The North of England’s Only Transgender Detective Agency – Chapter 1

The North of England’s Only Transgender Detective Agency - A Short Story - Be a Lady

The North of England’s Only Transgender Detective Agency – A Short Story

Chapter 1

The icy winds blew down the River Mersey, skimmed over the soap suds from the detergent factory, rose up and seemed to converge just below my skirt.

It was as sharp as my dress-sense and as bitter as my personality.

Standing on the Old Quay outside some dingy industrial unit at 11pm on a cold winter evening was not my idea of fun. But work is work.

I’ve tried the boring 9-5 office job – taking hot drinks to the boss when he would grope my butt and feel my stocking-tops – and decided that life was not for me.

Well, if we’re being precise, I was sacked for “accidentally” giving said boss third degree burns to the groin. Hot coffee. Ouch!

So here we were, standing stiffly on the bitter Quayside, watching the warehouse unit for signs of movement.

We had been tipped off by the factory owner’s wife. She believed the owner was planning to torch the building, claim off the insurance and leg it with his secretary, Ethel.

Ethel! Who the hell calls their daughter Ethel?

Notice I said ‘we’? By we, I mean myself, Nancy Boyes, and my faithful assistant, Lauren.

Did I say faithful? Ha. By no stretch of the imagination could Lauren be described as faithful. Or subtle.

Lauren wears PVC leggings, 6-inch heels, and perfume so strong it gives you migraines from 20 yards away! Hardly subtle.

I had sent Lauren for food while I stayed on stake-out. Supposedly, Lauren is vegetarian, but had brought back fish and chips. Her logic being that her cod probably had a death wish and jumped into the net of its own accord. Hmm. Okay, Lauren.

So, there we were, freezing our silicone tits off, eating greasy chips and – ugh. I had just speared something on the ground with my stiletto heel.

I did not wish to know whether it was animal, vegetable, mineral, or anything in between. Without looking, I quickly wiped my heel with the empty chip wrapper.

“I had a date for tonight,” whinged Lauren.

“He – or she – will wait if they are serious,” I said. Lauren sulked.

“Who was it?” I asked, “Don’t tell me – you met them online.”

They sounded really nice, actually. Well, they said they had a car…” Oh she was going upmarket these days.

“You are getting picky, darling!” I said, the sarcasm going straight over her head.

“Anything moving?” Lauren said.

“Well, Mr. Pratt has just arrived with Ethel, a can of petrol, firelighters, what look like oily rags, newspapers, and a ‘Zippo’ ciggy-lighter – so yeah, it does look a little suspicious.” I drawled; my sarcasm completely wasted on Lauren as always.

Just then, another car arrived, it’s headlights flashing across Lauren’s leggings and illuminating my own gorgeous, nylon-encased legs. If the driver had seen us… well, they’d probably assume we were a pair of hookers having a slow night. Not too far from the truth in hall honesty, but we need to make it convincing.

“Kiss me!” I blurted. Lauren didn’t even look up.

“I thought you were over me?” She whispered huskily.

“Just do it!” I ejaculated – verbally – leaning into her. She obliged and our lips locked. 30 seconds later we came up for air.

“Phew. I didn’t know you cared!” Lauren gasped.

“Just making us look innocent in case they saw us!”

“Yeah, right! If you want to get inside my pants – just ask!” Cheeky bitch!

I frowned as the car pulled up alongside the first.

“This doesn’t feel right…” I mumbled – mostly to myself.

“It felt fine to me, darling!” Lauren replied huskily, and still a bit breathless.

“No, the second car, you bimbo!”

“Oh, I see. Maybe we should get a bit closer and see if we can overhear?” Gorgeous and useful.

I looked her up and down.

“We’ll be lucky if they don’t hear your bloody heels clicking!”

“Well, I was supposed to be on a date. I had to look fabulous!” Lauren replied tartly.

“Ok, let’s mince over – quietly – and see.”

So, we did. We tiptoed over, trying our hardest to keep quiet, and approached the warehouse door. It was ajar – and raised voices could be heard from inside.

“That’s Mr. Pratt and Ethel, but I don’t know the other guy.” I hissed to Lauren.

