Necrophenia

  ‘I like the hat,’ I said to him. ‘That is a snap-brimmed fedora.’

  ‘It was Dad’s, apparently.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘So how are you doing? Mum said you were up to some private-eyeing. How’s it going - have you had any luck with anything?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said and I shrugged. And snow fell from my shoulders.

  ‘You’re tainting the crime scene,’ said Andy. ‘Bog off, will you.’

  ‘I just wanted to help,’ I said. ‘I could be your sidekick, if you wanted.’

  ‘My comedy sidekick?’

  ‘If you wanted.’

  Andy made that face that gives the impression to those who see it that the owner of such a face must be giving matters some really serious consideration.

  ‘No,’ said Andy. ‘Bog off.’

  ‘I’ll pay you,’ I said, ‘to let me help. I’d like the training, in case one day I fancy becoming a private eye myself. You can never have too many strings to your bow, I say.’

  ‘Oh, do you now?’ said Andy. ‘Well, bog off all the same.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘You’ve always been my hero.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Positively.’ And I crossed my heart and hoped very much not to die.

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Andy. ‘If you pay me. I’m not getting paid for this job because no one has employed me. I only know about it because I overheard two winos talking about it. They said that it had to be the perfect crime, so I thought that if I solved it, then it would prove that I’m a really good private eye and then I’d get lots of work in the future.’

  ‘And there were those who called you mad,’ I said. ‘Shame upon those fellows.’

  ‘I will get to them all in good time,’ said Andy, ‘and set things straight with them.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘And then I will eat them. And it will serve them right.’

  ‘Quite so, once more. And quite right, too.’ And I shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I asked Andy. ‘About your first case. This one here. Have you found any clues? Have you made any deductions? ’

  Andy tapped at his nose in that manner known as conspiratorial. ‘I’ve drawn some conclusions,’ he said.

  ‘Go on,’ I said to him.

  ‘How much will you pay me?’ he asked.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘I want ten thousand pounds,’ said Andy, ‘because I would like to build my own zoo. And building zoos costs money.’

  ‘Ten thousand is quite a lot,’ I remarked. ‘I could, perhaps, run to ten pounds. But I would have to owe you, as I don’t have it on me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get much of a zoo for a tenner,’ said Andy. ‘You’d hardly get a cage for a tenner.’

  ‘You’d get a packing case,’ I said. ‘And you could use it to import animals.’

  ‘Animals?’ said Andy. ‘Why would I want to import animals?’

  And at this point I felt it prudent to change the subject of the conversation. ‘So,’ I said, ‘that’s settled, then. What clues do you have?’

  ‘Well,’ said Andy. ‘And bear in mind that I am new to this game and just starting out and so haven’t reached my full capacity, as it were. I deduce that five individuals burgled this shed complex. One, given the evidence, would appear to have been clad in standard roadie attire. No distinguishing features there. The others are most anomalous. They left tracks of high-heeled shoes, but these were not women. Indeed, I have every reason to believe that they were only dressed up as women.’

  I sighed, rather more loudly than I might have wished.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I muttered to myself.

  ‘Well,’ said my brother, whose hearing was clearly more acute than I might have expected, ‘that’s where it gets rather iffy. You see, I can tell you with complete confidence that they were not women.’

  ‘And?’ I said, without too much interest.

  ‘They weren’t men either,’ said Andy. ‘In fact, I have no idea what precisely they were. Aliens, perhaps.’

  I looked at Andy and I shook my head. Sadly was how I shook it.

  ‘No,’ said Andy, gazing at me. ‘No, I’m not mad. I mean it!’

  17

  Aliens indeed!

  My brother’s madness wasn’t going to help this situation. Not that it ever helped any situation, particularly. In fact, the more I thought about it, perhaps, ultimately, all this mess was not my fault after all. It was my brother’s. If he hadn’t bitten the postman’s ankle, then the postman would not have run away and I would not have been able to take possession of all that musical paraphernalia.

