Raiders of the Lost Carpark

  ‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ Hovis replied. ‘Several times.’

  ‘I really must get a bell installed then. The door is quite thick and I fear it presents difficulties for those enfeebled officers of advancing years, who no longer retain the strength in their right arms.’

  Hovis moved his mouth, as if in speech, but uttered no words.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Lytton. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said, you’d better get a great big bell,’ Hovis shouted. ‘In case you have a problem hearing it. What with the traffic noise, and everything,’ he added politely.

  ‘Ah yes. Indeed. Sit down then, Hovis. Take a pew.’

  Hovis sat down.

  ‘Settling into the Portakabin all right?’

  ‘No,’ said Hovis. ‘It is completely inadequate. I will certainly need to return to this office, if I am to successfully instigate the secret taskforce operation that I was discussing last night with the chief of police.’ He paused to evaluate the effect of this outrageous lie.

  ‘I shall await my briefing from him then,’ said Lytton. ‘I happen to be dining with him tonight.’

  Beneath the wrong side of his desk, Inspectre Hovis clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ‘Now let us talk of other matters.’ The chief inspector set down his paper cup. ‘Sherringford, might I call you Sherringford?’

  ‘Of course, Brian.’

  ‘So glad. Now, it behoves me to tell you that, as you may have noticed, the department is currently going through major restructuring. It is all down to government funding, or the lack of. The recession. Cut backs. Things of that nature. Someone has to go. That is the nub of it.’

  ‘We will be sorry to lose you,’ said Hovis.

  ‘Me? Oh very droll. You will have your little joke.’

  Hovis smiled. Lytton did not.

  ‘Weight-pulling, that’s the thing. Some of us are doing it. Others not. Crime figures. Clear-up rates. Books to be balanced. Not my province really. The big boys upstairs. Administration. What do they know about grass-roots detection? Huh?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Hovis shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Nothing at all. You’re so right. But they do have the say-so. Isn’t it always the way?’

  ‘Always,’ said Inspectre Hovis.

  ‘So there you are.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Hovis. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Out,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Out on your ear, I’m afraid. Redundant. Taking an early retirement. That’s where.’

  ‘What?’ went Hovis. ‘What? What? What?’

  ‘Knew you’d take it like a man. Told them upstairs. Begged them to reconsider, of course. But they were adamant. Still, look on the bright side. Give you a chance to spend more time with your wife and family.’

  ‘I do not have a wife and family.’ Hovis gripped the arms of his chair and began to rock in a distinctly manic fashion.

  ‘No wife and family? Then you should get one, my dear fellow. I’ve two girls myself, eight and ten. That’s a photo of them over there on the wall. On the ponies.’

  ‘No!’ said Hovis. ‘No! No! No!’

  ‘Bit of a shock, eh? Thought it might be. Given your life to the force. Feel like you’ve been kicked in the teeth. Worthless. Thrown on the scrapheap. My heart goes out to you. And if you ever need a reference, don’t hesitate to write.’

  ‘I!’ went Hovis. ‘I... I... I…’

  ‘No need to thank me. But cut along now. And don’t forget to hand in your warrant card. End of the week, eh? Sorry to have to rush you, but we need the Portakabin. Temporary ladies’ loo apparently. What a world we live in, eh?’

  Hovis rose from his chair. He would make it look like an accident, or suicide. The chief inspector, stricken with remorse, threw himself from the window.

  Chief Inspector Lytton took a regulation police-issue revolver from his top drawer and pointed it at his murderer-to-be.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said. ‘Now piss off out of my office, before I call a policeman.’

  ‘Behold the marvel,’ said Hugo Rune, tearing aside the silken cloth.

  ‘I can’t behold from down here,’ Tuppe complained. ‘Give us a lift up, Cornelius.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Cornelius hoisted Tuppe into the viewing position.

  ‘Crikey,’ went the small one. ‘Now that is a neat trick.’

  ‘Isn’t it though.’ Rune fluttered his pudgy fingers. Tuppe flinched accordingly. ‘Do you now understand the beauty of the thing?’

