Moon Beamed

By K M Kay

What links a photograph, a distraught prostitute, and a house at the end of a lane?

A detective who's too nice.

A sergeant who's too impulsive.

A DCI who's too mean.

A snatched handbag that seems too lowly for an Inspector.

 

Meet DI Harrison Moon, single, father of a lazy daughter, silent movie fan, and head of a department that chases down bicycle thieves and bagsnatchers.

It wasn't always this way.

Once upon a time, he was a highflyer, famed for an intuition that closed case after case in Serious Crimes.

However, after a change of leadership, a new 'get tough' policy was implemented.

Totally opposed to arresting the public for the slightest of misdemeanors, Moon was shunted to a new post - Community Policing. Although the hours were good, it did put the kibosh on his career.

Looked down on, derided for being too woke, forced to accept the most hapless and hopeless of coppers, Moon is coasting along, with a possible early retirement the only thing to look forward to. And then ... a bang on the head changes everything.

What will DI Moon Do Now?

 

Join DI Moon on his first adventure and find out.

 

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For fans of: JD Kirk, Stuart MacBride, Adrian McKinty, Christopher Brookmyre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K M Kay
• Release date: Dec 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215645598

Book preview

Moon Beamed

K.M. Kay

Copyright, 2022, Author

CHAPTER ONE

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

Moon, in his bed, rudely pulled from a sweet exotic dream, a lovely beach in the Bahamas, a dusky maiden in a skimpy bikini next to him, sat on deckchairs, Mai Tais between them, squints one-eyed at his alarm clock. 1.30 in the morning. The crack of dawn still snoozing. Slowly waking up to …

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

Was that his phone? Had some idiot switched his ringtone to an asinine dance beat?

No. Outside.

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

What's outside? Old Mrs Erickson on his left, 82, not noted for playing dance music at 1.30 in the morning. Neither were Mr and Mrs Winston on his right, god-fearing folk, Jehovah's Witnesses. Kept a nice garden, though.

No, somewhere else. Out to sea? Ridiculous. Unless a party boat had gotten lost. Down on the beach, probably. Youngsters in search of a good time.

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

Sounded like they'd found it. He should let them be, search for his earplugs, get back to sleep. In the morning, they'd be gone, leaving only a mountain of trash behind as evidence that they were ever there. Such was life when you lived close to a popular resort.

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

THUM THUM THUM

BUMF BUMF BUMF

Nope. Too loud. He'd need to move into a submarine to block out that racket.

He swung his legs out of bed, crossed to the window, opened the curtains to peek out and down, saw nothing but his own car in the driveway. Across the road, a stretch of grass, then a waist-high wall. The beach was down below, 150 steps, his house looking out across the bay. Couldn't see anyone, but didn't expect to. On a nice day, you could see out across the bay, to the dilapidated castle on the hill. Smashing view. Not so much at night, though. Pitch black.

He should call the cops. Except, he was a cop. Detective Inspector. Not really a job for a suit like him. Uniforms should be dealing with it. Then he saw the bright, flashing blue lights of a car, siren off, and another, then a police van, and a fourth car, blocking his drive, cheeky sods. Suppose he should go down. Flash his warrant card. Show his face. Offer his support for the boys and girls in blue. Well, yellow, their fluorescent jackets climbing out of vehicles, voices raised. Someone took charge and they all trooped down the steps to join the party on the beach.

Moon climbed into a sweatshirt, pair of jeans, slip-on shoes, went downstairs, made himself a cup of hot chocolate, opened his front door, stood drinking it, stood drinking it, a summer night's gentle breeze on his sleep-deprived face. He watched as the young revellers trudged up from the beach, spilling out onto the road, some laughing, some shouting, most just milling about in front of the cop cars, as though the police were about to start a party of their own and they didn't want to miss out.

At least the music had stopped, Moon thought. Peace in our time. Until.

The uniform in charge, a sergeant, tried his best to move the crowd on. Then some of the more aggressive youths came up from the beach and started kicking off. One tried to nick the extendable baton from a female cop. She shoved him back. He tripped over, pushed his mates, who pushed him back, right into the female cop. She went down and cried out. Then pandemonium.

