DaDa Detective Agency Collection

Prologue-5

Pimple was also aurally sensitive and he detected in the ether of this overly quiet street, as he gingerly picked, an ephemeral haunting of pained shrills that ricocheted off those buildings left standing, and these aching whispers drifted like wraiths through the battle ground ruins. Shrills of pain and fear from people who had lived their lives blissfully unaware they were delicate flowers living in a rarefied environment that should never, ever, have had to witness a rogue planning application, let alone a pitch street battle and a renowned gangster’s death throes in this, their little corner of God’s earth. This sort of thing never happened in places such as Frisian Tun, the heart and very soul of upper middle class England.

Pimple was the Honourable Viscount Everard Pimple, the fourth degree of rank and dignity in the British peerage, though people ordinarily called him Pimple. He was uncomfortable being called, “My Lord” as would be his entitlement. Generally the famille-Pimple understated their rank. The mother was often referred to as just plain ordinary Dame Pimple.

Pimple was twenty eight and one of life’s innocents…

… and it’s not often you can say that these days, although I said it just the other day when I referred to myself, though I am considerably older, although you would hardly know it; I wear so well.

… and it’s not often you can say that these days, although I said it just the other day when I referred to myself, though I am considerably older, although you would hardly know it; I wear so well

Pimple was a delicate plant. A forced stick of rhubarb, or a mushroom cultivated in the dark. People had at various times called him a jolly bean. He, however, suspected this likely referred more to his beanpole like appearance, being narrow in shoulder and beam and all points north and south and, was uncommonly tall for a Pimple; a family that tended to the short, not tall, stout, not lean. The contributory cause of this physical imponderable may be because Everard was starved, predominantly emotionally, but this had a peculiar effect on his desire for nourishment. It would be fair to say that Pimple had led a sheltered life. Sheltered mainly by a devoted and many if not all, would say, behind her back obviously, a controlling mother. Thus Everard Pimple was always sensitive to the vibrations consequent to traumatic events, considering his mother, Dame Pimple, to be a traumatic event all of her own.

Pimple was what was known in the old days, which seemed appropriate picking his way through this formerly picturesque and quaintly English setting, a cub reporter. Not being blessed of the greatest of intellects, or any compensating driving ambition, he had been a cub on the Portsmouth Evening News for nearly ten years. This, after an extended and irksome struggle in boarding school and subsequently a long line of imported tutors, he had achieved straight C’s in his A-levels, English and Needlework. He was predicted a knitting B, not achieved and some people unkindly suggested he was the very essence of dumbed down, as frequently referred from the government front benches. Pimple’s father was firmly planted on the back benches of the Lords, but still, Pimple Senior, resolutely espoused the party line, naturally; he was not a rotter.

dumbed downPimple, the reporter, covered mainly court news, ruffians being banged up and so on and, society articles, which made him eminently qualified, or so his mother believed, to do a Human Interest story on what had happened in Frisian Tun. The Tun was a cutesy street in Southsea, itself a rather exclusive neck of the Portsmouth woods, thick, in a multitude of ways, outside observers might observe, with Southsea Socialites, many of whom were legends in their own opinions and conspicuous in their self-appointed elevated station within local society.

Human InterestToday, in this sensitively inactive street environment, Pimple’s complex nervousness arose from several additional scores. Probably the most important would be his mother, the formidable Dame Delores Pimple, who had insisted her brother and the proprietor of the Evening News, Sir Wendell Devonshire-Wallop, give his nephew more important journalistic tasks. “Wendy, it is time that Pimple Minor*…”

*Everard had an older brother Jocelyn Pimple, something in the city; a brick would be a fair assessment. So he would be Pimple Major

*Everard had an older brother Jocelyn Pimple, something in the city; a brick would be a fair assessment. So he would be Pimple Major

“… made his way in journalism”, she had said to her brother Sir Wendy, as Wendell was known.

Dame Delores was not a woman to be gain said, a fact Wendy had been well aware of throughout his life. His sister was older than him by some 6 years and carried with her all of the body mass and confidence this differential period might deferentially accumulate. She was a thoroughbred in every sense of the word, even down to her striking and some say patent, equine facial features. It has to be said though, in order to convey a reasonable likeness, there were some, mainly of a Canadian persuasion…

As it is also often said you have to be persuaded to live in the Colonies.

As it is also often said you have to be persuaded to live in the Colonies

… who could see in the Dame, the look of a moose, and certainly, if you knew what was good for you, you would not want to lock horns with the formidable woman.

