The Curious Case of the Prawnographic Nibbles

It was a week to forget that Heather Prendergast would remember to her dying day, if not longer.  She intended to spend the Easter vacation cramming for her final exams, but her best-laid plans were nipped in the bud when her aunt invited her to accompany her to the Cannes Film Festival. Well, she could hardly say no, could she? Particularly as the auntly jaunt would just be a taster for a fortnight’s swanabout in Italy. Educational, Aunt Elizabeth insisted. Mind expanding.

Despite her every better judgment, dutiful as ever, Prendergast reluctantly agreed. And so, what with movie-viewing, shopping, sunlounging, shopping, dining, sightviewing, wining, shopping, sampling the nightlife, dining, dining, dining, shopping, shopping, shopping and catching up on her beauty sleep, she had little time for revision. Or to put it another way, she didn’t give a scholarly hoot. Not a smidgeon, not a tad, not a jot. Determined to make the most of the jolly, she cast her revisionary duties to the wind. Out of sight, out of mind. Taking advantage of her aunt’s silver, gold, platinum, black, blue and yellow charge cards, she shopped until she quite literally dropped, metaphorically speaking. After revivifying her flagging energies with a leisurely lunch, she would take a routine power nap and then, nose back to the grindstone, shop some more.

It was gruelling work but, stoical as ever, Heather stiffed her upper lip and acquitted her niecely duties with aplomb. Although she didn’t dare tell Aunt Elizabeth, to be brutally frank, she was relieved when the shopathon was over; if she never saw another boutique again, it would be too soon. And the luggage . . . she was burdened with more carrier bags than she could shake a punny schtick at.

Guilt-ridden by her wanton spendthriftery, it was with a combination of trepidation and tummy-flutterance that Prendergast returned to Merton Police College, unready and not entirely willing to embark upon her final term. If she was honest - and honesty was her modus operandi - she was under no illusions about the importance of making the grade. Professor Morrison had made clear that failure would scupper her chances of joining the Metropolitan Police, and that would mean curtains for her lifeheld ambition of becoming Prendergast of The Yard. The problem was that she found studying a crashing bore. After all, she was a girl of action, not words - a doer, not a giggly swot. Loath though she was to admit it, she was a rubbish student. But come on, she told herself - did Sherlock fritter away his formative years studying procedural persnicketies? Not according to good old Doctor Watson, he didn’t. Let’s face it, he was too busy bringing villains to book.

Incognito in an everyday, common-or-garden Dolce and Gabbana twinset, Paolo Moretti faux mink coat, Mikimoto pearl necklace, Balmain sunglasses and Alexander McQueen hairscarf - a matter of vanity rather than modesty, bearing in mind the personalised number plates on her pink convertible Porsche 911 GTI - Aunt Elizabeth dropped Heather off at the college gates and saw her on her way with a flurry of air kisses and mwah-hugs.

So, this is it, Prendergast told herself. The final frontier. On the way to her digs - a shoebox of a cell in a prefabricated annexe behind the halls of residence - she bumped into Terrence ‘Tiny’ Bottomley. It might have been her imagination, but she imagined that he was taller, spindlier and a good deal more pimply than when she last saw him. And in that, when she last saw him, he had been as tall, as spindly and as pimply as a giraffe with ecthyma, his inane smile sent shivers scuttling down her spine.

‘Heard the news?’ Tiny said. ‘An anonymous well-wisher gave Principal Pratley a video of his wife bonking Professor Morrison. Well, you can imagine . . .’

‘Actually,’ Prendergast said, ‘I would rather not.’ Nevertheless, she had to ask, ‘what did he do?’

‘Fisticuffs in the staff room. Blood everywhere,’ Tiny said and winced. ‘Morrison is in hospital in a neck brace, and Principal Pratley has been charged with Grievous Bodily Harm. His wife has gone to stay with her mother in the Gorbles.’

‘Golly, I don’t believe it. But Missus Pratley is head of catering. Who’s in charge of the student canteen now?’

Tiny shrugged. ‘Suppose the job opportunity trainee, Debbie Smith, will have to cope until a new cook is found. But get this - following Principal Pratley’s meltdown, the college has been put into special measures. The governors have parachuted in a new principal. She’s due to address the assembly at nine.’ He glanced at his watch and gasped, ‘Jiminy Cricket, it’s five to. Better get your skates on, Heather. Word has it, the new principal is a stickler for discipline. Anyone who shows up late will be for the high jump. See you there,’ he said and galumphed off in the direction of the lecture theatre, blowing kisses over his shoulder.

Heather draped her groovissima new coat over an arm, picked up her suitcase and was about to follow Tiny when Daisy Miller swaggered round the corner, sipping cherrycola from a polyethylene beaker. Notorious for throwing her weight around - and she had plenty - were Heather to be asked to sum Daisy up in one word, that word would be common as muck. OK, pedants - that’s three words, but who’s counting?  Tall with bleachblond hair, beachball breasts, a bowlingball bum, backless, strapless and tasteless sequinned T-shirt, bowl-bottom jeans, Cuban-heeled cowboy boots, an incongruous rhinoplastic nose and teapot ears, Daisy Miller held herself a cut above her fellow students. Her graceless airs and airless graces owed much to the fact that her father was a detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police, so she was assured of a cushy job when she graduated. But what most rankled Heather’s juices was that Daisy was cheerleader of the local chapter of the Taylor Swift fan club, the Merton Swifties as they were known to those who knew no better, a position of ultimate esteem on campus.

Daisy barged into Prendergast, demanded, ‘give me that . . .’ and grappled the Louis Vuitton suitcase from her hand. ‘I’ll take a shufty later and decide what I’m keeping. I’ll give you back the dross when I’m done, but don’t hold your breath.’ She looked Prendergast over and pinched her nose. ‘Ooh, what a naff coat,’ she said. ‘Charity shop?’

‘Brunello Cucinelli,’ Prendergast said. If truth be told, she felt a little awkward flaunting a coat that cost more than the average college porter earned in an average year. But needs be as needs must, she supposed. After all, she had been brought up to believe that nothing worth doing comes easy, and nothing worth wearing comes cheap. In the circles that her guardian aunt moved in, style was an essential, not an extravagance. The have-much’s mantra was that money might not make the world go round, but it sure as damn-it oiled the wheels.

‘Get you - Bruno Chinelly.’ Daisy parroted Prendergast’s cultured accent. ‘Is it a knock-off?’

