The Case of the Missing Conservatories. Sounds like the Sherlock Holmes story Conan Doyle didnât get round to writing because it was too boring. Let me tell you, I was with Conan Doyle on this one. If it hadnât been for the fact that our secretaryâs love life was in desperate need of ECT, thereâs no way Iâd have got involved. Which, as it turned out, might have been no bad thing.
I was crouched behind the heavy bulk of the elevator machinery, holding my breath, desperately praying Iâd pick the right moment to make my move. I knew I wouldnât get a second chance with a nasty bag of works like Vohaulâs hit man. I caught sight of him as he emerged from the stairwell. I leaped to my feet and threw myself at one of the pair of heavy pulley attachments suspended from the ceiling. It shot across the room towards my relentless opponent. At the last minute he turned, spotted it and ducked, letting it whistle over his head. My mouth dried with fear as he caught sight of me and headed menacingly in my direction. I dodged round the elevator machinery, trying to keep it between us so I could make a dash for the stairs. As he rushed after me, I desperately swung the other pulley towards him. It caught him on the side of the head, the momentum plunging him over the lip of the lift shaft into the blackness below. Iâd done it! Iâd managed to stay alive!
I let my breath out in a slow sigh of relief and leaned back in the chair, hitting the key that offered me the âSave Gameâ option. A glance at my watch told me it was time to leave Space Quest III for the day. Iâd had the half-hour lunch break that was all I could spare in my partner Billâs absence. Besides, I knew that our secretary Shelley would be returning from her own lunch break any minute now, and I didnât want her wandering in and catching me at it. While the catâs away, the mouse plays Space Quest, and all that, which isnât very businesslike behaviour for a partner in a security consultancy and private investigation agency. Even if Iâm only the junior partner.
That particular week, I was the only show in town. Bill had abandoned ship for the fleshpots (or should that be lobster pots?) of the Channel Islands to run a computer security course for a merchant bank. Which meant that Kate Brannigan was the only functioning half of Mortensen and Brannigan, as far as the UK mainland was concerned. Say it fast like that and we sound like major players instead of a two-operative agency that handles a significant chunk of the white-collar crime in the North West of England.
I headed for the cupboard off my office that doubles as the ladies loo and office darkroom. I had a couple of films that needed processing from my weekend surveillance outside a pharmaceutical companyâs lab. PharmAce Supplies had been having some problems with their stock control. Iâd spent a couple of days working on the inside as a temporary lab assistant, long enough to realize that the problem wasnât what went on in working hours. Someone was sneaking in when the lab was locked and helping himself or herself, then breaking into the computer stock records to doctor them. All I needed to discover was the identity of the hacker, which had been revealed after a couple of evenings sat cramped in the back of Mortensen and Branniganâs newest toy, a Little Rascal van that weâd fitted out specifically for stake-out work. Hopefully, the proof that incriminated the senior lab technician was in my hand, captured forever on the fastest film that money could buy.
I was looking forward to half an hour in the darkroom, away from phones that didnât seem to have stopped ringing since Bill left. No such luck. Iâd barely closed the blackout curtain when the intercom buzzed at me like that horrible drill dentists use to smooth off a filling. The buzzing stopped and Shelleyâs distorted voice came at me like Donald Duck on helium. âKate, I have a client for you,â I deciphered.
I sighed. The Tooth Fairyâs revenge for playing games on the office computer. âI was playing in my own time,â I muttered, in the vain hope that would appease the old bag. âKate? Can you hear me?â Shelley honked.
âThereâs no appointment in the book,â I tried.
âItâs an emergency. Can you come out of the darkroom, please?â
âI suppose so,â I grumbled. I knew there was no point in refusing. Shelley is quite capable of letting a full minute pass, then hammering on the door claiming an urgent case of Montezumaâs Revenge from the Mexican taco bar downstairs where she treats herself to lunch once a week. She always varies the days so I can never catch her out in a lie.