Pest on the Run: More Humorous Short Stories from the Paddy Pest Chronicles

By Gerry Burke

Paddy Pest is a hero to himself and others. Youd better believe it. The man has been fighting crime all his life and although he does have his shortcomings, he does try hard. Bless his heart, he really tries. And now, someone has put out a contract on him. Is there no justice?

Luckily for Paddy, his wing-person is the exquisite barmaid, Stormy Weathers, his longtime girlfriend and undercover perative. There is no more potent a force in the fight against corruption and wrongdoing, and the supersleuth is the favored go-to man for any number of international agencies. Admittedly, when the chips are down, they are always prepared to disown him.

Paddys relationship with Australias unmarried prime minister has tongues wagging, but in times of trouble, she wouldnt have anyone else by her side. And his relationship with Frankie Hogan, the bordello queen? Well, thats another story.

Paddys tales of intrigue are unbelievable and even Maxwell Smart would be impressed. He makes that gentleman look like a genius.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475943986

Gerry Burke

Gerry Burke received a Jesuit inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, he was employed by an international mining company, which included a three year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative in order to stave off dementia. He has since penned 6 novels, 6 volumes of short stories, and 2 offerings of commentary and opinion relating to Politics, Entertainment, Sport, and Travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of his popular protagonist Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere. Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the centre-point of the author’s humour-laden resume. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim. Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established with ten of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. His last three volumes have received multiple citations. Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses. http://gerryburke.net

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Gerry Burke

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4397-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4399-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4398-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012914550

iUniverse rev. date: 08/17/2012

EXPLANATORY NOTE

I would like to assure my readers that the situations that evolve during the telling of these heart-warming tales are only loosely based on reality. That I have allowed my alter-ego, Patrick Pesticide aka Paddy Pest, to take control of this manuscript is, I believe, a severe misjudgment.

Obviously, some of his portrayals, such as Sachiko Seaweed, Jay Sniggle and Nils Nicklebuster, are doubtful characterizations. You may well recognize the names of some folks in this volume, but I can advise you that the descriptive passages and the circumstance relating to their inclusion are completely fictitious.

However, it is no coincidence that the particularly nasty villains have been named after those people who owe me money.

* * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editing Services:

Kylie Moreland & John Craigie

Pictorial content courtesy of various

Thinkstock, iStockphoto and Fotolia collections

1.%20iStockphoto%20105628246%20Russian%20Club.jpg

Murder at Club Russia: courtesy of iStockphoto

INTRODUCTION

P addy Pest likes to tell his own stories, so forget about me. What I can do is give you some kind of character analysis of the man. Unfortunately, it is not a very pretty story.

God knows where he acquired that moniker, Patrick Pesticide; I think it came out from Ireland with his father. The fellow drifted into private practice after some less than satisfying stints with the local wallopers in Melbourne and MI6 in London. He feels that this gives him the authorization to classify himself as an international crime fighter. Certainly, he has ingratiated himself with intelligence agencies in France, America, Japan and the Far East. That he has an almost unblemished success rate with these people is quite extraordinary. That he is still alive is even more unbelievable.

The latter situation is probably down to his wing-person, Stormy Weathers, who is a fellow spy and totally competent. Stormy is one of the senior people at Sam’s Fly by Night Club, which is a clandestine operation, funded by ASIO. This organization is Australia’s premier intelligence service and never, in a million years, would they fess up to the fact that they even know Paddy Pest. Things work better that way.

What I find hard to believe is that Stormy is so beautiful. I put this down to the fact that Pest is writing these stories himself. He does have an engaging personality but he is not averse to working on the wrong side of the law, when it suits him. Somehow, he seems to attract hot babes wherever he goes. Charmers like me never seem to make it to first base.

So, strap yourself in for a roller-coaster ride of adventure and intrigue, murder, mayhem and general chaos. These are the ingredients that typify any Paddy Pest story. I hope that you come back for more.