‘As if . . .’ Prendergast turned up her nose. After all, she would rather be seen dead than be caught wearing counterfeit designer wear. As her aunt would say, when in doubt, feel the price tag. Before she could justify her choice of attire on the grounds that economy is a false economy, Daisy grabbed hold of her dress with her acrylic talons and ripped off the crepe de chine bow and a handful of brocade fleurs de lys. ‘TK Maxx, I bet. Shoddy bri-nylon crap,’ she sneered and tossed the designer frippery, foppery and frillery away. ‘Didn’t no one never tell you, only skanks and pooftas wear puce.’

Mortally affronted, Prendergast planted her hands on her hips and tossed her head. ‘Are you colour blind? It’s not puce, it’s Sunset Catmint. This season’s colour. And if you must know, peasant, it’s Gucci. Wild silk,’ she said with all the considerable condescension at her command.

Daisy upended her beaker of sticky-cola over Prendergast’s head and sniggered, ‘whoops . . . clumsy me. Looks like your Gucci is a Yucky now. Tough titty.’

Heather stamped a soggy foot. ‘You rotter. My life won’t be worth living if I’m late for assembly and I don’t have time to run back to my digs to change.’

‘Since when has your life been worth living, shrimp?’ Struggling to keep a straight face, Daisy thrust a carryall into Prendergast's arms. ‘Lucky for you I got a change of clothes with me. I wore the dress for a dance class first thing, so it’s a bit sweaty. You can change in the loo. Dare say the colour will clash with your hair, but not to worry. No one will notice as long as you keep your posh coat on.’

More than less five minutes later, Prendergast tiptoed into the lecture theatre, sneaked a seat in the back row and did her best to look invisible. A hush fell over the room as the new principal mounted the stage. Vertically challenged - four foot eight in her hobnail boots - she was blessed with the physique of an Olympic shotputter. Her double chin, piggy nose and neanderthal brow were a sore sight for good eyes. Lank grey hair straggled down her back as if desperate to escape . . . and if the unsightly bald patch on the crown of her misshapen head was anything to go by, some already had. Sporting a pad-shouldered leather blouson, lumberjack shirt and canvas slacks, she was wielding a silver-handled cane in one hand and a rolled-up copy of The Daily Mail in the other. The tension mounted like a dyslexic jokcey as she leaned against the lectern and looked slowly around. ‘You at the back,’ she barked when she saw Prendergast trying to look inconspicuous. ‘Yes, you with the red hair and freckles. Take off that ridiculous coat.’

‘If it’s all right with you, I would rather not,’ said Prendergast with an obsequious smile. ‘And for your information, Brunello Cucinelli is hardly ridiculous. Or are you a style icon?’ she asked with a cutting irony that met with groans, grimaces and winces from her fellow students.

‘I’ll give you style icon, you horrible specimen.’ The principal thwacked her cane on the lectern and ground the words, ‘I don’t give a damn what you think,’ through clenched teeth ‘Do as you’re told and take off your coat. Now.’

With the greatest reluctance, Heather removed her swishingly groovy coat and, making sure not to crease the vicuña, draped it over the back of her chair.

Metaphorical steam billowed out of the principal’s ears. She gasped, ‘how dare you? This is a seat of learning, not a bloody pantomime. See me in my office after assembly. And the rest of you, stop sniggering.’ Having silenced the chucklers with a steely glare, she proceeded to lay down the law. ‘I am Esme Whitlock, the new principal. You will address me as Ma’am, not Miss. My marital status is none of your concern.’ She crossed her arms, straightened her back and looked around the hall to make sure that everyone was listening. All were, apart from a soggy figure in the back row, trying to lace up her satin bodice. Whitlock broke into a thunderous scowl. ‘Make no mistake,’ said she, ‘Merton Police College needs knocking into shape, and knock it into shape I most certainly will. I turned Basketville Institute for Young Offenders into a model prison when I was governor and intend to do the same for this sorry excuse for a shambles.’ She arched her back, crossed her arms and took a deep breath. ‘From now on, any student who misses class, hands in their coursework late or dresses in a slovenly manner will be suspended. Denim is not - I repeat, not - allowed. Ties will be worn at all times. Boys will wear slacks and girls will wear ankle-length skirts or dresses, except in bed. I will not tolerate makeup or scruffy hair. Nervous breakdowns and homosexuality are strictly forbidden. Lifestyle choices have no place here. Two strikes and you’re out on your ear. No ifs, no buts and no right of appeal. You are training to be police officers, not pinkies, wimps or pansies. Do I make myself clear?’ She ran her good eye over the assembly. ‘My proctors, Mister Black and Mister White, used to be warders at Basketville prison and let me tell you, they have very short fuses.’ She flicked a wrist at two burly brutes guarding the door - arms crossed, legs apart. As tall as Whitlock was small, the clotheshorse clones wore identical ill-fitting suits with matching crew-cuts, toothbrush moustaches and snarls. ‘They have been given a free hand to dispense whatever corporal punishment they see fit for slovenly behaviour, impertinence or talking out of turn. And in that talking in the common room, the quadrangle or the halls of residence is strictly forbidden, I suggest you think twice before opening your potty mouths.’

As the students shuffled uneasily in their seats, Principal Whitlock demanded their attention with, ‘Mister Brown will be taking Professor Morrison’s class until a permanent replacement can be found. His hobby is amateur dentistry, so be very afraid.’ She looked over her shoulder at a small weaselly man in thick bottle-rim glasses, a grubby lab coat and a maniacal grin. Fighting a sadistic smile, she raised her voice to be heard above the whimpers. ‘Take my word, Mister Black and Mister White do not suffer fools gladly. Mister Brown does not suffer fools at all, but he does know how to make fools suffer. Now off with you.’ She clapped her hands and nodded at the door. When she saw Prendergast reach for her coat, she slammed a fist on the lectern. ‘Not you, girl,’ she bellowed. ‘I want to see you in my office. Now.’

‘Alright if I pop back to my digs and get changed first?’

‘Got sawdust between your ears, moron? Now means now.’

Quaking in her kitten heels, Prendergast followed Principal Whitlock to her office and stood to attention on the miscreant’s side of the desk.

‘It’s Heather Prendergast, isn’t it? Might have guessed,’ Whitlock growled as she thumbed through Prendergast’s file. ‘Who else would have the brazen gall to show up at college in fancy dress? You look like something the cat dragged in.’ She hammered her cane on the desk and roared, ‘have you no shame?’

