised his opposition in an embarrassingly loud drunken tirade about corporate globalisation during the lavish free party that was put on for the town’s inhabitants. He was quickly ejected from the premises by two large men in black suits, which was unfortunate as he was the caterer for the event.

 

***

Now in his late forties, Paul Langton was working as the head chef at the Stuart Hotel in Newtown. He was, by this time, a balding, red-faced man who only had one volume when he spoke and, despite the repeated requests of the manager, the assistant manager and assistant manager’s assistant, his booming voice could always be heard throughout the hotel even when he was holding a normal conversation.

“Just try and keep it down, will you,” pleaded the manager.

“I CAN’T FUCKING HELP IT!” blared Paul.

“But all the guests can hear you swearing,” added the assistant manager.

“I WORKED WITH HEAVY MACHINERY FOR TEN FUCKING YEARS BEFORE I DECIDED TO GO BACK INTO CATERING!” bellowed Paul.

The assistant manager’s assistant nodded.

“I’M SORRY,” roared Paul. ”THE DOCTOR SAYS IT’S AN ILLNESS AND THERE’S FUCK ALL THAT CAN BE DONE ABOUT IT!”

The manager sighed. The only reason he kept the head chef on was because he was the best cook the hotel had ever had. He looked over at the assistant manager’s assistant, who was making notes with a blue ball-point pen on a sheet of lined paper attached to the clipboard he always carried around with him. The assistant manager’s assistant hardly ever spoke because he rarely had anything interesting or pertinent to add to a conversation.

The manager never did see why the assistant manager required an assistant. He had read the hotel’s management policy several times and it quite clearly stated that the assistant manager was employed to assist the manager in his duties and to cover for him in times of absence. There was no mention of an assistant to the assistant manager – why should there be? His assistant was the assistant – his assistant shouldn’t need an assistant to assist him. Whenever he was questioned about the role of the assistant manager’s assistant by the manager, the assistant manager would say he was too busy and that he should talk to his assistant.

This infuriated the manager so much that he decided to take action. The action he decided to take was to take no action at all because he was spineless and the assistant manager frightened him. The assistant manager’s assistant just gave him the creeps.

DS George Jones had been working undercover in the hotel as a pan scrubber. As far as he could tell the assistant manager’s assistant did nothing of any value and in the six weeks he had been scrubbing pans he could only remember one occasion when the assistant manager’s assistant had spoken to him. He had been scrubbing pans in the large sinks in the back of the kitchen when he felt a strange presence hovering behind him. When he turned around he was startled to find the assistant manager’s assistant staring at him.

“Shit! Where did you come from?” Jones asked, clenching his fists.

The assistant manager’s assistant said nothing but continued to stare at Jones.

“Have you got a problem?” Jones asked.

The assistant manager’s assistant appeared to think for a moment. Then he said (very politely), “I washed my hair this morning. Can’t you tell?”

“Ermm, well, yes,” said Jones in puzzlement.

The assistant manager’s assistant smiled, turned sharply on his heels and headed back to the assistant manager’s gloomy office where he read through the bullet-pointed notes he had made that morning on the lined paper attached to his clipboard.

One of the notes read: Engage a member of staff in conversation. He took a red ball-point pen from his pocket and smiled again. It was a smile so brief that it was scarcely noticeable. Then he very carefully and very precisely drew a line through the note.

 

***

The assistant manager’s assistant had been under suspicion by the local constabulary for some time following a spate of burglaries in the houses of the wealthy and powerful of Newtown. The only house that hadn’t been broken into was Clifford Stine’s huge mansion just outside town. The local newspaper, The Newtown News, put this down to Stine’s elaborate security system but DCI Barnaby Smith had his doubts. These doubts were confirmed when Gary Linkman, an ambitious young reporter, had contacted him, claiming he had information that proved the assistant manager’s assistant’s connection to Stine.

This was good news to DCI Smith’s ears and the two set up a meeting for the next day. When Linkman failed to turn up Smith contacted the newspaper’s editor, who denied the existence of the young reporter, claiming that he had never heard of anyone by the name of Gary Linkman and that he, Smith, must have fallen victim to the sick mind of a devious prankster. “Clifford Stine is a pillar of the community,” the editor told Smith. “He has single-handedly lifted this town out of the doldrums of despair. Why would anyone even think he was involved in criminal activities? That’s your problem, isn’t it, Mr Smith – you and your ineffectual police force think that everyone’s guilty of something.”