Gerry Burke

Contents

FROM A JACK TO A QUEEN

THE KILLER FROM MANILA

PEST AND THE BODY THAT DIDN’T BOUNCE

PEST LOSES HIS APPETITE

DEBRA’S SUN DANCE IN SOHO

THE CANDIDATE

PEST AND THE WIMBLEDON STRAWBERRIES

THE KIWI KLEPTOMANIAC

THE GOODBYE WAVE

A LONG TIME GONE

WHO WAS THAT MASKED MAN?

PEST ON THE RUN

THE GREEK STING

MURDER BEFORE LUNCH

PEST AND THE BADASS BARITONE

FROM A JACK TO A QUEEN

S he didn’t like crap games with barons and earls, and wouldn’t dish the dirt with the rest of the girls. Did that make the lady a tramp? The Argus thought so. So did The Sun . The Truth tabloid newspaper had her on their front cover every other week. I thought that she was delightful and her fresh and enthusiastic outlook on life was exemplary. There wasn’t anything or anyone who would stand in her way when she was on a roll and, believe me, she knew how to roll. I just couldn’t understand why anybody would want to murder the mercurial madam.

I first met Frankie Hogan at the Tivoli, way back when. As a young girl she was bright, effervescent, a bit flirty and genuinely appealing to most people who met her. The Tiv was a vaudeville house, and Frances was a high-kicker in the chorus line. I was doing a bit of soft-shoe and telling a few jokes. She had lied about her age to get the audition. This wasn’t such a big deal in those days.

I don’t know why we hit it off but we did and I watched her progress through the ranks and saw her become a solo performer. Frankie watched me get thrown out into the street when my material continually failed to connect with the audience. I also used to drink a bit in those days. At one point, we had a bit of a heart to heart and she told me that I would have to lift my game. I was a drunk, a thief, a rogue and a general badass. There was only one employment opportunity for people like that — so I joined the police force.

Times were tough, and I was lucky to have a job. It wasn’t long before Frankie was also out on the street. People were looking for different entertainment options: like bingo and fruit machines. The Tivoli closed suddenly and permanently, and the unemployment office became a reunion point for show business people. Frankie often shared my donut when I was on the beat in the vicinity of the dole queue.

Her first big break came when she met Jumping Jack Hughes. Jack used to run most of the illegal games in town. His was the oldest established game in Melbourne and his specialty was two-up — the fairest contest in the world. You get heads or tails. There are no other options. Naturally, Jumping Jack took his commission and this was needed because there were property rental charges to consider as he jumped from one location to another, with the police in hot pursuit. If I was the first policeman to arrive at the designated location, I always managed a few games before the other officers caught up. By then, there were only cigarette stubs to be found.

One fateful Friday in February, Frankie Hogan slipped into one of Jack’s gaming establishments in Hardware Lane. Women were not welcome in these places unless they were Chinese. The Chinese people in general are respected for their dedication to gambling, and many of the big man’s clients were of that particular ethnic persuasion. Frankie decided that she would dress up like a man. She wore black patent leather shoes, charcoal grey trousers (which she had borrowed from her brother), a white cotton shirt with red braces and a fawn cardigan. She could have worked for the taxation department.

The lady didn’t get far. Jack was immediately suspicious and frisked her. When he wasn’t sure — he frisked her again.

Welcome to the big game, my dear. Do you come here often?

Well, er, ah.

Don’t be frightened. I’m not going to throw you out. Would you like a drink?

Jack Hughes was quite taken with Frankie Hogan and he thought that she had balls, even though she was a woman. After all the players had departed, the entrepreneur asked her to stay behind and he explained some of the finer points of the game that they had been playing — two-up. Actually, as I already explained, there are no fine points to this game. You either throw heads or tails. You win or lose. Nevertheless, this was time well spent, apart from having to listen to his fatherly advice about how to step out of your trousers without creasing them. For this, he got a slap in the face.

Mr Hughes, if you don’t mind, I’m a good Catholic girl and we don’t do that kind of thing.

Why don’t you call me Jack, Frankie? All my other employees do.

Yes, Jack put her on the payroll. She became his runner and that meant scooting about at his whim and will. She had to reconnoiter for suitable locations for the game and even became a recruiter of potential players. In time, she relinquished this menial role and was promoted to front of house to meet and greet. She had a natural personality and the punters loved her.

Hello Mr Premier, how are you this evening? Do we have a little excess in the budget this week?