Verging on tears, Prendergast fiddled with the frilly powder-puff skirt of Daisy Miller’s shocking pink dance class tutu and mumbled, ‘it’s not my fault, Ma’am. Honest.’

‘According to your file, it would seem that nothing ever is your fault. At least, that is what you always say.’ Whitlock glared Prendergast in the eye and said, ‘so, think you’re a big shot, eh, Prendergast?’

‘With all due respect, Ma’am, everyone is big compared to you.’

Whitlock erupted in a flabbergasp of fury. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she thundered. ‘I have never heard the likes of it in all my born days.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Prendergast said. ‘I do my best to think outside the box.’

Whitlock narrowed her eyes and growled, ‘watch your lip, girl.’

Prendergast shrugged. ‘Only saying, that’s all. It’s a free country.’

After a magniloquent pause to combobulate her cranial cortex, Whitlock took the deepest of deep breaths. ‘According to your file, you are a living, breathing, walking, talking catalogue of calamities,’ she said. ‘It has been one mishap after another since the day you arrived. If I may be frank, you are a discredit to this institution. Why you haven’t been expelled is beyond me.’ She turned the page, cocked her head and raised a missing eyebrow. ‘Well, well, well. I see your aunt is our most generous benefactor . . . The Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan sports pavilion, the Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan swimming pool, the Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan music scholarship, the Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan lepidoptera bursary . . . the list goes on.’ She closed the file and rocked back in her chair, slapping her cane against a flabulent thigh. ‘Every time you are given a formal warning, your aunt bails you out by donating another prize. That puts me in somewhat of a bind.’ She rattled her chipped fingernails on the desk, deep in thought. ‘Right. Don’t want to put your aunt’s nose out of joint, so I’ve decided to let you sit your exams. But in that you have less chance of graduating than I have of climbing Mount Everest backwards with Mister Brown strapped to my back, I see no reason why you should waste your time - or ours - attending classes. I have something more appropriate in mind.’

Believing that all her Christmases had come at once, Prendergast clapped her hands and squealed, ‘fieldwork? Golly, Ma’am. Thanks awfully. Promise you won’t regret it.’

‘Don’t count your chickens, halfwit,’ Principal Whitlock said with a malicious smirk. ‘I see from your resume that your hobbies are haute couture and haute cuisine. So, in Chef Pratley’s absence, I am assigning you to kitchen duties. And let’s hope you have more talent for scrubbing saucepans and mopping floors than you have for police work.’

Deep in the dumps of despond, Prendergast trudged back to her digs to soap, soak and mope in the communal shower. After towel-drying her flyaway hair, she wolfed down a chocolate orange and two fingers of fudge to equilibriumise her blood sugar level before considering what to wear. After agonising for an age - maybe this, maybe that, maybe both - she settled on a pair of baggy houndstooth trews, a candy-striped smock, a polka dot pinafore, a pair of Oxford loafers and an Ascot cap to keep her long hair out of her eyes. So it was that, bang on the dot of ten-ish, dressed as what she would later describe as a food mechanic, she reported to the canteen cookery where she found Debbie ‘Debs’ Smith, the junior kitchenary job-opportunity assistant, huddled over a stove trying to sharpen a carving knife with a cheese grater.

‘Thank fuck you’re here, Preggers,’ Debs said as Prendergast walked through the cookhouse door. ‘It’s all I can do to tie me pinny strings, let alone make grub for a hundred starving book-rats.’

‘If I may say, you brought this upon yourself, you unspeakable oik.’ Prendergast said as she pestled a mortar with the fury of a chef possessed. ‘For heaven’s sake, apart from me, you were the only soul on the planet with a copy of that video. You promised you wouldn’t let it out of your sight.’

Avoiding Prendergast’s slitty glare, Debbie Smith crumbled a stock cube onto the plat de jour - potato mash with chunky chips - and grumped, ‘yeah, well. Serves Chef Pratley right. Said she was going to give me the boot for turning up to work drunk three days on the trot. For crying out loud, who doesn’t?  So, I got the hump and stitched her up by slipping a copy of that blue movie in hubby’s pocket when he weren’t looking. It were her or me.’

Prendergast ripped off her pinafore, flung it on the floor and stamped on it in a fit of pique. She howled, ‘well, thanks to you, I might as well kiss my career goodbye. Do you have any idea how much it cost Aunt Elizabeth to send me here? No. Don’t suppose you do.’ Distraught, she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and tossed her manky hanky in a floptop bin.

‘Yeah, well . . .’ Debbie mumbled, duly contrite if not unduly repentant.

‘Will you stop saying that, you . . . you . . .  you waste of space?’ All but lost for words, Prendergast gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. ‘And go easy on the cheese, or we won’t have anything for tomorrow’s lunch. I don’t know . . .’ She shook her head and took a deep breath to defibrillate her palpitations. ‘Now roll up your sleeves and get to work. The dinner ladies will be here at any moment.’ Mightily relieved by the prospect of reinforcements - if not exactly the cavalry, Maureen and Mavis were dyed-in-the-wool troopers - musing aloud, she said, ‘can’t see catering for a hundred students will be a problem as long as we stick to my signature dishes - Macaroni Cheese, Cheesy Potatoes, Cheese Curry and Cheesy Chutney on Toast.’

‘Didn’t Miss Whiplash tell you? We got to cook something special for staff lunches. She’s sectioned off a corner of the staff room as a posh-nosh area. Calls it High Table.’

‘Miss Whiplash?’

‘That’s what the inmates called her when I were on remand at Basketville Institute for Young Recidivists after that bit of bovver with her next door. How was I to know the old bat had a dicky ticker?’

‘Why did you call Whitlock that?’

‘You really don’t want to know, but if you don’t do what she says, you’ll find out soon enough. If you take my advice, you’ll keep your head down and your lip zipped.’

Goodness only knows how, but Heather Prendergast and Debbie Smith somehow muddled through. To say that their culinary skills left much to be desired would be doing desire a gross injustice. Even the dinner ladies had to be arm-wrestled into serving the starchfest to disgruntled students.

Prendergast was mopping the remains of set lunch off the floor when Daisy Miller hipswayed through the canteen door in a pair of balloon-bottom jeans, a wobbly T-shirt and ankle-break heels. She snapped her fingers in Prendergast’s face and demanded, ‘want your suitcase, shrimp? I’m keeping your posh knickers and Cartier watch, but nothing else fits so you can have the rest of the tut back, as long as you do what you’re told.’

