Complaints

You don’t become as notorious as I without ruffling a few feathers along the way. I’ve worked on some extraordinary cases and had my fair share of scuffs, bruises and contusions throughout my long, illustrious career as a P.I. I’ve flung a man out of a moving Ford Capri going at over 20 mph on a B road; I’ve uppercut a 17 stone woman with a mullet; I’ve even drop kicked a pensioner on an electric mobility chair.

But when you go gung-ho into these situations, relying solely on instinct and not giving a moment’s pause for logical thought and consideration, mistakes can be made. Mistakes often lead to gripes and gripes lead to complaints.

So here, I offer a selection of letters that have been sent to me in the post, left anonymously on my doormat or delivered personally, attached to a brick through my office window.

Dear Mr Silverwood,

     I am writing regards a recent case you have been working on for my elderly mother, one Mrs Lucy Portly.

     I was shocked and appalled to hear that you have been hired by my mother (an 82 year old lady with onset dementia and a disposition for throwing money at strangers) to track down her daughter, a Miss Joan Portly.

I was even more disgusted to learn that you have been hired six times by my mother, investigating the same case to find the same person and accepting payment each time.

I am ultimately horrified to discover that on six occasions, you have dressed up as a woman, turned up at my mother’s doorstep and pretended to be the long-lost daughter Mr Silverwood has claimed to have discovered. You have accepted over £800 worth of expenses for dragging up and playing the part of Joan Portly, before disappearing and reappearing as the Private Investigator Kurt Silverwood, to offer my mother assistance in reuniting her with long lost family and starting the cycle again! Six times!!!

I AM MISS JOAN PORTLY! I SEE MY MOTHER AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE (once a year; sometimes twice if there’s a rainy Bank Holiday). I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN IN CONTACT WITH MY MOTHER AND THERE IS CERTAINLY NO NEED IN HER HIRING A SNIVELLING, LOW-LIFE P.I. FOR HER TO SEE ME (even though I am incredibly busy and have little time to actually stay in touch with her).

The only reason I am not contacting the police over this matter is because my mother now believes she has seen me six times this year already, which dramatically increases the amount of inheritance I shall be left in her will. For this, I thank you.

Keep away from my mother Mr Silverwood. Keep away from my family. And never, ever pretend to be me!

Yours angrily,

                           Joan Portly

***

Silverwood.

     I gave you £300 to do your job. You haven’t done that job. Make the most of your legs whilst you’ve still got ‘em sunshine. Watch your back.

           -Anon.

***

For the attention of: KURT SILVERWOOD P.I.

Mr Silverwood,

     It’s come to my attention that you have been following me around in a tatty old Lincoln for the past two weeks. With your large binoculars, your car's loud, grinding clutch and your 1940’s-throwback-fashion-sence, you’re about as surreptitious as a clown in a nunnery. Doing cartwheels. With his penis hanging out.

     It is obvious my wife has hired you to bring her photographic evidence that I am having an affair – which is fair enough considering I am having an affair. But you know this! You’ve known this for three weeks now! Me and my mistress have posed for your photographs on numerous occasions; photographs that we KNOW you’ve taken.

     I can only assume that you are being paid on a daily basis and you are fleecing my wife for as much money as she can afford before you present the evidence she wants. Well you should know Mr Silverwood, that it is I who gives my wife her spending money and you are cleaning me out of every penny I own!

     Give her the bloody photos so this whole thing can be over with and you can stop draining me of cash via my wife’s expenses!

     Get a move on man!

     Sincerely,

                                Geoff Langley.

A good man can admit his mistakes and his flaws. A great man doesn’t make any mistakes or flaws to admit to. I am somewhere in between; acknowledging that I make mistakes, but not necessarily admitting to them. I’d say that makes me pretty great.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

Temptress Amidst The Smoke

I swung open my office door and was met with a startling sight. Perched on the end of my desk, gazing out of the window sat a red haired vixen, pouting her scarlet lips and drumming her crimson nails against the mahogany woodwork. I’d only been at the corner shop to grab a half pint of milk (green-capped, semi-skimmed) and I’d returned to a fiery temptress, straddling my desk.