The assistant manager’s assistant had appeared out of nowhere and, according to police records, he didn’t even exist. DCI Smith’s naturally inquisitive brain didn’t trust anyone who didn’t exist and that was why he had sent Jones into the hotel undercover.

 

***

The mobile phone in Barnaby Smith’s pocket began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket and answered the call. “DCI Smith,” he said.

“Hello, sir,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

“Ah, Jones. How’s it going? Anything to report?”

“Absolutely nothing, sir,” said Jones, “apart from the fact that he’s a complete fucking weirdo.”

“Well, stick at it, Jones. There has to be something. Let’s give it another week.”

“But, sir, all this washing up is make making my fingers go all wrinkly.”

“Stop moaning will you and just get on with it.”

DS Jones placed the kitchen phone back on the receiver. He finished off the washing up that had been piled up on the sink in pan room before hanging up his apron. He was about to step into the lobby of the hotel when he saw the assistant manager’s assistant checking in a man with a strange accent who, curiously, didn’t pronounce his vowels.

“You’re in Room 32, sir,” he told the man. Just take the lift up to the third floor and turn left. Would you like any assistance with your luggage, sir?”

“N,” said the man.

The assistance manager’s assistant watched the man step into the lift and waited for the doors to close before his picked the phone on the desk. Jones watched in silence as the assistant manager’s assistance said two words before replacing the receiver. “He’s here,” he said.

Jones stepped into the lobby and was about to leave, but his natural curiosity got the better of him. He approached the desk and spoke to the assistant manager’s assistant.

“Who was that you were speaking to?” he asked.

“Oh, just one of the guests,” the assistant manager’s assistant replied.

“No, on the phone. Who were you speaking to?”

“No one.”

“You know you’re not allowed to use the phones in the hotel for private calls.”

“It wasn’t a private call.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Oh, before I forget – the manager’s asked me to give something to you that will assist you in your pan scrubbing duties.”

“Oh right.”

“It’s downstairs in the cellar – if you’ll follow me.”

Jones followed the assistant manager’s assistant down into the cellar. It was a dreary space full of barrels of beer and piles of soiled linen awaiting the arrival of the weekly laundry run. Jones looked around and saw nothing of any interest. “Where is it then?” he asked.

“Here,” said the assistant manager’s assistant, turning around and jabbing Jones in the neck with a needle.

Jones looked down in panic at the hypodermic that had just entered his flesh, but he was too late to stop the assistant manager’s assistant from pressing in the plunger and sending whatever it contained into his body. His head began to swim with dizziness and where the needle had been he felt a searing pain that began to travel throughout his body. Just before the assistant manager’s assistant kicked him he saw that underneath his skin a pink glow was beginning to form.

It was the last thing he remembered before his body began to disintegrate.

 

***

The assistant manager’s assistant pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and scooped Jones’s discarded clothes into a black bag, which he tied up tightly before throwing it into the skip outside the back of the hotel. He made his way back inside and into the assistant manager’s gloomy office where he read through the bullet-pointed notes he had made that morning on the lined paper attached to his clipboard.

One of the notes read: Kill the undercover policeman. He took a red ball-point pen from his pocket and smiled. It was a smile so brief that it was scarcely noticeable. Then he very carefully and very precisely drew a line through the note.

 

 

The cover of The Possum Book of Hotel Management Stories, from which book this chapter was taken.

Chapter 2: THE MAN WHO FLEW TO HEATHROW

“There’ll be a forty dollar charge for that, sir.”

“Forty dollars? What for?”

The girl on the desk at Auckland International Airport smiled at Jim and explained, “You’re one kilogram over the accepted weight limit and I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you forty dollars for that.”

“You’re joking,” said Jim incredulously. “Come on – it’s only one kilo. Surely you can let that go.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m only following the rules.”

Jim looked over at the desk next to him and saw the fattest man he had ever seen in his entire life checking in. He was a sight to behold and Jim couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. Rolls of fat cascaded down the length of the man’s body and sweat was pouring down his blubbery face. Jim did a mental calculation and came to the conclusion that his trousers had more material in them than the marquee that had been erected on his wedding day. In fact, he decided that the man’s trousers alone probably weighed more than his own entire baggage allowance – plus the one kilogram extra. He looked more like a blob than a man.