Deeming compliance preferable to a slap in the face, Prendergast shrugged and said, ‘whatever you say.’

‘Glad you got more sense than brains, shrimp-head. Right then . . .’ Daisy clapped her hands. ‘I’ve invited my new crush over for drinkies and nibbles. I got a surprise for him. See, Tayler Swift is doing a bunch of shows at Wembley Stadium this week. I blagged a fistful of bills from my old man to buy two tickets for Friday’s concert. Queued all night. Just as well. The gig sold out in no time, and touts are flogging tickets for ten times face value. Scumbags. Thing is, I was going to take my regular fella till I caught him listening to Sabrina Carpenter behind the cycle sheds. I ask you - shameless or what? Well, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, so he’s last week’s news. Anyway, he’s only got a Ford Mondeo. My new fella’s got a Merc.’

‘Oh, I looove Taylor Swift,’ Prendergast gushed. ‘Can I buy your spare ticket? Name your price.’

‘In your dreams, shrimp. I’d rather piss on it and flush it down the loo.’

‘In that case, can I join the Merton Swifties? What if I were to offer you honorary membership of my Harry Styles Appreciation Society? After all, fair exchange is no robbery.’

‘How many members you got?’

‘Well, just me at the moment, but Terrence Bottomley is pestering me to join. Must say, I worry about him.’

‘Sounds like the pits. Anyway, the Merton Swifties don’t accept snotty-nosed shrimps, so go whistle.’

Down in the mouth, Prendergast steered the conversation onto less confrontational ground. ‘Is your new boyfriend a Swifty?’

‘Duh - dumb question. Isn’t everyone? Having said that, must confess I don’t know a lot about him. I bumped into him at a party at the weekend. To tell the truth, he was more interested in chatting me up than talking about himself. Can’t say I blame him. I’m gorgeous.’ Daisy gave her hair a perfunctory pat and batted her spidery lashes. ‘He’s a Yank. Reckons he’s an actor, over here for a movie shoot. Didn’t catch his name. Oh yeah . . .’ She clicked her fingers. ‘He told me his old man is an investment banker. That’s when I fell head over heels.’ Her eyes lit up like neon dollar bills. ‘I was about to suggest we get upfront and intimate, but he had to shoot off, so I gave him my phone number and offered to show him around London. He’s coming over to pick me up in a bit.’ She cupped a hand to an ear, said, ‘do I hear wedding bells?’ and feigned a swoon. ‘So, shrimp, want to meet him?’

‘Golly, Daisy, is that a trick question? Don’t I just. He sounds super.’

‘Consider it done. I need a waitress to serve drinks. And less of the Daisy. It’s Miss Miller to you. Or Goddess.’ Daisy sneered down her nose at Prendergast as if she was a stain on the lino. ‘I bought a few bottles of supermarket bubbly to break the ice. Like I always say, there’s nothing more romantic than a candle-lit grope with a randy drunk. Oh, and I need you to make some party food for my new fella to nibble when he’s not nibbling my ear . . . or my nipples. Nibble my nipples - get it?’ She collapsed in hoots of laughter, slapped a knee and hee-hawed like a mutant mule.

Left with no alternative - she knew that Aunt Elizabeth would never let her hear the end of it if she lost her Versace and Prada dresses, Vivienne Westwood negligee and Marks and Sparks undies - Prendergast trudged back to the canteen and asked Debs to give her a hand. ‘Not sure what to make for Daisy Miller’s new boyfriend,’ she said. ‘What do we have in the way of ingredients?’

‘Bugger all,’ said Debs after rooting through the cupboards ‘Just two sacks of potatoes, a catering pack of macaroni, a dozen tins of Spam, a wheel of cheese, some flour, a kilo or two of marg and a packet of frozen prawns. Least, they were frozen till I left them on the windowsill while I were hacksawing off me ankle tag. Strapped it round the neck of the gardener’s greyhound. That should keep the Old Bill on their toes. Forgot the prawns were there. Still, no harm done.’

‘Suppose we could make prawn vol-au-vents. But are you sure they’re alright, Debs? They smell a bit off.’

‘Gowd, love a duck, you in’t half fussy, Preggers. They’re prawns, for fuck’s sake. Hardly scampi in a bleeding basket. Anyway, the use-by date in’t till the twentieth and if I’m not wrong, today’s the eighteenth.’

Barely an hour later, should anybody care, Heather Prendergast and Debbie Smith could be found uncarrier-bagging party nibbles in Daisy Miller’s flat. To be frank, Daisy’s digs were not to Prendergast’s taste. Papering the walls were garish airbrushed postergraphs of Taylor Swift in various states of anatomical undress and corporeal gyration. Disgracing the ceiling was a hand-painted mural of The Archangel Swift - more cistern garble than Sistine Chapel in Prendergast’s ill-considered opinion. The furnishings were as basic as they were drab - a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen television with squeaky surround-around speakers, a shabby springless three-piece suite, a dust-encrusted bookcase, an imitation chipboard desk with floptop computer and manglepoise lamp and a pine-effect coffee table piled high with Swifty fanobilia and pop-tart girlymags.

Daisy Miller was lounging on the leatherette sofa in a translucent low-cut organza cocktail dress, slobberchomping chewing gum and spraying eco-unfriendly suntan on her fleshy legs. ‘About time,’ she grunted. Keeping half an ear on the door and half an eye on the window, she tossed the empty spray can on the floor and set about painting her toe and fingernails pink to complement her synthetic buttercup-gold locks. After smothering her face with panstick and smearing her lips with pinkstick, she Bambiefied her crabby eyes with spidery false lashes, lashings of mascara and batwinged liner. Transformed into an adorable doe-eyed cuddly cutie, she spat out the masticated knockings of her gobblegum, itched an armpit, itched the other, took a swig from a bottle of gin, scratched her crotch and lit up a fag. Like a dogbreath diva, she lolled back on the sofa with her legs apart and loosed a mighty fart. Roaring with laughter, she said, ‘all stand for the National Anthem,’ farted again and fanned her face with a hand. Ignoring Prendergast’s contemptuous scowl, she said, ‘ooh, those look yummy,’ and helped herself to a prawn vol-au-vent. She stuffed it in the garbage disposal chute that masqueraded as a mouth, licked her sticky lips and helped herself to another.

