SHERLOCK Holmes is always inspiring new stories, so who better to solve the mystery of Katie Price’s missing husband Lee? Or will this impenetrable case stump even the famous sleuth?
‘A most puzzling case, Watson,’ said Holmes at our lodgings in Baker Street. ‘A young bride by the name of Katie Price has had her husband snatched from her in a strangely unconvincing kidnap plot.’
Holmes sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. ‘I suggest we hail a Hansom cab willing to take us to Mrs Price’s Tudor-style rented home in Sussex.’
*****
In her drawing room, Mrs Price related the distressing tale. It was impossible for any man not to be entranced by her innocence and natural beauty.
‘I’m worried f**king sick,’ she said. ‘We’d only just got f**king married and now he’s f**king been kidnapped and they’ll probably cut his f**king fingers off and probably his knob too what the f**k is it with me and f**king men?’
‘A grave predicament, I agree,’ said Holmes. ‘Or is it the case that you are a dissembling shrew engaged in outrageous falsehoods for cold pecuniary gain?’
‘You what?’ said Mrs Price, and I too felt compelled to ask tersely what he meant by this vile accusation. ‘Come with me, Watson,’ he said.
*****
Holmes led me to Mrs Price’s bedroom, a nightmarish study in pink. ‘What strikes you about this house, Watson?’ ‘It is tasteless?’ I ventured. ‘Yes, but you will also note a complete absence of books, an indicator of low intellect. And where might such a weak-minded individual choose to hide themselves?’
‘The most obvious place…?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Come out from under the bed, Lee.’
At which point a shamefaced specimen I recognised as Lee Andrews crawled out pathetically. He soon confessed all: the whole scheme had been concocted to hide the fact that their marriage was a sham, and seeking out mindless D-lister publicity was the only course of action these wretches knew.
*****
As we climbed aboard our carriage back to London, a question still vexed me. ‘Another crime solved, Holmes, but I still don’t know what alerted you to it being a pitiful charade in the first place!’
‘A shitty podcast,’ Holmes replied. ‘When your beloved spouse is at risk of torture and murder, who would continue with their celebrity podcast, as Mrs Price did yesterday? A podcast so lame the only guest she ever has on is her sister.’
‘Of course!’ I exclaimed.
‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ said Holmes, as he completely fails to do in the books.