“Mr Silverwood, I presume.” Her voice was low and luxurious like a plump, velvet pillow or an extra large bar of Galaxy chocolate.

“Yes?” I answered in a strangled gasp.

“I hope you don’t mind me entering uninvited? There’s a slightly vegetative smell out in the corridor and your office door was unlocked.”

The smell was from a fungal patch growing upside down on the ceiling outside my room. I’d been meaning to scrape it off and throw it out of the window, but I lacked the necessary ladder-based equipment to reach that level of elevation.

“Okay,” I coughed.

The young woman flicked her locks over her shoulder as she rose from the desk. She strode towards me with long, seductive steps and proffered her hand in my direction.

“I’m Tiffany Saint Michaels” she sang.

“Right.” I shook her delicate, almost porcelain hand.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Be my guest,” I replied, wildly ignoring the clear smoking-ban that blankets all public workplaces including my office.

I’m rarely caught off-guard when it comes to women, but Tiffany was so striking that I felt the equivalent of being punched in the kidneys. The strength of her beauty was like receiving a knee to the testicles and then being spat at in the face. I was dumbstruck. It taken a few seconds before I shook off the metaphorical blows to my body and was able to place the half-pinter in my mini fridge. As she looked dreamily out of the window, sucking gently at the cigarette betwixt her white, slender fingers, I couldn’t help thinking about that smoking ban. It was a firm rule that had been reiterated when signing the lease on the office space and I didn’t fancy losing that deposit I’d handed so readily to my landlord.

“You have quite a view from up here,” Tiffany cooed, “I’ve never seen the council estate across town from this angle before.”

“There are many delightful angles to discover in my office, Miss Saint Michaels,” I quipped, upping my game; my eyes fixed on the blue smoke rising towards the ceiling.

“I’m sure there are Mr Silverwood,” she retorted coyly, waving her cigarette in the air. “I’m sure there are.”

I fully understand and support the smoking ban. As a non-smoker myself I can appreciate that the smell of nicotine and tobacco can be repulsive to those who don’t partake in the habit – not to mention the health risks behind second-hand smoke. Tiffany puffing at her death-stick was almost as distracting as her beauty; yet her pure, uncreased complexion would soon fall victim to capillary damage; resulting in poor blood flow, stopping the provision of oxygen and nutrients to her skin. Not to mention the wrinkling process of puckering the mouth each time she took a drag of her cigarette. I acknowledged that although smoking gave her a sexy edge, the fact it was physically aging her was ironic, and I appreciated that irony.

“Allow me to get you an ashtray,” I offered, ever the gentleman.

She thanked me as I rummaged through the dustbin behind my desk and fished out an old foil case from a Cherry Bakewell tart that I’d folded into a little triangle. I carefully unfolded said triangle until it was more-or-less back to its cup shape, ideal for knocking ash into. I made a point of placing the makeshift-ashtray onto the table by saying “This is where you should put your ash from the cigarette you are now smoking”.

“I fear my husband is having an affair Mr Silverwood,” exclaimed Tiffany. “He’s not his usual self in certain... areas of our marriage.”

“I see,” I responded, not really listening but concentrating more on the lengthening strand of ash from the cigarette.

“I fear I need your assistance in the matter Kurt,” she said before taking a long drag, the ash train picking up more and more passengers. “You don’t mind if I call you Kurt, do you?”

“What? Yeah, whatever, sure.” I gestured towards the foil tray on the desk next to her.

She lifted her buxom weight and glided to where I was standing. Every inch of me tensed up and my heart raced as I hoped beyond hope that the grit on the end of her cigarette wouldn’t be knocked off from the kinetic energy created by her movements. It dangled dangerously, hanging onto the red-hot tip for dear life.

“I’m glad we can be informal with each other,” she whispered into my ear, her lips almost touching the skin.

It was as she slinked away that it happened. She idly flicked at the stick in her hand and the column of ash poured over my carpeted flooring like a monsoon from the heavens.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” I blurted out. “I gave you an ashtray! There!”

I pointed at the bakewell casing, now sitting redundant and useless. It would take a wet cloth and some delicate sponging at the carpet to make sure the ash was all out before my next building inspection.

“I’m sorry Kurt?” Tiffany responded, feigning obliviousness at her obviously obnoxious display.

