The Fashion Police Read Online Free

I’ve got work to do.’
    ‘Right. Well, I’d better sort out my surveillance kit then.’ He rushed off upstairs.
    I let myself out to the sound of Dad banging around in the cupboards with excitement.
    ****
    I parked my car outside Paul Clark’s house, where I had a good view into his 1920s semi-detached house, and studied the photo in his file. Unless you looked closely, it was hard to tell the difference between Clark and the Honey Monster. The only distinguishing feature I could see was that his bushy beard and mop of hair wasn’t quite as yellow as the Honey Monster’s. He was huge – well over six feet tall – with bug-eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Apparently, he had five children – five, ouch! – and he’d worked at a warehouse for ten years before his accident. He had fallen off the forklift while unloading a palette of baked beans, which caused damage to his lumbar vertebrae. A doctor’s report said he wasn’t able to work again, but for some reason, Brad had doubts. Was Clark telling the truth or not? That’s what I was here to find out. I sat back in my seat and waited.   
     After an hour, and with no sign of life in the house, I decided to speak to the neighbors. Grabbing a clipboard and a cap with British Gas written on it, I made my way up to the other half of the semi and knocked on the door.
    A young woman answered, a cigarette hung precariously between her lips.  She was carrying a screaming baby on her hip.
    ‘Aaaagh!’ the baby wailed, loud enough to crack a dent in my eardrum.
    ‘Shut up!’ the woman snapped at the baby. ‘Bloody kids.’
    ‘Hi, I’m from British Gas.’ I smiled, even though the overwhelming smell of baby poop forced my throat to constrict. I eyed the full-to-bursting nappy on the baby’s bottom. This was going to put me off peanut butter for life. ‘I’m looking for your neighbor, Paul Clark. Do you know where he is?’
    She snorted. ‘What’s he done this time? He’s always up to something. Sneaky little buggers, those Clarks. Five kids they’ve got, and they can’t look after any of them. If you ask me, his wife’s a few pork pies short of a picnic, if you know what I mean.’ As she wiggled her lips, a lump of ash fell off the end of her cigarette and landed on her stained top.
    ‘There’s just a small problem with his gas bill payments, probably because he’s not working at the moment. I just need to verify a few things with him.’
    ‘He is working. I’ve seen him going off to work every day.’
    ‘Oh, really? Do you know where?’ I asked.
    ‘Of course.  He works at that big Asda supermarket in town. You’ll find him stocking shelves somewhere.’
    ‘Great, thanks, you’ve been a big help.’ I nodded at her and hurried my way back to the car, where the air was clear of deadly toxins.
    ****
    This was going to be a piece of cake. I would just sneak around, posing as an inconspicuous shopper, and snap a few pictures of Clark stacking shelves. Why had I been so worried about this job? It was ridiculously easy.
    I heaved through the horde of shoppers, scanning the crowd for signs of any shelf-stocking activity. There was nothing going on in the fruit and veggie aisle, so I picked up a bag of bananas and wandered off in search of Clark. The bakery section was quiet and boring, except for the yummy smell of freshly baked bread. Ditto for the condiments aisle, the dairy aisle, and the cereal aisle. Maybe there was a special time of day when all the shelf-stockers were let out in a frenzy, and I’d missed it.
    I stood in front of the toiletries with the idea that if I stood there long enough, Clark would come to me. I could wait until closing time if need be, no problem.
    As it turned out, I lasted about ten minutes. I was reading the directions on a box of teeth-whitening strips when I heard a rustling sound coming from my bag of bananas.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bananas begin to move.  
    Wait a sec, bananas don’t move.
    I