  ‘It’s here,’ said Cornelius, gazing with considerable awe. ‘It’s a miniature of this room. And of us. I thought you said it was a copy of that ancient fellow’s chamber.’

  ‘A microcosm,’ Rune explained. ‘The device is built into the table top. Take the table where you will. Uncover it, and there displayed will be a microcosm of the immediate surroundings.’

  ‘It’s very clever. How does it work?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the trans-perambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Best not to concern yourself then. It works. It is a thing of wonder.’

  ‘And it scares the salami out of me,’ said Tuppe. ‘Am I really that small?’

  ‘You’re as big as you feel,’ said Cornelius. ‘How do you feel, by the way?’

  ‘About ready for the main course now.’

  ‘Well,’ Cornelius put down the Tuppe. ‘Thank you for showing it to us, Mr Rune.’

  ‘Forget the Mr Rune, my boy. You may call me—’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘No, it’s still guru,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And so you see the beauty of my plan.’

  ‘What plan is this?’ Cornelius looked baffled.

  ‘My plan to bring down the denizens of the Forbidden Zones.’

  ‘Ah, that plan.’ Cornelius nodded gently. He felt sure that he was much taller than Hugo Rune. But somehow he always seemed to be looking up at him.

  ‘Let us discuss it over the main course,’ said Rune. ‘Come on, Shorty.’

  ‘Please do not call my friend Shorty,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to your friend,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I was talking to you.’

  Inspectre Hovis returned to the Portakabin. Polly recognized his distinctive door-slamming and didn't look up from her work.

  ‘Would you like me to put the kettle on again?’ she asked.

  Hovis did not reply.

  ‘I located that file you wanted. It is a big fat one.’ Polly rose to hand it over. And found herself staring into a face which seemed to have aged by at least ten years in less than half an hour.

  ‘Sit down.’ Polly reached forward and took Hovis by the arm. ‘You look dreadful. It’s probably a reaction to that Thames water. Sit down and I’ll call for a doctor.’

  Hovis allowed himself to be helped into the Portakabin’s only chair. It occurred to him, as Polly fussed about, that he could not recall when he last felt a woman’s touch upon him.

  A dismal groan escaped from his lips.

  ‘Just take it easy,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll get help.’

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ the Inspectre told her. ‘There is nothing physically wrong with me. It is just that I have received some tragic news.’

  ‘Not a death in your family?’

  ‘No. I said tragic news.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You had best take the rest of the day off, Polly. Or the week, if you please. You must find yourself another position. I will furnish you with superb references.’

  ‘You’re sacking me? What have I done?’

  ‘Not I,’ Hovis crossed his heart. ‘Brian “the bastard” Lytton. He has cut me back. I am redundant.’

  ‘He can’t do that,’ Polly protested. ‘I’ve read up on your cases. You’ve solved more crimes than anyone else in the history of the force.’

  ‘I am touched that you should show such an interest,??
? said Hovis, who truly was.

  ‘But all in Brentford,’ said Polly. ‘How come you solved every crime in Brentford?

  Hovis hung his head.

  ‘But he can’t sack you. He just can’t.’

  ‘He can and he has. Early retirement.’

  ‘Then we’ll fight him. You must have many connections. Many friends in high places. Life has no blessing like a prudent friend. to quote from Euripides.’

  ‘I have no friends,’ said Hovis.

  ‘What, none at all?’

  ‘None at all. I have no connections. Everybody hates me.’

  ‘Everybody?’

  ‘Everybody.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Polly. ‘That makes me feel a lot better. I thought it was only me. Hating you, that is.’

  ‘It’s an image thing. All we really great detectives have it. The eccentric mannerism, the funny voice, the strange moustache, the pipe, the tin leg, the penchant for tiny woodland creatures.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Polly.

  ‘Mine is being hated by everybody.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. You’re a sort of anti-hero.’

  ‘No,’ said Hovis. ‘I’m just a nasty bastard.’