“Are you going to charge him for being overweight?” he said, motioning to the fat man.

“Excuse me, sir?” said the girl.

“Him,” Jim said, “he must weigh more than four passengers and all their luggage combined. Are you going to charge him?”

“Well – err – no, of course not. We only charge if your luggage is over the limit – like yours is.”

“But do you think it’s fair that I get charged for being one kilo overweight, when that fat bastard’s shoes probably weigh more than my bags.”

“You may not think it’s fair, sir, and in all probability it isn’t, but I don’t make the rules – I just enforce by them. Now pay up or I’ll have to call security over.”

“What’s your name?” Jim asked.

“My name is Sheila, sir. Like it says on my badge.”

“And whereabouts in New Zealand are you from? I don’t recognise your accent.”

“I’m not from New Zealand, sir – I’m Australian.”

As Jim handed Sheila the forty dollars he made a mental note to inform Sir Crispen about this incident and to have her deported as an undesirable alien at the earliest opportunity.

An hour later he was sat in his designated seat on the aircraft. There were two empty seats beside him and he hoped they wouldn’t be filled so he could stretch out on the long flight that lay ahead of him.

He was looking forward to a comfortable and relaxing flight – at least until he saw the fat man huffing and puffing down the aisle, looking first at the boarding card and then at the seat numbers overhead. His heart sank as the man stopped where Jim was sitting.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I think those two seats beside you are mine.”

Jim thought long and hard about the many words that could have summed up the situation that had just developed, but as he trawled through the vast vocabulary in the lexicon of his well-read mind there was only word that could properly describe how he felt at that precise moment in time – and that word was: “Fuck!”

He stood up and allowed the fat man to squeeze past him. As he did so he was reminded of the wildlife programme he had seen on TV a couple of weeks earlier that showed a large octopus pushing its way through a small hole in order to reach some food.

The man lifted up the arm connecting the two seats and plonked himself down. He turned to Jim and smiled. “There’s never enough space on these aircraft, is there,” he said.

He had in his hand a long strap, which he attached to one end of the seat belt, and then stretched it over to the connector on the other seat. “Always come prepared, that’s what I always say,” he said, extending his hand towards Jim. “Hi, my name’s Howard. Pleased to meet you.”

Jim took his hand, shook it and withdrew it almost immediately. “Jim,” he replied.  Howard’s hand was damp to the point of soaking and there was a faint smell of old cheese about him.

Jim and Howard sat in silence during take-off. He had watched with amusement, as he always did, at the flight attendants display as they pointed out the emergency exits and demonstrated how to use the life preservers and oxygen masks. Howard broke the uncomfortable silence about half-an-hour into the flight.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“What?”

“I said I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, OK,” said Jim.

“Don’t you want to know what you’re thinking?”

“Err – well . . .”

“You’re thinking – Why me? Why does it have to me sat next to this fat bastard?”

Jim thought, that’s right. Why did it have to be me? “No, that’s not true,” he said.

“Don’t lie. Everybody thinks that when I lumber up to them. I can always see that look of disgust and horror on people’s faces when they realise that their going to have to spend hours sat next to me. I could see it on your face even when I was checking in. I saw you looking over at me.”

“Well . . .”

“It doesn’t matter – I’m used to it by now. The problem with people is that they only ever see what’s on the outside. They never take the time to look what’s within. Take John Merrick, for example.”

“The Elephant Man . . . his real name was Joseph.”

“That’s right. You see people only saw his ugliness at first. It was only when Frederick Treves took him in and came to understand what was trapped inside him that other people began to take notice and discover the beautiful and intelligent man that he was.”

Jim let out a long sigh and the guilt and shame of not looking beneath the surface overcame him. “You’re right,” he said.

“I know. John Merrick was an extraordinary man.”

“No – not that. What you said before – it was exactly what I was thinking.”

Howard smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Does that make you feel better now that you’ve got it off your chest?”

“You know, Howard, strangely, it does.”

“Good. I’m glad. You know, I feel like Rick at the end of Casablanca.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Jim, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Jim smiled. “Shall we start again,” he said, extending his hand. “Hello, I’m Jim. Pleased to meet you Howard.”

“Likewise,” said Howard, taking hold of Jim’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

Despite this exchange, Jim did surreptitiously wipe his hand on the seat after Howard had let go.