“Look, I think you’d better leave.”

“What? Why?” she asked, having the cheek to appear outraged by my outburst.

I took the cigarette from her fingers (now barely a filter set alight) and thrown it in my dustbin.

“Just leave.”

I opened the door for her and slammed it shut after she’d crossed the threshold.

After dealing with quite a large fire in my dustbin, caused by throwing Miss Saint Michaels’ lit stub into it (and exacerbated by a scotch bottle I’d dumped in there, unaware there was a small amount of whisky still residing in the bottom), I mocked up a rudimentary no smoking sign and pinned it to my office wall. Most rules are there to be broken (i.e. speed limits, public drinking and illegal gambling) but other rules are there to be adhered to (i.e. smoking bans and prohibited heavy petting in swimming pools).

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

Celebrity Clients 2

I started my list of the rich and famous a while ago, and as promised here is an expansion of some of the celeb-based people I have worked with, around or over. (Never under – Kurt Silverwood never works under anybody, no matter how many fancy sports cars they have. Let’s make that clear!)

Hugh Hefner

I wasn’t really aware of who Hugh was; what he dealt in; or why he was famous before I worked in his mansion. He hired me to go deep undercover, pretending to be one of the thirty pool-boys he employs (young men paid to fish excrement and other business out of swimming pools) so that I could spy on one of the maids whom he had suspicions was thieving from him. I found the whole case incredibly distracting and was eventually fired when Hugh found me deep undercover with one of his female friends! (The word “undercover” being used as an innuendo for having sex under the sheets of a bed.)

Simon Cowell

Si (or “Psy” as he likes it to be pronounced, on the basis that he thinks he’s “a little bit psychic” – not that it makes a difference because it’s phonetically identical!) is a difficult man. His eyes burn with a deep money-lust; churning young hopefuls on his talent-show conveyor belt to produce empty shelled corpses. I was given the task of casing his five favourite stalkers and ranking them out of ten on looks, intelligence and insanity – his eventual goal being to use the highest scorer as either a lover or another flash-in-the-pan pop star. I was fired when Simon found me undercover with all of five of the stalkers... Oh I’ve used that already.

Gary Lineker

I’ll admit to making a terrible faux pas when chatting to Gary Lineker for the first time. He sat down in my office and I immediately demanded that he take off the novelty ears. He laughed and told me that he’d heard some very similar jibes in the past. I had no idea what he was talking about, and persisted in making him take off the joke ears. He told me to leave it, that a joke was a joke and it was wearing thin now. I told him that I was a professional and I wouldn’t conduct an interview with a man in fancy dress as a gremlin. He left without even discussing what he wanted.

Katie Price

I’m not entirely sure what Katie Price is, but I can categorically say that she’s very good at being it. She is the only person I have seen keep up a pout for three hours straight without breaking, even when talking. She informed me of how she was an incredibly private person before showing me her back catalogue of photo shoots and television shows. A film crew were present throughout the whole conversation, recording a documentary or reality show or some bollocks, so I was uncomfortable with the scenario and asked whether we could continue over the phone. She never got back to me.

Morgan Freeman

I’m not legally allowed to comment on the case that I was involved in with Mr Freeman, but what I can say is that it consisted of half a tuna sandwich, three bottles of hair mousse and a lava lamp. I’ll say no more.

This list is nowhere near exhausted and I’ll update it in the future. I’ve come to realise that celebrities are like ambulance chasers – annoying as Hell until you need one to help pay the rent for your accommodation/work place.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

Curriculum Vitae

During late 2004, I ran into financial struggles so fierce that they forced me to look for regular employment or face homelessness. (I say “homelessness”; I was actually living in a charming caravan outside of my office at the time. Long story short, that caravan was clamped for obstructing a B road and was towed away, forcing me to move into the office I now sleep in, a fact that my landlord doesn’t know and shall not find out.) Alas, here is the Curriculum Vitae (or Resume for our friends across the pond) that so many of you use. I hope you can take some tips from it to increase your own chances of finding work, in what I hear are tough times.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

KURT HERATIO SILVERWOOD

Layman. Hero. Enigma.

