The Seaside Detective Agency
The Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Series
Book One
By
JC Williams
Copyright © 2018 J C Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First printing, May 2018
Cover artwork by Mikey Nugent
Proofreading, editing, formatting & interior design provided by Dave Scott and Cupboardy Wordsmithing
Table of Contents
Chapter One: The Private Dick
Chapter Two: The Little Explorer
Chapter Three: The Irish Sea
Chapter Four: Staying Alive
Chapter Five: The Del Monte Man
Chapter Six: Catching the Ferry
Chapter Seven: Call Me Lloyd
Chapter Eight: Justus Served
Chapter Nine: Watching You Watching Me
Chapter Ten: The Pillow Case
Chapter Eleven: The Humboldt Penguin
Chapter Twelve: The Family Business
Chapter Thirteen: Into the Sea
Chapter Fourteen: Piss on Your Chips
Chapter Fifteen: The Camera Obscura
Chapter Sixteen: Swanshead Revisited
Chapter Seventeen: Fall of the House of Joey
Chapter Eighteen: Blood, Treacle & Tears
Chapter Nineteen: Vauxhalla
Other Books
by
J C Williams
Cabbage Von Dagel:
An action-packed wartime spy and detective thriller
Hamish McScabbard:
A Viking action and adventure story
The Flip of a Coin
The Lonely Heart Attack Club:
The perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy
(The Lonely Heart Attack Club Book 1)
The Lonely Heart Attack Club ‘Wrinkly Olympics’
(The Lonely Heart Attack Club Book 2)
Frank ’n’ Stan’s Bucket List:
#1: TT Races
Chapter One
The Private Dick
S am’s dilapidated Ford Fiesta had many faults. The season dictated the level of inconvenience; in the summer, he’d overheat as the electric windows had blown a fuse, and, in winter, the heater produced less warm air than a flatulating hamster. The battery was less selective of the calendar month, losing its charge at will. Sam blew furiously into his cupped hands to warm them, but it had little effect. Worse still, the icy air in his dodgy Ford had already chilled his coffee. Whoever was in charge of the naming of things at the motor company had a poor sense of humour indeed, as fiesta was in fact the very last word that might have come to Sam’s mind.
“Bugger,” he said, because there was little else one could say under the circumstances. He cracked the door open, tossing the tepid contents of his coffee cup unceremoniously through the gap.
The outside air felt warmer than that inside Sam’s car, so he held the door ajar with his foot. He took the piece of A4 paper sat on the dashboard and looked intently at the printed-out picture of a rather striking woman wearing tight Lycra running clothes. His hands trembled. He could hardly concentrate due to the throbbing pain in his frozen fingers. “Bloody chilblains,” he said. He didn’t actually know what chilblains was, exactly, but he’d read it in a book once and liked the sound of the word. Every time his hands got cold after that, he told himself it must be a case of the chilblains.
He sat the image of the attractive woman on the steering wheel, facing him, removed his gloves, and then plunged his hands down the front of his trousers.
“Cold, cold,” he said, squirming, his hands now sandwiched between his inner thighs. The moist heat of this intimate area produced the desired result, providing a blessed reprieve and warming his hands. Figuring that some friction would enhance the effect further, he rubbed his palms on his hairy legs enthusiastically, in sharp back-and-forth motions like he was starting a fire. He leaned his head back on the headrest and a smile spread across his face in direct relation to the heat expanding through his digits. His eyes half-closed, he moaned in relief.
Sam wailed in surprise and shock as an ageing white cocker spaniel interrupted his reverie, poking its head through the door still propped open by his foot.
“Go on, you little bastard, bugger off!” he said brusquely, his heart racing.
A petite woman with a cloud of sea-spray white hair soon appeared as well. She was slightly bent over, as if buffeted by the wind, and her weathered face exhibited enough lines as to be a cartographer’s dream.
“That’s no way to speak to my Terrence!” she said furiously.
“Sorry about that, luv,” said Sam. “He gave me a fright is all. I didn’t expect—”
The woman stooped down, placing her head through the open doorframe. She looked at the picture propped up on the steering wheel, and then she looked at the current location of Sam’s hands.
“Do I need to phone the authorities?” she asked, grimacing, the lines on her face now taking the form of deep trenches.
“No!” said Sam in abject panic. “No, it’s not—” he began, as he yanked his hands out from their snug resting place, but his watch snagged on and ripped out a patch of several pubic hairs in the process, causing him to yelp in pain. The pitch of his scream set Terrence to barking.
“Good boy,” said Sam, trying his best to placate the dog. “Who’s a good doggy?”
Sam went to stroke the little fellow, but the cocker spaniel’s furious owner whipped the handle of her dog lead around, quick as lightning, and set about lashing Sam’s arm with repeated blows. She did this with such fluid, practised motions that it appeared Sam was not the first man she had bedevilled in this way.
“If you dare touch my precious dog after where those dirty hands have been, I’ll slam the door on your foot and break it off!”