Other cops piled in, dragging the young scrote off their colleague. This was seen as a bit too violent for some of the opposition and they, fuelled by drink, drugs and machismo, waded into the thin blue line. The thin blue line got thicker as other yellow jackets sprinted up from the beach. Fight, fight, fight.

Christ, Moon thought. This could get ugly. Puts his cup down just inside his door. He's not one for hiding when it comes to his fellow officers getting a kicking, so he jumps into the fray, shoving a beefy bloke off a young cop. He shouts his name, Inspector Moon, police officer. The beefy bloke comes back at him with a 'So fucking what', tries a roundhouse. Moon sees it coming a mile off and spins him around. The guy goes down. Moon is about to jump on the guy's back, adrenaline flowing, psyched up to the max. What he doesn't see is the young copper, the one he's just rescued, pumped up, adrenaline also flowing, take out his baton. He hasn't got beefy lined up but Moon, just sees a man wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, assumes he's the enemy, and cracks the fella on the back of the head. The blow lands with some force. Moon goes down, knees first, followed by a face-plant into solid pavement.

Just before he passes out, he hears another cop shout, 'Jenkins, you pillock, that's DI Moon'. Moon doesn't hear any of this. It's lights out and officer down.

CHAPTER TWO

Inspector Moon? Inspector Moon? Can you hear me?

Blerg. Arf. Mumph.

I'm Doctor Singh.

Sup?

You've had a nasty crack on the head, that's what's up. No, try to lie still, Inspector Moon. Don't get yourself all excited.

Time is it?

Moon wakes slowly, groggy head, throbbing, like a death metal band had taken up residence behind his eyeballs, and the lead singer was tapping the microphone over and over.

Inspection time, Inspector Moon.

He opens his eyes, sees a man leaning over him, a pen light in his hand. The light agitates the death metal band and the tap, tap tapping in his head gets louder.

Keep your eyes open for me.

Doesn't give him a choice as his eyelids are prised apart.

Right, says the doctor. Not too bad. He snaps the light off and sticks it in the top pocket of his white coat. Can you follow my pen?

Difficult not to when it's up so close, waving back and forth.

That's good, Inspector Moon. Do you know your first name?

The finger goes away, and he grunts. Yeah. Harrison.

Harry's son? Who's Harry? Is that your father?

Me.

You're your father?

What?

You think you're your father, Harry?

Oh, great. He'd died and they'd sent an idiot to watch over him. No. Harrison. Harrison Moon. That's me.

OK, Harry. We'll get that cleared up later. Do you know who the Prime Minister is?

Yeah, he's the bastard who's just appointed a new Home Secretary and then told her to give all officers a good kick in the nuts. Didn’t say that, tells the doctor the right answer and gets and another 'good'.

And can you remember what happened, Harry? Why you’re here?

Existentially?

What? Ah, no. Very good. No, not existentially. In this hospital.

I'm in a hospital? He frowns, then remembers wading in to the fight, the beefy bloke, then – what? What happened next?

Yes, Harry. You're in hospital.

What happened?

You took a blow to the head. Nasty one. From a truncheon, I believe.

Baton, he said.

What's that?

We use batons. Truncheons were too short, so we stopped using them. You can whack more people with a baton.

Yes, well, be that as it may, you took one of these batons the head. Quite a few blows, it seems.

That'll teach me to help the uniforms out. He reached out to fondle the thick bandage wrapped around his head. How long have I been out?

The doctor slapped Moon's hand away from the bandage. Let's not undo all our good work, Inspector. And, to answer your question, about 8 hours. We were worried. A man doesn't wake up from a head injury and it's usually quite serious. But look at you all chatty and smiley. I'd claim your stunning recovery on my brilliant doctoring, if I could get away with it. But, to be honest, I haven't a clue why you've suddenly woke up. What we'll do is to wheel you down for an MRI scan, take a gander at the old grey matter. That should give us a better idea of what's going on.

Moon, suddenly worried, said, You think it’s serious?

The doctor laughed. Away with you, Inspector! You'll be back at work in no time. He stuck his pen back in his pocket, gave him a smile. No, it's just a precaution. And we'll take some samples from you, as well: blood, urine, stools. We'll give you the full treatment.

Lucky me.

