Maltese Haddock , livre ebook

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118 pages

English

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In a style that one reviewer has likened to 'Monty Python meets Terry Pratchett', the author continues his chronicles of the history of the Dogsbreath family with the exploits of the grandfather of the current Ivor Dogsbreath. It is summer 1948 and the grandfather of the current Ivor Dogsbreath is working as a private detective when a stranger walks into his office. The man's sister has gone missing and he wants to hire the grandfather, also known as Ivor Dogsbreath, to find her. Only there is a complication, she's a werewolf.Contains strong language and adult humour.

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Publié par	Distributed by eBookpartnership
Date de parution	01 juillet 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781839785023
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Maltese Haddock
By
Keven Shevels
The right of Keven Shevels to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the written permission of Keven Shevels.
Copyright 2022 Keven Shevels
ISBN: 9781839785023
For Lyn
In a style that one reviewer has likened to Monty Python meets Terry Pratchett , the author continues his chronicles of the history of the Dogsbreath family with the exploits of the grandfather of the current Ivor Dogsbreath.
It is summer 1948 and the grandfather of the current Ivor Dogsbreath is working as a private detective when a stranger walks into his office. The man s sister has gone missing and he wants to hire the grandfather, also known as Ivor Dogsbreath, to find her. Only there is a complication, she s a werewolf.
Contains strong language and adult humour.
Contents.
Chapter
1 A New Case.
2 A Boob By Instalments.
3 Even A Werewolf Needs To Go Walkies.
4 A Weasel Calls.
5 The Weasel Calls Back.
6 The Haddock Goes Missing.
7 Death Of A Weasel.
8 In Search Of A Rat.
9 The Fat Man.
10 The Blonde.
11 Being Frisked Is Not All It s Cracked Up To Be.
12 The Hospital.
13 The Fence.
14 Vagisan.
15 A Phone Call From A Lunatic.
16 A Night At The Sanatorium.
17 Arrested.
18 A Visitor At The Office.
19 The Fat Man Seeks His Little Willy.
20 Meeting The Blonde.
21 A Frenchman With No Soul.
22 An Unwelcome Visitor.
23 A Sergeant Calls.
24 A Growl In The Dark.
25 Explaining A Dead Body.
26 Selling The Haddock.
27 Grandma What Big Teeth You Have.
28 A Sergeant Calls Again.
29 The End.
About The Author.
What s Next.
Pricing.
1.
A New Case.
It was summer 1948 and in the City That Never Sleeps well there were a lot of insomniacs. I wasn t there, nor was I in the City of Angels on the sun-kissed shores of California. Instead I was in northern England in my office in Slagbottom, where the River Slag meets the bottom of the Pennines, a place that was known as the City of Slag and of Bottom. But what the hell, everybody has to be somewhere.
I guess it began with me sitting with my feet on the desk in my office. It wasn t much of an office, basically one room, and one desk, one chair behind that desk, three chairs for visitors and three filing cabinets. There was a calendar on the wall which showed images of the British countryside. Sometimes I looked at it when I felt like a breath of fresh air. There was also two opening windows with net curtains that had seen better days, well I say they were net curtains I d swiped them from a trawler at Grimsby. The ambiance of the whole office was then set off by a hat stand in the corner. The minimalist look was in and I was trying to win the prize. There was also a small room behind the office so I guess it was a two room office after all. I hoped the landlord didn t figure that one out.
I was working as a private detective, a gumshoe, a private eye, a shamus, a private dick. Pick any description you want. I had all the patter, the wardrobe including the trench coat and the hat and, some people would say, the unhealthy obsession with American detective novels and movies. The only thing I didn t have was a client. Well at least one that paid.
I was looking at the bank statement, the account was haemorrhaging money faster than a faster than faster than something that haemorrhages really fast. There was a sudden knock on the door and a man put his head round which was unusual, but a lot less painful than putting his head through.
Are you Ivor Dogsbreath, Psychic Investigator? he said.
Yes, I snapped not welcoming the interruption. I d hoped that specialising in psychic cases would pay. It didn t.
It s just that the sign on the door says Psychotic Investigator? he continued.
I know, I answered. The sign writer got it wrong and it will cost too much to correct it. Anyway come in, you re letting a draft in.
The man entered and I looked him up and down. He was a strange looking specimen, appearing both short and tall at the same time. His head was bald with tufts of hair sticking out, each tuft a different colour. I guess he could be described as having fly-away hair; large chunks of it had flown away. When he smiled, it revealed discoloured teeth. I know lots of people have discoloured teeth and I have no problem with that but his were blue.
