Detective Lovely And The Case Of The Silver Lining Crimes

 Chapter 1

    It was a cerulean summer’s day in the town of King Lindsey and Detective Lovely was driving in Iggy, her little black car that she loved ever so. Now the townsfolk of King Lindsey are generally very neighbourly to one another, their lives rather more easy-going since the discovery of magic, so mellow generosity is common practice. However, that doesn’t mean that there’s no naughtiness at all. I’m afraid naughtiness is everywhere and that’s why even King Lindsey needs police people like Detective Lovely. 
    ‘Well, where are we going today, partner?’ said Detective Lovely to Iggy, who was a talking car and also a police officer like Lovely herself.  Iggy was a bit like a cross between Noddy’s car and KITT from Knight Rider (if you don’t know who KITT is, then ask your mummy or daddy or that gigabyte Gandolf, Uncle Google). 
    ’Morning, Lovely!’ purred Iggy. ’ Our first case today is that of Mr.Smicks, the goblin clockmaker. One of his goblin grandfather clocks has broken in suspicious circumstances.’ 
    ‘Well, Iggy, we’d better switch on your siren and get a move on, but remember, keep your  headlamps peeled for pedestrians!’ 
        Fifteen minutes later, Detective Lovely arrived at Mr.Smicks’ clock-shop. Mr. Smicks, a pudgy, elderly and mushy-pea-coloured goblin with big blue mutton-chop sideburns, was on the pavement waiting for Detective Lovely. 
        ’Oh thank goodness you’re here, Detective, please come inside quickly!’ Mr.Smicks said breathlessly. Detective Lovely jumped out of Iggy, who automatically opened the driver's side door for his partner they were so in sync.  Iggy was a gentlemobile. It looked like there had been an explosion of cogs and gears and springs and faces and other alsorted clockparts inside the shop. 
    ‘Hmmm,’ frowned Detective Lovely (tho’ a frown did nothing to make her face any less lovely). ’It looks like there’s been some naughty vandals afoot here!’ 
    ‘Oh no,’ corrected Mr.Smicks,’ It’s always this messy, I’m a gobby sloblin, I mean a slobby goblin… Sorry about the tongue-twisters, I’m  just so flustered about this strange crime, Detective Lovely. Here, here’s the problem...’
        Mr.Smicks gestured towards a large goblin grandfather clock in the centre of the shop. Now, a goblin day only has 20 hours (tho’ they’re not really hours because they last a little longer) and they don’t call hours ’hours’ but ’morries’. Not only that, but because their days seem shorter - there being less morries than hours in a day, morries being longer - goblins distinguish two types of what we would call minutes, a ‘gazjikkle’ which is longer than a minute and a ’gikklejaz’ which is shorter. This helps goblins know whether or not they need to do something in a hurry or can afford to do a task at a leisurely, some might say slothful pace. So as you can imagine a goblin clock looks quite different to normal human ones, but Mr.Smicks’ grandfather clock looked even more odd, and Detective Lovely’s well-trained hazel eyes immediately spotted why. 
    ’The morrie-hand, the gazjikkle-hand and the gikklejaz-hand are all missing!’, exclaimed Detective Lovely.  
     ’Exactly,’ confirmed Mr.Smicks, ’ You certainly are owl-eyed, Detective Lovely' - owl-eyed is the proverbial phrase for keen vision in King Lindsey as there neither eagles nor lynxes exist. 'And that’s the clock I’ve been using to know what the time is of late as I’ve lost the key to my favourite wind-up clock, which is a cherished Smicks family heirloom. It's the first clock built by my great-great-grandfather, Old Ticker Smicks, who founded the family business. I woke up two morries late today because I didn’t hear the bong of the grandfather clock as all the hands have been half-inched by some rapscallion! How abnormally nefarious for King Lindsey!’        
         ‘Do you mind if I look around, Mr.Smicks?’ asked Detective Lovely politely.
‘No, not at all, anything to assist you in your inquiries, Detective,’ acquiesced Mr.Smicks with total trust in the authorities. 
     Detective Lovely scanned the shop high and low with observant orbs of such hypnotic hazel-green that even the naughtiest ne’er-do-wells in King Lindsey compulsively develop a crush on her. Gosh, she thought, if only Mr.Smicks got out the goover (goblin hoover) once and a while, this investigation would be considerably easier! She certainly didn’t have to dust for fingerprints: if the culprit had touched anything in Mr.Smicks’ shop, the thick layer of dust already present would have preserved the whorls, arches or loops on the tips of the clockhand robber‘s light fingers. 
     After fifteen minutes had elapsed, tho' it felt like many more gikklejazzes to Mr.Smicks, Detective Lovely reported back to the victim: ’Well, Mr.Smicks, I couldn’t find any trace of the thief who stole the hands of your grandfather clock - he must have been a smooth operator - but I did locate this under a great big dusty pile of cogs and gears. You really should invest in a can of Gobdust by the way! ’ 
      Detective Lovely opened her palm, attractively plump and sunveined as a farmer's daughter's, the type of hand begging to be held, and revealed a little tin key to Mr.Smicks.
    ‘Oh, Detective Lovely, how can I ever thank you? That’s the key to Old Ticker Smicks’ wind-up clock. I know the grandfather clock is still not working, but this is most assuredly  a silver lining of serendipity  to a cloud of crime!’ effused Mr.Smicks with appreciation.
       ‘It was a pleasure, Mr.Smicks. Now I’m off to the station to write up a report on your missing clock-hands. Goodbye now!’
        ‘Goodbye Detective Lovely and thank you!’ said Mr.Smicks, thinking to himself that Detective Lovely really was Lovely by name, lovely by nature. It's a safe bet that Mr.Smicks won't be the last citizen of King Lindsey to think that today, I'd say!  
         As Detective Lovely left the goblin clock-shop, she noticed something outside the front door that she hadn’t noticed before being in such a rush to get to the crime-scene. It was a lock of pink fur and Detective Lovely knew exactly who it belonged to.  Iggy ‘s driver-side door unlocked with a more than simply mechanical welcome and her beloved cozy black motorcar inquired of her in his chummy beeps, ‘Well, where next, partner?’
     ‘Iggy, old pal, I do believe I’ve just found a clue, I’ll tell you all about it on the way to Pinky Pawridge’s cave. Let’s step on it!’ 
      And with that the loveliest detective in King Lindsey (according to me, tho' I am but a narrator so simple you can call me Nimple Sarrator) zoomed off in her trusty halfcar halfcop sable pard. Woo-oo, woo-oo went the siren! Beep-beep went the horn!