Regardless of the debate on physical appearance that was kindly meant when people, ignoring the patent animal likeness depending from whence you hailed, referred to her as stout. Dame Pimple had a temperament and possibly the looks upon reflection, that probably came as a consequence of centuries of inbreeding, and not within the society of Moose and Horse (a well-known posh society magazine), but within the Southsea stable of social inbreeds. It was joked around the newsroom, she was cloven hoofed, but even if that was just idle and malicious gossip, her oft evident temper was demonic in every sense and always hovered dangerously close to the surface.

a well-known posh society magazineAnother cause for Pimple’s complex fretfulness, as if his mother was not enough for a gentle soul, was that he had been recommended to do this follow up story by none other than Bernie LeBolt Thompson, the crime reporter of high repute on the Portsmouth Evening News. LeBolt’s reporting on this recent incident and many in the past, had been taken up by the Nationals. It was rumoured he had even been offered positions in Fleet Street, though the source of these rumours were suspected to be Bernie himself, being a consummate rumour-monger and proud of it. Bernie’s father had been a fish monger of some repute, so it was just a short step to rumour monger, logically, and that of course would be proof enough for any reputable journalist, even of repute; not a rumour to be sniffed at in a fishy way, so to speak.

rumourBernie had though, proudly declined all offers of alternative positions, saying he preferred this sleepy backwater of Portsmouth that had been anything but sleepy in the recent past. There had been though, until these very recent Frisian Tun events, an almost out-and-out armistice since Detective Chief Inspector Austin had taken, some say irresolutely, retirement from the police service.

And here we have the source of yet another irritant boil on the Pimple mental equilibrium, which struggled for stability at the best of times. Mr and Mrs Austin, he a newly retired (still to be established) Detective Chief Inspector, and she a Detective Superintendent, had also been at the centre of this latest effulgent incident in Frisian Tun, the street where they lived. Jack Austin, who was insisting his new name was d**k and not Jane, as he was known in the police and, is apparently in the process of having it changed by dead-pole…

still to be established

Pimple was sure he meant deed poll – but maybe not.

Pimple was sure he meant deed poll – but maybe not

… had said it was nothing to do with him. He had prefaced this with “Honest injuns”, apparently to show he was serious and, further reinforced his immunity from potential prosecution by crossing his fingers and calling out “Vein-lights”. Job done, and it is a wonder more of the seriously minded of our criminals did not partake of this form of defence, he, Jack Austin, had often thought and often said, though not to criminals, obviously.

However, not all of the Pimple bodily sensations were malevolent, though all of his internal commotions could be seen as caustic in one sense or another. The bubbles in his belly that had the interestingly additional effect of weakening significantly his lower limbs, causing him to not only pick, but bizarrely, feel weak in the knee joints, risking likely collapse at any time, were not due to nerves so much as s****l tension. s*x and its oft incumbent tension, was the curse of Pimple’s life as a virginal sap and, worse still, there was no sign of the status quo changing, which came with its own consequent tensions.

Until the previous morning that was.

Pimple lived, as do most lads half his age, forever in virginal hope, bordering on a particularly quiet form of hysteria. He knew no other form of hysteria, as whatever level of audibility was practically possible or indeed allowable, he always had to bear in mind that any form of exaggerated display of emotional feeling would immediately be out-exaggerated by Dame Pimple, his mother. And, as Jack Austin would say, knowing as he did, Dame Pimple well, it would be served back at Pimple Minor in buckets and spades, and likely with additional brass knobs. So Pimple bottled it up, never knowing when the cork would, if ever, be un-stoppered.

However, yesterday morning, a heavenly early July morning, the sun shone spiritually on Everard Pimple, though this was truly metaphoric as Pimple worked in a cupboard, but that is to not say he did not experience these feelings of wellbeing throughout his body. It would be reasonable to say that Everard Pimple’s star had risen, and the cause of that soaring heavenward comet of desire and delight was none other than, Cecelia Crumpet, a celestial being in all respects. Yesterday morning, Ms. Crumpet, the number one Evening News gossip columnist and siren of the news desks, had deliberately and not accidentally, strolled, in her slinky feline manner, which was the stuff of young men’s dreams, into Pimple’s stationery cupboard that masqueraded as an office. Nobody particularly liked to work with Sir Wendy’s nephew and this had nothing to do with his mother. Well, maybe a little bit. Well, a lot really.

