Ginny Greaves: The Case of the Vanishing Violets
I was three fingers into a neat whisky and one finger into a thoroughly bad mood when they approached me—two slabs of man, all brow ridge and bad life choices, like someone had built a pair of knuckle sandwiches and taught them how to walk.
I'd been stood up again by the barmaid. Nice eyes, dodgy taste in women, said she'd meet me after her shift. She didn’t. I’d even worn my best lipstick.
The taller of the two, who had the look of a boxer that lost all of his fights, cleared his throat for a speech.
“You Ginny Greaves?”
I looked up, slow, without turning. I could see them in the bar mirror, standard private eye technique.
“Depends,” I said. “Am I being served or seduced?”
“Neither,” said the other, who had a tattoo of a broken heart on his neck and all the charm of a wet sock. “We need your help. Our mum’s gone missing.”
Now, I don’t normally take jobs from men who look like they keep their valuables in the boot of a stolen Vauxhall, but they weren’t lying. Their lower lips trembled every time they said “Mum,” like children on the brink of a tantrum.
“She left a note,” one said.
“We didn't know she could write that well,” said the other.
“She left her dentures behind,” the tall one added, solemnly, as if that sealed the doom.
It was a quiet Monday, I figured I could clear this one up by the afternoon, evening at a push.
“Right,” I said, finishing my drink. “Let’s go find Mummy.”
First stop was the bingo hall. She wasn’t there, but I found a mauve cardigan that smelled of Parma Violets and carbolic soap in lost property. I watched the CCTV. It was hers. I could at least give it to her human Rottweilers to help them sleep better.
It was in a launderette behind a butcher’s in Hackney where I struck gold, or, more accurately, boiled sugar. A crumpled paper bag of Parma Violets. The kind of sweets that taste like church pews. Her sons confirmed it. “She eats them when she’s anxious… or ....(long pause) ..flirtin’.”
Intriguing, she didn't look like a flirter. More the memories type.
The trail twisted like a politician’s promise all the way to Cornwall. I roped in a mate in the police department who owed me.
But this woman had a knack of looking invisible so it took some time. She had bought a new cardigan on her credit card at a charity shop.
It was close to a caravan park with views of the sea and the strong smell hot surfers. There, in a deckchair, wearing a floral kimono and sipping something fizzy out of a plastic flute, was Mavis, renowned mother of muscle.
“Ah,” she said, spotting me. “You must be a detective. Took you long enough. Fancy a Babycham?”
She wasn’t kidnapped. She wasn’t depressed. She wasn’t even menopausal, though she claimed she might fake it for attention.
“I met Derek,” she said. “He’s twenty-five and plays the ukulele. He calls me ‘goddess’ and irons.”
I nodded. “Checks out. But the teeth?"
"Ah yes, well I have a spare set, for special occasions."
" What now Mavis, I'm not sure they can boil an egg at home?"
What did I care? But I like a happy ending, and I guessed Derek did too.
She came back of her own accord, skin tanned, hair in beachy waves, and a slight spring in her step.
Her boys met her at the station with a bunch of daffodils and tears that could rust a lamppost.
“We won’t take you for granted again, Mum.”
“You’d better not,” she said, “or I’ll shag another busker.”
As for me?
Well, I caught a train back to London with a flask of gin, a pocket full of Parma Violets, and a renewed belief in the power of family ties.
I’m Ginny Greaves,
and I’m always on the case.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare
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