The Stakeout As you know,
Roly Poly does not make the habit of walking the streets.
He does not get wet if he can possibly avoid it.
As a rule,
He does not go out in the dead of night either,
Mainly because there might be a chance of him coming across one of those revolting rats that he so detests,
Who use the cover of darkness to get up to all sorts of murder and mayhem.
So it may surprise you to know that Roly Poly was out in the dark,
In the wet,
And in one of those,
Shall we say,
Shadier parts of town.
Let me explain.
Last Friday,
He had been to Delita's for his weekly visit to Paw's Palace.
Delita had not been in her usual vibrant mood,
Which was very unlike her.
From memory,
I can never recall her ever having a bad day,
But today she was rattled,
To say the least.
I've been clocked,
Delita blurted out.
She was in a state,
To say the least.
Her new roller shutters,
That were less than three weeks old,
Were covered in graffiti.
Roly had hardly got through the door.
He could tell something was definitely amiss just by the look on her face.
I don't understand it.
If I could get my hands on the rascal who did this,
I'd boil him in oil and throw him down the drain.
So you see,
Roly Poly had to do something.
He was determined that one way or another,
He was going to catch the clocker.
That is why,
After hours,
He was out,
Paroling the streets,
Hoping to catch whoever was up to no good doing his dirty deeds after dark.
No doubt thinking he would be safe and that no one would see what he was up to.
Everyone in Fairfield knew about the clocker.
Nobody was quite sure who he or she was,
But everyone had their suspicions.
The clocker liked to mark his territory,
Much like a cat.
No,
Not with that.
You'll be glad to know.
But with something equally unpleasant and equally bothersome.
The clocker thought of himself as a bit of an artist.
But I can tell you he was no Picasso,
And he certainly did not have the reputation of a Banksy.
I can tell you the clocker is nothing but a vandal and a menace to society.
Scrawling his way around the town,
There was no flair to his creations.
Anyone could tell his numberless clock faces were rushed.
No real effort,
But they were everywhere.
On the lampposts,
Road signs,
No bare walls were safe from his scribbles.
The bus station was a mess.
And the final insult,
Delita's lovely new roller shutters.
It was indeed a conundrum why the clocks had no numbers.
But for some unknown reason,
The hands always pointed to four o'clock.
Roly-poly had been pondering this puzzle over for some time.
Delita's distress was the last straw.
It was time for action.
He had come to the conclusion that the clocker must start work at four a.
M.
,
Just before dawn,
The darkest hour.
Roly-poly was in position.
It was ten to four.
He was camped out under an abandoned rusty Fiesta,
Waiting.
But would the clocker show up?
This was his third night on the job.
He marvelled at his own determination.
He'd been round all the likely spots,
Down by the dump,
The back of the town hall,
In every park,
All with no success.
Tonight it was clearer.
Cloudless,
With a full moon.
So there was a better chance.
The clock struck four.
There he was,
Slinking in the shadows,
Large bag in hand.
He took a quick look round,
Thinking he was alone.
He set to work.
Spraying the signs with his lazy clocks,
Roly-poly followed at a distance,
Watching the clocker do his worst,
Leaving his trademarks on random signs all over Fairfield,
Down Mechanic Street,
Up onto Nine Locks,
And then to the back steps of the Priory,
Until at last,
Shaking his empty can,
It was time to leave.
Roly-poly kept pace with him.
As he headed across the car park,
Down Heath Road.
The weather was taking a turn for the worst.
Roly-poly shuddered under the raindrops.
He reminded himself this was all in a good cause.
Eventually the clocker came to a pair of ornate cast iron gates.
Placing his finger on the scanner,
The gates opened,
Revealing a wide tarmac drive.
Fancy cars lined up next to each other.
Even Roly-poly was shocked,
And that does not happen very often,
I can tell you.
Who would believe it?
He thought to himself.
Everyone thinks vandals live in grotty houses with their grotty families.
The person who lives here certainly does not fit that description.
Whoever lives here certainly has the air of respectability.
In fact,
Roly-poly knew exactly who lived here at No.
7 Prince of Wales Terrace.
Cuthbert Price,
Or to give him his full title,
Councillor Cut Price.
One of Eric's most distinguished customers.
Two blue tops,
One red.
Monday,
Tuesday and Friday.
Hmm,
What to do next?
Roly-poly thought to himself.
He had to catch the clocker spray-handed.
Then they would all be able to rid Fairfield of this vandalism once and for all.
The next day,
Early in the morning,
He enjoyed a bowl of Jersey cream milk and smiled up at his friend,
Trying his best to get him to understand that they had a mystery to solve.
Eric did not always cotton on to what Roly was trying to tell him,
But he knew something was up.
As the appointed hour drew close,
Roly-poly made such a fuss that Eric had to take notice of what he was trying to show him.
If Eric hadn't seen it with his own eyes,
He would never have believed it.
Councillor Cut Price,
A.
K.
A.
The clocker,
Finally got his comeuppance.
And now,
Instead of spraying time,
He's doing time at Her Majesty's service.
