Yo-yo's Weekend

  17.

  The Investigations of Constable Kipper

  POLICE Constable Kipper is an old-fashioned policeman. He believes in doing things 'by the book', so instead of leaping into action and pursuing the thieves, he has first returned to the station for a nice cup of tea and an hour or so of writing his report into his notebook in beautiful script.

  The young Man in Question gave his name as Yo-yo and his Address as Cozee Nook bed and breakfast near Clifton Green. The young Man in Question was wearing the Uniform of The Minster School and gave his Age as 'Between 10 and 18'. He told me he was visiting his Aunt and Uncle following the double Suicide of his Parents and that the Emerald Jewel set into a Ring was a parting Gift from his Mother. He said he had been followed by one Mister Vanilla who had repeatedly tried to procure the said Ring, and tricked by one Mistress Rue, a painted Lady from The Wildcat Circus.

  By the time Kipper has finished the report, his tea is cold. He makes another cup and considers his next move.

  ''Why don't you search the circus?'' suggests Sergeant Cod.

  ''I'm more interested in this Wee Jocko McTavish character,'' says Constable Kipper, munching into a chocolate digestive. ''There's something fishy about him.''

  ''Yes,'' says Sergeant Cod, ''Very fishy. He needs to know his plaice. Go bust him up a bit. Bring him to 'eel. You're a dab hand at that.''

  Kipper takes another fifteen minutes over his tea and biscuit then gets on his bicycle and rides over to Stonegate and Ye Olde Scottish Shop of Wee Jocko McTavish. Pushing his way through kilts and blankets, he is stopped in his tracks by a burring ''Noo then, Jimmy. Whit's yeer game?''

  ''I am an officer of the law,'' Kipper declares, ''And I am investigating a crime. I require your co-operation.''

  ''Is that so?'' growls Wee Jocko McTavish. ''See yon claymair?'' The sword on the counter is very sharp. ''That's Glaswegian for 'cop-operation', ye sassenach, ye.''

  Kipper hesitates. This is not working out as he had hoped. ''A young boy came in earlier today,'' he says. ''Red-headed lad, green-blue eyes…''

  ''Och, so, ye be wantin' a wee laddie then,'' says Jocko McTavish, nodding with sympathetic understanding. ''Weel, if that's yeer haggis…''

  ''What?'' Kipper adjusts his helmet.

  ''Ah dinnae gae fer it mesel','' says Jocko McTavish, ''Not enough hair, d'ye ken? Ah like mae men vairy hairy. Wee bairns today dinna have enough hair. But it takes all soorts, as they sae.''

  ''No, no!'' Kipper protests. ''He came here earlier today. He played with your pipes?''

  ''Och, that'd be telling,'' grins Jocko McTavish. ''Ye wantin' Oor Jimmy tae play wi yoor pipes?''

  ''No,'' says Kipper. ''I just want information. He had his ring pinched.''

  ''He should be so lucky,'' grins Jocko McTavish.

  Constable Kipper feels in need of a strong cup of tea. ''Look,'' he says. ''Did a young boy come in here earlier or not?''

  ''Aye,'' says Jocko McTavish, ''That he did. I gave him a sporran and then a skein dhu.''

  ''Disgusting,'' hisses Constable Kipper. ''People like you should be put in jail. Sporrin kids and skinning their doos.''

  Jocko McTavish grins. ''Awa' wi' ye, sassenach, or I'll set the haggises on ye.'' Several small, grey, furry, tail-less creatures with whiskers skitter across the floor. ''They'll gie yer ankles a nip if ye dinna watch oot.'' Constable Kipper dances backwards away from the swarm. Jocko McTavish claps his hands in delight and sticks on some music. ''Gae on,'' he cries, ''Strip Yer Willow or maybe ye'd prefair a Gay Gordon?'' Constable Kipper waves his arms and jigs about in the manner of a Highland Fling. ''Gae on,'' he shouts, ''Up your Ceilidh, Constable Kipper.''

  ''Look,'' gasps Constable Kipper again, ''I only want some information…''

  ''Nae need tae get radgie,'' says Jocko McTavish. ''Gae on, lift yer knees mair. Ye're not daein' it right.'' The haggises squeak and nip the policeman's ankles. ''Ye tak the high rood, an' ah'll tak the low rood,'' he warbles. ''Roond aboot the cauldron go, in the poisoned entrails throw….ye be from the po-lis?''

  ''Aye,'' says Constable Kipper, jigging on the spot to a bagpipe-and-accordion arrangement of Donald Weer's Ye Troosies?

