‘Yes or no, Mr Wormwood?’
‘It’s yes, ma’am, I’m afraid.’
‘Be afraid,’ said Eartha. ‘Be very afraid.’
‘I am, ma’am,’ said I. And believe me, my friends. I was.
‘Dead.’ She dropped back into my chair to the sounds of splitting floorboards.
‘I’m truly sorry, ma’am,’ said I.
‘Shut up, you fool, I’m thinking.’
I shut up and I kept my head well down. Outside my office window, the hurricane was gaining further strength. I glimpsed a chewed chihuahua and a pair of Ford Fiestas blowing by.
‘Cease that infernal racket.’ Eartha raised Her mighty mitt and the storm died all away. ‘Get up, Mr Wormwood,’ She said. And I got up. ‘All right,’ She said. ‘Now I understand that you were not to blame. Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. The old fool was asking for trouble. But what I want to know is this: who murdered Him and why?’
‘Two guys,’ said I. ‘I shot them dead. ‘Two slugs, two corpses. That’s the way that I do business.’
‘And I like the way that you do business. But there were two gunmen. Were they professional assassins, and if so, who ordered the hit?’
I was warming to this dame. She obviously had the hots for me in a big way. ‘Ma’am,’ I said. ‘I shot them dead. And as dead men tell no tales, that ain’t my province. Why don’t you have a word with their souls? I’m sure you could persuade them to spill all the beans.’
‘Because that is not how it works any more. And if you don’t put a bit more respect into your voice, I’ll burn off your bollocks, got me?’
‘Got you, ma’am,’ I said.
‘Now look at this.’ The dame spread out a paper on my desk. It was a pretty big paper. More a broadsheet really, or a double tabloid, which is very much the same as a broadsheet, or possibly just a bit smaller.
‘What do you have there, ma’am?’ I asked, with a great deal of respect in my voice.
‘God’s last will and testament.’
‘Whoa!’ said I. ‘And might I take a look?’
‘You may.’
I examined the last will and testament of God. Now, I didn’t know just what to expect. Well, you wouldn’t really, would you? I mean, I might have expected a lot of legal fol-de-rol and perhaps some archangels being left the odd knick-knacks and possibly even me being given all the lands to the south in honour of my services to crime detection. But this was short and sweet. Well, at least it was short.
To my son Colin, I bequeath my beloved planet Earth.
To my dear wife, Eartha, the rest of the Universe.
Signed GOD
‘And that’s it?’ said I. ‘It’s, well, it’s brief.’
‘Very brief,’ said Eartha.
‘But surely, if I recall my scripture,’ I said, ‘it clearly states that the meek are supposed to inherit the Earth.’
Eartha made the kind of face that Joseph Merrick made a living out of. ‘It’s my Earth!’ She shouted, rattling my ceiling fan and damn near having the remnants of my hat off. ‘He gave it to me as a birthday present.’
‘Ma’am,’ said I, as I straightened my flambeaued fedora. ‘Ma’am, please, surely now God is dead, you are in complete control of everything. I mean, you just sorted out the weather with a wave of your lily-white hand. You can do whatever you want, can’t you? I mean, you could just zap the will and forget all about it?’
‘No, Mr Wormwood, I can not do that. There are protocols to be observed. Even God had to abide by certain rules. Now I want you to investigate this, Mr Wormwood. I want you to find out who put the hit on my husband and what this will is all about.’
‘Ma’am,’ I said. ‘With all due respect. I do know my business and in cases such as these, it’s usually the person who has the most to gain from the death of the subject who’s the guilty party. I don’t wish to cause any offence here. But I reckon your son Colin is in the frame for this one.’
‘If that is the case,’ She said, ‘then so be it and I will deal with Colin myself. But I want proof, Mr Wormwood. Absolute proof. I want to know the truth about what happened to my husband and why. And you are going to find that truth for me, aren’t you, Mr Wormwood?’
‘Ma’am,’ I said, ‘you can rely on me.’