Very droll, Miss Hogan. That’s a beautiful red dress that you’re wearing. I hope it doesn’t represent your politics.

And so it went on. Jumping Jack’s reputation soared, and so did his bank balance. His contacts in government were critical, and he seemed to be always able to avoid prosecution. JJ’s betting venues became bigger and better and, eventually, when gambling was officially sanctioned, he was first in line for a gaming license. Frankie went along for the ride, and it wasn’t long before she was making her own headlines in the daily press, even though it was the social pages.

She stepped out with all of Melbourne’s most eligible bachelors and some who weren’t bachelors. I seem to recall Popeye Sturgeon, the respected ENT surgeon. Then there was Bunt Glover, the baseball player, and even Geoffrey Peddleston, the darling of the social set. There was a rumor that Geoffrey used to peddle party drugs to the high end of town, but I refused to believe it. Frankie would not be party to anything like that.

2.%20Hermera%20100694910%20Geoffrey%20Peddleston.jpg

Geoffrey Peddleston

Jumping Jack Hughes was not a man to rest on his laurels, and it wasn’t long before he expanded his business. A brothel near his casino was an obvious adjunct to his gambling interests and he entertained a lot of his big players there. So did Frankie. She was the madam.

At this stage I had left the police force and was schlepping around as a gumshoe. Getting paid was a bit of a struggle but I had accumulated quite a piggy bank by virtue of my days in the force. Not that much of it was down to salary, mind you. I won’t say that I was straight or bent — somewhere in the middle. Later, when I had to breach my piggy bank, I got myself into a bit of a muddle. Frankie helped me out on a number of occasions, when I was down on my luck, but I always paid her back. We were staunch allies and good friends.

As you might guess, one brothel is small potatoes, so Mr Hughes expanded his empire and even started up a few late night bars in the city. Sam’s Fly by Night Club used to be one of his — before it became classy. I sometimes provided protection for Frankie when she did the rounds collecting the takings from the other bordellos. I had friends on both sides of the law and this gave me some measure of respect. She was never mugged when I was on guard duty.

* * *

Frankie’s death was highly suspicious. With five bullets in her bodice, I didn’t think that it could have been a hunting accident or anything like that. She did own a gun, but it was not capable of causing that much damage. The slapper from the homicide squad was an old friend and he let me attend the autopsy. There were quite a few other officers there who were not attached to the case, so I presumed that they must have been customers. They probably wanted to check out whether her little black book was still in her purse.

I don’t like going to the morgue. Everything is so shiny, the place smells like hospital food and the elevator music is archaic. The medical examiner hadn’t changed over the years. He still thought that he was a clown and tried to lighten the mood with a few morbid jokes. I was in no mood to smile. One of my best pals was lying on a slab and he was going to carve her into little pieces. There was only one reason that I was there. I wanted a lead and if I could determine the caliber of bullet used, I was on my way. Detective Inspector Guy knew what I was after and made sure that one of the flattened bullets made its way into the evidence bag via a long and circuitous route. I only needed a few seconds to establish that I would be looking for someone who owned a Makarov PB with an integral suppressor, a silencer. That person would be Russian. At one time or other, the gun would have been owned by a KGB agent. It was their weapon of choice.

Frankie had not been murdered at work. She was shot in her attractive apartment, only a few miles out of town. South Yarra is a favorite suburb for the well-heeled and its tree-lined streets and boulevards are supplemented by chic boutiques and fashionable restaurants. Because of this trendy profile, the place can be a magnet for those who boast burglary as their chosen profession. However, I don’t think that this was a heist. I had been to Frankie’s apartment and she had good security. I always like to return to the scene of the crime but I knew that I would not get inside without Detective Guy in attendance, so I hovered in the street and mixed with the small crowd that had gathered. Who do you think I ran into?

Well, if it isn’t Bunt Glover. What are you doing here, Bunt? Did you hear the news?

I did, Paddy. I couldn’t believe it. I had to come over here and see for myself. Do they know how it happened?

She was shot five times, and then finished off with a baseball bat. She’s hardly recognizable.

