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.

A Clash of Cultures. Or Do I Mean Vultures?

Today's the day Carlotta and Marie-Louise come here to see Greg and I in action, as The Boss puts it. I'd much prefer to see them in action, but I suspect that this would prove challenging, if the action was supposed to be work-related.

They arrive mid-morning, and Greg is ordered to drive to the station to collect them. Obviously their longer legs are less functional than mine. It's only a five minute walk, and I'd been rather hoping they'd get lost and we could lose an hour or so of their company while we "tried" to find them. Greg had even helped by sending them a slightly inaccurate hand-drawn map, but The Boss's insistence on their being chauffeur driven dooms us to disappointment. Greg says he'd have bought one of those traffic light air fresheners if he'd known he was going to have to give them a lift, just to confirm their low opinions of us, but he didn't have time.

When he brings them into the building, they have to pass Joan from the Party Office in the corridor. Greg says that Carlotta looks her up and down as if she is an exhibit in a zoo. I have to admit that this is a fairly understandable error, but for the purposes of today, Joan is one of us, and therefore entirely beyond criticism, except from The Boss, of course. When Carlotta says, "We just met Jean or whatever her name was," Andrew just grunts and looks disgusted. Honestly, that man couldn't tell who was on his side if his life depended on it.

Both girls stand around, sniffing as if there is a bad smell, and making the place look untidy, until The Boss orders me to make them coffee and suggests they chill out in the Oprah Room until lunchtime. I have a better idea, and suggest to The Boss that it would be a useful learning experience for both Carlotta and Marie-Louise to sit in on today's surgery. They look as enthusiastic about this suggestion as if I'd proposed they jump into a pit of snakes, which makes it all the more satisfying when Andrew says,

"Damn good idea, Molly." But then he adds, "No need for you to come - one of the girls can take the notes."

This wipes the smile off my face, especially when he continues,

"We'll hand them to you afterwards, so you can do the letters." That'll teach me to get creative. There's nothing worse than trying to work from someone else's notes, even if they aren't Andrew's.

The girls look shell-shocked after surgery, and slump back onto the couch, while The Boss holds forth about Steve Ellington's latest assault on one of his neighbours. Andrew appears to be enjoying giving the impression that he dares to boldly meet with the bad, the mad and the dangerous, without a thought for his own safety. Greg yawns audibly, and I decide to interrupt. (There's only so much that anyone can be expected to endure.)

"Um, Andrew - the surgery notes?" I say, without much optimism.

"Ah, yes - here you are." The Boss proffers one piece of A4, bearing his usual hieroglyphics. "The girls have got the rest."

Carlotta looks at Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise looks back at her. Neither says anything.

"You didn't take any notes?" I say. "None?"

"We thought Andrew had it all under control," Carlotta says.

I can't help myself. Before I know it, I say, "Andrew never has it all under control. For Godsake."

I stomp off for a cigarette. Greg tells me later that, while I am outside, Andrew apologises to the girls on my behalf, tells them I haven't been myself recently, and that there is no need to worry, that I will sort it out, because I always do. Humph.

Now I can't even have a drink at lunchtime, as I shall need all my wits about me to save the situation this afternoon. This doesn't stop anyone else, though, and Carlotta and Marie-Louise are legless by the time we stagger back to the office. I like them a whole lot better drunk, actually - especially when it makes them admit that they count the days until Recess, because Andrew reduces one or other of them to tears so often that they're both thinking of resigning.

It seems he takes the same approach in the Westminster office as he does in ours - which is to blame one of his staff in public, whenever he makes a mistake. Makes me feel a whole lot better that, even with all the glamour of the Cinnamon Club, and the other perks, they too feel stressed beyond belief, and can't cope with all the unnecessary work he creates. In fact, when they tell us how long it takes them to travel in and out of work, and what their rent costs, I end up feeling sorry for them. I don't think I could handle spending hours on the tube each day, just for the dubious pleasure of working for Andrew.

It's kisses all round when their taxi arrives to take them back to the train station. I think The Boss has misunderstood the protocol, though - as he goes for everyone's lips, except Greg's. We all wipe our mouths ostentatiously, while going "Psshaw" - but he doesn't seem to notice. He wanders off to do some work at home, while I spend the afternoon phoning all the constituents who attended surgery this morning.

I have to lure them into telling me the full details of what they have already told Andrew - and the girls - in the guise of seeking "clarification of a few points." I don't mind this as much as I had expected to, and, in fact, I feel oddly cheerful when I have finished. It seems Andrew isn't quite as daft as he looks: he's succeeded in raising office morale, though probably not in the way that he intended. Now we're all united in thinking him a complete nightmare.