When she saw Prendergast thumbing through the Sunday Times’ Taylor Swift supplement, Daisy fluttered her Bambi lashes, said, ‘me and her are like that,’ pressed two fingers together and held them up for Prendergast to count. ‘Least, we’re best friends on Facebook.’

‘You and two-hundred million other twats,’ Debs muttered under her breath.

Either Daisy didn’t hear Debbie’s snide aside, or she chose to ignore it. ‘Don’t just hang about breathing my air, shrimp,’ she whined. ‘Hoover my bedroom and make the bed before my new squeeze arrives. You’ll find a French Maid’s uniform in the wardrobe. I bought it for a rag week stunt, but it was loads too small. Made for a kiddie, I wouldn’t wonder. Should fit you like a glove.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Prendergast gasped, unable or unwilling to believe her ears. ‘You want me to dress up as a French maid?’

‘You deaf or something? I need to impress my new fella, so you’ll do what you’re bleeding-well told if you want your posh clobber back. And you . . .’ She jabbed a finger at Debs. ‘Tidy the living room and mop the kitchen floor.’ She gave her watch a tetchy tap. ‘And get a move on.’   

After a whistlestop cleanathon, Debbie Smith shot off to see a man about a dog. And so, lonely as a solitary cloud, Prendergast trudged back to the canteen to drown her sorrows in a cup of Earl Grey tea and change into the ghastly maidly regalia. After a remedial packet of Jaffa cakes to revivify her flagging spirits, refortified, she gave her wrist a stinging slap. ‘Come on, Heather,’ she self-admonished. ’For goodness’ sake, you have a Girl Guide’s badge for hospitality.’ And so, the die was cast. After all, what alternative did she have? It was do Daisy Smith’s bidding or be cold-shouldered by Aunt Elizabeth for absolutely ages - a day or two at the very least. And so, with the greatest reluctance, it must be held, she firmed her resolve, stiffed her upper lip, gritted her teeth, grasped the nettle, bit the bullet and donned the unspeakable costume. What a palaver . . . the suspender belt just would not stay up, and straightening the seams of her silk stockings was all but beyond wit or reason. The change of gear complete, she was touching up her makeup when a panicky Daisy Miller phoned from a call box. ‘Did you see my cellphone when you were tidying up, shrimp? Can’t find it anywhere. My life is in that phone,’ she howled, she sobbed, she screamed. ‘Get back here now and find it or you’re dead.’

Leaving the cheesy-mash to soak in condensed milk - it seemed a good idea at the time, although maybe not in hindsight - Prendergast hurried back to Daisy’s digs. Well, hurry is an imaginative turn of verb. I mean, have you ever tried to run in high heels, silk stockings, a skimpy satin dress, frilly petticoats, an apron and a lacy mob cap? Oh, you have. Weirdo. Still, just imagine Prendergast’s surprise - really - when she found Daisy Miller slumped on the bathroom floor in a pool of vomit, clutching her stomach.

‘Are you alright?’ Prendergast asked - rhetorically, bearing in mind the malodorous excretions oozing from Daisy’s every orifice.

‘Call a doctor,’ Daisy groaned between gut-wrenching retches. ‘I’m dying.’

Had she been given a say in the matter - which she was not - Prendergast would have preferred to spend the next half hour chained to a marauding diplodocus rampaging through molten lava than wiping vomit off the bathroom walls and scrubbing runny shit off the linoleum tiles while she waited for an ambulance. But such is life, she supposed. A trial of tribulations.

Not long after Daisy Miller had been stretchered away, the doorbell rang. ‘Crikey . . .’ Prendergast’s heart almost skipped a beat when she glimpsed her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sorely tempted to hide under the bed, her resolve wavered like a truculent windsock when the doorbell rang again and again and then again. Reluctantly, she swallowed her sartorial pride and went to see who it was. She opened the door to a tall, dark, handsome stranger who gave her a curious look and ventured a tentative, ‘is Miss Miller in? She invited me over for a drink, but I got held up and she ain’t answering her phone.’

‘Êtes-vous Mademoiselle Miller’s petit ami, monsieur?’ Prendergast enquired in her best finishing school French as she took the man’s coat and hung it on a peghook in the hall.

‘Gimme a break, honey. You’re no more French than I am,’ the visitor chuckled. He took a step back, looked Prendergast over and tapped his chin. ‘Daisy said something about having a maid, but I weren’t expecting such a foxy babe.’ When Prendergast stared at him with her mouth wide open, he swallowed and said, ‘sorry, honey. That was out of order. But don’t go getting no ideas,’ he added hurriedly. ‘That brassy blonde ain’t my girlfriend. Met her at a party and happened to mention that my Mercedes got pulled over by the cops on the way back from the movie set. Like a dumb-assed fool, I was doing sixty in a built-up area. To make matters worse, I failed a breathalyser test. One too many Jack Daniels with the camera crew, I guess. You know how it goes. Anyway, this Daisy chick tells me her old man is a cop, and if I play my cards right, she can make the bust go away. We arranged to meet up this evening to talk it through. Hey - what do I have to lose? I get busted by the Feds for drink driving and the press are all over me like a rash.’

‘Oh. Daisy told me you were . . .’ Prendergast cleared a fidgety frog from her throat. ‘Her new gentleman friend.’

‘Do me a favour, babe. She ain’t my type. To tell the honest truth, can’t say we talked a bunch. If I remember right, she said she was a model, gave me her cellphone number, and that was it.’ He asked, ‘so, is she in?’ and peered over Prendergast’s shoulder. And then, remembering his manners, he clapped a hand to his brow and exclaimed, ‘Holy Moly, what am I like? Ain’t introduced myself. I’m Austin.’

‘Heather,’ Prendergast said as they shook hands. ‘Daisy Miller told you she was a model, did she? Well, she posed for a fashion shoot for last year’s student rag magazine, but from what I’ve been told, it was a disaster. She insisted on taking off all her clothes except for a thong.’ Trying not to giggle, Prendergast unscrewtopped a bottle of Daisy’s cut-price supermarket fizz and waitressed two glasses. Flattered, amused and bashful in joint and equal measure when Austin toasted her with, ‘here’s looking at you, kid,’ she bit her lip, plucked up all her pluck and broke the grim news that Daisy had been taken ill.

‘Shame.’ Austin’s face fell. ‘I got two tickets for a show tonight to say thank you kindly for taking care of the traffic bust. Maybe go for a meal after with a buddy and my sister. She’s in London on business, and it’s the only slot she’s got in her diary. Wouldn’t surprise me if she ain’t the busiest broad on the planet. She insisted I bring a date 'cause she don’t want to be sat twiddling her thumbs all night while me and her buddy talk football. Guess she knows me too well.’

