The Case of the Stolen Governor

I love this photo,  I just happened to have my camera to hand as he exited the police station.  Er, before proceeding, think I'd best pop up a little disclaimer:  This here following story is purely fictional, and in no way at all expresses the thoughts, feelings  or acts of the above-photographed gentleman.
  (So far as I know.)

P.C. Stuart laments not for the first time, having not listened to his dear old, long-departed ma’s sound advice.  She always knew he would be a fuck up in uniform.  Here she was probably watching him right now, a knowing glint in her eye.

This sleepy wee isle seemed a good enough escape at the time, where nothing other than the annual T.T. motorbike races shatters the peace.  With his early ambitions at the London Met soon fast quelled, he'd been relieved to find, at least over here the junkie population is still in the minority, and the odd encounter with any knife-wielding maniac rarely, if ever, turns out gang-affiliated.  

Looking a regular knob-head in the pointy white helmet appeared but a small price to pay.  Or so he'd thought.

But four years on, now a couple of missed promotions down the line, and with him over three full stones the wider, he was seriously beginning to question he'd met his true calling.

In fairness, there's a limit as to how many days one poor, put-upon  Copper can reasonably be expected to lecture to a class-load of plukie teenagers on the evils of drink. 

It's a far sure cry from CSI. 

What's the odds of catching any undercover work, in a place where everybody not only knows you, but even knows the name of your bloody dog you're out walking with every night? 

Little wonder if he's taken to comfort eating.

Checking his watch, he's mollified to find time enough for his regular morning detour (to help lift his volatile blood-sugar) to the corner bakery.  Mrs. Quirke spotting him enter, and ever the tease, flashes her tray of still steaming, juicy meat pies up at him.

"Now that's timing to perfection, Willie, just fresh from my oven, these are."

Give Old Widow Quirke a full set of new dentures, and P.C. Stuart reflects he might even get down on one knee to her, yet.  He asks her to bag up two, ordering a large iced donut to go.  Digging deep for the change in his pocket, the radio on his shoulder interrupts with a screech of static.

It's his Sargent, calling him in back to base.  Bugger, what now? Scoffing the donut, he settles the tab, and unwrapping a pie for the road, scuttles back the way he came, wondering what must be so urgent as to cancel out his 10 o'clock talk with the finest of  St. Ninian's.

Sargent Sergent (yes, that really is his name) greets him at the desk, directing him through to a freshly commandeered rear room, where he finds there is a surprisingly full house.  Stuart swallows the last of pie number two, wipes the gravy from his lips, and sidles in, hopeful to catch the low-down on the latest afoot from the Luscious Lucy, aka WPC Robinson, before the Inspector's arrival.

"You not heard?  Seems the Governor's only gone and gotten himself kidnapped, hasn't he?"

"What?  No.  Who in the hell would want to go and kidnap Inspector Saunders?  I mean, what's the point to that?  It's not like he's worth anything, even money-wise, like - is he?"

"Jesus, you o.d. on the stupid syrup this morning?  Not Saunders, The Lieutenant Governor of The Isle of Man, you Numpty, Adam "Retired-Diplomat" Woolly, that's who."

"Nooooooo..?  Oh my.  That's a bit bad, isn't it?  Didn't he have bodyguards or somebody, to look out for him?  I'd've thought he would've had, wouldn't you?"

Luscious Lucy shoots him the slanty-eyed dagger, "Probably serves 'em right, for not having put you in charge there then, eh?"

As Inspector Saunders takes to the floor,  Stuart feels the faint stirrings of his partially-digested mutton begin to repeat.  

I have a feeling PC Stuart's luck is maybe about to look up, don't you?  I'll see how it goes - I'm starting to warm to the incompetent, big galoot, but, yeah, don't hold your breath - you know how easily distracted I get.  (Hope him up there, and his dear old ma never gets to see this, lest I land myself in some trouble.  I don't want my next post be to in aid of a whip-round, to scare up my bail money.)