Doctor Singh turned away from Moon's bed, raised a farewell hand. That's the spirit, Inspector.  A nurse will be along shortly to collect all your yucky stuff. There's a temperature to be taken, too, but we've run out of rectal thermometers, so it really is your lucky day.

After the doc left, a tired-looking nurse came along. He was led to the bathroom with a few pots and told to fill them up. When he did so, his blood was taken, and the nurse disappeared. But not before she'd whipped his curtain round, revealing the rest of the ward he was on. He was in the middle bed of three, three more across the way. And older guy was on his right, thin, cancerous face, sound asleep. To his left was a fat guy, chuckling to himself, tablet propped up, headphones on. Moon tried to catch his eye, to nod hello, but the guy wasn't having it, fully engrossed in a movie of some sort. Across the way, an empty bed, then two more guys, both with anxious visitors, wrapped up in themselves.

Moon tried to enjoy the peace but grew bored. He wondered what had happened when he was taken to hospital. He remembered closing the front door to his house before he jumped into the fight but knew it wasn't locked. Fortunately, he lived in a decent neighbourhood so wasn't too worried about being burgled. He missed his phone, though. The one sitting at home, on his bedside table with a charger plugged in. Could have spent the time in here catching up on text messages and email. Or, better yet, could have loaded a show up himself, just like Jonny Fat Guy there.

Moon was a fan of the silent movie era and had a decent collection on DVD. YouTube had a few good, full length movies, though, and he could have spent his downtime watching something like Safety Last again, Harold Lloyd's 1923 classic, the one where he climbs up the side of the building and ends up dangling from the big clock.

Or he could have used his phone as an actual phone and called his team at the station. Well, his sergeant, anyway, DS Kira 'Clara' Bow, remind her to crack the whip, make sure the troops were doing actual police work and not, say, filling in Sudoku puzzles as DC Leonard 'Lon' Chaney was want to do the minute you took your eyes off him. Make sure, too, that DC Bob 'Oliver' Hardy was following the right leads and not off on some tangent where he'd declare that the butler did it, in the library, with Professor Plum. Then there was DC Jodi 'Theda' Barrow to track down. If you could find her. Her desk being the last place to look. Then he had his two other DC’s who needed monitoring, Alice 'Mabel' Normand and Rudi 'Rudolph' Valentine. Mabel, because she was either chattering on the phone to one of her many relatives, or tripping over the office furniture. Rudolph needed watching to make sure he wasn't romancing any more older, married ladies, especially the Super’s wife. Again. Not, all things considered, an elite team of coppers. But they meant well. Except for Lon Chaney, aka Mole Man, a secret moniker Kira had given him. Not just because of his looks but because he was grassing them all up to their boss, DCI Purvis Trent.

Where to start with Trent? Mid-forties, suave, handsome, adept greasy-pole climber. Always knew which way the wind was blowing, and made sure to bend with it. Attached himself, limpet-like, to the philosophies of their new Superintendent, a zero-tolerance policing man to the core of his being. So Trent quickly reinvented himself and became a zero too. Pat on the back from the new Super, and granted most-favoured copper status, he was the golden boy of the station.

Those who didn't subscribe to new zeitgeist had to go, or be shifted sideways to somewhere they could do the least harm, and were practically invisible. Which is where he, Harrison Moon, fitted in. Seeing zero-tolerance policing as doing more harm than good, he was shifted sideways to head up a new department called Community Policing. This department was to be a dumping ground for all the shit jobs that nobody else wanted and that were going absolutely nowhere. Staffed with all the wrong people, the misfits, the hopeless, the nearly retired, it was not expected to achieve much. And didn't disappoint on that score. Sure, they arrested people, even charged some of them, but nothing glamourous, nothing that would ever hit the headlines. Unless the local papers were looking for stories that featured pensioners found with tins of beans in coat pockets and no receipt. Which, given the parlous state of journalism in this area, wasn't entirely out of the question.

Not that Moon was bitter. Not now, anyway. At first he was, when the zeros took over. Superintendent Marcus Grayling, or jailing Grayling, as he was known, was an old school Conservative who didn't have much time for community or preventative policing. He was a man who didn't think criminals could be rehabilitated and wanted harsher sentences for just about everything. Smoked a joint once, on your birthday? Jail. Too poor to pay for that speeding ticket? Jail. Got pie-eyed and stole a traffic cone? Jail. Moon had pointed out that harassing the public for minor indiscretions tended to rub people up the wrong way. They then became less inclined to help the police when help was needed. It was hard enough as it was to get people to cooperate. They were hardly likely to break out the red carpet if you'd just fined them for not laying down any underlay. For pointing out the flaws in this zero tolerance policing, he'd been seen as the enemy himself and so had been sent packing to the least desirable department in town.