‘Why not take her to the show? Your sister.’

‘Oh, you can bet your bottom dollar she’ll be there. Wouldn’t be no show without her.’ Austin shot Prendergast an enigmatic wink. Head to one side, he looked her over from strappy high-heeled Mary Janes to mob-capped ginger hair. ‘Hey, what you up to this evening, honey? Fancy coming to the show and joining us for dinner? You can be my date.’ Unashamed and unabashed, he chuckled. ‘Sis knows I got a thing for cute redheads.’

Not knowing where to look, what to think, or how, Prendergast lowered her eyes, clasped her hands behind her back and shrugged . . . more of a self-conscious squirm than an actual shrug as such. ‘Awe, shucks,’ said she with a rosebud blush. ‘But I can’t possibly go like this and all my respectable clothes are being held hostage. It’s a long story.’

‘Sounds like it,’ Austin said. ‘Well, come as you are. Taylor won’t mind. She loves dressing up.’

‘Taylor?’

‘Taylor Swift. I’m her kid brother. She left two VIP passes at the box office. If it’s alright with you, we’ll be sharing a hospitality box with Harry Styles. Hey, if he’s between squeezes, maybe you can audition for the gig? Just kidding, kiddo.’ Austin laughed as Prendergast’s eyes lit up like Belisha beacons. ‘I booked a table at the Dorchester for after the show. I’m sure you got better things to do, but I’d take it as a personal favour. Anyway . . .’ His dark eyes twinkled. ‘It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.’ Struck by a thought, he raised a finger. ‘Hey, maybe you can help out at the film shoot tomorrow? We need a few more extras for the ballroom scene. Know how to dance?’ Taking Prendergast’s sharp intake of breath as a no, he grinned and said, ‘no worries, babe. I’ll show you the ropes. Know how I mean?’

The following evening, armed with a few wilty daffodils and a copy of the Evening News, Prendergast made time to visit Daisy Miller in hospital. Exhausted but exhilarated after a razzle-dazzle evening and waltz-away day, her every muscle ached. Even though it was all she could do to keep her eyelids open, wild rhinoceroses wouldn’t have kept her away. She was so looking forward to rubbing salt into Daisy Miller’s wounds.

‘Salmonella,’ Daisy groaned. ‘The doctor says there’s no way he’ll let me go to Taylor’s concert tomorrow night.’ She clamped a hand to her mouth to smother the mother of all belches. ‘Tell you what, shrimp,’ she grunted queasily. ‘I’ll sell you my tickets for a grand - five hundred quid a pop. Cheap at twice the price. You can take a friend.’ She rolled her eyes, tapped her temple with a knuckle, and groaned. ‘Duh, silly me. Forgot - you don’t do friends.’

Prendergast made a pretence of examining her manicured fingernails. ‘As it happens,’ she said casually. ‘I went last night. It was such fun.’

‘What?’ Daisy gasped. ‘How did you get a ticket? They’re like hen’s teeth.’

‘Taylor put me on the guest list. After the show, we went for a candlelit dinner with her brother and Harry Styles. Harry is such a flirt - you would not believe. When Taylor found out who my aunt is, I could hardly get a word in edgeways. Turns out she’s a massive fan. And talk about gossip . . . we were up half the night chatting about all sorts of things. Fashion and cats, mainly. She insisted I stay over in her penthouse suite at The Hilton because I had an early start in the morning.’ Prendergast shook her head and sighed. ‘Me, oh, my - it’s tough at the top. No rest for the wicked.’

‘Ha, bloody ha. In your dreams, shrimp. If you met Taylor Swift, I’ll drink my piss.’

‘Want a dash of tonic and slice of lemon?’ Prendergast tossed the copy of The Evening News on Daisy’s bed. The front page featured a paparazzi snapshot of Taylor Swift arm in arm with a pretty redhead dressed as a French maid. The strapline read. . . Taylor’s mystery friend’s fashion statement sends the Internet into meltdown. ‘Oh, and as it happens, she’s not my only chum.’ She handed Daisy a glossy photograph of the same redhead in a sumptuous off-the-shoulder ball gown locked in a passionate embrace with a tuxedoed Adonis.

Eyes fixed on the photosnap, Daisy blinked and blinked again. Mouth opening and closing like a winded fish, she stuttered, ‘but . . . but . . .’ She gulped and snatched a breath. ‘Never knew you could act.’

‘Who was acting?’ Prendergast said with an expression of wide-eyed innocence.

‘Hang about.’ Daisy took a closer squint and caught her breath. ‘Isn’t that the Yank I invited to my digs for drinks and nibbles?’

‘Well spotted. Would you believe, he’s Taylor Swift’s younger brother, Austin? Keep it to yourself, but he kisses like a sink plunger. What a dreamboat.’ Prendergast clasped her hands to her chest and sighed. ‘Such a shame he’s flying back to the States on Saturday. Just time for another soiree before he goes. Can’t wait to see him when I visit Taylor when her world tour is over. She’s promised to show me Coney Island, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Hollywood, Nashville . . . wouldn’t take no for an answer. It will be such a bore,’ she sighed. ‘But duty calls.’

And so it was with a hop, a skip and a bounce that Prendergast turned up for work the following morning. ‘Sorry I took yesterday off, Debs,’ she said. Not that she was. Sorry, that is. Far from it. To say that she was walking on air would not be over-egging the cheesy dips.

Debbie shrugged. ‘No probs,’ she said. ‘Tiny Bottomley give me a hand. Trouble is, he couldn’t keep them to hisself. His hands, I mean. He was all over me like a bleeding octopus until I spiked his milkshake with xylazine. That chilled him out, big time. Must say, my cheese and hognut casserole went down a storm. There was this nutter who demanded second helpings. Go ask him if you don’t believe me. He’s in the sick bay.’ She adjusted her hairnet, licked her fingers and set about grating a lump of mouldy cheese onto a tray of eggybreads. ‘Are they supposed to be that colour, Preggers?’

‘No idea, but if you drench them with paprika, they should pass muster,’ Prendergast suggested. ‘So, what’s on today’s menu?’

‘Thought I’d do cheesy egg with tomato mash. Trouble is, we ain’t got no tomatoes. Come to think, we only got rotten eggs.’