Sam didn’t doubt her, and he tried to protest his innocence. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s honestly not what it looks like. I’ve got a case of the chilblains, and I was worried I’d—”
“It’s obvious what you were worrying!” she said sharply. “Pervert!”
She scooped Terrence up into her protective arms, sheltering him from the assailing indecency on display before them, and shielded the spaniel’s eyes as if the mere sight of Sam would turn the dog to stone. “Come on, my dear baby boy, don’t look at the filthy deviant.”
There was no point engaging in further conversation, and, fortunately for Sam, the salty old witch didn’t seem intent on phoning the police. She and her dog retreated like the tide, from whence they came.
With that unpleasantness behind him, Sam stepped out of the car to stretch his legs which were on the verge of cramping. He’d been sat in his car since ten p.m. the previous evening and he was cold, tired, hungry, and perhaps about to appear on an offenders’ register. Enough was enough, he decided. It was time to go home.
“Morning,” said a powerfully-built man with ruddy cheeks from the chilly morning air and a moustache covered in hoarfrost. He nodded amiably at Sam as he walked by.
“Morning,” replied Sam, taken by surprise once again. He was flapping his arms like a bird, presently, in an effort to restore some blood-flow to his extremities. Engaged in
this activity and caught unawares, he’d only managed to catch sight of the man’s female companion for an instant as they’d passed. Still, he knew it was her.
Sam waited for a moment for safety’s sake, and then he snatched up the image. She was dressed for winter now, but her flowing auburn hair was unmistakable. He checked the picture once more for confirmation.
Sam reached into his car to retrieve his backpack, whilst keeping visual contact on the couple as they walked on, arm-in-arm, down the street.
His fingers weren’t operating at optimal performance, so it was taking several attempts to release the zip on his camera bag. “Come on,” he said, looking down — and furiously wrestling with the fastening — but it wouldn’t budge. He took a breath and composed himself before giving it one final tug. “Finally,” he said, as it came free.
He raised his camera up, ready now to take some shots.
“Shit, where are they?” he said, looking at the empty pavement. He slammed the Fiesta’s door shut and made his way down the street towards where his targets had been, and he quickened his pace. The detached houses on the tree-lined street were opulent, only bringing the anomalous presence of his rusting car into further relief. Sam ran between the houses like a schoolboy sprinting between classrooms. “No, no, no,” he said to himself.
He placed his palm to his forehead, frantically looking for any sign of life. The sound of a closing metal gate drew his attention, and so he walked in that direction as inconspicuously as could a man with the onset of hypothermia (and chilblains) and a telephoto camera in hand.
A path ran parallel to the house where he’d heard the gate just closed, so he positioned himself there, readied his camera, pulled up the collar on his coat, and peered over the neat hedge that ran the perimeter of the house… but they were nowhere to be seen.
Halfway up the path, he was stood at a wooden gate festooned with a cultivated flower arch. Sam made his way to it and stood with his back to the gate (as if this should fool any casual onlooker), surreptitiously reaching for the latch, which, considering the day he’d been having, he was surprised to find open without resistance. He popped his head into the garden, but, again, saw nothing.
Having no other option, he entered the garden, as casually as he could. He grimaced when he realised he still had on the woollen Mikey Mouse hat his mother had knitted him — resplendent with black woollen ears and all to complete the effect. He thought about removing it, but comfort won out as the current temperature necessitated it and there was minimal natural insulation on his balding scalp.
“Right, Sam,” he said, giving himself a little pep talk. “Get in there, get the pictures, and get out. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.” He realized he shouldn’t have added the ‘lemon-squeezy’ part since it only served to remind him he was in desperate need of a tinkle.
He held his camera like a sniper holding a rifle. Crouching with stealth, he progressed to the rear of the property. Fortunately, the blinds on the substantial mahogany conservatory were pulled shut. He paused for a moment — something didn’t feel quite right. The couple he’d seen were relatively young, whereas the ornaments in the garden and the general feel of the house felt like it belonged to an older generation. He cautiously approached the rear window and stood on his toes to look inside. It was somewhat murky inside, as the blinds were closed, but his fears were allayed and his patience rewarded when he caught glimpse of a female form in a dressing gown walking towards the stairs.
“I know what you’re doing, you cheeky girl,” he said under his breath, his equipment at the ready, but she disappeared from view before he’d raised his camera.
He knew where they must be headed, and he retreated to the rear of the garden to get a better view. “And let there be light,” Sam whispered in anticipation, and not a moment later, the room — what he presumed to be the rear bedroom — was illuminated in a soft glow. “Well that worked out quite well,” said Sam, quite pleased with himself.
A form moved near to the window. He could make out its basic outline, but that was all. He took up his camera and adjusted the telephoto lens, zooming in to get a better view.
“Bugger,” he groused, realising his view was obscured. “Curtains, open!” he said, wishing them to part, and was given a bit of a start when they did indeed open. “Yes! Result!” he exclaimed, beside himself. He had to wonder if he’d developed some sort of magic power, à la Harry Potter. “And I don’t even have a wand,” he said, but then realised he shouldn’t have, because that only served to remind him, once again, that he really had to tinkle.