  ‘You’re not so bad.’ Polly would have placed a consoling hand upon the immaculate, if now somewhat drooping, shoulder of the great detective, had not the very thought sickened her to the stomach. ‘You really aren’t that bad. Really. Certainly you’re arrogant, conceited, short-tempered, misogynistic, boorish and boring. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken, I assure you.’

  ‘But you are a brilliant detective. And so you must not be sacked. What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Pack up and go home, I suppose. Sell my memoirs to a Sunday tabloid. Maybe get a spot on Crimewatch.’

  ‘But what about The Crime of the Century? This destiny you told me you had to fulfil? No man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny - Homer.’

  ‘I have been given until the weekend to put my affairs in order.’

  ‘A week in politics can be a long time, to quote—’

  ‘Quote me no further quotes,’ said Hovis, ‘please.’

  Polly made fists at the ceiling. ‘I don’t want to be made redundant. It sucks on the dole. Surely we can think of something. There has to be something.’

  ‘I did have one idea,’ said Hovis thoughtfully. ‘It’s an old trick, but it might just work.’

  ‘Tell me. Tell me.’

  ‘You must swear to keep it secret.’

  ‘I swear.’ Polly licked her finger and made motions above the bosom area. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘We could discredit Lytton.’

  ‘Now that is a brilliant idea. What should we do?’

  Inspectre Hovis leaned back in his chair and stared unto space.

  ‘Catch him in a compromising situation. In the arms of some harlot. Burst in, camera in hand. Flagrante delicto. The deed is done. I think that would do the trick.’

  ‘And serve the bugger right too. Jumped-up little shit.’

  ‘Quite so. Right then. I’ll pop out to Boots and get some film for the old box Brownie. You go up to his office, whip off all your clothes and prostrate yourself across the desk. Shall we synchronize watches?’

  Polly looked at Hovis.

  And Hovis looked at Polly.

  ‘Go and suck,’ said Polly Gotting. ‘I’m off to the Job Centre.’

  Unseen hands had replenished the great table and another course lay ready for the digging into. Rune dug in. And he spoke as he did so. ‘We must wipe out the beings in the Forbidden Zones,’ quoth he. ‘Wipe them out while there are still a few of us left.’

  ‘I don’t think I quite follow that.’ Cornelius heaped goodies on to his latest plate. ‘Mankind declines,’ said Rune solemnly. ‘We grow fewer every day.’

  ‘I would hate to be the one to contradict you, er, guru. But the population of the world is, as ever, on the increase.’

  ‘It is nothing of the sort. Those within the zones grow in number. We decline. Once we were many, but we grow fewer by the year.’

  ‘And might I ask how you come to this conclusion?’

  ‘Simple mathematics. Allow me to explain.’ Rune thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and regarded his audience.

  ‘How many are there of you, personally?’ he asked Cornelius.

  ‘Me personally? One, I suppose.’

  ‘Correct, one. And how many parents do you have?’

  ‘Two,’ said Cornelius. ‘Everybody has two. A mother and a father.’

  ‘Correct again. Two. And how many grand-parents?’

  ‘Four,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘And great-grandparents?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘And great-great-grandparents?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘And great-great-great-grandparents?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘And so it goes on. Every generation you go back, you double it. By the time you go back a mere twenty-three generations, you have a figure in excess of four million people. Every one of which was necessary if you were ever to be born at all. The further you go back, the greater the number of people.’

  ‘There has to be something wrong with that,’ said Tuppe, giving his head a serious scratch. ‘But for the life of me, I can’t think what.’

  ‘There cannot be anything wrong with it,’ declared Rune. ‘Work it out on a pocket calculator if you don’t believe me. You cannot disprove an Ultimate Truth.’

  Tuppe began to count on his fingers.

  Cornelius asked, ‘Where is this getting us?’

  ‘We must wage war upon the Forbidden Zones now.’ Rune struck the table another mighty blow. ‘We must purge the planet of this unseen pestilence. This cankerous bubo, this septic pus-filled—’

  ‘I think we get the picture,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘We’re all for that. Tuppe and I have sworn ourselves to this very end. It’s just that we haven’t made much of a success of it, so far.’