‘Dare say no one will notice,’ Prendergast said as she emptied a baker’s bushel of potatoes into the sink. She strapped on her pinafore and scratched her head. ‘Can’t remember if I’m supposed to mash the spuds before or after I boil them. Don’t suppose it matters,’ she said. ‘By the way, Debs, are you quite sure the use-by date on those prawns was the twentieth?’

‘Course I’m sure,’ Debbie scoffed. ‘Can’t remember if it said March or April, mind, but same difference. Here you go.’ She handed Prendergast a pink smartphone. ‘Belongs to that snotty bint, Daisy Whatsit. Must be worth a fair few bob, so I thought, why not lift it? Force of habit. Don’t look at me like that, Preggers. I’ll give it her back. Honest I will. Long as the price is right.’

‘Jeepers, you little scallywag,’ Prendergast giggled. ‘Must say, it serves her jolly well right. What a ghastly pleb.’

Struck by a moment of lightbulb lucidity, Debbie said, ‘tell you what, why don’t I offer to swap the dumb tart’s phone for your posh clobber?’ She framed her face with her hands, pouted her lips and whined, ‘my life is in that phone,’ in a perfidious parody of Daisy Miller’s estuary drawl.

Prendergast gave Debbie’s wrist a playful slap with a spatula. ‘Oh, did you get the ingredients for the staff lunch? Principal Whitlock ordered mushroom risotto.’

‘Sorted. As it happens, my bruv, Dave, is a trader and grows mushrooms on the side.’

‘Does he work in The City?’

‘‘Depends.’ Debbie said. ‘Delivers most places. Goes where his burner phone takes him, know how I mean?’

‘So, what does he trade? Currency, stocks and shares, commodities?’

Debbie cleared her throat. ‘Let’s just put it this way. He trades commodities for currency.’ She narrowed her eyes and said, ‘if anyone asks, you know nothing. Not a bleeding thing. Got it? Anyway, he cut me a deal on a kilo of mushrooms and threw in a few tasty extras for free. Trust me, it’ll be the business.’

Leaving Maureen and Mavis to serve lunch to what was, in truth, a meagre trickle of students, Prendergast delivered a tureen of risotto to the staff room where, seated on half a dozen cushions, Principal Whitlock was deep in conversation with Mister Black, Mister White and Mister Brown at High Table. From what Prendergast could gather, they were comparing the merits of various forms of corporal punishment. The consensus was that the cat o’nine tails was more painful than a leather strap, but ten lashes of the cane were more satisfying to administer. Only Mister Brown demurred. As far as he was concerned, he said, a dentist’s drill had the edge . . . a cutting edge, he added with a maniacal glint in his bottle-rimmed spectacles.

When Principal Whitlock noticed Prendergast standing behind her, she snarled, ‘watch it, mutton-head. You’re here to serve lunch, not stand around taking up space, so get a bloody move on.’ As Prendergast ladled dollops of pungent risotto onto her plate, she asked, ‘not quit yet? I assumed peeling potatoes and scrubbing saucepans would make you see the light. Still,’ she said between mouthfuls of mushroomy rice, ‘next week I’ll have you cleaning the halls of residence with a toothbrush. Twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. I’ll tell your snotty aunt it’s part of Merton’s character-building curriculum and suggest she endows a scholarship. I’ll offer to administer it for a share of the action. And stand up straight when I’m talking to you.’ She held her plate out for more and said, ‘hard to believe you’ve cooked something edible for once in your miserable life, scrubber. Second helpings all round?’ She glanced at her colleagues who patted their tummies and nodded. ‘Give my regards to the chef. Oh, it’s you, isn’t it? Well, forget I said that. Now, back to the kitchen before I give you a taste of my cane, you horrible specimen.’

If there was an upside to the downside of working her manicured fingers to the quick in the canteen cookery, it was that once lunch had been served, the tables cleared, the dishwasher stoked, the work surfaces scrubbed and the kitchen cleaned from refidgerations to ovenhobs, college was done and feather-dusted for the day. No homework, not that Prendergast ever did any; she preferred to spend what time she had reading her dog-eared illustrated Sherlock Holmes almanack to exercising her little grey sludge on academic brainrot. And so it was that when the canteen clock clunked four, she and Debbie Smith packed up their egg whisks and cheese graters, hung up their pinnies and prepared to go their separate ways - Prendergast to her digs and Debs to see her probation officer. As they were shuttering the canteen doors, they heard a chorus of loud oohs and aahs coming from the other side of the quadrangle.

‘Look, Preggers.’ Debbie pointed to a barenaked woman climbing out of a staffroom window, beating her chest and roaring, belching and grunting like a gorilla. Down below, eyes glued on the spectacle of bestial depravity, stood a crowd of shocked students and a smattering of visiting dignitaries, including the Commissioner of Police and the local MP. All of a sudden, gorilla-girl launched herself into the air, grabbed hold of a branch and swung backwards and forwards above the onlookers’ heads Tarzan-stylee - breasts flapping, legs akimbo. Grunting like chimpanzoo, she slithered down the tree trunk and loped across the grass, bum in the air, arms swinging, knuckles scraping the turf.

Prendergast gripped Debbie’s arm for all dear worth. ‘Oh, my golly-gosh,’ she gasped, shocked beyond repair. ‘Who on earth is that?’

Debs craned her neck to get a better look. ‘Love a duck,’ she exclaimed. ‘If it’s not Miss Whiplash.’ Quick as a flashbulb, she took Daisy’s smartphone out of a hoodie pocket and morphed into a streetwise David Attenborough. ‘What you reckon she’s up to, Preggers?’ she asked as she filmed Whitlock pirouetting around the lawn in ever-decreasing circles, kicking her legs in the air.

‘The can-can, by the looks of it,’ Prendergast said as Principal Whitlock burst into a tuneless rendition of The Galop Infernal at the top of her voice. Sensing a sudden movement behind her, Prendergast looked round and gulped as Mister Brown loped past on all fours, howling like a wolf. Disgusted, she muttered, ‘how gross,’ and covered her eyes as wolf-man leapt onto ape-woman’s back and sank his canines into the nape of her neck. As gorilla-girl’s knees buckled, dogman could be heard to say, ‘open wide, you cheeky monkey,’ and forced her jaws apart with a clawhammer. Pinning her to the ground with his knees, he stuffed a wad of cotton wool in her mouth and, with a muttered, ‘bollocks, forgot the novocaine. Not to worry,’ took a pair of pliers from his back pocket and proceeded to extract her teeth one at a time. Spurred on by her animal howls, his eyes lit up like demonic lampbulbs. ‘Promise you won’t feel a thing,’ he cackled as he pulled, wrestled, yanked and wrenched out incisors, canines and molars, top, bottom, front, side and back. Job done, he scrambled to his feet and with a shout of, ‘onward Christian soldiers,’ bounded off into the sunset waving his pliers in the air, leaving his toothless victim spitting blood through her phlebotomised gums.