Of course, he sulked for a few weeks, before he realised that the perks of the new job weren't so bad. For one, his new department only worked from 7.00am till 7.00pm, so there were no nights. Which was a godsend when you were over the age of 40. For another, the new job wasn't as stressful as it was with the high-profile crimes he used to deal with. The late nights and the stress were what killed his marriage, and nearly ruined his relationship with his daughter. So, in a way, he was glad to be out of all that. Sure, he'd like to tackle a few juicy crimes, who wouldn't, but with juicy crimes came juicy pressure and, if you screwed up, a juicy arse-kicking. True, he was now treated with scorn and pity from his colleagues, looked down on, even. But he was pretty much his own boss now and just left to run things as he saw fit. He was a calmer and more stoical man because of it, he felt. And that was no bad thing.

Still, he would have thought at least someone from his department would have gotten in touch. What was it now, about half ten? Surely, word had gotten through to his team in the remote police outback that was his floor at the station. Surely, at least one of his lot should had surfaced long enough to get word that their boss was injured and in hospital?

They probably just tried to phone him and left it at that. Or assumed it was his days off and hadn't bothered to enquire any further. Or perhaps Kira was late getting in to work and they were all keeping quiet, hoping they'd have a day off in the office, reading, watching porn, snoozing.

His thoughts were interrupted when the old boy in the bed to his right woke up, coughing and hacking his lungs up as he did so. Charming.

Moon, being the friendly sort, smiled at the man. Morning, he said. I'm your new neighbour. Harrison Moon. How's it going? Want me to get a nurse for you?

The man waved him off, hacked some more, spat phlegm into a glass by his bed, then flopped down again, as though exhausted from the effort. Bottomley. Lungs.

Being a detective, Moon worked out that the guy was telling him his name and his condition. He gave him a commiserating nod. Sorry to hear that. About the lungs, not about your name. Knew a fella called Bottomley. Tried to rob an off-licence with a rubber knife. He jabbed it at the owner but stabbed the counter instead and the knife bent in the middle. Owner chased him out of the shop with a baseball bat. Luckily for Bottomley, one of our lot was close by. Otherwise, we'd be charging the owner with manslaughter.

Wasn't. Me, said his neighbour, strapping on an oxygen mask.

Yeah, know that. Just making conversation.

The man sucked a few litres of his precious gas and took the mask off. You. A cop. Then, he wheezed.

For my sins.

Better watch. They don't gob. On your. Jelly.

Moon laughed. I'm sure they wouldn’t do such a thing, NHS's finest, and all that.

Don’t. Be. Too. Sure. Nurse Ratchet. Hates cops. Framed his brother. I heard. Planted drugs.

That's what they all say, mate.

I. Suppose. The man pointed a bony finger at Moon. Happened. To. You?

I'd have thought that was obvious, said Moon, fondling his bandage.

Right. Nose. Job.

What? No. Head wound.

The man nodded, put his mask on again, sucked some more breath juice.

Head wound, he said, when he'd hung up the mask. Best be careful. Knew a man who got a head wound. Brown bread two days later

Cheers, mate, said Moon getting out of bed. Dressed only in a hospital gown, he made his way to the ward bathroom.

Course, his wife shooting him didn't help.

What, his wife – Moon saw the grin on the old man's face, his chest wheezing up and down. Moon smiled along. Ah, right. Good one. Very funny.

Inside the bathroom, Moon heard a familiar voice at last. It was his daughter asking where her dad was. The funny old guy with the breathing problems said, He's. Gone. Typical of Mia, she jumped the gun and didn’t wait for the guy to finish. Gone! she wailed. He's dead? Oh my god! No! Cue more wailing, even louder this time. So upset was she, that she didn't hear the old guy say, To. The. Bathroom. Moon finished his business, washed his hands, and decided to put her out of her misery.`

Top tip, Mia: always wait for the guy with breathing difficulties to finish his sentence.

