Stormclouds

"We all learn something new every day," said Playfair, his words gravid with irony.  He half-smiled, showing more teeth than was perhaps necessary.  "Now, tell me what we know about this magician."
"Not much, so far," admitted Alf looking down at the table.  "I've got Jamie trying to track his parents down, 'cos like you says, everybody has them, but we've not had much luck so far."
"Well, who did he know in Little Haversham?" asked Playfair.  "Did he live in Little Haversham, or did he have more sense?  Wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, goat he was unnaturally attracted to?"
"Here!"  Alf got a little agitated again.  "There's no need to be talking like no-one would want to live here!  He did live in the village, he's got the big house at the end of Beechwood Drive.  Lived there pretty much by himself, didn't have that many visitors.  Didn't keep any goats."  There was a touch of emphasis on the last sentence that Playfair was oblivious to.
"Have you sent anyone out there to look round the place yet?  This Jamie, perhaps?"
"Not yet," said Alf.  "He wasn't killed there and he lived alone, so I didn't see that there was much point breaking into his house before we'd found any relatives."
"Pets?"  Playfair leaned back on two legs of his chair again.  "Visitors?  There's always a reason to investigate, even if it's only thinking that you can smell gas."
"That might be how you do things up in the City," said Alf, "but we're a little more civilised down here."  Miss Flava had to suppress a snigger at the look of blameless innocence that crossed Playfair's face.  "No-one's been round to his house.  When we track down his parents, or his next of kin, we'll take it to the next stage."
"Too slow!"  Playfair's chair slammed back down to the floor and he leapt from it as though he'd been launched.  Alf flinched away from him, and Miss Flava straightened up and looked alert, ready to stop whatever her boss had in mind.  "This is a murder investigation, not a run-of-the-mill death!  The killer isn't going to be hindered by niceties like this.  If he's after something that Stormy owned he's probably already broken into the place, if there's any clues left in there that might tell us who he is then he could be pouring petrol all over the curtains right now and giggling to himself over a box of matches.  You're not thinking like a murderer, you're thinking like a police officer!"
"That would be because I am a police officer," said Alf slowly.  "When did you decide that the killer was a man, Sir?"
"Probabilities favour it being a man," said Playfair.  "And you've not told me that he exclusively associated with women, or was surrounded by nurses and protectors who were all women.  In fact, ignoring the indirect reference to his mother, I don't think you've mentioned any women in his life at all."
"So you think it was probably his father what did him in then?"
"Statistically that would be a good place to start," said Playfair.  "But you can't find his parents, so unless he killed them first and their bodies are rotting in his house, which you won't search until you've found his parents, we're probably looking at someone else.  What did he do?  What did he do when he wasn't being Stormy the Spellcaster?  Where did he drink?  Who did he talk to?  Why can't you answer any of these questions?"
"Why won't you just shut up?" said Alf, and in the silence that followed he looked a little sheepish.  "Well, perhaps just give me a chance to answer," he said.  "We're working on it, Sir, we were going to ask his parents when we found them."
"Right," said Playfair.  "If you find them.  Ok, enough.  Miss Flava, come on.  Let's go look at this house, maybe that'll provide me with some answers to my questions."
"Er Sir, I can't condone you breaking and entering–" started Alf, but was cut off by Playfair walking past him.
"Then don't," he said.  "But it won't be breaking and entering because it's police business, and I'm on the case."
As he opened the door and walked out Miss Flava stood up and laid a little white business card down in front of Alf.
"The list on the front are the people who are expecting you to complain about him," she said.  "The address for all of them is on the back."

The Great CumuloNimbus

Playfair's chair clattered back to the floor on all four legs, and he leaned diagonally forward across the table towards the office.
"A magician?" he said, his voice raising slightly.  "As in, a stage magician?  Someone who does card tricks, or someone who does grand illusions? Grand Guignol, even?"
"Isn't that a type of sausage?"  When Playfair refused to answer, or even to remove his gaze from the officer's face, he continued after swallowing hard.  "He calls himself the Great CumuloNimbus and he does a lot of illusions and disappearances.  He made the town-hall disappear last year, and the year before that he made the Mountgarden's garden bloom in winter.  Just for the one night, mind you.  He's very good."
"Did he bring the town-hall back again?"  It was impossible to tell if Playfair was being sarcastic or not, and the officer decided not to chance it.
"Yes, it came right back, right after the show.  Just like it had never been away," he said.
"At least he keeps the place tidy then," said Playfair sitting back at last.  "How many of his shows have you seen?"
"Uh, well, I don't know," said the officer.  "I mean, he usually does one every Christmas, and there's often a summer one, unless he's travelling of course, but then he'll usually do a Spring one before he goes then... and of course, he's a local boy, so you try and show a bit of support, don't you?"
"Do you?" said Playfair.  "You certainly sound like a fan.  Are you bothered that he's dead, then?"
"Now look here," said the officer, his voice getting gruff.  "Anyone dying round here is a cause of bother.  You can come here with all the attitude you want, and think that we have pigs living round the back and no internet connections, but we still do the job, and we do it right."  He rose to his feet while he was talking.
"I'm sure Playfair didn't mean–" said Miss Flava trying to step tactfully in before Playfair could speak again, but the officer cut her off.
"I'm sure he did mean it."
"I still mean it," said Playfair.  "And I'm glad that you're bothered that he's dead, as it means you'll have looked all the harder into who might have killed him.  So what you need now is someone who didn't know the victim, who can stand back with a little bit of objectivism and help sift the wheat from the chaff.  Or the pigs from the sheep, or the shit from the sherbert, or whatever else you might sift out here beyond the barricades."
"...Ayn Rand?" asked Miss Flava.  The officer sat down, looking a little calmer, although also a little puzzled as people tended to be after one of Playfair's monologues.
"Yes," said Playfair.  "Very odd woman.  I recommend you study her."
Now it was Miss Flava's turn to get annoyed.  "What, so I can be a very odd woman too?"
"No.  So that you don't end up like her."  Ignoring the look of fury on Miss Flava's face he faced the officer again.  "Look,... er... whatever you name is, from the report I've read, and I know that it's incomplete, you have a murdered magician and so far no suspects.  That can't possibly be right; if nothing else he must have had parents, and most murders are family affairs.  You've done a lot of digging, you've turned up a lot of evidence–"
"Tortoise shells," muttered Miss Flava, still fuming, but Playfair ignored her.
"–and now it's time to find out what that evidence is telling us.  I've been sent to help out, and that's what I'm going to do.  Now, tell me all about Stormy the Magician."
"Who? And my name's Alf, Sir."  The Sir was delivered meaningfully, with a strong intimation that it could be taken away again just as quickly.
"The Great CumuloNimbus," said Playfair not quite patiently.  "CumuloNimbuses are stormclouds."
"I never knew that!" said Alf.