  ''An' yer tryin' tae find Wee Jimmy's ring?''

  Constable Kipper nods breathlessly.

  ''Come roond the back, Jimmy,'' says Jocko McTavish, ''An' I'll fill ye in.''

  Constable Kipper removes his helmet and unzips his truncheon pouch. After a thorough debriefing and a nice cup of tea, he has the information he requires. He leaves Ye Scottish Shop, mounts his bike and, somewhat gingerly, pedals away to the Wildcat Circus.

  All is quiet when he arrives. He approaches the first caravan, a white one, and opens the door. Inside

  the Trapezing Triplets, the Czech Mates, are playing a game at chess. Strelec, playing black, moves his rook. Jezdec, playing white, moves a pawn. Strelec moves his queen. Jezdec fiddles with his bishop before nudging his knight into a square.

  ''What do you want?'' yells Vez.

  ''I'm looking for Mistress Rue,'' says Constable Kipper.

  ''Checkmate,'' says Strelec, pushing his bishop a little further up the board.

  Jezdec pulls out an AK-47. ''I don't zink so,'' he says, riddling the bishop with bullets.

  Constable Kipper closes the door and wheels his bike to the next caravan, a pale green one. Inside

  the Clowns are relaxing. Make-up cakes the towels that are scattered over the floor. Wigs lie forgotten on a table. Big floppy shoes lurk under beds. Big floppy feet rest in plastic bowls of mustard and water. Each clown has a fistful of playing cards and a mouthful of cigarette. A hazy curtain of smoke hangs inside the caravan.

  ''What are you playing?'' asks Constable Kipper.

  ''Fool,'' says Kos.

  ''Sorry,'' says Kipper. ''I didn't mean to offend you.''

  ''No, the game's called Fool,'' says Endive impatiently. ''It's Russian. Durak. Means fool or idiot.''

  ''Or complete twat,'' adds Rocket unnecessarily.

  ''Jeez, what an idiot,'' say the brothers, breathing out more clouds of cigarette smoke.

  ''Hey!'' cries Endive. ''I smell bacon. Can you smell bacon, Chicory?''

  ''And a fat pork sausage!'' yells Chicory. ''How about you, Kos? Can you smell a fat pork sausage?''

  Kos sniffs the air. ''Oink oink,'' he grunts.

  ''Now then, now then,'' says Constable Kipper, ''There's no need to be rude.''

  ''Bollocks to you, Tit-head,'' says Rocket.

  The Lettuce Brothers cackle as Constable Kipper closes the door.

  Inside the pale blue caravan, Kipper finds

  Catkin Silver, the twelve year old human cannonball, is devoid of paint and wearing just a rather small white towel round his waist.

  ''Hello hello hello,'' says Constable Kipper.

  ''What do you want?'' snarls Catkin Silver. ''Can't you see I'm busy?''

  ''Sorry,'' says Kipper. ''I'm looking for Thyme.''

  ''Thyme, like the tide, waits for no man,'' Silver says wisely. Behind him a female voice whines ''Cat-kin, Ca-tty, come back to bed.'' Catkin Silver glares at Kipper. ''Can't you hear I'm busy? Got a fair lady lying in my bed, so bugger off.''

  ''How old are you?'' demands Constable Kipper.

  ''Old enough to tell you to keep your sticky-beak out of my sex-life,'' growls Catkin Silver, slamming the door.

  Kipper wheels his bike to the pale grey caravan. Inside

  Jungle-Juiced Jake is sprawled under the rather decrepit lion named Brian. The lion is yelling '' Yes, Jake, yes. Lick me. Lick me. Go on, Jake. Rub my mane!''

  Kipper closes the door quietly. The Wildcat Circus has yielded nothing so far except insult and injury.

  The pale beige caravan is marked TRUSS, MANAGER. It is empty. However the kettle is whistling away on a little gas-stove. That's dangerous, thinks Kipper, so he turns it off, makes a cup of tea and helps himself to a nice digestive.

  ''Good evening,'' says an oily voice. ''How may I help you?''
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  Constable Kipper brushes the custard-cream crumbs from his uniform and beholds the skinny man with a balding pate who is the Manager of the Wildcat Circus.

  ''I am Truss,'' says the man nasally. ''Heaven must be missing an angel tonight since you're here on the earth.''

  Kipper blushes and pats his straw thatch of hair into a more orderly shape so it resembles a Weetabix rather than a Shredded Wheat. '' Oh, Mister Truss…''

  ''If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?'' Truss oozes across the caravan floor.

  Kipper twitters ''Oh, Mister Truss….''