From that moment, though, they found themselves chatting like old friends and when they changed flights for the last long leg from Singapore to the UK, Jim was pleased to discover that he was once again they were sat next to Howard.

“So, have you always been this large?” asked Jim, after take-off.

“Oh no, I was once a skinny thing. I don’t really know what happened. The doctors said it was something to do with my glands. The funny thing is I’ve been on a diet for the past six months and I seem to have gotten bigger.”

“You’re not on one of those crazy F-Plan diets or anything stupid like that, are you?”

“Well – it’s not exactly F-Plan – more C-Plan, really.”

“C-Plan? I’ve never heard of that one.”

“The C stands for cheese. It’s a new diet developed by a company in England where you eat nothing but a special type of cheese. You’re supposed to lose weight really fast with it, but it doesn’t appear to work with me. I’ve been invited by them to carry out some tests. They paid for this flight and everything – no expense spared – although they could at least have flown me there business class.”

“But if they’d done that we would never had met.”

“That’s true.”

“So what’s the name of this company?”

“As far as I know it’s a division of Arnold Chemicals in Buckinghamshire, wherever that is. They said a driver would be waiting to take me to a hotel where I’d be met by someone who’ll take me to see the General Manager to see what he can do for me.”

Jim was surprised. “Wow. That’s weird. I’m going to Buckinghamshire to see an old friend.”

“Maybe we could get together,” said Howard cheerfully. “Go out for a slimline drink or something like that.”

“Yeah, maybe we could,” answered Jim. “You know, I’d like that Howard.”

* * *

Once they were through Customs and in the arrival area Jim and Howard shook hands and said their goodbyes to each other.

“I hope everything goes alright for you, Howard. If you have any problems just give me a call.” The two men had swapped the addresses of the hotels they were staying before the plane had landed.

“The same goes for you, Jim.”

As they parted company Jim recognised the familiar face of his friend Barnaby Smith. They shook hands and then Barnaby relieved Jim of one of his bags. “Good flight?” he asked.

“You know what,” replied Jim, “it was.”

“Good. Jones is waiting in the car outside. He’s is a bit hung-over from last night so it might well be an interesting journey to your hotel.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Jim.

* * *

In the airport Howard made his way to the Gents toilets. Once inside, he removed the mobile phone that had been sent to him from Arnold Chemicals and called the number that had been pre-set on it.

“Hello, it’s Howard,” he said. “I’m at the airport.”

“What did you find out?” asked the voice at the other end of the line.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Didn’t he tell you anything about why he was coming here?”

“No.”

“You were supposed to find out as much as possible.”

“Yes – I know that, but the . . . err . . . opportunity to ask never really arose.”

The voice at the other end began to show signs of irritation. “You idiot. Why do you think I paid for your very expensive flight?”

“I thought it was to carry out tests on me.”

“You thought? You thought? Well, you know what thought did, don’t you?”

“Err – not really.”

“He followed a dust cart because he thought it was a wedding.”

Howard looked at the phone in confusion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand that.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“I have got the name of the hotel where he’s staying, if that’s any help.”

“Yes, that would help. So, what’s the name of this hotel?”

“The Stuart Hotel.”

“Excellent. I know exactly where that is. Good work, Howard.”

“Thank you. When will the tests start? Will you be able to make me lose weight?”

“Howard, you will start losing weight almost immediately.”

The line went dead with a click and almost immediately afterwards Howard felt a surge of electricity course up his arm and into his brain. His body shuddered as his heart burst and he crumped heavily to the floor.

From inside one of the cubicles a cistern flushed and when the occupant stepped outside to wash his hands he witnessed, to his horror, a pulsating pink mass on the tiled floor, inside which was a mobile phone and the largest suit of clothes he had ever seen in his life.

 

The cover of The Possum Book of Long Haul-Flight Stories selected by Mandy Flugplatz, from where this chapter is taken.

