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“The kidnapping of the footballer, Jimmy Henderson,” I blurted out and Mrs Houston started.
“Jimmy Henderson? They say he's kidnapped?” she cried.
“I never took you for a football fan, Mrs Houston,” Holms said questioningly.
But the old battle-axe was not to be foiled. “Which just goes to show you’re not half the detective you think you are.”
“This disappearance has not yet been made public, Mrs Houston,” Holms cautioned, “and I would appreciate your discretion in the matter.”
“I'd appreciate my rent,” she answered tartly.
“No doubt, and when we find Jimmy Henderson you shall have it. But stir fried fish fingers do not help my powers of reasoning.”
“Fish is good for the brain,” she insisted.
“It is not my brain that concerns me,” the great detective complained, “but my bottom. It is on fire after every meal.”
“There's nothing wrong with a little bit of spice.”
“Indeed, but I would appreciate it if you would desist from applying it in industrial quantities to my cornflakes of a morning.”
The old biddy swept from the room with a parting shot. “There's no keeping some people happy.”
Holmes and I looked at the dishes placed in front of us and hesitantly prodded at the volcanic comestibles with our forks before attempting them.
“It could be Liverpool who have kidnapped Henderson,” I suggested, if only to distract from the agony of eating.
“I don't believe kidnapping the opposition is part of the game, Wilson, I'm sure there must be a law against it.”
“But he would be a major threat to their ambitions of winning the league.”
Holms gave one of his classic harrumphs which indicated that he was astonished by my stupidity. “We might as well suppose that Henderson has been abducted by aliens, Wilson. No, this disappearance is singularly strange. Henderson left the training ground of his own free will and has not been heard of since.
What was in that text message? And what stops him from contacting his club? These are the elements we must consider.”
“Could we not ask his phone company for a copy of the text?”
“But that would make the matter into the public domain and I am sure Fergus Alexander would not approve.”
I attempted another piece of the stir fry without any great enthusiasm but was saved from further torture by Mrs Houston’s reappearance at the door.
“There's a trollop to see you,” she announced.
“A trollop?” Holms asked.