More Mystic Detective

[creative writing, a new version of Mystic Detective Part One]

Introducing the Mystic Detective

Business was poor but it could wait. What was the point in having a Fuck You Fund if it couldn’t? Even if said fund was shrinking at an alarming rate. Well Paul blamed his appalling taste in music, clothes, drink and drugs. And why did brandy taste so much better after 12 o’clock and in an expensive club like The Streets with what could only be described as a crooner singing in the background accompanied by what sounded like effortless piano playing. But Paul knew through his own extended efforts how much effort it took to sounds effortless! ‘Hmm sex is rather like that. You have to not want it that badly, have to have learnt to apparently live without before it comes knocking on your door, or putting its head in your lap like a unicorn. Even then it helps not answer the knock immediately – a brief delay was so cool so classy.

Such randomish musings were interrupted – wait for it! – by a knocking on his office door. Paul smiled with delight at the apparent synchronicity involved.
- Yes?
- Paul Whitley?
- Yes
- The detective?
- Yes
- Right
- Come in.
He showed her into his tiny office which was in a less than fashionable, i.e. cheaper, part of the city centre. She was well dressed in what seemed to be M&S clothes – no not the middle aged range but something younger but still respectable. She seemed about 5 or 6 inches taller than Paul which was not saying that much given his 5 foot 2 and she did have heels, well cut black hair in a sort of post modern page boy style. Dyed thought Paul at first but probably not. Her hair framed an anxious face which is repose would not actually be pretty but would certainly be interesting.

Paul directed her towards the visitor’s chair and sat down himself and inquired
- So Mrs-
- Mis
- Mis?
- Mis Brenda Hampton
- Mis Brenda Hampton what brings you here?
There was a slight pause whist Brenda swallowed and then took a deep breathe and jumped in.
- My partner Percy has disappeared.
- Ah
- I last saw him two days ago. He went off on a business trip to York and I haven’t heard from him since.
- Oh (Paul usually confined himself to odd grunts and exclamations during his first encounter with a new client. It usually enabled them to tell their first version of their story fairly briskly.)
- He was due to come home that night and in any case we usually swap texts when we are apart.
- Aah
- So I am getting rather worried….
- Have you told the police?
- Yes of course, but they wont do anything for 48 hours and in any case they insist that as Percy is an adult…
- I understand.
- OK, do you have any ideas of what may have happened? (You would think another woman or he just wanted to leave home or??) Was he acting strangely, or did you notice anything different?
- No…. but yes, it’s hardly worth mentioning
- Yes
- Well Percy has recently started attending a local Yoga class.
- Hmm.

That was about all that Paul usefully gathered from that first meeting with Brenda apart from learning that Percy was a free lance management consultant and tax adviser, but it was enough to begin his investigations.

Paul never much cared about what he wore unless he was ‘out on the town’. Some days he would more or less put on yesterday’s clothes usually with a clean shirt. He brought his shirts 6 at a time on one of the shops on Market Street and they were usually plain coloured, sometimes a bit bright but almost never with a pattern. Likewise he purchased his chinos or cord trousers 3 pairs at a time. When shirts or trousers began to look tatty to him (and this was a subjective judgment) he would go out and buy 3 or 6 more. It was the same with shoes that were usually suede but only occasionally blue! Jackets were harder to come by partially because they had to, in his eyes, have some colour to them. Of course his mate Frankie was always urging him to wear ever more colourful clothes.
- Come on Mister Paul what you need is a bright yellow jacket, purple shirt, green cords…
- Sometimes I do need to blend into the background
- No I am not talking work clothes
- Work, play what is the difference?
- Cool it Frankie
- OK Mister Paul
- Paul will do
- OK Paul will do.

Paul was below average height, in his early forties but looking younger despite his thinning brown hair and scraggly moustache – or attempted moustache as he would often comment hoping that his listeners would catch the Loudon Wainwright III reference – ‘fat chance!’ Given his diet and consumption of alcoholic drinks (some of which was probably inevitable given his line of work) he would have been definitely over weight if he had not regular cycled. Basically he hated public transport, found most taxi drivers a pain and a owning a car was just too much hassle. Besides most of his work was within a bike ride of his office or flat.