Chapter 1: THE MAN WHO WENT TO PRISON

Sir Crispen Fotherington-Smythe sighed as he looked up at the forbidding grey stone walls of Orangatanga Prison. He’d been visiting the former head of The Big Top regularly once a week since his incarceration there two years earlier, filling him in with the niff naff and trivia that had become the day-to-day routine since the organisation had closed its doors to lay low and concentrate on the legitimate dairy business that was still making money. He told him about the odd covert jobs Jim Friteuse (now James Cook) had been assigned to deal with. There were still the odd Bitey smugglers landing on the shores of New Zealand from Australia, but these had become less frequent since Martin Garré and his more intelligent wife had been deported to Australia to spend the rest of their natural lives shovelling sand into containers, in the blazing heat of the outback, for export to Saudi Arabia, where it would be used to make a concrete wall that would encircle the entire country in order to stop people from leaving.

With the absence of Martin Garré and his more intelligent wife, the Bitey smugglers had fallen on hard times and, as a result, had been forced to become more ingenious in their efforts to bring the contraband cheese into the country. The last shipment may have got through if it hadn’t been for James Cook’s quick thinking and his unerring powers of observation. James had been called in by customs officials at the port of Nikkinakkinori after they had detained a group of people suspected of cheese piracy. When he arrived he found a cell full of men disguised as popular characters from the unpopular TV show Shortarse Street, a short-lived programme devised by the controversial film maker Clancy Taylor and commissioned by Channel One about a community of psychotic dwarfs that was similar to the Australian TV show Home and Away, only less horrific. The smugglers would probably have got past the dimwitted customs officials had James not been vigilant enough to notice that the shortest member of the gang was at least six feet four inches tall – a small detail that was omitted from the Duty Officer’s report – which also failed to mention that the suspected pirates all had patches over one eye, were wearing tricorn hats bearing skull-and-crossbones motifs, and at least ten of them were found in possession of a one-legged parrot.

But Sir Crispen wasn’t here today to discuss the relative merits (or lack of them) of cheese pirates with his old boss, Everard Hinchcliffe. He was here on a far more urgent matter – namely the phone call he had received the previous day from his old friend DCI Barnaby Smith.

Everard Hinchcliffe looked healthy dressed in his smartly pressed orange jumpsuit. He quite liked the dress code the prison insisted on the inmates adhered to as he had always thought that the colour orange suited him. He extended a courteous hand to his old Gadget man and friend and asked him to be seated on chair opposite to him across the table. He usually enjoyed Sir Crispen’s visits, but this day he could see a look of concern on the old man’s face.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Something’s come up – in England.”

“What?”

“I’ve had a call from Barnaby Smith – you remember him, from the old days.”

“I do – he was a good guy. So why’d he call you?”

“There’s been an, ah – incident – in a place called Newtown in Buckinghamshire. A man and his wife have disappeared along with their infant. The only thing left of them were their clothes and they had an unknown substance on them – the chemical constituency has baffled the police.”

“How so?”

“Well along with the unknown chemicals there was one constituent that has been identified.”

“Which was?”

“Cheese, Everard. But not just any cheese. It was Australian Bitey Cheese.”

“Interesting.”

“Barnaby’s asked for our help. He wants us to send our best man to assist him in their investigation.”

“You mean Jim Friteuse?”

“It’s Cook now, Jim Cook. He changed his name about a year back. The thing is he’s quite happy acting as our Head Cheese Sniffer. And Claire and him have made a nice home together. I don’t know whether he would want to go permanently back into the field – especially in England – and especially after the Cheesefinger business.”

“I’m sure you can talk him into it, old friend. But before we send him out there we need more information and the only person I know with an extensive knowledge of Bitey is Martin Garré, but he won’t talk to you or Jim. He does however have a thing for the ladies, especially as his more intelligent wife is in another prison soliciting.”

“Soliciting? You mean . . .”

“No, not that sort of soliciting. She’s acting as the prison lawyer, giving advice to anyone that will listen to her. She seems to be enjoying it – having people listen to her – because, God knows, her husband never used to.”

“Who do you suggest we send in to speak to Garré?”

“Claire, of course. The thing is – he’s a dangerous man. From what I’ve heard he’s been placed in the solitary confinement wing where only the most dangerous of cheese-criminals are held. Apparently, he killed one of the guards with a wedge of Gorgonzola that had been smuggled in by one of the trustee’s wives.”

“Do you think she’ll do it?”

“There’s only one way to find out and that’s to ask her.”

* * *

Claire Cook was only too willing to help. Both she and her husband were itching to get back into action. Even though they both had fulfilling jobs they were finding the everyday routine of life dull and boring.