PROFILE

A spritely, eager and active applicant in his early-to-late thirties, Kurt Silverwood has the strong and defined personality of a man who can refer to himself in the third person without seeming pretentious.

A bold character growing up in St Cecilia’s Orphanage for Unwanted Burdens, Kurt first started showing his true prowess when he set up a protection racquet to exploit help his younger classmates. Protecting the meek and the feeble whilst picking fights with the larger lads projected Kurt as a regular Robin Hood amongst his peers (though admittedly not great with a bow and arrow).

 Unafraid of anything (apart from the supernatural and eczema) Kurt has spent a large proportion of his adult life solving crimes, completing puzzles and deducing duces as part of his own business “KURT SILVERWOOD PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR”. Through running his own business Kurt has taken on the roles of Manager, Assistant Manager, Secretary, Caretaker, Cook, Hair-dresser/Barber, Lover and Counsellor within the industry. His line of work has also led to him necessitating “cover jobs” where he can go incognito when casing a joint, allowing him to pick up skills and experience throughout his colourful life.  

PREVIOUS EMPLOYMENT

BIG OL’ BUNS BAKERY        June 1984 – Aug 1984

Duties included kneading, baking and keeping the manager’s wife sexually satisfied. (Resigned due to differences of opinion on roles with Manager)

DEVON PIGGOTS’ FLORIST      April 1991 – May 1991

Duties included filling vases with water. Later promoted within the company to Vase Emptying position.

TRAMP SWEEPER INC.          Aug 1996 – Jan 1997

Duties included moving on homeless people from doorways of shops and bus-shelters, rinsing them down with warm water and clearing up any excrement left in the process.

DOOR-TO-DOOR DOOR SALESMEN  Sept 2000 – Sept 2000

Duties included selling doors, door-to-door.

HOROSCOPE WRITER            May 2002 - Present

Freelance Horoscope writing – with a twist. I produce my own brand of astrological forecasting called “Horror Scope” which predicts truly awful, gruesome and often disturbing events in the immediate future.

OTHER                       1984 – Present

Duties include other stuff.

EDUCATION

Due to the exceptional circumstances of my life, I refused to sit any official examinations as a teenager and as such have no qualifications to speak of. However this reference from a past-teacher will answer any quandaries about my curricular achievements and prove his cerebral worth.

“Kurt Silverwood was one of the most terrifyingly intelligent boys I have ever taught. His mind moved in ways I could not fathom and to which still perplex and trouble me today. He had the cold, glassy stare of someone constantly mulling ideas in his head. I and my colleagues all agreed that he had the potential to be something marvellous or something completely abominable during adulthood.”

-   Prof. Julian Hart

SKILLS

Charmer – I can get anything I want just by fluttering my eyelashes and pulling down my blouse slightly (humour).

Writer – I have invented more similes than someone hired to create similes.

Exorcism – Although the supernatural unnerves me, I feel I have the innate powers to eradicate demons and quell evil.

REFERENCES

All references are available upon request.

Hierarchy of the Cutlery Drawer

Whilst rummaging through the drawers of a potential suspect at the weekend (not intended as a euphemism), a thought struck me so hard that it nearly shot through the back of my head to leave me dumbfounded and debilitated.

“Kurt?” I asked myself.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Which is the most important utensil within the cutlery drawer?”

“What a fantastic question!”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it.”

So I’ve compiled a short hierarchical list ranking the utensils which we use daily inside the drawer that every homeowner owns (apart from me, for I don’t own a home with which to own a cutlery drawer to own cutlery, but that’s beside the point...).

6. The Teaspoon (Cannon Fodder)

The teaspoon is the lowest ranked within the cutlery drawer as it serves little purpose than stirring tea. Sure, the effeminate may use it as dinky utensil for scooping yoghurt out of smaller cartons, but the teaspoon’s main function is in the assistance of manufacturing a hot beverage. The size of it alone proves that it’s less than a formidable foe and is most certainly the bitch of the drawer – probably teased (pun) for being the shortest and least attractive of the lot.