‘Yes, I know that I can. Because if you fail to deliver, within one week from today, I shall visit upon you such torment that even the devil himself will turn his face away from the horror. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’
‘Absolutely, ma’am,’ said I. And boy, did I need the toilet.
She didn’t leave in a puff of smoke, or anything fancy like that. She just kind of got off my chair and dragged Her big butt out of my door. No thank yous, no fond farewells and no sweet goodbye kisses.
Off She went and that was that and I was left alone.
Alone!
‘Er, Barry,’ I called. ‘Barry, my dear little pea green buddy. Where are you, Barry, my friend?’
In my head was silence. Stillness. Hush.
‘Barry,’ I called. ‘Where are you, Barry?’
In my head was quietude. Tranquillity. Dead calm.
‘Barry, dear Barry. Where are you?’
‘Sorry, chief. I was having a nap. Have I missed anything?’
‘Barry! You little…’ I pummelled at my skull. ‘You traitorous cur, you lowdown dirty…’
‘Leave it out, chief. Stop. Oh ouch! Oh ow!’
‘You could have warned me, you lowdown double-dealing…’
‘Chief, what could I do? I—’
‘You let me walk in here and insult God’s widow and now I’m in deeper doo than a coprophile in a cow manure Jacuzzi.’
‘You’ve got seven days, chief.’
‘Seven days? She knew, Barry. She knew that God was dead. She turns up in my office less than half an hour after He gets it. And She’s even got His will with Her. The will that clearly implicates Her son.’
‘Seems like an open and shut case, chief. One that even you could solve.’
‘Barry, you little green golly. She knew. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
‘I think you’re saying She knew, chief.’
‘That is what I’m saying. She was here and She knew and She wasn’t even concerned. God is dead and She doesn’t give a damn. And why, Barry, why?’
‘Well, chief …’
‘There’s no other explanation. I didn’t get to be the best in the business by missing the most obvious clues. She was here. She knew. She had the will with Her. The will implicates Her son. She did it. Case closed.’
‘Well, not exactly, chief.’
‘Not exactly, Barry? How much more exactly would you care for?’
‘Well, chief, exactly how She knew might help.’
‘She knew, because She ordered the hit.’
‘Er, no, chief. She knew because I told Her.’
There was silence once again. But it wasn’t just in my head this time.
‘You told Her?’ I fairly roared. I did. I kid you not. ‘You told Her? You told Her?’
‘Calm yourself down, chief. I had to. I was only doing it to save you from Her terrible wrath, if She’d found out some other way. You’d have never got away with dressing up as a Muslim. I had to come clean with Her. Explain that it wasn’t your fault and that you’d find out who’d done it.’
‘But She did it.’
‘No, chief, I’ve just explained that. She didn’t do it.’
‘Then it was Colin.’
‘Well, chief, I do agree that he looks a likely candidate. And he is a real bad lot. But whether he’d really have the guts to top his own father, I don’t know about that.’
I dropped into my chair, dragged open my desk drawer and brought out the Old Bedwetter. At times like these, when the going gets rough, I find that a slug of—
‘Don’t start that again, chief. And advertising B. K. Flamers. How low will you stoop in the cause of an easy buck?’
> ‘Barry, do you realize the trouble I’m in here?’
‘Of course I do, chief. We’re in this together, aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, right!’ I took a hefty slug.
‘If you go down, I go down, chief. I only get one shot at this Holy Guardian game and if I foul up, I’m on the celestial compost heap. I do have your best interests at heart. And I do want you to solve this case. Think of it, chief. This is the Big One. Woodbine brings the murderer of God to justice. How could there ever be a bigger case than that?’
I nodded thoughtfully. And I did it with style. I mean sure, my hat was in sodden tatters and my trench-coat gone to ruination. My socks were smouldering and I had third degree burns over 60 per cent of my body. I was up to my neck in the deep brown stuff and had just seven days to solve the crime of the eternity, knowing that if I didn’t, I would become toast in a million ways more than one. But like I say, I nodded thoughtfully.
And I did it with style.