Dad! You're alive! Oh my god! With that she rushed into his arms, nearly crushing him with her hugs, her tears dripping down his cheek.

He hugged her back, noticing a bit of weight loss, wondering if she was eating properly. I'm fine, darling.

Fine? You've got a bloody great bandage on your head. How can you be fine?

Just a scratch, he said, withdrawing from the hug. He made his way back to bed, climbed in.

Mia took the chair by the bed, clasped her hands in his. What happened? I phoned you, like, a thousand times. Why didn't you pick up?

Because I was here, unconscious in hospital. Besides -.

Unconscious? You were unconscious?

Yes, hence the bandage.

She took her own phone out of her bag, wiggled it in his face. And you couldn't have called?

Funny thing about being unconscious, there's no mobile reception.

I mean, when you woke up. Not even a text, she said, checking her screen.

That's because my phone's at home. I didn't have it when I jumped into the fight.

A fight? she screeched, There was a fight?

He told her what happened. Not that there was much to tell. Even so, she managed to get five OMGs in there before he was through.

She let go of his hand, scrolled through her phone. I got a text. From the weird lady, Barrow.

She showed him the text. It was from Detective Constable Barrow and said YOUR DAD IN HOSP. BARROW. It was timed at 9.45 this morning.

Short, he said but thinking, stupid Theda Barrow. And did she only find out he was in HOSP at 9.45? Or did she know earlier and was just getting round to telling anyone about it? He'd have to have words.

I mean – what the f word! I tried to call her back, texted her a million times but she's, like, blanking me. So I had to phone that other weird lady, DS Bow, and she's not answering either. So I started to panic. I was going to drive to your station and let them have a piece of my mind but then I thought, why not call the hospital? So I did that, and they told me you were here and what ward you were on and I told them, if I'm your next of kin, why didn’t they call me? And they said, they did but the phone number was no longer in service so that was that. They must have had the old one, for the phone I lost. You remember?

Moon let his daughter witter on. The only thing he took out of all that was his second in command, Detective Sergeant Bow, not answering her phone. Most unlike her. Didn't she say she was going out on a date? Might have gone well. She was just getting over a bad breakup so perhaps she deserved a bit of luck. Still, it was after 11 in the morning now.  Surely her date couldn't have gone that well.

Mia, darling, let me borrow your phone. He didn't give her the opportunity to say no, snatched it out of her hands. When she shrieked hey, he reminded her that he was a wounded soldier now and that wounded soldiers deserved a bit of leeway.

He dialled DS Bow's number. She answered on the second ring. He told her where he was.

Hospital? Interviewing someone?

Patient. He told her about last night and the crack on the head. He said he didn't know why she wasn't told but that Theda texted Mia so, presumably, she, Theda, was part of the privileged few who was aware of his heroics. Plus, she, Kira, had her phone off. When she switched it back on, she saw the message from Moon's daughter but, with Moon's daughter being a bit of a drama queen and, with a head that aspirins wouldn't touch, she let it slide. Kira let off a stream of insults aimed at their Detective Constable then hung up, promising to track her down and kick the living whatsit out of her.

He gave Mia her phone back. Can you do me a favour? Go back to mine and get me a few things. I need my phone, keys, wallet, fresh clothes, underwear, socks, shoes. Door's not locked.

You didn't lock your door?

Had I spent time searching for my keys, I think that young uniform would be here in this bed instead of me. Besides, it's not as if I live in a sketchy neighbourhood. Unless you count the art studio off Front Street.

Are they keeping you in? said Mia. I could get you some PJs and a dressing gown, as well.

He'd never owned a pair of pyjamas in his life, nor a dressing gown. He told her so, and that they probably weren't keeping him in as he felt fine, though in truth he had, like Kira, a splitting headache. Hopefully, unlike Kira, the aspirin would work on him.

Mia stood up, gave him a kiss. OK. Also, I'll be moving in.

What, in here?

No, silly. Into your house. Our house, now.

Moon balked at this. Sure, he loved his daughter. And it would be nice to have some company. But she did tend to take over the place whenever she came to stay with him.

Ok, sure. You know you're always welcome. But you do have a place of your own.