  So perhaps I should just blame Andy and have done with it.

  But nice as these thoughts were - and they were nice, because I was going through a bit of a mental crisis, particularly as he had got the trench coat - none of this was going to help in retrieving all the aforesaid musical paraphernalia.

  ‘Still,’ said my brother, ‘aliens or not, they have left a pretty clear trail. Following them to their hideaway shouldn’t present many difficulties.’

  And I said, ‘What?’ As well I might.

  ‘The lorry they used to transport the stolen goods,’ said my brother. ‘It left a trail.’

  ‘It left tyre marks, perhaps,’ I said. ‘But the snow has covered them, surely.’

  ‘Don’t call me Shirley10,’ said my brother.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But the tyre tracks are covered by snow.’

  ‘I’m not talking about tyre tracks,’ my brother said. ‘I’m talking about oil. There’s oil all over the place - it must have leaked from the lorry. We can follow the trail of the oil.’

  And, ‘Ah,’ I said. Because it was clear to me, at least, that the oil in question had probably not leaked from the lorry, but rather from our leaky old Bedford van. But then, if, by some unlikely means, my brother could actually follow the route taken by the Bedford, it would Shirley11 lead to the same place as the lorry.

  ‘So how do you propose to follow the trail?’ I asked of my brother. ‘Employ the services of a bloodhound, would it be?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tyler.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But please tell me.’

  ‘I will take up the scent myself.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘All is clear,’ I suggested.

  ‘You’ll have to assist me, of course.’

  ‘But of course.’

  I hadn’t noticed that my holdall was in The Divine Trinity, but I noticed it now as my brother reached down, unzipped it, rooted about in it and then brought to light something rather furry-looking.

  ‘And what is that?’ I asked of Andy.

  ‘It is my dog suit, of course.’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Andy asked. ‘Because if you are—’ And he left the sentence unfinished, as the suggestion had sufficient power in itself not to require an explicit description of the potential horrors.

  ‘No, no, no,’ went I, shaking my head with vigour.

  ‘I will have to ask you a favour, though.’ And Andy slipped out of the trench coat and doffed away his fedora. ‘Take these, if you will be so kind, and put them on.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, without the merest hint of a question.

  ‘I’ll need to tog-up in the dog suit to really do the job properly. That’s where I messed up with my tiger-at-oneness - no suit. I couldn’t get the real feel for being a tiger. So I ran this suit up myself.’

  And Andy was now climbing into this suit, which had arms and legs and paws, a tail and a zip up the front. And then he put on the dog’s-head mask, which looked, I must say, very real.

  ‘That looks most convincing,’ I said to Andy.

  ‘Well, it should. It is made from real dog.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, and I tried very ha
rd indeed not to be sick on the floor. But I did have the trench coat and the fedora. And so, without further words being said, I togged-up and felt a very definite detective-at-oneness sweeping over me.

  ‘Help me on with the collar,’ said Andy, and I did.

  ‘And take the lead.’ And he nodded at the lead, because he couldn’t lift it up between his paws. ‘And keep a very tight hold on that lead. There’s no telling what might happen if I got loose.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, hopefully for the last time that day. But probably, I suspected, not.

  And then we were off!

  Andy dropped to all fours and sprang through the open doorway. He sniffed about at all the oil. And there was a lot visible as the snow, it appeared, didn’t stay upon such oil. And then he was away, with me clinging on to the lead. Away at the hurry-up on four paws went our Andy.

  And he was good, for a sniffer-dog.

  We reached the allotment gates and Andy leaped into the road. And off we went at considerable speed with Andy now barking enthusiastically.

  ‘Barking,’ I said to myself. How apt.

  At short length we arrived at the derelict building that had posed as The Green Carnation Club.

  Andy straightened up and growled at me.

  ‘What?’ I asked him.

  ‘You could have told me I was following your van,’ he said.