The next morning in Fuel, a rather dishevelled Paul was propping up the counter or rather the counter seemed to be propping him up as he took in the usual cafe scene. Fuel was frankly nothing to look at. It was a simple café bar, rather too small in size with cheap furniture including the odd couch. But at least it was no longer smoky since the ban had been introduced. That is if you discounted the gauntlet of staff and customers who would sit in the door way on fine and not so fine days smoking enthusiastically. Inside Fuel there were some interesting and regularly changed works of art and posters for forthcoming events – poetic comedic and allegedly musical. There was usually some often haunting retro music being played in the background, on download.

Tina was behind the counter at Fuel with short straight black hair, white face make up, pillar box red lips, black T shirt, black jeans, black boots, black socks, silver studded belt, silver eyebrow and nose studs. She had been having a quiet gossip with Jenny the cook and was slowly fixing Pauls’ regular regular cappuccino. (regular as in it was a regular size and regular as in it was his usual drink)
- It’s so weird what happened recently
- Yeah
- Yeah. I’ve only lived in my street for a few months now and there this old woman two doors down and yesterday she spoke to me for the first time
- Uh uh
- She said ‘You’ve taken over from me’ meaning that she used to be the mysterious woman of the street and now it was me
Hearing these words from Tina, Paul was startled as he made a connection. ‘You’ve taken over from me’ of course that was what had happened in some way for Brenda. He knew in some curious but inexplicable way that Percy had been ‘taken over’ in his yoga class. This was part of his way of detecting, being open to connections and interconnections and what Jung called synchronicities.

Jenny looked at Paul in surprise.
- Whaaaat?
- Oh nothing, well something you just said just triggered a connection for me.
- Oh right glad to be of service,
said with a raised eyebrow which Paul choose to ignore.

Later on Micky Flynn – real name Jack Flynn but naturally(!) everyone called him Micky – joined Paul who was now sat at his usual breakfast table in the bay window at Fuel Café. Micky was taller than Paul, as was almost everyone and very smartly dressed especially for a policeman, with short cropped hair and a pencil thin moustache.
- I dunno why you still hang out here with all these Punks and Goths
- I like the ambience and the veggie food (And the denizens of Fuel helped Paul with titbits of information (at a price) and occasionally did leg and internet work on his behalf)
Flynn needed Paul’s help in tracking down a runaway girl. It might seem strange that a Detective Sergeant was using a Private Eye in this way but Micky and Paul went back a long way. In fact back to when Flynn was being blackmailed (See ‘Watching the Detective’.)

Tina to Micky – have you been done? (meaning have you been served?) Micky deliberates misunderstands –
No I’ve not had the operation yet.
Paul groans.
- Sorry but she did ask for it
- Don’t even go there
said Paul noticing the frown on Tina’s face.

Paul made his way on bike to the OM yoga centre. Paul rode a hybrid bike, not a sexy mountain bike or a sleek touring bike but a more sensible and comfortable hybrid. It was a bike for about town but a bike that could go off road comfortably. A bike with mudguards that could save his clothes from mud and water splashes. It was a bike that could carry stuff. Naturally he never wore lycra, he simply wore his usual clothes with luminous cycle clips. It was a pleasant ride through the backstreets of Manchester and some cycle lanes to the quite street in Didsbury where the centre was based.
A crew cutted tall and thin man dressed in orange robes answered the door. Although Sageet (as Paul later found out he was known) was clearly English, speaking with an impeccable accent, he did have an olive tinge to his skin colour that hinted at Mediterranean ancestors, which somehow made his orange clothes and Indian philosophy seem a bit less absurd. Paul was invited to attend the beginners yoga class that was about to start.