Before she went on her mission, Sir Crispen briefed her on her cover story. “You’ll be going in there under the pretence of carrying out a census on prisoner’s conditions in solitary confinement and the standard of cheese they’re getting served at meal times. You must remember at all times that Martin Garré is a very dangerous man. He can be highly intelligent – not often – but he does have his moments. Just don’t let him get into your head. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Sir Crispen.”

* * *

The solitary confinement wing looked like a medieval dungeon. A corridor ran along the length of the wing opposite which was a row of glass cells.

“Garré’s in the last cell,” Claire was told by the prison warden. “Don’t talk to anyone on your way to his cell and don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

As she walked past the cell next to Martin Garré’s the prisoner inside shouted something at her and threw a lump of soft cheese into her face. She moved as fast as could past that cell until she reached Garré’s.

Martin Garré was stood motionless in his cell, looking out at Claire. The walls of his cell were plastered with pictures of farm animals. Since being incarcerated he had discovered that he had an affinity with livestock and he spent many an hour on the prison farm talking to them. Because of his propensity to converse with these animals and his unusual static behaviour when he was in his cell, he was given the nickname Dr Do Little by the guards and his fellow inmates

Claire found herself slightly unnerved by his static appearance. “Mr Garré,” she said, “my name is Claire and I’m here to carry out a census on . . .”

She didn’t finish her sentence as she was interrupted by Garré. “Now then, before you say any more tell me – what did Muggs say to you? Mozzarella Muggs in the next cell. He said something to you. What was it?”

“He said, I can smell your Caerphilly."

Garré sniffed the air. “I see,” he said. “I myself cannot. You use Dove skin cream, and sometimes you wear Poison, but not today. I can smell your husband’s Hi-Karate on you today.”

“You say you are taking a census, but did you know a census taker once tried to test me. I ate his stilton with some Jacob’s Crackers and a nice bottle of port.” Then he made a clacking sound with his false teeth – it was the sound that old men make when they’re trying to impress even older women. “You know what you look like to me? You look like a Kiwi. A well-scrubbed Kiwi with a little taste for tinned and packet goods. But you're not fooling me, are you, Claire Cook – or should I say Friteuse? And that accent you've tried so desperately to shed: pure Kiwi – you can never disguise the lack of vowels. What is your husband, dear? Is he still a Cheese Sniffer? Does he stink of Roquefort and Bleu D’Auvergne when he comes home at night? You know how slowly the smell goes away – even when you’ve double-bagged them and put them into a sealed plastic containers in the fridge. The smell never goes away and while you’re tucking into your gourmet jar-cheese you can only dream of getting out into the field – getting anywhere – getting all the way to the Frontiere Corporation.”

“You see a lot, Mr Garré. But do you think you could point that high-powered perception at this?” Claire passed the file that Barnaby Smith had faxed to Sir Crispen into the cell via a perspex drawer. “What about it? Why don't you – why don't you look at it and tell me what you see? Or maybe you need your more intelligent wife to help you.”

Martin Garré flicked through the pages of the file, before turning to Claire. “You need to speak to a man called Clifford Stine at Arnold Chemicals. Now I’ve done something for you – what are you going to do for me?”

“Warden!” Claire called. “Bring the animal.”

The warden approached Garré’s cell with a lamb on the end of a lead. “I was told that you liked to talk to farm animals and that you especially liked lambs.”

“Oh, I do,” said Garré, with a touch of excitement in his voice. “I love lambs. I love watching them gambol about in the fields and I love them with mint sauce.”

“Then this one’s for you.”

“It’s not noisy is it?” Garré asked. “I hate noisy animals.”

“This one’s as quiet as a mouse.”

Claire opened her briefcase and pulled out a large book and passed it through the perspex drawer. “I’ve also brought you some reading material.”

Garré picked up the large tome and looked at it in disgust. “What’s this? The Complete Works of Shakespeare? I hate Shakespeare! I don’t even understand it!”

“Maybe you could get your more intelligent wife to help you with it.”

Martin Garrè flicked through the pages of the book. “Wait a minute,” he said, “there’s something wrong with this book – it’s got loads of misprints in it.”

“They’re not misprints – it’s the New Zealand Edition.”

“Baa-aah,” bleated the lamb, as Claire was leaving the solitary confinement wing.

“Silence!” Garré bleated back.

 

 

The cover of The Possum Book of Prison Stories, from which book this chapter was taken.