  ''What's your name, my beauty?'' Truss puts his hand on Kipper's hip.

  ''Kipper,'' says Kipper, ''Police Constable Kipper.''

  Harrumph. Truss clears his throat and snaps his hand away. ''Errrr… Truss, Circus Manager. Nice to meet you.'' His voice has dropped about an octave so it rumbles like a really macho grizzly bear. ''What can I do for you, Constable?''

  A second custard-cream would not go amiss but Kipper is a professional. ''Another cup of tea?'' he ventures. ''Whilst we talk?''

  Truss has been manager of the Wildcat Circus for five years. He has travelled with them all over Europe and the UK and is now planning a tour of Bulgaria, Rumania and Hungary. When he bought out Honeysuckle Moon, the previous owner, the circus had been on the edge of bankruptcy. He signed up Rue and Thyme, brought in the Czech Mates, discovered Catkin Silver in a working men's club in Wakefield dancing in his silver paint to a bunch of rowdy yet appreciative ex-miners, created Jax and Dax the Infinite Twins and revived the careers of the Lettuce Brothers, the only acts left from the Honeysuckle Moon era. The success of the Wildcat Circus is entirely down to him. And do they appreciate it? No they don't. Truss is constantly under pressure to provide new lion-skins for Jungle-Juiced Jake, new body-paint for Rue, new thigh-boots for Thyme, new custard for the clowns... The most militant is Catkin Silver, who has become a kind of Shop Steward.

  ''Look, you twat,'' the last meeting had opened, ''We need a pay rise. Performers like us don't grow on trees so sort it out or we'll all piss off to another circus.''

  It isn't easy being a circus owner. Every time he wants to talk to Rue she disappears. Every time he goes to chat with Jungle-Juiced Jake, Brian is unleashed. Every time he visits the Lettuce Brothers, they squirt water in his face. The Wildcat Circus has taken on a life of its own and Truss is embittered. Don't they know they'd fall apart without his support?

  ''I'm trying to locate a Miss, or a Mrs Thyme,'' says Constable Kipper, having written Truss's troubles down in his notebook.

  ''Many people want to locate Mistress Thyme,'' says Truss, struggling with a stray strand of hair that has unstuck from his scalp. ''Everyone wants Thyme to do something for them. What do you want her to do for you, Constable?''

  ''I think she can help my enquiries,'' says Kipper. ''I am an Officer of the Law.''

  Truss sighs and stands up. ''OK, OK. Follow me.''

  Kipper finishes his biscuits, sets his tea-cup on the floor, flicks a haggis out of his turn-ups and follows the circus-owner out of the caravan. They reach a tent marked Hall of Mirrors. Truss folds back the flap. ''This is Thyme,'' he says. ''Thyme, this is a police constable. He wants to ask you some questions.''

  ''Oh, big Mister Policeman'' coos Thyme, ''Strong Mister Policeman. Are you going to interrogate me? Beat me with your truncheon? Lock me in handcuffs? Be beastly and dominant, you great, rough bully-boy? I hope so …unless you're the strip-o-gram… Kipper the Stripper.''

  Music blares out of a hidden speaker. Constable Kipper slow-dances round a pole and begins to unbutton his tunic in a suggestive manner. Suddenly he is distracted by the myriad reflections of naked women, of infinite DaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandRatandDaxandJaxandDogandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandJaxandChimpandDaxandDaxandJaxandJaxandJaxandDaxandDaxandJaxandDaxandElephantandJaxandDaxandJaxand

  of Constable Kipper falling somewhere between them, falling .......

  Kipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperkipperdaxkipperjaxkipperkipperjaxdaxdaxdaxdaxjaxkipperjaxkipperdaxjaxjaxkipper

  As he falls he detects a desperate cry of ''Heeelp meeee!'' and a faint scent of perfumed violets but it is too late. Like Mister Vanilla, he is lost in the mirrors with the Infinite Twins.

  Thyme smiles at Truss. ''Good job, boss.'' She hands him Yo-yo's emerald ring.

  ''Thank you, my dear.'' Truss holds the jewel up to the light and squints. ''Ding dong the witch is dead. Ha ha ha ha. Quite exquisite. Utterly flawless. Beyond compare. Such depth of colour. Could it be the most beautiful emerald ring in all the world? I think it could.'' He cocks his head to one side, the better to peer into its depths. ''It is beautiful, it is precious, and now …'' He throws back his head and guffaws evilly. ''Ha-ha-ha! It is mine, all mine!'' He pockets the ring and heads off to phone a friend.