'It's gettin' haute in here, so take off all your clothes'
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Quick recap: EnglishdiplomatSirNigelTimpsondeadbloodymurder.
FrenchdetectivepastryloverandsurrealistPierreRoquefortinvestigatingwiththreeothercoppers.
Abseilingcarchasenightclubcinemaeatingdrinking. NorahJonesprimesuspect.
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ROQUEFORT ran as fast as he could through the kitchens of of L'Histoire Se Course brasserie (to give you an idea of the kind of velocity he was achieving, it was not very much faster than, par example*, an asthmatic carpet fitter sporting a giant panda outfit attempting to run across a boggy marsh in Derbyshire sometime in November '87 to raise money for Derbyshire RNLI ).
Making his way past the startled restaurant chefs - who were naturally engaged in producing probably the hautest cuisine in the world, French that is - to the exit, Roquefort grabbed four baguettes. As he reached the back door he met his fellow crimefighters: D.I. Lemongrass and D.C Sweet Basil from England, and his long-standing sidekick Percy de la Bercy.
'Thank Godard you're here,' declaimed Bercy. 'I've been standing here for fucking ages.'
'Sorry about that cupcake," replied Roquefort, idly sipping a flute of Fresca he had purloined on his way through the cilinaire. "Now. We must not let Ms Jones leave the building. It has become transcendentally apparent that she is the woman who killed Sir Nigel Timpson of Albion all that time ago, way back in the day. It all adds up - the telltale bit of musical instrument that was left at the crime scene..."
"The car chase and finding her CDs," interjected Percy.
"The lack of any other meaningful characters in the story," offered Lemongrass, nodding sagely.
"The fact that women aren't to be trusted!" added Sweet Basil. The others looked at him for a bit, then sighed in unicorn.
Roquefort continued.
"Conveniently, there are four exits in this restaurant. You will be not unaware of the fact that there are four - count 'em - of us. So, using my mathematical skill, I am figuring that we must guard all the doors to prevent the murderous chanteuse Norah Jones escaping.
"If we let her go, I can guarantee that she will kill again. Alors. I'll take the side door. Lemongrass - you take the front. Bercy - kitchen. Basil - fire exit."
Roquefort handed each detective a baguette and ordered the men to pass the end of a length of string through them. The other three looked puzzled.
"In the inexplicable absence of walkie talkies or even mobile phones," explained the great man, The Bingeing Detective, "I have invented - on the spot, mind - this rudimentary communications system. It served the Resistance well in the war and has the added bonus of being edible, always a boon in my estimations. You'll find that the dough in these baguettes conducts sound way better than pastry.
"If you get into trouble, shout into the bread. Remember - this woman is a lethal killer who will stop at nothing to kill stuff. Don't be fooled by her anodyne MOR stylings."
The detectives hugged each other, in some cases for a fraction of a second too long, wished each other luck, then decamped to their various posts.
Inside L'Histoire Se Course, Norah Jones had returned to the stage to play her encore after a quick breather for a fag and a can of Brown Ale. She was using the gig - small, intimate, with an audience that included some of the most influential people in the French music business (stop laughing) - to showcase her new direction, which involved remodelling herself as a Geordie and re-recording a back catalogue of appalling 70s novelty hits.
'Why aye Paris pet, howz it goin? Y'alreet? I SAID ARE Y'ALREET PARIS! This next numbah is me new single and it's reet canny. It's a cover version of an aul' song called 'Son of My Father' by Chicory Tip. I'm gannin to play the fucker, solo like, on me electric harp here, and I hope y'all likes it. Cheers."
The audience was aghast with anticipation.
Outside, Sweet Basil was valiantly guarding his exit - surely a first. "Lemongrass I'm scared!" he whimpered into his baguette.
"Why don't you have a little nibble on your baguette - calm yourself down," the older, more experienced man advised.
"Top hole idea Sir - thanks!"
Basil tore voraciously into his bread-based communications medium. Before he knew it he had eaten almost all of it.
"Lemongrass I think I've eaten too much bag..." were the last words the young policeman transmitted. From now on, he was on his own. As he realised this, a familiar damp warmth filled his undercrackers.
At the kitchen door, Bercy was bored. It was these moments - the still, tense moments before a big bust-type thing that really got to him. He whiled away his time by having a brief, torrid affair with a waitress and cooking a textbook bouillabaisse.
Inside the restaurant, heartless murderer Norah Jones neared the conclusion of her set. She stepped to the front of the stage, beaming in the warm glow of the loving audience. Grinning, she reached round the back of her harp and flicked a switch.
The room was thrown into total darkness and pandemonium and that.
The electricity for the whole block was out.
Lemongrass heard a loud bang coming from the side door, then some scuffling, then the sound of a harpsichord being thrown down one of those rubbish funnel things you get on building sites to transport debris and so on from the roof of a building to a skip, then the sound of a Welshman reciting the words to 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' through a megaphone to a surprised looking Parisian cobbler, then finally, the sound of a car door being slammed, a window being wound down, a voice saying 'Yous'll nevah tek me alive ya fuckahs - Norah Jones wins the day again!", then the sound of a Renault 5 being driven away at high speed.
A moment later, the street lights came back on. Roquefort spotted Lemongrass running towards him. "What happened?"
"A good copper relies on his instincts," replied a clearly shaken Roquefort. "I'm going to take a chance here. It's just a hunch - a gut feeling - but I believe our suspect may have made away from the scene."
"You think," replied Lemongrass in his most sarcasticest voice.
Lemongrass stared hard at the ground for a few seconds. He looked up at Roquefort and fixed the Falstaffian Frenchman with a beady eye. He seemed angry and was clearly dying to to get something off his chest. In the event, Lemongrass held his tongue.
"Going to say something?" Roquefort enquired.
"I it my ongue unning ound ere," Lemongrass replied, still holding his tongue.
"I see. Was there something you wanted to say to me though?"
Lemongrass replaced his tongue. "As a matter of fact, mate, there is." Lemongrass jabbed Roquefort in the chest. "There's something a bit fishy going on here."
* Par example is French for 'for example'.
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"Fancy a digestif?" asked Roquefort of his colleagues as they entered a seedy bar
"Why not," replied Lemongrass. "I have some smashing biscuits to go with them."
The four dejected detectives dunked digestives in their digestifs, before heading on the Metro back to the Chateauneuf de Pop, the nightclub that was being used as headquarters while the real HQ was being renovated. Lemongrass was clearly still not happy with Roquefort and obviously had something to say.
"Got something to say, Lemongrass?" he asked.
Lemongrass looked up to the previous paragraph. "Yes. Look up there, it says it's obvious, doesn't it? Fatso."
Roquefort took a deep breath and steadied himself.
"You want the truth Lemongrass, you little English homosexual? DO YOU? CAN YOU HANDLE IT?"
"I think so old boy," replied Lemongrass, lighting a pipe and settling down with a copy of OK!.
"Then I shall tell you next week. You should sit down."
Next week: The truth emerges.
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