He was dressed in a suit of accountancy grey, the most boring grey you could get, a white shirt and a matching grey tie. The drabness of his clothing was offset by a large bright yellow flower in his lapel. You don t see many daffodils in July. It looked fake to me, as if when I bent over to look at it a jet of water would hit me in the kisser.
Please, sit down, I said. How can I help you?
First, can you answer a question, he replied once he was seated. You re a psychic investigator. Does that mean that you re a psychic who investigates? Or are you somebody who investigates psychic happenings?
Both, I replied. I do whatever is necessary to finish a case, I said hoping that it made me sound both hard and competent.
The man gulped. My bluff had obviously worked. Could could you help me, he said nervously. My sister well she s gone missing. Could you find her?
Is that not a job for the police? I replied thinking that I really could have done with the money that this case would bring.
The police aren t interested and it s a little bit awkward, he answered.
Awkward. In what way?
Well she s a werewolf, he blurted out.
And are you a werewolf too? I asked, very probably with a shocked look on my face.
No, luckily I didn t inherit that gene from our parents.
I looked him up and down again, and wondered just what gene he had actually inherited. However, I wasn t surprised that the police weren t interested, but I had to ask the question anyway. Why aren t the police interested?
They gave a number of reasons ranging from; they didn t know whether it would be a missing person case or a missing dog, to the fact that I was a lunatic. It was Sargent Dimwoody who gave me your name and suggested that I see you.
For a flatfoot Dimwoody was a good guy. He and I went back a long time and over the years he had sent me a number of strange cases that the police couldn t really look into. Looking down at the bank statement I thought that I could do with a few more.
You re joking right about the lunatic bit, I heard myself say.
No, I really am a certifiable lunatic, he answered.
Oh, I replied and pushed myself back a little bit from my desk just to give myself some room if things turned nasty.
But I am really quite harmless, he added.
Oh, I said and pushed myself back to the desk. When did your sister go missing? I asked. And how did it happen?
A week ago. We were walking in the country and I threw a stick for her to chase. She likes that. Well, she just never came back. I waited a little while, but she never reappeared. Then I shouted and whistled, but she was just gone.
Did you shout treats ? I asked.
She s not a dog you know, he replied indignantly.
I m sorry, I said with a grim face. But sometimes I have to ask the unpleasant questions.
No, it s me who should be sorry. I should have realised that. He may have been a lunatic, but he seemed a very nice and pleasant lunatic. I took out a smoke. I don t know why, I don t smoke. But the book Being a Private Dick for Fun and Profit said it looked the part. The book was a bootleg copy smuggled in from the States in a consignment of condemned corned beef. It still had that tinned smell to it, but what the hell. Also some of the diagrams were a little bit smudged, but I d like to think that it had proved invaluable in the two weeks I d had it.
There was a cough from the man sat opposite. Please, I d rather you didn t smoke, he said, I m allergic to tobacco. For some reason I threw the smoke out of the window.
Do you have a photo of your sister? I asked as I turned back to him.
Yes, I always carry one with me, he said as he handed it over.
Good looking bitch, I answered looking down at the photo.
Sorry. That was taken last year at the dog show. She won best in breed, he said proudly and handed me another photo.
I expected a photo of a woman, but not one who looked like that. She was tall and elegant with a bone structure that most women would kill for. Her hair was dark, long and lustrous it was obvious that she was brushed on a regular basis. She was a classy dame make no mistake, not like the usual broads I hung around with. I couldn t help it, but I thought back to some of my ex-girlfriends. I d never had much luck with women. In fact I d been dumped more times than a discarded pork pie wrapper and usually accompanied by the words sexist bastard . One ex-girlfriend had even said that I d never have a meaningful relationship with a woman as long as I had a hole in my arse.
In my lonely moments I d thought about a cork and a colostomy bag, but I figured that I was too old to change. Without even thinking I looked at the photo again. This was one hot babe and I fell for her hook, line and sinker. I couldn t help myself, but the thought ran through my head, would sex with a werewolf be classed as dogging.
Could I keep the photo both of them, I said. He looked at me. For identification purposes, I added while trying to stop my hand from shaking.
Oh yes of course, he replied. Does that mean you ll take the case?
I looked at the photo again. There was nothing that was going to stop me finding this woman. I pictured her in a jewelled collar and lead, and believe me; I wasn t looking at the doggie photo. Yes, I said. I think that you ve hired yourself a detective.
I reached down to a drawer in my d