Ah, well, about that. She sat down again. You see, you know how I've been working at the newspaper as an intern? Well, they've decided I don't work at the newspaper as an intern.

They've fired you?

No. They've made a lot of us redundant. Downturn after the virus. Said they can't afford to keep such a big office space and would we all mind f-wording off.

Moon clutched his daughter's hand. Oh, honey, I'm sorry. You loved that job.

Yeah, well, she sniffed. No use crying over spilt milk.

Although his eyebrows shot up over this, he didn’t pull her up over it. Fact was, she always cried over spilt milk. There wasn't a drop she hadn't bawled over.

So, she went on. I can't afford the rent now, on account of not having wages coming in. And it's a case of either staying with you are going back to Leeds to live with mum and Frank and his kids. And that bloody sausage dog. I mean, Frank and his kids I can tolerate, but Sammy the sausage, no thanks. I offered to take the thing to the vet to get spayed but, would Frank listen? You'd have thought I was asking to take him to the vet to get spayed.

Frank was his ex-wife's new husband. He had two kids he brought with him as baggage, teenage boys, twins. Moon definitely didn't want his daughter staying in the same house as the creepy clones, future serial killers if ever he saw them.

No problem. Stay as long as you like. Me casa, and all that.

She ruffled his hair, gave him a kiss and a hug, told him she loved him and then disappeared.

He wasn't the only one watching his daughter leave. The old man kept track of her, too. Lovely. Pair, he wheezed. Of.

Moon glared at him.

Eyes, said the old man. Lovely. Pair. Of. Eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

Not long after, a nurse came in with a wheelchair and asked if he was ready for his scan. He said, sure, and climbed out of bed. A little bit too quickly, however, and a pain shot through his skull. The nurse noticed and said she'd mention it to Doctor Singh. Probably nothing to worry about.

The nurse kept up a steady stream of chatter as they headed down the corridor, into the lift and down four floors, telling him what to expect, how long it would take. Along another corridor and he had arrived at his destination, she told him. A technician dressed in a blue uniform took charge, emptied his pockets, passed him through a metal detector. He was judged fit to go and led into a room where the scanner was. He was laid down, positioned headfirst before a chamber. He was told about a panic button, if he needed it, warned to lie still, and had headphones attached.

The machine kept up quite the racket, humming, buzzing and clicking its song. He was in there quite a few minutes, feeling quite peaceful, actually, when his headache started up again. He'd suffered from them in the past, but not lately. And, anyway, they were never too serious, never debilitating. And none since he'd moved to the new department. Before then, working on the bigger cases, he'd got them on a regular basis.  He put it down to the stress. Perhaps that was what this was, too, a stress headache brought on by the trauma of the blow. Hell, maybe the news of his daughter moving in with him again brought it on.

Then an intense pain, so much so that he winced. His head moved and he got a telling off from the technician, said they might have to start again. Just as Moon settled down, rested his head, got comfortable, he heard a voice. The  voice was calm, authoritative, as though it was announcing a candidate had to go to the diary room. The voice, male-sounding, spoke a name: Josie White.

Moon thought it was the technician, perhaps a crossed line, another patient whose turn had come for treatment. Did you just say Josie White? he said.

The technician seemed puzzled. Josie White? No. Why?

Moon was even more puzzled than the tech guy. No reason. Thought I heard you say Josie White.

Nope. Now please keep still, Mr Moon.

Strangely, his headache had gone. He was able to keep still after that, and nearly dozed off. Josie White, he thought. Wondered what that was all about? And why did that name sound familiar?

After lunch, when Moon was back in his bed, bored to tears, contemplating just getting up and going home, he received visitors. His glorious team had arrived. Well, some of them. Soon after their arrival, he wished they hadn't bothered.

Detective Constable Rudolph Valentine came through the ward door first, collided with a pretty nurse, and dropped the grapes he was carrying. Just behind Rudolph came DC Alice 'Mabel' Normand holding up a bottle of barley water. Unfortunately for her, she didn't see Rudolph's dropped grapes, trod on few and went flying in the air, legs first. The bottle of barley water came crashing down after her, smashing and shattering on the newly-cleaned floor. DC Bob 'Oliver' Hardy came next, slid on the barley water, went down, got tangled in Mabel's legs, squashed the card he was carrying, tried to pick himself and the card up, which then