5. The Dessert Spoon (Mother Goose)

The dessert spoon is a sumptuous, curvaceous and buxom utensil that, if it put on a bit of lippy, would probably get the rest of the drawer whooping and hollering like divorced men at a strip-club. But the dessert spoon doesn’t flaunt her sexy assets and instead chooses to adopt a much more mumsy role in the kitchen. Misused, mishandled and mistreated nobody really knows where she’s meant to be go or where she’s meant to be. If only she’d hike up that skirt or maybe show a bit of cleavage, the dessert spoon has the potential to get a little more attention. But until then she’s only good for wiping the tears from the cheeks of the put-upon teaspoon. Oh, and for eating dessert.

4. The Table Spoon (The Wife Beater)

Tall. Strong. Masculine. You know where you stand with the table spoon. It’s no nonsense attitude to all scoop-based-tasks makes it an intimidating piece of cutlery. The shortened “tbspn” is synonymous across all cookery books and he knows this. Making the other two spoons’ lives a misery; he’s even kicked out the elderly wooden spoon and relegated him to some form of “accessories pot” that’s left next to the hob. But what he has in brawn he lacks in brains. Tolerated, but not really respected by his peers, this is why he’ll never rule the roost.

3. The Butter Knife (The Muscle)

A goon of the cutlery drawer, this utensil comes out to play more often than children on their summer holidays. Used daily to cut, slice and butter bread he’s a reliable piece of equipment that doesn’t ask questions and just gets on with the job at hand. A loyal guy as well as a hard worker; everyone has time for the butter knife. Yet sadly it is often cast aside, seen as disposable once it’s served its purpose. How often have you seen a buttery knife at the bottom of the washing-up bowl, unclean and uncared for? Its only friend is a shallow pool of water and sometimes a dead teaspoon. An unpleasant image, but true nonetheless.

2. The Steak Knife (The Assassin)

Surrogated steel and a wooden handle give this suave piece of cutlery the confidence to stand alone from the rest of the drawer. Only called upon during those “special occasions”, the steak knife is lean, trim and deadly. Rarely seen but quietly intimidating; it’s probably having an affair with the dessert spoon and laughing behind the back of her thuggish husband. With a 100% success rate for cutting tough meats, this utensil simply bides its time until it’s called upon.

1. The Fork (The Godfather)

A pronged pillar of power, the fork is head honcho within the drawer. Although it lacks the versatility of the rest; the fork is proud, passionate and an authority figure to the other utensils. With the brutish knife as his right-hand man (or left-hand man if you’re left handed/ambidextrous) the fork knows the cutlery drawer inside out. He’s the go-to-guy if you need a problem sorting. As respected as it is feared, you’d notice if your fork went missing. Wouldn’t you?

So remember: Respect your cutlery... But not necessarily in equal measures.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall

“The thing you should know about Kurt Silverwood,” I said, my toes licking the edge of the rooftop, “Is that he always lands on his feet!”

I threw my weight from the building and hurtled forwards into the air. The distance between this ledge and the next had seemed minimal but I’d appeared to have misjudged it. Time stood still as my arms and legs flailed wildly like a distressed toddler trying to grasp at its favourite toy. Time shrank to a crawl as I glanced back at the gang of youths, standing slack-jawed, gawping at my unbelievably daring leap into the abyss. “Yeah, look on kids,” I thought.

But soon ol’ lady gravity had her way and started to tug my legs towards the bosom of her Earth-based chest. Momentum let go of my forwards trajectory and suddenly my masculine, bulky weight felt more of a burden than normal. I plummeted, feet first down two stories of nothingness.

Air rushed past my ears, my coat flapped wildly around my waist and the wet gravelled ground approached faster and faster. I pinged off the building opposite and was flung backwards to the brick wall I’d leapt from. I was a pinball, bouncing vertically down the alleyway.

Before I knew it, I'd reached the bottom. My feet where flat on the ground. I was standing upright, dazed and slightly shaken, but standing upright! I looked up at the yobbish group who gazed down in bewilderment. 

“That’s right! On my feet!” I shouted up to them in confident bravado. I’d chosen to ignore the loud crunch of my ankle shattering. Not to mention the snap of my shinbone splitting.