There were seven people, five women and two men already present in the room. Most of them were dressed in track suits in contrast to Paul’s jeans and T shirt. They were all over forty and 2 of them were at least sixty as far as Paul could tell but they all seemed in better shape than him despite his cycling. This assumption on his part was soon confirmed as Sageet appeared as teacher of the class. Having introduced himself and the other members of the class for Paul’s benefit he invited the class to engage in some warm up and breathing exercises. This was followed by some seemingly simple yoga postures which Paul struggled with in contrast to the ease shown by the rest of the class. After this they were invited to lie down and relax which Paul welcomed and found he was easily able to empty his mind and feel a sense of peace and wellbeing. However, he did not completely let go of his main reason for being at the class. At the end of the class Sageet spoke briefly and persuasively about a forthcoming yoga weekend that was to be held at the OM residential community near York and to which three members of the class were going to attend.

Paul lingered after the other had left to talk with Sageet.
- I cam here today because I have always wanted to yoga and because a friend of mine - Percy Hampton - has been here and recommended it to me.
- Oh yes Percy (did Paul detect a flicker of doubt or unease in Sageet?)
- I thought he might be here tonight?
- No he is staying for a while in our York ashram
- Ashram?
- A religious community
- Ah …. Could I visit?
- Of course, although you may not be able to see him (again just a hint of unease)
- Oh?
- He is on silent retreat and can not receive any visitors until it is over
- Oh… for how long?
- One month
- His wife Brenda is worried about him (Paul again sensed an unease in Sageet)
- If retreatants don’t want to let their families know then we respect their wishes
- Hmmm, it could be problematic
- There can be tensions… but if you will excuse me now (Sageet was now clearly uncomfortable and wanting to get away)
- Fine
- See you next week?
- Maybe

Paul left, at least he now had part of the story about Percy but how to take his investigations forward? Clearly a visit to the ashram near York was called for but how to get to actually speak to Percy?

***********************************
The Pet Shop Boys were being played on the Fuel sound system that next morning as Paul walked in. It was ‘Red letter day’ one of his favourites. Mind you he had so many favourite Pet songs, almost a song for all seasons although Neil Tenant had a rich line in melancholic lyrics sometimes lifted only by Chris Lowe’s exuberant lyrics.

Paul was swept along by the poignancy of the familiar lyrics un-interrupted by requesting a cappuccino from Tina.
- regular Paul?
He nodded in reply signing along to the song ‘I’m always waiting, I’m always waiting- Fuck that was it!
- Paul?
He scowled in reply but it was James, one of his regular Fuelers
- Paul, I’ve got something for you
- It had better be good to interrupt my breakfast. (pointing to his cappuccino)
- Well
- No… gone on. I was just making a connection… it can wait
- You… you asked me to keep an eye on the Manky Poets
- Yes

The Manky Poets were a motley gathering of amateur (some very amateur) poets in Chorlton but Paul was convinced that sometimes in the actual poem or afterwards in the near by pub that information was sometimes being passed on. It might be something it might be nothing. It might be information that Paul suspected somehow connected to one of his current cases.
- Well-
There was suddenly a load bang and pieces of glass showered over both of them, followed by a house brick. Taped to the brick was piece of lined paper on which was written a crude but effective message – Punk scum out – BNF rule OK!

Paul dived under the table quickly followed by James
- Fuck
- Fuck
- Shit
- OK you brave creatures… You OK?
- Think so
- Yeah
They sheepishly crawled out from under the table
- This happened before?
- First time for me, replied Tina
- Can a guy not have a quiet breakfast? Asked Paul
- Obviously not.
Tina returned with a pan and brush,
- I’ve called the fuzz
Paul nodded, James looked pale and swallowed
- I’m away
- They’ll want to talk to you
- I’ve got nothing to say to them… I wasn’t here
- Why? Asked Paul of Tina
- Dunno, but we had to ask this rather strange guy to leave here yesterday evening. He seemed high to me, crystal meth maybe
- Hmm
- It could have been him. He was mouthing off something rotten about asylum seekers.
Paul nodded but he couldn’t see any immediate link with his current cases or at least not at present. Either way his breakfast was ruined. Time for yoga.