Perhaps it’s not her. After all, if she is disfigured …

I’m afraid it is, Bunt. I recognized some of her birthmarks. It wasn’t your baseball bat, was it?

I don’t know. She used to have one of my autographed specials in her apartment but I haven’t seen her for some time. Excuse me, Paddy. I need a drink. I’ll see you later.

Bunt Glover disappeared into the night and I removed my notebook and wrote his name on the suspect page. Sure, he wasn’t Russian, but he did drink a lot of vodka and that was good enough for me.

* * *

Jack Hughes had been in a good paddock since I last saw him. That Ermenegildo Zegna three-piece suit couldn’t disguise the fact that his vest was almost bursting its buttons and he seemed to have accumulated an extra chin since our last meeting. Nevertheless, that luxuriant shock of ginger hair was as unruly as ever; I couldn’t understand why he didn’t try and corral it. Nobody would have had the guts to call him a Nancy Boy, if he went with a nice ponytail or some gel but, hey, what do I know? I’m not the style police.

Well, if it isn’t the bent copper from Collingwood. Give him a dram of our best Scotch, Dolores. We can’t have the law going thirsty, can we?

Dolores was the only secretary that I knew who worked with a bar built into her desk. I wondered what other duties she performed for her boss, who I am sure didn’t recruit her from secretarial college.

I’m private these days, Jack, but I think you already knew that. I’m here about poor Frankie. She was one of yours, and she went down in a hail of bullets. What do you know about it?

The man didn’t speak for all of thirty seconds and when he did there was no longer any warmth in his voice. He had obviously been rocked by recent events, or else he was academy award material. I had to take him on face value.

I know that you and Frankie were pals, Pest, but she was my best bunny. We went back a long way, and the gal was a terrific partner and great for business. There are a lot of people who will want to avenge her death, including me.

Any further conversation with Jumping Jack was stifled by an interruption from Dolores.

"Your eight p.m. appointment has arrived Mr Hughes. Vladimir Badkov is waiting in the Fantasy Room. I have given his associates some chips and vodka, and sent them to the Last Chance Saloon."

Good work, Dolores. I’ll be right there. Sorry, Pest, but I have a high-roller to entertain. We can’t ignore the money, no matter where it comes from. Let me know how your investigation goes. I’ll help in any way I can.

So, there you have it. I was out on the street again and none the wiser. Of course, Jack Hughes was added to my list of suspects and I also had to check my diary. There were so many Russians in town I thought it must have been Mayday or Stalin’s birthday. There was one organization that could help me find my bearings and they promoted regular social functions in order that their members might assimilate. I made my way to a certain restaurant/bar in St Kilda and immediately hit the jackpot. Club Russia had an assimilation project well under way, except that there were no non-Slavic people there and English was in short supply. However, there was good looking crumpet everywhere, and I knew that I couldn’t leave without properly assessing the situation.

You are attractive man. Are you from Ukraine? I am Kristina from Kiev. I like vodka.

Of course you do, Kristina. So do I. My name is Paddy. Chilled, I presume?

The vodka was bitterly cold, but the chick from Kiev was totally hot. She had shoulder length blonde hair that could have been any color to start with and her lips were of the pouting kind. I don’t even think that Botox could have improved them. The sexy mama had deep penetrating bedroom eyes, and I imagine that this was the first room that anyone thought about once they met her. She was snuggling up to me so tightly I couldn’t really get a good look down below, but I can tell you that she felt pretty comfortable. However, there seemed to be a professional aspect to her advances, so I decided on a long-shot question.

Tell me, Kristina. Have you been in Melbourne long? Do you know a lady called Frankie Hogan?

Immediately, her whole demeanor changed. The smile faded and the body warmth evaporated. She stepped back and took a long swig of her vodka. The firebrand finished it off in a flash and, before she walked off, she mumbled to me with a complete lack of believability.

I not know this woman, Madam Frankie. If you don’t like Kristina, I go.

With that, she disappeared through the crowd, and I was left to wonder how she knew that my friend had been a madam. From that moment I became conscious that eyes were upon me. It was patently obvious that the word was out: avoid the schmuck in the drip-dry trousers. Even my best pick-up lines weren’t working on these honeys. They just excused themselves seconds after I approached. Naturally, I wondered who was pulling their chain.