Cecelia had made an exaggerated display of sitting herself on Pimple’s cheery Fablon topped, orange box desk, and leaned over in a revealing way, dressed as she was in a deep cut and billowy, gossamer thin blouse, which permitted Pimple a fleeting glance upon the frilly edge of her brassier; ivory with white lacy trim.

Fablon

Not that I was looking.

Not that I was looking

And, breathing huskily, to compound the overall siren effect, she leaned into Pimple’s well scrubbed ear, which had the familiar hint of peanut butter, Dame Pimple insisting Pimple minor wear a dab of peanut butter behind his ears each day to keep the floozies away, which clearly had worked up till now. Cecelia said in an asthmatic, though sexy way, ‘Take that Frisian Tun assignment Pimple and speak to Aedd Murphy at number 28, flat 2, he will fill you in.’

Ceeley, as Cecelia was sometimes known, considered the message conveyed and looked at the vacant Pimple expression to see if it had been received and, confident the principle if not all of the content had been absorbed, she made then to remove herself from Pimple’s orange box. In an overt exaggerating manner, she unfolded her shapely and long legs, permitting Pimple another fleeting and ecstatic pinnacle of s****l reverie; he was blessed with a momentary peek at her suspenders and stocking tops.

As most virginal saps, or just saps in general, know, although I am only guessing as I am writing as a female pseudonym and not I might add from the Isle of Lesbos, such a sight is all that is needed to make a lad’s day and night-time dreams.

As most virginal saps, or just saps in general, know, although I am only guessing as I am writing as a female pseudonym and not I might add from the Isle of Lesbos, such a sight is all that is needed to make a lad’s day and night-time dreams.Now, I hear you say, if you are writing as a female pseudonym, why not allow the readers to partake in a general description of Cecelia, as all we know of her so far is she is sexy, breathes as though she has a cold or smokes sixty a day, has a lacy ivory brassier and wears stockings. Well, ladies, if you ask your male partner, he will likely tell you this is really all you need to know and, perhaps this is early days in the life of a female pseudonym author, but if it helps - Cecelia had shiny black hair like Cathy McGowan had in the sixties, which flicked from her ears to her cheeks. She was tall, probably five ten, pale skin to a long face and dynamite red lipstick that reacted to devastating eyes that flared like an Italian sparkler to azure blue and, strangely, very active shoulders that appeared to move independent of her lacily contained bosoms; wide, and undulating in and out as she talked - not that I was really looking… sigh…

Now, I hear you say, if you are writing as a female pseudonym, why not allow the readers to partake in a general description of Cecelia, as all we know of her so far is she is sexy, breathes as though she has a cold or smokes sixty a day, has a lacy ivory brassier and wears stockings. Well, ladies, if you ask your male partner, he will likely tell you this is really all you need to know and, perhaps this is early days in the life of a female pseudonym author, but if it helps - Cecelia had shiny black hair like Cathy McGowan had in the sixties, which flicked from her ears to her cheeks. She was tall, probably five ten, pale skin to a long face and dynamite red lipstick that reacted to devastating eyes that flared like an Italian sparkler to azure blue and, strangely, very active shoulders that appeared to move independent of her lacily contained bosoms; wide, and undulating in and out as she talked - not that I was really looking… sigh…

‘Go on then.’ Ceeley said, and reinforced her assertion with her shoulders, but there was no way Pimple was going to be able to get up from his chair for at least an hour, suffering as he was from a virginal sap that had well and truly risen, similar in fashion to his star. Ceeley broadened her grin, displaying an array of perfectly presented and glinting, white enamel teeth that had the peekaboo hint of a rose bud tongue, conveying her pleasurable appreciation of Pimple’s predicament, knowing it was of her causing. And, with an affectionate stroke of his fluffy cheek that had still to display evidence of an inflexible bristle, she pouted a parting kiss and sashayed out of the stationary cupboard, displaying her arse cheeks to great effect; they were not at all stationery.

Make that two hours Pimple thought to himself, as he watched Ms. Crumpet disappear out of his cupboard, her backside curvaceously contained in a pencil skirt and he knew what moved and resided below it, he had seen it in all of his magazines. Make that three hours, which he employed to great effect researching his journalistic commission. This said a lot about Pimple, as many red blooded males would have toddled off to the toilet, hunched maybe, but definitely toddling, to efficaciously deal with an errant difficulty. However, Pimple was a consummate professional and with the aforementioned weak knees, toddling was not really on the cards anyway.