“I do – bloody hell!” Lauren’s eyes went wide. I looked at her sharply. “It’s Eric Entwistle. He owns a casino in Liverpool. I went to one of his dodgy parties. He is not a nice person!” She looked worried.

“Please, Eric,” pleaded a voice – it sounded like Mr. Pratt. “As soon as I get the insurance money, you’ll get your 20 grand!”

“You have let me down, Norman – hasn’t he, Rex?”

Lauren and I peered around the door. It was immediately obvious who Rex was. Tall and stocky, standing with his arms folded and wearing a posh black suit and sunglasses – at night! He was clearly Eric’s minder, driver, muscle, and all-round nasty piece of work.

We really, really shouldn’t have been there. This was a bad idea. A bad case. Maybe we should turn and leave now.

Then the inevitable happened. Lauren farted. Long and loud. Nerves I expect – or the earlier mushy peas.

“Rex, go check out that noise!” Eric barked.

Rex made his way towards the door, but we had already hidden behind a nearby skip – trying our best not to breathe. Lauren is used to that.

“Nothing, boss” We heard Rex say. “Must’ve been the wind!” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“Just let me burn this place and you get your cash, Eric, I promise!” Norman Pratt was a frightened man.

The sound of running water meant either Lauren was having a pee, or Ethel had wet herself. It turned out to be the latter.

“Don’t be afraid young lady. As long as Norman here coughs up, there will be no need for any, er…” he tailed off.

“Violence, boss?” supplied Rex, helpfully – at least he thought so.

Unpleasantness.” Eric corrected, leaving the threat hanging in the air as he and Rex made their way back to the car, slipping away into the night.

“Ethel, stop crying and clean yourself up!” Pratt hissed.

“What will they do to us – to you?” Ethel asked, her voice shaking.

“Us! It’s your fault I owe so much – gambling at Eric’s bent casino, I ask you.” Replied the gallant Norman.

“I have a problem, Norman! Addictive personality!” Ethel whined.

“Well, now we both have a problem!” Norman snapped. “Let’s crack on and burn the place, Ethel. Come on!”

I pulled out my phone. It seemed like a good idea to call the fire brigade before he lit the fire.

Not ten minutes had passed before two big red fire engines arrived on the scene. Norman and Ethel had barely made it to their car before the fire was out.

“How the hell did they get here so soon?” Norman demanded, as he and Ethel sat in Norman’s car, peering around the corner, engine running, terrified.

Ethel didn’t respond. She just sobbed heavily into a tissue. This was not her night. What were they going to do now?

**

Several days later, the coroner – unsure if it was a double suicide, a murder-suicide, or a double murder – pronounced Norman Pratt and Ethel dead.

A rather jolly Mrs. Pratt paid us for our services and left our office singing ‘we’re in the money’ – a bit tacky, but it seemed Norman had been very, very well insured.

Lauren sat quietly polishing her toe-nails looking thoughtful – unusual for her.

“It does leave a bad taste, doesn’t it?” she mused.

“Your kebab last night?” I guessed, the scent of it still rolling from her.

“No, silly! Norman and Ethel!” Lauren’s newly found scruples surprised me. “Do you think they were bumped off by Eric or… erm… you know, do it themselves?”

“No idea, be we did ok out of it, didn’t we?” I observed. “Are you suggesting we look into it? Become avenging angels? Righting wrongs. Bat-woman and … thingy?”

“No, but it just isn’t right, is it? That Mrs. Pratt did ok too – makes you wonder if she set us up – and Eric and Rex – the whole thing!”

Occasionally, Lauren had the ability to see through people and situations and come to the obvious conclusion.

“Have you been drinking? Or drugs? Or both?” I quizzed.

“No, strangely – only female hormones.” She was in a serious mood.

“Well, take some more! You’re a genius! I could kiss you! Well, maybe not – that kebab lingers a bit!”

We were flush with cash, needed a break, and seemed to have acquired a new moral compass. We were in fact avenging angels – or avenging bimbos.

We shut up shop at the agency and left a note to say we had gone to a religious retreat. Implausible? I know. But we were thinking on our feet. This job was off the books – on our own time. A crusade for justice!

Ok, we were just a pair of nosey bitches! And we do rather like a good mystery…