Later Paul wangled a meeting with the South Manchester organiser of the BNF. They met in a dingy pub room in which there was hung a large flag of Saint George. Bert was 6 foot tall thin slightly pasty faced but very neatly turned out in smart but casual clothes that matched Paul’s. Here was no simple BNF thug.
- So Paul you’re a journalist with the Daily Record?
Paul nodded hoping that his friend Steve at the Record would cover for him as usual.
- And if I contacted them they would vouch for you?
- Sure ask for my boss Steve James. (Paul kept a poker face when he said this not wishing to give away any sense of unease.)
- OK so what dya want to talk to me about?
- A brick through the window of Fuel?
- Aah… so you think we did it? (Did Paul detect a flicker of a smile in Bert’s face?)
- Well the brick had a note on it claiming to be from the BNF.
- That doesn’t make it us. I could claim to represent the Labour Party but that would be a laugh.
- Well let’s for the sake of argument say it was some people from the BNF maybe not acting ‘officially’
- And?
- And well why would you, they target Fuel?
- Punk scum! (Bert vehemence took Paul by surprise.)
- So because they are punks you attack them?
- They attack us!
- Whaat? (Paul could hardly believe this for Fuel to him was an oasis of calm in his often turbulent life.)
- Have you not seen them on the demos?
- No, (Paul shook his head) I don’t go on the demos.
- Call yourself a reporter (Bert grinned.)
- I do crime not politics… but why them? There must be lots of groups that demonstrate against you?
- True but us and the punks have history - that goes back to the 1970s
Paul frowned.
- But most of the punks in Fuel weren’t even born then.
- Doesn’t matter!
There was a silence and it was apparent to Paul that Bert was unwilling to talk further about the Fuel incident.
- OK…..one final thing what do you make of the OM Yoga Centre?
- The OMs? They’re OK.
- Whaat?
- They’re OK.
- I don’t get you. They’re Asians and they’re not Christians and-
- And so we must be agin them?
- I would have thought so.
- Nah, they are an ancient civilisation, they fought along side us in the War and they are good business men.
- Businessmen?
- I’ve said enough.

Bert arose rather abruptly, shook hands with Paul and left. This was curious. What was the connection if any between OM and BNF? Was money involved? And how was Percy mixed up in all of this if at all? Innocent bystander out of his depth or a key player in some dodgy deal?

A BIT

It was time for Paul to be on retreat. This usually happened at least once in a major case and on other occasions. Paul was not a religious man, indeed he was sceptically spiritual, but the best description of him in these matters was mystical. To feed this part/whole of his being he needed to get away frequently. Sometimes he visited religious retreat houses, usually a monastery or Quaker residential centre of some kind. On occasions he took himself off to a B and B in some remote part of Britain where he would spend the time walking.

On these retreats his mind was mostly empty. He dwelt in that quiet place inside himself and just waited. He often didn’t get what he thought he wanted but he usually got some new piece of the current jigsaw, some new perspective on a case, a friendship or his life.

ANOTHER BIT

The first blow came out of nowhere, struck Paul’s neck and sent him reeling. The second blow across the back of his head knocked him out cold. When he came round his wallet had gone but somehow it didn’t feel like a simple mugging. Something else was going on. He shook his head trying to get his bearings. He gingerly fingered the crown of his head only to feel a damp stickiness. ‘Oh Fuck it’s A & E again.’
- Oh its you again Mr Whitley
- Yes Tom but do call me Paul
- Right Mister… Paul. What is it this time?
- Some idiot took a crack at me with a stick of some kind.
- Let me take a look at it. Want me to call the fuzz?
- Nah, I didn’t get a good look at him
- Him?
- Yeah it was a he, bad breathe too.

His head needed 2 stitches and a double brandy but still he could not sleep. He let his mind drift in a kind of meditation. ‘Bad breathe… bed height… bad arse… baddington… Boddington – Boddington beer! The bad breathe had a beery smell. Indeed his assailant had reeked of beer, not just the smell of a pint or two but the smell of a beer factory worker. But why would a factory worker take a swing at him unless. No it couldn’t be…. but what if…. So many things were pointing the same way. Even if he was wrong it was worth exploring. This was where Micky came in (again).

More to follow