PI GY 11 - Carlos Wildebeast, the Gold Lurex Trunks and a Tiny Hint of Tom Jones.

Five minutes previously, Carlos Wildebeast had, rather hysterically, seen his gold lurex trunks being waved out of a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny's, window as they rapidly disappeared out of sight down North Sea Lane. The trunks were accompanied by hysterical drunken screeching, cackles and laughter and a lone, male, designated driver with a world-weary expression of resignation.

Carlos was used to ‘losing’ pairs of trunks and purchased them in bulk, but, throbbing head, in trembling hands, he pictured himself, all too clearly, folding up a sheet of paper and putting it ‘just for now’ in the back patch pocket. Ironically he had done this so he wouldn't lose it. Now it was gone. Honey-B was going to kill him.

Two months of phone calls had gone into that list. Two whole months. It was the last thing he’d printed out before his laptop hissed, spat, turned blue screen and died. He’d meant to photocopy it, just in case, but hadn't got around to it. Now he was stuffed.  No gig list, no names, no phone numbers. Stuffed more than a vegetarian’s marrow.

He stared at the grubby, little dressing room in hope of inspiration but found none. To his horror he heard the clip-clop of high mules; the type that looked like they had a rabbit’s puff tail stuck on the front.

“Christ! OW!” yelled Honey-B as she coggled over on one. “Bloody floors.” 

Funny how the floors in every club were the same ‘bloody floors’ thought Carlos. They always made her fall over. Why didn't she just say bloody stupid shoes or bloody stupid me for wearing bloody stupid shoes?

“Are you ok, Love?” he tried to sound sincere. “You’d think they’d sort the floors out just for you, wouldn't you?” As he was pulling  a sympathetic face she only briefly wondered if he was being ‘funny.’

Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B had an Act, somewhere between burlesque and sleaze, that appealed to women of a certain age that drank Cherry B, Babysham or Snowballs; reminding them of the good times had in the Toby Inn in the late 60s/early 70s.

The phone rang and I cursed not grabbing it before I had piled a dog and my dinner on top of me and getting all comfy in the comfy armchair. I had made sure the remotes were to hand but forgot the phone. Damn it. Plate crashed down onto the side table, nearly knocking over my steaming mug of Earl Grey. Dog then carefully ejected, I just made it before the answer machine kicked in. If there is one thing I hate more than answering the phone it is ringing people back who have left a message.

“Oh Hi MarcieD, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” She croaked. “Well, apart from this wretched cold that WILL NOT GO.” She tried to shout in frustration but croaked just marginally louder. “ I've got a job for you. Paul and Deirdre Crumpsall – you may know them better as Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B – have got an urgent problem and I said I know just the woman to help: The PI from GY!”

“Great, thanks, MarcieD. I've just reunited yet another wandering dog and finished trailing yet another  wandering husband so the diary is empty at the moment. “

Since Private Investigations Grimsby had been set up, my ramshackle team and I had managed to keep a good flow of cases coming in. Much to my surprise and to the relief of my bank balance. However, my team were still having to help out for mates rates. That basically meant the odd beer or sandwich here and there. Luckily they enjoyed it and luckily I had great friends who liked to see me pay my bills.

MarcieD filled me in. As a singer she travelled the same club circuit as the Crumpsalls and she knew how hard it was to set up gigs so she understood the hysteria. They remembered the details of the next two nights but nothing after that. They were so used to living day to day – or rather night to night. I arranged to meet them before their next gig. 

Due to their act being a bit risqué they had to find venues that had a closed off room. Hotels were good for that and tonight they were booked for a hen party in the function room at the B&B-B&B. Bertie and Bill were always good for a laugh and always insisted on ‘feeding them up’ afterwards. Neither of them felt hungry though and they weren’t talking to each other either. Not great for rapport in their line of business.

I was meeting them at 7pm, just before their show, and it was now 12.30. I shovelled down my lunch and then shovelled lunch into the dogs who, annoyingly, seemed to be on a go-slow-chew followed by an interminable find-the-right-spot amble around the garden to swiftly get rid of the dinner. With the price of their food I didn't appreciate this for several reasons.

Time was pressing and I forced myself to drive to Cleethorpes and see the manager of The Beachcomber, the club where the gold lurex trunks had made their last appearance.

Luckily it had been sold out and no tickets were sold on the door. He agreed to give me the list of names he had. I'm sure data protection should have had something to say about this but he didn't say anything and neither did I. We both wanted to help out so discretion was assured.

The list wasn't very comprehensive but did comprise of a name and a town. Mostly Grimsby and Cleethorpes but with the odd Immingham, Tetney, Holton-le-Clay  and, rather annoyingly one from Sheffield. That would just be my luck.

Actually, just for once – I actually had some good luck. This doesn't normally happen. I'm more the Sheffield-luck type. The further away and more awkward something is the more I'm likely to have to travel that particular route. I wasn't going to complain though and, have a break - have a Kit-Kat - was good enough for me, if not before time.

As I was passing the gatehouse to exit the Beachcomber, I saw a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny drive past the entrance. I got a move on and followed it. It drove through The Fitties, and parked up outside a ramshackle holiday chalet. 

I parked up a bit behind it, waited until the world-weary man shuffled his way up the path and through the front door.

I strolled up to the car and peeked in. There they were. Glinting in the sunlight on the parcel shelf behind the back seat. Better still there was a hint of the gig sheet sticking out from the pocket.

Smug about my fantastic detecting skills, ok – luck, I carried on with my strolling and hammered on the chalet door.

“Yeah? Whaddya wont?” growled a scary woman with a voice as rough as a badger’s backside. I hastily explained and she, although complaining of a mega-hangover, was with it enough to realise that she was in possession of something important and I had to hand over £20 before she would unlock the car and give the list back to me. 

She kept the gold lurex trunks to have a bit of fun with tonight.... That poor husband would probably have to perform an impression of Carlos-Not-So-Wilde or she’d eat him alive. Poor sod.

I called both MarcieD and Carlos to share the good news and they were both immensely impressed with my wonderful detecting skills. I wore my smug face for the rest of the afternoon.

As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't get away after presenting Carlos and Honey-B with their next 8 months of income. They wouldn't stop hugging me, while I did a good impression of an ironing board while trying to smile rather than grimace. I really can’t be doing with all this mwah mwah stuff. It didn't help that Carlos only had on his trademark, gold lurex trunks and Honey-B only had on some fuchsia pink, frilly knickers and a white feather boa. It had been raining and she was still wearing her green Hunter wellies, which I felt were just wrong – even though they were the only part of the ensemble  I actually felt comfortable with.

Carlos and Honey-B insisted I stayed to watch the show for free as a present. Oh gawd – I really didn't want to but felt it was rude to refuse, especially as Bertie and Bill insisted I stay for the after show supper. Never one to resist the offer of free food, I fatally hesitated for too long and my fate was sealed.

I had an hour of sitting among the biggest concentration of animal print I had ever been in close proximity to. The bride, complete with feathered wings and crooked tiara, must have been on her fifth or sixth husband as the party all looked like they were going out on the razz because it was pension day.

As much as I looked at the tasteful prints on the wall, the carpet, the furniture, the back of my eyelids, there was no escape from the multiple dropping of the feather boa. Ooh dear. 

Then it was the grand finale. They were off and flying through the air towards a multitude of hands. The gold lurex trunks were being fought over as I forgot myself and looked forward.

Oh my goodness!

Carlos Wildebeast certainly had something to hang his hat on!