He thrust one hand deep into his trouser pocket, seeking out his ‘wand’, and, once found, kneading it aggressively to stave off the eruption of urine from his bladder a bit longer, just a bit longer. He hopped from foot to foot as he did this, in what might have looked very much like a happy jig to any onlooker. Fortunate for him, Sam mused, that he was the observer and not the observed.
With that minor emergency assuaged, at least for the time being, Sam took up his camera again, fiddling with the long shaft of the telephoto lens cradled in his hand in an effort to fine-tune his focus. “I’ve got you,” he said, once sorted. “Any minute now,” he added expectantly, his finger poised on the shutter-release button.
He was suddenly struck by an appalling odour, however. He assumed, for a moment, that it emanated from his armpits, but he gagged and realised that even after a night sat in his car he’d struggle to exude such as noxious smell. He looked down, scanning the immediate area for the possible source. He saw nothing that could explain it, but then a very unpleasant thought occurred to him. His lifted his leg and, sure enough, there sat several somewhat-fresh lumps of excrement underfoot — and now adhered to his shoe as well. He must have landed on it at the conclusion of his happy piss-jig.
“Aw, shite,” he said, gagging from the smell. His diaphragm spasmed, and he fought to escape vomiting.
He tried getting rid of the mess by wiping it on the grass, looking like a horse that’d been taught to count out numbers by stamping its hoof down on the ground in quick succession — to no avail. The dog shit was nothing if not tenacious.
He looked about, searching to find something to scrape his shoe on, and caught sight of an ornate pond with an array of ceramic gnomes standing watch over it. One of the gnome guardians proudly held a disproportionately large shovel — which would make an ideal implement to remove the coating on the sole of his shoe. He let his camera hang down, limp, over his chest from its strap around his neck, and made his way over to the tiny pond. “That shovel may just do the trick.”
The gnome sentry, for its part, said nothing. It was an inanimate object, after all, but Sam spoke to it like it was a comrade-in-arms.
“Apologies for the indignity, old son,” Sam told the gnome. “It’s all for the greater. Sacrifices must be made, you understand.”
The gnome guardian, taciturn as it was, gave no reply.
Sam stood on one of the stone paving slabs surrounding the pool, putting his foot closer to the water. “I’ll just soften the excrement up a bit in the water first,” he explained to the ring of gnome sentinels. Their happy faces, moulded into grins, looked ominous in the dim light, but beyond this they betrayed no emotion. It was not their station to pass judgement one way or the other. Their job was to simply stand watch, and this is what they did.
The water level was lower than Sam first thought, so he had to lean into it further, bending one knee awkwardly, and with nothing to brace himself on for support. As his foot touched the surface of the water, Sam didn’t realise it was frozen. His foot immediately gave way and his momentum spun him through the air like a circus performer. He fell arse-over-tit onto the thin layer of ice, crashing through and ending up half-submerged in the frozen water, with his head and bits of limbs protruding up through the crust of ice in the little circular fishpond.
Sam screamed in shock from the pain and cried out as the chill of the water felt like he’d been electrocuted.
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“Hold it right there!” shouted a voice, dripping with the weight of authority, near to the house. And, then, “He’s by the pond, Mike.”
Sam tried to right himself, but the bottom of the pond must have been covered with algae and he slipped every time he tried to adjust his position.
“I said don’t move!” repeated the ominous voice, much closer this time, and, soon, two uniformed police officers were stood over him. “We’ve got the peeper,” said one into his radio. “Fancy camera gear and all. The cheek of this one.”
“Peeper?” chirped Sam, as the icy water had altered his voice by way of its effect on his poor, frozen undercarriage.
“Is that a telephoto lens or are you just happy to see us?” asked the less aggressive of the two officers, chuckling.
Sam grabbed hold of his (fortunately waterproof) equipment, offering it up for inspection, and laughed along with the officer’s joke. “I’m actually not a—” he began.
“I said don’t move!” screamed the more aggressive of the two policemen. “You think this is funny??” He’d obviously been watching too many American films, and, convinced Sam was both uncooperative and perhaps reaching for a weapon, quickly discharged a burst of pepper spray to Sam’s face.
Sam moaned in pain. “I’m not a peeper!” he cried out. “I’m a private detective!”
“A private dick, eh?” said the less hostile officer, chuckling again.
“Yes,” explained Sam, using the dirty pond water to cleanse his eyes. “I’ve been hired to get evidence that the woman in that house is cheating on her husband.”
As his vision cleared, a white cocker spaniel came into focus, trying desperately to sniff Sam’s soiled shoe.
“Is this your property, madam?” asked the policeman to a startled woman who’d appeared from the house.
Sam had immediately recognised the dog, and, as if this hadn’t been enough of a wreck, more flotsam appeared in the now-familiar form of a stooped-over old woman. Sam’s heart sank as he realised that the woman in the dressing gown was actually the woman from earlier and not his intended target.
The Seaside Detective Agency_The funniest Cozy Mystery you'll read this year Page 1