Now there are some times when you have to sit and think. Mull things over. Cogitate. Employ your mind. Cerebrate. Conceptualize. Contemplate. Commune with your inner self.
And I guess that’s all OK if you’re one of those tormented-soul detectives with a drink problem and a broken marriage, who’s had some big trauma in his childhood and is searching after his feminine side, or however that load of old toot always goes.
But hey, this is Woodbine.
The man. The detective.
The guy who makes his own wind and doesn’t shoot the breeze.
‘OK, Barry,’ I said. ‘We’re gonna make a move.’
‘Are you going to change your clothes, chief? You look a right palooka in that charred hat and mash-up trench-coat.’
‘I’ll wear my old tweed jacket,’ I said. ‘It’s always good for a bit of disguise.’
‘And just why would you want a bit of disguise?’
‘Because we’re going under cover, Barry. We are going to return to the crime scene in search of clues. I shall adopt one of my many alternative personas and probe this case with a penetrating eye. You just stick with me, little guy, and you’ll see why I’m the best.’
‘Perhaps I’ll grow to like the compost heap.’
‘What did you say, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
The alleyway was rather crowded now. There were policemen coming and going and wandering around and stepping on evidence and getting in each other’s way and generally carrying on in the manner that all policemen do. They’d set up some lights and stretched a lot of that yellow tape (that is known to those of the non-PC persuasion as “Brixton bunting”) about. And they’d parked their police cars up real close and left the beacons flashing on the tops to give that extra bit of atmosphere.
I shouldered my way tweedily into the blue serge throng. ‘Make way,’ I said. ‘Member of the press.’
A guy turned to face me. And I knew this guy. It was none other than Police Chief Sam Maggot of the L.A.P.D. He and I had run up against each other on more than one occasion and he and I did not see eye to eye.
Possibly due to the difference in height, as he is something of a shorty.
Police Chief Sam Maggot had not been having a good day. He rarely, if ever, had a good day. It was not in his remit to have good days. Police chiefs always have bad days. Every day is another bad day, that’s the way they do business.
‘Who are you?’ asked Police Chief Sam.
‘Molloy,’ said I. ‘Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury.’
Police Chief Sam looked me up and up. ‘Molloy?’ said he. ‘Molloy?’
‘That’s me,’ said I. ‘What happened here?’
‘It’s not you,’ said Sam. ‘It’s Woodpecker. Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.’
‘The name’s…’ Well, he nearly had me there. ‘The name’s Molloy,’ I said. ‘Scoop Molloy. Some call me Scoop.’
‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Sam. ‘But you do bear an uncanny resemblance to Woodpecker. Although he wears the snap-brimmed fedora and the trench-coat and you’re wearing—’
‘An old tweed jacket,’ I said. ‘So I must be a news reporter, mustn’t I?’
‘Well I guess you must. And naturally, as the police have a cosy and oftimes financially rewarding relationship with the press, I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know.’
‘That’s fine. So what happened here?’
‘Murder,’ said Sam. ‘Murder most foul. Two Greek businessmen. A Mr Georgious Bubble and a Mr Mikanos Squeak. Gunned down in cold blood.’
‘And the other guy?’
‘What other guy?’
‘I thought there were three bodies.’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Just the two. Just two innocent men viciously murdered. Brutally slain. Cruelly done to death by some pathetic psychopathic scumbag. Some piece of human filth. Some vile loathsome degraded specimen of sub-humanity. Some—’
‘Just the two bodies?’ I said. ‘Just the two?’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, chief?’
‘Not now, Barry.’
‘What did you say?’ said Sam.
‘Nothing,’ said I. ‘But you’re absolutely sure that there’s only two bodies?’
‘Absolutely sure. And I’ll tell you more. The murderer barged open that rear door to the Crimson Teacup, then ducked back into shelter. Then he leapt from cover and shot both men dead. Two clean shots. The work of a professional.’
‘You’re right there,’ said I.
‘Forty-four calibre ammunition,’ said Sam. ‘I would say from a trusty Smith and West Indian steel band.’
‘Hm,’ said I.