  ‘But that is because you lacked the wisdom and guidance of Hugo Rune.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cornelius. ‘You think that was it then?’

  Rune nodded. ‘Indubitably. Under my benevolent leadership, we will stamp out these “fairies”, devils, more like. Throw off the shackles that constrain mankind. Raise high the battle standard of Ultimate Truth.’

  ‘Do you have a plan?’ Cornelius asked.

  ‘Plan? Do I have a plan? I have a stratagem.’

  ‘Tell us, guru,’ said the Tuppe.

  Cornelius raised an eyebrow to the small fellow.

  ‘It is a two-part stratagem,’ said Rune. ‘Part one is concerned with drawing the world’s attention to the existence of the Forbidden Zones, I will speak of that in good time. Part two deals with the extermination of those inside these zones. And this is where the ragged ancient’s magical table comes into play. Allow me to explain. I have spent many years inside the zones. I am au fait with their layout. There exists a great hail, the hall of the king. And when part one of the plan has been put into operation, and there is much confusion within the zones, it is to this great hall that the so-called fairy folk will rush. And suppose that one of us is there. And the magical table is there with them. Use your imagination, gentlemen.’

  Tuppe grinned and pictured himself reaching down unto the miniature facsimile of this great hall to place his thumb upon the head of Mr Arthur Kobold.

  ‘Hasta la vista, baby,’ said the Tuppe.

  Chief Inspector Lytton peered down through the venetian blinds. He watched Polly leave the Portakabin and storm across the car park.

  ‘And that,’ said Lytton, ‘would appear to be that.’

  The telephone began to ring and so he picked it up. ‘Lytton.’

  ‘Everything sorted?’ asked a voice. ‘He’s clearing out his desk.’

  ‘Good work. You’ve done very well. I think you can expect another promotion within the year.’

  ‘Th
ank you very much,’ said Brian Lytton.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ replied the voice of Arthur Kobold. ‘We look after our own.’

  15

  Mickey Minns awoke to find himself staring at a strange ceiling. The experience, in itself, was not altogether strange. It had happened many times before. But it caught him temporarily off guard. Minns hastily shut his eyes and made a serious attempt at a mental rerun of last night’s closing moments. Glimpses came to him. Buying drinks for policemen. A bottle of Jim Beam that literally materialized beside him. Jack Lane clouting him with a walking-stick. And that was about all really.

  Mickey groaned. Perhaps there’d been some unpleasantness. Perhaps he was in the nick. He opened his left eye and took in the ceiling. Georgian blue. Mickey set free a small sigh of relief. Not the ceiling of a police cell then. Police cell ceilings were invariably white. Stark and intimidatingly so.

  Where then? The hospital? No, hospital ceilings are generally green. Hospitals were always painted green in the old days. Something to do with all the blood. And how when you stare at red for a long time and then look away, you see green. Colour opposites, or some such thing. So they painted the walls green, which was the opposite of red, and when you looked up from the blood, you didn’t see green and throw up everywhere. Or was it a tradition, or an old chartreuse? Or something? And did they still paint hospitals green anyway? Mickey seemed to think that they didn’t.

  And so he opened both eyes. Thinking about hospitals always depressed him. He’d been pumped out too many times, and had too many eager-faced young interns going on at him about his liver.

  Georgian blue. It was definitely Georgian blue. He’d once owned a guitar that colour which had belonged to Jimi Hendrix. But the thing was bewitched and used to feed back in the middle of the night, when it wasn’t even plugged in. Mickey had sold it on to a coven in Acton.

  Georgian blue. Who did he know that had a ceiling painted Georgian blue?

  And silk pillows? Mickey dug his fingers into them. He wasn’t lying on the floor! He was lying in somebody’s bed!

  There came to Mickey’s ear the whisper of silk sheets. And to his senses, the realization that he was not alone in this bed.