  ‘My van?’

  ‘I picked up your scent at The Divine Trinity. You might have mentioned that this was your band.’

  I did chewings on my bottom lip. ‘You really picked up my scent?’ I asked him.

  ‘Well, I am a dog, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh yes, you certainly are.’

  ‘So let’s get on with this tracking.’ And he growled loudly once more, took to some further barking and set off again at a goodly pace.

  We headed towards West Ealing. Then through West Ealing and out to Hanwell. And then, in Hanwell High Street, Andy stopped and scratched at the ground and howled very loudly indeed.

  ‘Are we there?’ I asked. And then noting where we were, I groaned. We were right outside Jim Marshall’s shop. The shop from which all the equipment had originally come.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘Oh what?’ said Andy, straightening up.

  ‘We’re outside Jim Marshall’s. He must have paid those lady-men to retrieve his equipment.’

  ‘No,’ said Andy. ‘That’s not it at all.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘It’s not. I just stopped because I need to take a poo.’

  ‘Oh no, Andy!’ I said, and I threw up my hands in alarm.

  ‘In the gents’ toilet over there,’ said Andy, pointing with his paw. ‘You really can be so silly at times.’

  I apologised to Andy and he went off to have a poo.

  I stood and waited, doing little marchings on the spot to keep the circulation going in my toes whilst admiring my reflection in Jim Marshall’s window. I was clearly born to this profession (as an adjunct to being a world famous rock ’n’ roll star with a sports car and a speedboat, of course).

  I looked really good.

  At little length Andy returned and I swear he was wagging his tail.

  ‘That’s a very posh bog,’ he said. ‘They even have a resident bog troll.’

  ‘You mean a toilet attendant,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Same thing. He had the nerve to suggest that dogs should do their business in the street—’

  And I could feel another ‘oh dear’ coming on.

  ‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said Andy. ‘And now I think we’d best press on.’

  And he was down on all fours once more.

  And off and away at a run.

  ‘Andy,’ I cried as I stumbled after him, hanging on for the dearness of life to the lead. ‘Andy, why are you doing this?’

  Andy barked and ran on.

  ‘I know you must be angry,’ I puffed, ‘about being locked-up in the lunatic asylum and blamed for stealing this equipment. Are you intending to hand it all over to the authorities when you find it and clear your name? Is that it, Andy, is it?’

  Andy stopped and turned and sat down in the snow. ‘No,’ said he. ‘It isn’t. I’m not angry and I don’t want to hand the equipment over to any authorities. I want you to have it back.’

  ‘You do?’ I said. And Andy nodded. And then he scratched at the back of his head. With his foot, as a dog might do, which I found most impressive. If just a tad creepy.

  ‘On one condition,’ said Andy.

  ‘Just name it, my brother.’

  ‘I want to be in your band.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh what?’

  ‘Oh, dear brother,’ I said. ‘It would be an honour and a pleasure.’

  ‘You see, I have certain musical ideas of my own that I would like to realise. They’re very meaningful and I think that the pop medium might—’

  But he didn’t say any more just then as we both had to leap out of the road to avoid being run down by a 207 bus.

  ‘I think we’d better press on,’ said Andy, rising from the pavement and shaking the snow from his back in a dog-like fashion. ‘Before the trail grows cold. Well, colder anyway.’

  And we were off once more. And thankfully now for the very last time.

  I didn’t know Hanwell particularly well. It had a High Street with Jim Marshall’s shop in it. And St Bernard’s Loony Bin, which was opposite the bus station. And there were the three bridges - a train bridge, a road bridge and a bridge with the Grand Union Canal in it, all crossing each other in the same place.

  Although perhaps I just dreamed the last bit about the bridges. It does seem rather unlikely.

  Andy stopped and sniffed at oil. ‘I’m getting the scent really strongly now,’ he said. ‘From up ahead there, just past the three bridges.’