‘The killer then walked along the alleyway and kicked the corpses. One mean son of a bitch, eh? One heartless evil murdering slimebag. One—’
‘I suppose you can tell me next what he was wearing?’ I said.
‘Absolutely,’ said Sam. ‘He was wearing a trench-coat and a fedora. And he was talking to himself. They do that, you know. The real loons. Voices in the head. God tells them to do it. That kind of caper.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said I. And I was. ‘And you worked all this out from scene of crime evidence?’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘From that.’ And he pointed.
I turned my head and I looked in the direction of his pointing. High on the wall above the rear door of the Crimson Teacup was mounted one of those sneaky closed-circuit TV cameras. The type you see, if you look real hard, overlooking nearly every street in the big city nowadays. The type that are linked up to hidden computers and record everything they see.
Everything.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That was handy.’
I smiled back at Sam.
But Sam wasn’t smiling.
Sam held a gun in his hand and that gun was pointing at me.
‘You’re under arrest, Woodpecker,’ said he. ‘Loons like you always return to the scene of the crime. They like to have a gloat, don’t they? Get off on what they’ve done.’
‘Now just you see here.’ I reached for my piece.
‘Don’t touch that gun,’ said Sam. ‘That’s the murder weapon or my name isn’t Sam Maggot and yours ain’t Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.’
‘The name’s Woodbine.’ I had to say it. ‘Lazlo Woodbine’, and ‘Some call me Laz.’
‘Raise your hands and turn around,’ said Sam.
‘Now listen, please. You’re making a big mistake.’
‘Just raise your hands and turn around.’
‘Aw come on now, Sam.’
‘Don’t Sam me, you psycho. Raise your hands and turn around.’
‘OK. But you’re really making a…’ I raised my hands and turned around ‘…big…’
And then he hit me hard on the back of the head.
‘…mistake. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ I went.
‘I’ll join you in that one,’ said Barry.
And I was falling once more into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion that all great genre detect
ives fall into.
But not at this point in the case.
11
When the hurricane hit, Icarus was in a long dark automobile, sitting next to a creature of Hell and being driven to an unknown destination.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Icarus asked, when he could find his voice to do so.
The creature that was Cormerant flickered its quills and moved its terrible mouthparts. ‘To the Ministry,’ it said. ‘Where you will be interviewed.’
‘I have nothing to say.’
‘But you will. You will tell us everything we need to know.’
The car took a sudden lurch to the left.
‘Drive carefully, damn you!’ shouted Cormerant.
‘I’m trying.’ The chauffeur glanced back across his shoulder. ‘The weather’s gone mad. A storm’s come out of nowhere.’
‘Always the weather,’ said Cormerant. ‘Gets blamed for everything, the weather does. Have you ever thought about that, young man? The way the weather affects everything that people do? The wrong kind of leaves blown onto the track and the trains can’t run. The trains can’t run, so some man is late for an important meeting. The meeting is cancelled, a business goes bust. Its shares are wiped out on the stock exchange. A shareholder loses everything, goes mad, hangs himself. Leaving a wife who might have given birth to a child who would have one day become the President of the United States and saved the world from terrible war that would wipe out half of mankind. All because of some leaves blown onto the track by weather. Is it fate, or is there a purpose behind it? What do you think, young man?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Icarus hunched himself up and glanced towards the handle of the door.
‘Central locking,’ said the creature that was Cormerant. ‘A new innovation. All the doors and windows are locked. You have nowhere to run.’
Without, the storm raged madly on. Within the car, Icarus Smith sat trembling.
The Ministry of Serendipity is situated beneath Mornington Crescent underground station. Much legend is attached to the station, which for many years was closed to the public and which now does not remain open later than nine thirty at night. The belief amongst conspiracy theorists is that the Ministry of Serendipity is the English Area 51. That a vast tunnel network and massive underground complex exists beneath Mornington Crescent station. And that dirty deeds, involving alien spacecraft and back-engineering and indeed those little grey blighters with the Ray-Ban eyeballs, are done there, whilst Londoners walk blissfully unknowing on the pavements far above.