Due to the complete lack of hospitality I decided to evacuate myself from the bonhomie of within and stake out the joint from without. It was quite a long vigil, and the wafting smells of sizzling steaks, pizzas and kebabs swept down Fitzroy Street in a blatant attempt to diminish my resolve. It worked. I sat down at one of the pavement tables outside a café and ordered a meal. The waiter was a citizen of some east European country. I think he must have brought their food shortage with him.

No veal. It is off.

Well, in that case, I’ll have the chicken schnitzel.

No more chicken. Cabbage soup, dumplings or borscht, we have, if you are lucky. The chef is drunk. His wife have premenstrual tension. She is owner.

A sane person would have moved to the diner across the road, but this chicken wasn’t going to cross the road when I had a perfect eye-line to Club Russia’s party venue. Yours truly hit the jackpot when I discovered that the production of a baloney sandwich was possible. I supplemented the order with a Tequila Slammer. With time on my hands (one rarely makes it to Sam’s Fly by Night Club before midnight), I settled down to see what would eventuate.

At around midnight, the party appeared to be breaking up. The Russkies left the premises in dribs and drabs and it wasn’t long before Kristina appeared, flanked by two beautiful Bolsheviks. They were heading in my direction and it appeared to me that they had sampled a Slivovitz or two. The girls were laughing their heads off when they reached my sentinel position. The bleached blonde with the haughty attitude stopped in her tracks when I challenged her.

Doodle, doodle, doodle dina — I know a girl and her name is Kristina.

Her friends started to giggle and they obviously thought that this was an encounter the lady might enjoy because they kept on walking. She just stood there, staring at me. I asked her to join me at the table but she furtively looked over her shoulder and pointed to the diner across the road. It looked like I was going to spend some time with sane people after all. We crossed the road separately and disappeared into the inner depths of the diner. A booth at the back was a perfect refuge for those who didn’t wish to be observed. We had hardly sat down when the waiter arrived. He was a walking, talking vaudeville act.

"Hi folks, welcome to The Laughing Policeman, where every minute is happy hour and the prices are fair cop. Can I get you something from the bar?"

I fixed him with my now famous withering stare and sent him on his way. Surprise us, I said, and he scampered off to the bar, delirious with the fact that I had just ordered the most expensive drinks on the menu. I turned my attention to the buxom blonde with the bedroom eyes.

So, Kristina, it’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.

Sarcasm is often lost on people from another country and this one wasn’t the brightest light on the tree. She narrowed her eyes and peered at me, as if deciding whether I was friend or foe. I winked at her and this seemed to reassure the lady. She put her hand under her right breast and gave her bra a bit of a hitch, sniffed a couple of times, and then addressed me in a conspiratorial tone.

I am sorry, darlink, but Club Russia attracts bad people who not like Madam Frankie. These people are gangsters who carry guns. You are stranger — not a welcome stranger.

I understand your fear of these hoodlums, Kristina, but it is more than that, isn’t it? Would I be right if I guessed that you worked for Frankie Hogan?

Yes, Madam Frankie employ some girls from Ukraine and Belarus — also Chinese and Thai girls.

The waiter arrived with our drinks — a Black Russian for Kristina and a Singapore Sling for me. He was cheeky, but he had a bit of flair about him. When the lad had gone, I asked Kristina what she thought of Frankie. I wanted to know whether we were on the same page.

Madam Frankie was the nicest, friendliest, most honest lady I know. She treat all girls with respect and support us against customer dogs that go too far. She was lovely person.

3.%20iStockphoto%202177320%20Bordello%20Queen.jpg

Frankie Hogan: Bordello Queen

My God, I hadn’t heard an endorsement like that since the release of The Manchurian Candidate, and she couldn’t have been completely brainwashed. She only had half a brain.

It seems like you already know that Frankie is dead. Can I ask you how you found out?

Of course! You are very attractive man. I tell you everything. It was Mr Peddleston who told me.

Geoffrey Peddleston, the fashion designer?

Yes, that is the one. He is also very attractive man, no?