How Not To Cheer Someone Up.

Everyone seems to have decided that I need cheering up. That's where the consensus breaks down. The differing methods by which this might be achieved seem to say rather more about the people making the suggestions than about the causes of my Weltschmerz.

While we're both getting ready for work this morning, Max suggests he meets me in town straight after work. Seeing my expression, he says, "What?" - as if he made that sort of suggestion on a regular basis.

"Um, well - I'm just surprised, that's all. What brought that on?"

"Thought it might cheer you up. Where shall we meet?"

"Well, on past experience, it'd better be somewhere where I won't feel an idiot sitting by myself waiting for you to turn up," I say. Max looks wounded.

"I always turn up," he says.

"Eventually." I never know when to accept an olive branch when it is offered. Though this is not to say that I concede Max's point about my resemblance to an elephant. We arrange to meet at Caffe Nero. Again. You can't say we lack imagination.

I'm in quite a good mood when I arrive at work, but this is short-lived. After Greg has attended this morning's "briefing," which is even briefer than usual, he comes back rolling his eyes, sits down at his desk with an exaggerated sigh, and buries his head in his hands. The Boss bounces in, like an ageing Tigger on speed.

"Greg tell you my idea?" he says.

"Not yet," I say. "What have you thought of now?'

"Something to boost office morale." The Boss's self-satisfaction is almost tangible. He puts his shoulders back, and struts in to the kitchen. "Can't say I'm not sensitive to my staff's needs." He must be still drunk, because his next question is, "Coffee, anyone?"

"Is that his plan?" I ask Greg. "Making us a coffee?"

"No," says Greg. "Worse than that. Much worse." He's about to explain, when there is a crashing noise, some swearing, and then The Boss sticks his head back round the kitchen door.

"Where the hell are all the cups and spoons?" he says. "Can't find anything in here."

The cups and spoons are where they always are, first thing in the morning. In the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. The drawer, however, isn't in its usual place. It's in the middle of the floor.

"What happened to the drawer?"

"Must've pulled it out too far, trying to find a spoon." The Boss steps round it, looks at his watch, then says, "Oh, I'm late for the Easemount Remembering Project. Better go."

So much for that, then. Democracy is never extended to coffee making in our office. Not during Recess, anyway. When I've finished washing up, rebuilding the kitchen cabinet and making the coffees, Greg has recovered enough to tell me what The Boss's great motivational plan actually is. Let's just say it's unlikely to have the desired effect.

Andrew has decided to invite the girls from the London office to come here on Friday, so that we can all have lunch together. This will apparently also give them the chance to "see and appreciate" what we do here in the boring old provinces. Carlotta doesn't sound any more enthusiastic about it than we are, when I call her to make the arrangements. By the time she's given me a list of her dietary requirements, together with far too much information about Marie-Louise's allergies, I can't think of a single restaurant that will fit the bill.

The rest of the day passes quite quickly, mostly with cases linked to constituents having lost their jobs due to the recession: bank charges, benefit claims and one potential eviction. Before I know it, it's time to meet Max. I'm actually quite excited, which is odd, as Caffe Nero is hardly the Marriott. Or even Heathrow, though I am still looking forward to it. I even freshen up my make-up - and squirt Rive Gauche around with gay abandon - before I leave work, to the sound of Greg muttering about the office smelling like a tart's boudoir. I am already ten minutes late by the time I get to the cafe, but there's no sign of Max yet.

By the time I've been there for forty-five minutes, I'm almost the only customer left. And I have drunk so much bloody coffee that I've given myself palpitations. I keep checking my mobile, under cover of the table in case anyone thinks I am a sad git who has been stood up, but there's nothing from Max. No texts, no missed calls, no answer-phone messages. When it's a full hour after we arranged to meet, I give up, pay the annoyingly-sympathetic waitress, and start to walk home. Then my mobile rings.

"I'm really sorry," says Max. "Had an emergency."

"Did you?" I say. "What sort of emergency exactly?"

"The deliverymen missed a customer's coffee table off this week's delivery round. So I had to take it there myself after work."

"Ah," I say. "Well, that is an emergency. Undoubtedly. Unlike the eviction case I nearly killed myself trying to finish so that I could be there to meet you on time." Then I hang up, turn my phone off, and walk the rest of the way home. I can't say that I feel noticeably more cheerful, but maybe Connie or Josh can think of something to improve my mood. They couldn't do any worse than the f*ckwits who've already had a try.