‘Come on,’ Prendergast grabbed Debbie’s hand and sprinted to the staff room. They burst through the door to find Mister Black and Mister White locked in a passionate snogfest.

‘Darling,’ Mister Black was cooing into Mister White’s ear.

‘You sassy beast,’ Mister White pressed his knees together and gave Mister Black an anaconda hug.

Mister Black kissed Mister White on a bristly cheek and sighed, ‘heartbreaker.’

Mister White fondled Mister Brown’s toothbrush moustache and whispered, ‘take me, you brute. I’m yours,’ with a look of existential ecstasy upon his hairy face.

Call it what you will - a febrile romance or a salacious tryst - the exhaustive and, by the looks of it, exhausting flurry of kisses, cuddles and canoodles sent shivers jitterbugging down Prendergast’s spine. A well-bred young lady raised on Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, she did not do raunchy. Romantic, Quixotic and passionate, yes, but raunchy - not on your life. To her way of mind, Mister Black and Mister White’s bromantic antics were beyond the pale. Head spinning like a turvy-top, she was about to head home and snuggle up in bed with a mug of cocoa and a Mills and Boon when she noticed that all the dinner plates had been licked squeaky-clean. Even the tureen sparkled like a new penny. ‘Debs,’ she said with a note of guarded panic in her voice. ‘What exactly was in that risotto?’

‘As well as psilocybin mushrooms and rice? Well, there was peppers, mescalin, curry powder, lemon juice, a gram of whizz, turmeric, a tab or two of acid, sea salt, a handful of E’s, capers, tincture of cannabis and a sprig of parsley. Mustn’t forget the parsley. That’s what give it such a morish taste.’

After wiping her fingerprints off the cutlery, the crockery, the glassware, the tableware, the doorknob and the what have you, Prendergast sloped home and slumped into bed. What a day - what . . . a . . . day. After the excitement of the last forty-eight hours, she was more than ready for an early night. And didn’t she just sleep like a log. But as was increasingly the case, she woke up the next morning with a nagging sense that something was amiss. It wasn’t hard to work out what. And why.

For as long as she cared to remember, Heather Prendergast had harboured dreams that one day - someday - she would be elevated to Prendergast of The Yard. A life of scrubbing saucepans and lumping gravy did not figure in her scheme of dreams. Never had. Never would. She was by nature, by nurture and by calling, a detective from the tips of her painted toenails to the split ends of her ginger hair. She knew with an utter certainty that she was destined to become the greatest detective that the world had seen since Sherlock Holmes hung up his deerstalker hat. It was chiselled in the stars.

Prendergast slouched into work, despondent and depressed - try as she might, she could not find a Rachel Trevor-Morgan designer hairnet anywhere online, and as for an umber Victoria Grant toque blanche to complement her freckles. . . forget it - to find Terrence ‘Tiny’ Bottomley waiting on the canteen steps. ‘Heard the news,’ he asked, brimming with excitement.

‘You got laid by Debbie Smith,’ Prendergast suggested, not entirely tongue in cheek.

Tiny ignored her. ‘Whitlock has been charged with gross indecency. Someone filmed her escapades on a smartphone and posted highlights on the World-Wide-Wait. It’s gone viral. One hundred million views and counting. Mister Brown is receiving therapy in the local dental hospital, and Mister Black and Mister White have eloped to Gretna Green.’ He snatched a breath, then off he went again. ‘And get this,’ he said. ‘Professor Morrison has decided not to press charges against Principal Pratley; he claims Pratley broke his jaw, dislocated his shoulder, fractured his collarbone and cracked three ribs by mistake. He claims they were just larking about. Wait - it gets better. Missus Pratley went down on bended knee and begged forgiveness, so the Pratleys have kissed and made up. And that means . . .’

Prendergast crossed all eight fingers as Tiny broke the glad tidings. ‘Principal Pratley has been reinstated, his wife has returned to canteen duties, and Professor Morrison has been given his old job back. And the best bit is, they owe it all to you.’ He cocked his head, clicked his tongue and stuck up a thumb. ‘Wouldn’t worry about passing your exams, Heather. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more.’

But rather than bubbling with excitement, Prendergast’s spirits sank like a punctured dirigible. ‘Not sure I can stand another term being bullied by Daisy Miller.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’ Tiny could hardly contain himself. ‘Miller’s been mullered. Her old man got his collar felt for tampering with speeding tickets and fudging breathalyser tests. He claimed he was doing a favour for his daughter. Turns out they have a racket going. Daisy touts for business and her dad rigs the paperwork.’

‘Golly,’ Prendergast said. ‘That’s really not on.’

‘Too right it’s not.’ Tiny agreed. ‘Well, now they’re bang to rights, it’s game over. Detective Inspector Miller is facing charges of bribery, corruption and bringing the Metropolitan Police into disrepute. Not that the Met has much of a reputation left to dis,’ he joked. Or was it a joke? Moot point. ‘The first thing Principal Pratley did when he got reinstated was expel Daisy Miller. The chance of her ever becoming a police officer is less than Whitlock summiting Mount Everest backwards with Mister Brown strapped to her back. Word has it, Daisy applied for a job as a topless model but got turned down because of her lumpy breast implants.’

‘Tough titty,’ Prendergast sniggered. But behind her flippant quippery, she was over the proverbial moon. What a result. It was now an odds-on certainty that she would graduate, as sure as eggs is probably eggs. Let’s face it, all she had to do was turn up and write her name on the examination paper.

Hmmm - easier said than done, it seems. However, to quote someone or other, all’s well that ends well. In return for a new Lady Elizabeth Trevelyan library, Principal Pratley begrudgingly allowed Prendergast to resit her exams on condition that she remembered to set her alarm and bring a pen.

And so, dear reader, next stop the Metropolitan Police. And then - God and Lady Elizabeth willing - Prendergast of The Yard.

(Part five of The Making of Prendergast of the Yard)