I took a step, aiming to briskly saunter away from the alley, but pain gripped me like a toddler gripping its favourite toy (a similar simile as before, yes). I couldn’t stop myself from yelping aloud as I dropped to my knees and fell forward crashing against a wheelie bin. I was blinded by the agony searing up my right leg yet somehow manage to drag myself against the wall, laying down, trying to catch my breath. I looked up at the rooftop and heard the mocking silhouettes of the gang above. I began blacking out – falling once again, this time into a pool of my own unconsciousness. I shoved myself awake and saw the gang had disappeared. But it wasn’t long before I slipped back into blackness, the warm woozy embrace of sleep cradling my throbbing ankle. When I awoke again, the cretins were back. Now at ground level. Gathered round me.  Cackling.

I analysed the situation using some highly complex mathematical equations and came to a conclusion that the chances of me winning a fight with this lot were slim. I’m incredible, I’ll admit to that. But I’m not super-incredible. Taking on three of them would have been no problem, maybe even four if I’d have had a shot of whisky with breakfast. But I had to face facts that with my ankle now splintered into thirty different shards and the unnatural feeling of bone against cotton trousers, there’d be no way I could take on a whole gang. So I did the bravest thing I could think of in the scenario, and blacked out again, this time whilst being mugged.

I don’t think I have much more to add. I’ve given you this little passage to allow you to see my human side. Although I’m incredible; a mould breaking phenomenon that will never be replicated again, I’m actually just like you(ish).

Oh, and I can clarify that you can’t feel pain whilst unconscious. That’s really worth noting.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.

Celebrity Clients

As a Private Investigator I’ve had to work amidst scum. There are dark and devious people who dwell in the metaphorical and literal sewers of our world. (I once had to hunt down a family of “Underground Folk” living in the sewage tracts of Dunstable. They reeked.) But on the flipside of this, I have also been employed to work within the glitz and glamour of the celebrity world. Here is a small sample of some of the famous faces I’ve had the (mis)pleasure of working with.

Jimmy White

I was employed by the professional snooker player in the autumn of ’98. During this particular year he was on a health kick, desperate to shed some pounds from his stomach and thighs. Jim contracted me to track down the best professional fitness trainer to assist in the weight loss from his meaty legs. I found a German guy by the name of Reinhard Fritz who had abnormally small hands. His intense training regime was renowned for buckling even the most strong-minded of people and if truth be told, I was uncertain whether Jimmy would be able to stick to it. Alas, he proved me wrong and now has the strongest thighs this side of the Atlantic. Seriously, I’ve seen him lay flat on his back and lift a fridge-freezer with just his calf muscles. He doesn’t even break a sweat. It’s terrifying.

Roger Moore

About four or five years ago I was asked by current Bond actor, Daniel Craig to “keep an eye” on Roger for a number of days. Mr Craig had got it into his head that Moore was trying to reclaim the Bond crown and reappear as the secret agent in the upcoming films. I spent hours trying to tell Mr Craig that there was no chance of that happening due to Roger being simply too old for the part, but he kept on retorting with something about Harrison Ford still being Indiana Jones. Anyway, I called the whole thing off after I witnessed Roger gingerly lowering himself into a hot bath. I believed I’d crossed my own moral line there. Craig paid for my services and we’ve never spoken since.

J.K. Rowling

Jo asked me to find some witches and wizards to study for a book she was planning on writing. I point-blank told her “No” and left without even finishing my drink.

Samuel L. Jackson

My path crossed with Sam’s during his shooting of the British film The 51^st State. I was in the middle of investigating another case at the time, but Samuel was so intrigued by my methods of deduction that he asked to shadow me for a while. This was massively irritating considering that the case in question involved tailing an avid film fanatic. Having S.L.J constantly breathing down my neck led to my cover being rumbled instantly (Samuel shouted at the mark from across the street – I still have no idea why). However it all ended up quite nicely, as I used Samuel to worm his way into the target’s life and collect evidence of the sordid secrets my client had requested. They really were quite dark. Samuel was in tears repeating them to me, and couldn’t even look at the photos he’d taken. From that day on, he hung up his sleuthing coat and carried on with the acting. Sorry Sam, but it comes with the job.

I’ll continue with the list of celebrity clientèle at a later date. I struggle with the concept of “celebrity” though. From my first hand experience, they’re either incredibly irritating or completely mental. Though to their credit, they do all have fantastic teeth.

Kurt Silverwood P.I.