  ‘Is there anything beyond Hanwell?’ I asked of Andy. ‘I sort of thought that the world probably ended somewhere about here.’

  Andy straightened up and brushed the snow from his paws. ‘Is that true?’ he asked of me.

  And I sort of nodded that it was.

  ‘Silly, silly sod,’ said Andy. ‘Come on, let’s get this finished.’

  And he was off once more, but this time at a more sedate pace. A lady in a straw hat watched us mooching by and I could just imagine what she was thinking:

  Look at that stylish-looking private eye, taking his pedigree dog for a walk, would be what she was thinking.

  So I have no idea why she screamed and ran off the way she did.

  Andy stopped and, like a pointer, pointed with a paw. And did a bit of doggy-panting, which more than captured the mood.

  ‘In there?’ I asked Andy.

  And Andy barked in the affirmative.

  ‘In there? Are you sure?’

  Andy’s head bobbed up and down.

  ‘But that’s a cemetery,’ I said. ‘Dead people live in there.’

  Andy’s head went bob-bob-bob some more. And I peeped through the cemetery gates. They were big gates, of iron, all gothic traceries and curlicues with much in the way of funerary embellishment. Skulls and crossed bones, angels in flight. And things of that nature, generally. And beyond these a most picturesque-looking graveyard. The snow took the edge off its grimness and painted it up to a nicety.

  ‘In there and you’re absolutely sure?’

  But Andy was off once more. Not through one of the big iron gates - those were for the hearses to drive through - but through the pedestrians’ entrance to the left-hand side (looking from the road, of course). And we were soon into the snow-covered land of the dead.

  And Andy padded along, moving this way and that, following the avenues that led between the tombstones before finally stopping at an impressive-looking marble mausoleum. It was one of those grand Victorian affairs, all fluted columns and angelic ornamentation.

  ‘Here?’ I said.

  And Andy barked that we were.


  I looked up at the marvellous structure, then stepped forward and dusted snow from the engraved brass plaque upon it.

  I read from this, aloud to my brother.

  Here Lies Count Otto Black

  Bavarian Nobleman and Philanthropist

  Moved On From this Plane of Existence

  31.12.1899

  ‘The stolen equipment is in here?’ I said to Andy. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Andy, and he removed his dog-mask. ‘And it all falls rather neatly into place, as it happens.’

  ‘Does it?’ I asked. ‘How so?’

  ‘Because, as I told you, those who stole the equipment were dressed as women. But they weren’t women. But neither were they men. That’s why I couldn’t identify the smell, and pondered, in all foolish frivolousness, the possibility that space aliens might be involved. Nothing of the sort, it appears.’ And Andy sniffed again and said, ‘It’s clear as clear and my nose doesn’t lie. The gear wasn’t stolen by living beings. The gear was stolen by the dead.’

  18

  Well, all right and fair enough, I wasn’t expecting that!

  ‘Dead people?’ I said to Andy. ‘Dead men stole my Strat?’

  Andy did some further sniffings. ‘That’s how it’s smelling,’ said he.

  ‘You mean zombies,’ I said to Andy. ‘The living dead. Slaves to their voodoo master.’

  ‘That is the popular consensus opinion,’ agreed Andy. ‘Reanimated corpses controlled by evil puppet-master magicians.’

  ‘But here? In Hanwell?’

  ‘Zombism was bound to reach here eventually,’ reasoned Andy. ‘I read recently the term “global village” being used to describe the world.’

  ‘Did you read it in Teenage She-Male Today?’ I asked.

  But Andy said no, he had not.

  ‘So what do we do?’ I now asked. ‘Get shovels and dig? Fetch a priest? Employ an exorcist? I am a little out of my depth here. And, if I am altogether honest, rather frightened also.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Andy. ‘Your big brother is with you.’

  ‘I’ll go to a phone box and call Mr Ishmael,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Ishmael?’ said Andy. ‘Who he?’