Free Andrea Frazer - Holmes and Garden 01 - The Curious Case of the Black Swan Song by Andrea Frazer

his room. As he slept in nothing but a T-shirt, he fumbled around furiously for his underpants before answering the ever-increasing urgency of the summons.
    When he had identified that it was the police, he asked them if they would mind waiting outside for a minute while he made himself decent, grabbed the first pair of trousers he could lay his hands on – which, incidentally were a deep episcopal purple – and pulled on a lavender and pink striped shirt before opening up once more and inviting them in.
    Streeter didn’t turn a hair at the man’s bright attire, but the young man with him visibly winced as he surveyed such a colour scheme on a male body. ‘May I introduce you to Detective Constable Moriarty,’ began Streeter, then was puzzled by the wild giggling that greeted this simple statement. Garden, too, was not yet quite sober, and found the DC’s name hilarious.
    With a jolt of recognition, Streeter put the two names together and found out the course of Garden’s mirth. ‘Ha ha sir, very funny, but I can assure you that DC Moriarty is not a criminal genius, nor is he working for the baddies and against Mr Holmes.
    ‘I have just had a word with Mr Holmes who saw Mr Bellamy embark on his ill-fated dive. I now want to go over again with you, as much as you can remember about his landing. You have confirmed that it wasn’t a belly-flop.’ Here, his constable groaned at the sick joke, drawing a look of disapproval from his superior.
    ‘I told you yesterday that he must have landed on his head, although I didn’t actually see him land. I heard him scream, but didn’t have sufficient time to turn round to identify the source before I was covered in blood and … er, stuff.’ Garden felt his gorge arise anew as he remembered what had adorned his trousers and shoes the day before. ‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ he mumbled, as he headed for the bathroom for a bit of the morning-after dry-heaving.
    As he leaned his head down the lavatory pan, he heard the preliminary wheezing of a piper preparing to give it some welly. What a day, and he hadn’t even got up properly yet.
    When he re-entered the room he found both detectives with their fingers in their ears. ‘What the hell is that cat-strangling noise?’ asked Streeter in a distressed voice.
    ‘It is the sound of Scottish music played enthusiastically on the bagpipes,’ shouted Garden in reply. ‘I’m going to have to ask that one of us is moved to a different room.’
    ‘I’m actually glad now that they want independence. The only place in England that you can hear a sound like that is outside an abattoir,’ commented Streeter in a loud voice.
    ‘I love the skirl of the pipes,’ roared Moriarty, ‘but not usually at such close quarters. Fascinating instrument, are the pipes, and so many variations. I think my favourite are the Irish ones. And they have the benefit that you inflate the bag with your arm, so even asthmatics can play them.’
    ‘Sod asthmatics. We’ll catch up with you later, Mr Garden. I have sufficient respect for my sense of hearing to determine that this conversation should be carried out later in the day, at a place far removed from your room.’
    There were others, too, in the small town of Hamsley Black Cross who awoke either in, or to, distress that morning.
    Lesley Piper and Marion Guest were awoken by their radio alarm at eight o’clock, both momentarily amnesiac about what had occurred the day before. It didn’t take long, however, before memory returned, and Lesley rolled over in their queen-sized bed to glare at Marion.
    ‘I hope you’re not going back to the hotel to smarm around young Pippa,’ she said, stressing the word young, ‘in the pretence of expressing your condolences. There’s nothing worse than when an old dyke gets designs or a pash on a youngster. You’re already making a fool of yourself, and it’s got to stop, or there will be consequences.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking