Bennett and Duke, Incompetent PIs At Your Service. Episode Two: The Case Of The Missing File.

Well, there's one piece of good news today. Marie-Louise is back at work. The (very) bad news is that Vicky is still here.

"Andy needs me," she says, when Greg asks her why she's staying on, unpaid - or at least, that's what we assume, in the absence of any other explanation.

"Why does he need you?" says Greg.

Vicky's continuing presence has obviously wiped out his few remaining good manners.

"Because I'm the only one he trusts," says Vicky - which just goes to show that Andrew's judgement has completely gone to pot, as far as I'm concerned.

As a result, office morale is at an all-time low by lunchtime and then, to make matters worse, Mr Sampson phones to ask how his (very long-standing) case is going.

"Mr Sinclair said he'd send me something in the post quite urgently," he says. "But nothing has arrived yet."

"Oh," I say. "I don't know what's happened, I'm afraid. I didn't know there had been any new developments, and there are no recent updates on the computer. When did he tell you this?"

"When he visited me. The week before last, I think it was," says Mr Sampson.

"Ah, yes. I was off sick that week, so that's probably why I wasn't aware of it. Just hang on one moment, and I'll get your file."

I put Mr Sampson's call on hold, and head for the filing cabinet. I look through it twice, then on my desk - but there's no sign of the file. I promise to phone Mr S back, and search again, still without success. I'm rifling through the paperwork on Greg's desk when he walks in and asks what the hell I'm doing.

"Trying to find Mr Sampson's file," I say. "Can't see it anywhere. Have you had it?"

"No," says Greg. "Andrew took it with him when he went to visit Mr S. I'll phone and find out what he did with it."

The call doesn't last long and, when Greg slams the phone down and starts making V signs at it, I conclude that he doesn't have good news.

"Andrew says he gave the file to Vicky," says Greg. "On their way back from Mr Sampson's house."

"He took Vicky with him? To see a constituent?"

"Um, yes. I didn't like to tell you that bit."

Oh, for f*cksake. And it doesn't get any better. When Vicky finally returns from lunch, she claims that she left the file on my desk. She doesn't blink while she says this, and then comes the worst news of all.

"It was so that you could do that photocopying," she says, while smirking. Fishily.

"What photocopying?"

"The constituent gave Andy a pile of documents to take copies of. Then he was supposed to return them by post."

I look at Greg, who looks back at me. Neither of us wants to ask the next question but, as usual, I cave in first.

"Vicky, please tell me that these aren't original documents we're talking about?" I say.

"Oh, I should think so," she says. "Otherwise the constituent wouldn't be so anxious to get them back. You don't want any Tom, Dick or Harry laying their hands on the deeds to your house, now do you?"

Does she have to look as if she's enjoying this quite so much? Honestly, sometimes I can quite understand what motivates axe-murderers. Especially serial ones.

I could cheerfully kill The Boss as well as Vicky. Although she might be first on today's list of people that I plan to do away with come the revolution, Andrew's a close second. Especially after I call him with an update.

"Well, Molly - you'll just have to phone Mr Sampson back, explain that you've lost his file and apologise," he says.

"Me?" I say. "I wasn't even at work when you - or Vicky - managed to mislay the damned thing. Containing really important, original documents, for God's sake."

"Collective responsibility's the thing," he says, before he hangs up on me. Now it's my turn to make V signs. Mine are even more extravagant than Greg's.

There's no getting away from the fact that a holding manoeuvre is needed, though. I phone Mr Sampson and tell him that the file is still in Andrew's briefcase, which he's taken to London with him - so I'll have to get the paperwork sent back from there. (I really hope there's no bad Karma for white lies, or I am completely buggered in the next life.)

I'm clinging to the hope that we'll find the file and solve the whole problem, but it's already almost 7:00pm and Greg and I are still searching the office, while old fish-face is long gone. She's probably washing all her hair tonight, or doing something equally important, whereas  Greg and I won't be going home until we've found what we're looking for.

There's paper everywhere and the place already looks as if it's been ransacked. We haven't even had time to discuss what on earth we're going to do about the most serious problem: Vicky. I don't know why, but I've got a horrible feeling that she lost this file on purpose. It might pay not to underestimate hair-flickers in future, especially as I can't get the image of a smiling piranha out of my head. Or the sound of a very familiar tune.

The Louboutin-Clad Piranha Reveals Her True Colours

God knows what Vicky's been telling The Boss during their cosy tete a tetes. She looks really smug when she arrives at work this morning, but doesn't say anything when I ask her how her meeting with Andrew went yesterday. She just smiles a little, through compressed lips - like a piranha before it bites.

Then Andrew phones and demands to know what is going on.

"What d'you mean, what is going on?" I say. (This is another political trick I have learned from The Boss - repeating the question to allow time to formulate the answer.)

"Are you all bloody incompetent?" he says.

"What?" Does he know about the vodka? I only had one shot during working hours, so I tell myself not to be stupid, while Andrew continues:

"Vicky tells me the whole office is a shambles, and that you lot don't know your arses from your elbows."

"Oh - does she?" I say, and try to fix Vicky with a look. She's hiding under that curtain of hair, so this is less effective than I intended. "And what does Vicky say to back this up?"

"Well, that there are loads of things that Marie-Louise had put into the diary on the wrong dates, and that you and Greg are hopeless at managing constituents. She says that you annoy them."

"Andrew, considering that Greg and I are still in one piece - despite being exposed to nutters on a daily basis with no bloody security - and that your response rate on Write To Them is categorised as very high, I think, with all due respect, that Vicky is talking out of her arse," I say.

"Well, I'm just telling you to shape up," says Andrew. "Or ship out. Now put me on to Vicky."

Bloody, bloody hell! Did you ever hear anything like it? I do as he asks, then gesture furiously at Greg to follow me out of the office. We hide in the surgery room while I tell him what Andrew said.

When I've finished, I expect Greg to get so angry that he will have to be prevented from slapping Vicky, but he doesn't. His knees just crumple a bit, and he looks almost defeated.

"Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit. I thought something was going on."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I've just had that feeling in my water." Greg's water is almost as reliable as The Twilight Zone theme, so I accord it the weight it deserves.

"Shit," I say. (Sometimes the same word, oft-repeated, is the best one can do in the circumstances.)

"Well, there've been a couple of things missing from the diary when I've checked them, that I was sure were in there before Vicky started - like the speech Andrew's supposed to be giving at that university next month."

"But that was in the diary!" I say. "I've seen it too, as I attached some other files to the appointment after Marie had logged it."

"That's what I mean," says Greg. "But while you were away, the Vice-Chancellor's secretary phoned up to change the time, and I couldn't even find a record of the appointment itself."

"So what are we going to do?" I say.

"Looks like it's back to the DIY CRB checks, Mol, " says Greg. "But this time not on constituents. We need to find out what that witch is up to, before anything else happens."

"Hmm."

Greg looks at me, and says,

"What does 'hmm' mean? Have you no faith?"

"Not much," I say. "The last check we did wasn't exactly a resounding success, was it? We both nearly got bitten on the arse by Mr Beales' dog. And we forgot he had a bloody shotgun, too."

"So we've learned our lesson. This time we'll read up in advance - and be more careful," says Greg. "Go to the library and take out some crime thrillers on your way home. The inside knowledge will come in useful for our careers, anyway."

"I can't see how. It sounds like we won't even have jobs for much longer," I say.

"Exactly. So if - or when - that happens, you and I will be well-placed to set up as private investigators," says Greg. "Especially on the basis of the publicity we'll get for nailing Vicky. Now let's get back to the office and get this operation started."

Well, I suppose Greg's idea is better than nothing - which is all I've managed to come up with so far - but I can't say I'm very optimistic. Dempsey and Makepeace we aren't.