I didn’t like to commit an opinion on that question as I had never been up close and personal with the enigmatic Mr Peddleston. Certainly, he was a darling of the media but his source of income was questionable. If those clothing designs of his were commercially marketable, then I knew nothing about fashion. I gave my drip-dry slacks a bit of a tug to relieve the crutch drag and re-focused on the conversation. The lady was still talking; she was discussing my marital status. This topic needed my complete attention.

So, Mr Paddy, I think it nice for you to marry me. I am very excellent cook and make good wife. When I am bad, you will like that too.

Oh my goodness, is that the time? I must be off. Please excuse me, Kristina.

I hadn’t realized that a leap year had come around again so quickly. Her proposition needed thinking about, but not right then. This was the time to bolt for the security of Sam’s Fly by Night Club, so I bought her another drink and made my excuses. She hoped that we would meet again.

The chintz curtains and tasteless décor of Sam’s is always an inspiration to those whose expectations are beyond redemption. The soft lighting couldn’t camouflage or disguise the radiant beauty of Melbourne’s most elegant entertainment director, Stormy Weathers. Of course, I was expected, as I always am, and received the perfunctory peck on the cheek followed by the cold shoulder. I don’t know why females are born with such sensitive noses. She had recognized the scent of a woman on my person — another woman.

After the usual pleasantries with the other regulars, I made my way to the bar and ordered a Dorothy Lamour. It had already been a rum night, so why not go all the way. I needed time to think because this case was going all over the place and I had to get it right. After all, I was personally involved.

The key to any investigation is to try and isolate a motive, but I had zilch. Geoffrey Peddleston could be involved with drugs. Bunt Glover was renowned for his fierce temper and Jumping Jack Hughes, the gorilla with the ginger hair, had his fingers in a hundred pies. Yet, none of these people were Russian. Did they have to be? I suppose anybody could use a Makarov pistol, if they could get hold of one. I wondered if the mysterious casino visitor, Mr Badkov, was a gun-runner. I once knew a scoundrel from Tasmania who had a bad cough, and he was a gun-runner.

My thoughts were interrupted when the delightful barmaid, Jennifer, alerted me to the fact that I had a telephone call. The phone was at the end of the bar. The caller was John Guy and the detective didn’t sound like he was glad to be awake at two a.m.

There have been developments, Paddy. Frankie Hogan’s apartment has been broken into and trashed. I’m going over there now, if you want to tag along.

Thanks for that, Inspector. I’m leaving as we speak.

Frankie always kept a tight ship, but it looked like someone had opened the bulwarks and the sea had rushed in. Chairs and sofas had been turned over and drawers were scattered all over the rooms, their contents strewn about willy nilly. The television screen had been kicked in, and most of Frankie’s artwork had been slashed. One of Norman Mingo’s classic portraits of Alfred E. Nueman lay on the floor, along with her autographed photo of Nelson Mandela. It was hard to work out whether the intruders were looking for something or just venting their rage. They had urinated on Frankie’s Persian carpet. It was wet enough to give my urologist heartburn. However, this gave Inspector Guy some satisfaction. They would be able to extract some DNA.

We were in the bedroom when the policeman started sniffing. One should never underestimate the contribution of one’s nostrils in law enforcement. Somebody once told me that.

Tell me, Paddy. Can you smell it — cheap perfume? It must be recent, and it certainly hasn’t come out of those bottles over there. They are expensive.

Perhaps you can step away from me, and then tell me if you still smell it. I have recently been to St Kilda.

He looked at me dismissively and proceeded with his search. Another lead had gone begging. I pulled back the covers of the bed to see if both pillows had been fully utilized recently. The CSI gang had already determined that there were no tell-tale fluids on the bedclothes and I surmised that the lady had taken to sleeping alone. It’s the best way to obtain the recommended number of zeds.

Frankie had been shot and battered near the front door. The perp must have been a visitor, known or unknown.

There was nothing more for us there and I needed some shut-eye. The ’morrow would be my niece’s confirmation day and one needs to respect family traditions — even if most of the people in my family are certifiable. I could surely spend one day away from depraved villains and homicidal gangsters. How was I to know that such a luxury would not be forthcoming?

The Church of St George and