Raiders of the Lost Carpark

  ‘Your goose is cooked, dear,’ called the mother of Cornelius Murphy to the adoptive father thereof. Her words travelled through the open kitchen door of the family home, down the length of the back garden and fell upon the intended ears of her large and sorry-looking spouse.

  Jack Murphy sat in the doorway of his shed. The very picture of despair. His wig was off and his great head was down. A multiplicity of chins rested upon his be-fair-isled chest. The be-patched elbows of his shirt rested upon the be-patched knees of his corduroy trews. His hooded eyes were fixed upon the dud cheque that he held between prodigious fingers.

  The once merry mouth was turned down at the corners and a low murmur arose from it, as a rumble of distant thunder.

  ‘Woe unto the house of Murphy,’ murmured this rumble. ‘For lo it has become undone.’

  The daddy held up the cheque and let the late afternoon sun play upon its evil edges. Twelve hours before it had read, Pay Jack Murphy the sum of £5000. Signed Arthur Kobold. But no longer.

  When he had presented it to the bank, a terrible transformation had occurred. The words of joy had vanished away, to be replaced by those which glowed there still. Pay this fat fool one hundred laughs, then kick him into the street.

  The junior bank clerk had been pleased to do so. ‘Your son was in here earlier with one of these,’ he smirked.

  The elder Murphy scowled at the rogue cheque. He’d been done. His son had been done. Kobold had stitched them up like a pair of the proverbials. It was too much to bear.

  ‘Are you coming in to eat this goose?’ called his wife. ‘The cat’s already had two of its legs. You’d best hurry before it gets the others.’

  Inspectre Hovis returned to his office. It was a long haul from the interview rooms of Scotland Yard, but he knew the way well enough by now. He strode down a corridor. Marched up a staircase. Strutted along a passageway. Strolled through the typing pool. Sauntered past the forensic labs. Plodded down a back stairway. Stumbled through a fire exit and finally staggered across the car park to the Portakabin.

  The Portakabin!

  Hovis gazed up at the abomination and chewed at his lower lip. And the same evil thoughts entered his mind as ever they had done for the last twenty-three days. The days that he had been exiled here. And the same name came once more to his lips. The name that he loathed and despised with every natural fibre of his expensively clad being. The name of Brian ‘Bulwer’ Lytton.

  Chief Inspector Lytton. The new broom that was sweeping clean the department.

  And a fresh young broom he was. Ten years the junior of Hovis. And an influential broom also. One which held sway with those of the high echelon. One which had had Hovis ‘Temporarily Relocated’. And who now occupied his former office in a manner that seemed anything but temporary.

  ‘Lytton.’ Inspectre Hovis uttered the name as the profanity it was and, turning momentarily from the prefabricated door of the Portakabin, he raised a defiant fist towards the distant window of his erstwhile domain. ‘I’ll be back,’ said he.

  He didn’t see the flutter of the venetian blinds, nor the satisfied smile on the face of Brian ‘Bulwer’ Lytton as he fluttered them. Which was probably all for the best really.

  The temporarily relocated detective pressed open the prefabricated door and entered the disagreeable confines of his new abode. They were crowded. Very crowded.

  Elderly filing cabinets flanked the cabin, standing where the removal men had left them. Their drawered faces to the walls, as if in disgrace. Files, once impeccably indexed, were now piled in unmarked boxes, cartons and crates, along with the inspectre’s personal effects. His pictures, commonplace books, fencing trophies, awards for bravery, bits and bobs and fixtures and fittings.

  But where was his desk? Where his precious Louis XV ormolu-mounted, kingswood and parquetry kneehole desk? With its painted leather-lined top and its channelled border? With its kneehole flanked by drawers with rococo handles and ram’s mask escutcheons? The desk presented to him by the royal house of Windsor, in gratitude for his sensitive handling of a tricky little matter concerning an heir to the throne, a homoeopathist called Chunky and a Dormobile named Desire. Where that?

  Still in his old office, that was where! Too large to get into the Portakabin and now commandeered by Chief Inspector Brian bloody Lytton!

  Hovis glowered about his temporary accommodation, regarding it with a face of foul contempt. Taking in its each and every hideous detail, before releasing his pent-up fury in a silent primal scream. This done, he straightened his regimental necktie, placed his cane by the door, removed his pince-nez, folded them into a sleek tortoiseshell case and slipped this into his top pocket. And then he smiled upon his second in command.

  His second in command smiled back at him from her place behind the knackered trestle-table, which now served both she and Hovis as a desk. Her name was Polly. Polly Gotting. She was Anna Gotting’s twin sister. And she was the inspectre’s new second in command.

  His old second in command, of ten years standing reliable Ron Sturdy, had been temporarily relocated. And although Polly was quick on the uptake, willing, eager and helpful and possessed of an IQ far in excess of reliable Ron’s, she just wasn’t the same.

  ‘Any joy?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Joy?’ Hovis had almost forgotten the meaning of the word. ‘Joy?’

  ‘With Mulligan. Did he respond positively to questioning?’

  ‘No.’ Hovis negotiated his way between the boxes cartons and crates. ‘He remains adamant. A train emerged from nowhere and showered the street with diamonds. He just picked them up.’

  ‘You’ll have to let him go then.’

  ‘I know.’ Hovis sank on to a cardboard box. Something valuable within fractured with an alarming crack. The inspectre was deaf to the sound. ‘Have you rechecked all the witnesses’ statements?’

  ‘The independent witnesses? Yes. There were a lot of reports. Some kind of weird train. Three people have come forward to say they saw a taxi-driver picking up what looked like diamonds after it passed by.’

  ‘A curious business.’ Inspectre Hovis rapped a brisk tattoo on the prefabricated floor with the heels of his hand-stitched brogues. ‘Something happened last night. Something momentous. Half the force out in pursuit of a spikey Volkswagen. A ward full of chase casualties. A train from nowhere and a cache of diamonds. Did you check on the diamonds? Was I right?’

  ‘You were right.’ Polly passed papers. The inspectre inspected them. ‘Amazingly they were still on record.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Hovis scanned the papers, nodding all the while.

  ‘But how did you know? How could you possibly recognize the cut of diamonds stolen before you were even born?’

  ‘The great unsolveds.’ Hovis returned the papers, then tapped the portside of his skull. ‘All in here. They are the staff of life to me. There is crime and there is classic crime. I have it within me to solve the Crime of the Century. It is my destiny. I know it and I will fulfil it. When I saw Mulligan’s diamonds my heart rose. I recognized them immediately to be part of the lost Godolphin hoard. If those diamonds had not been stolen in 1914, it is probable that the First World War might never have taken place.’

  ‘Really?’ Polly shook her head. ‘I always thought that the war was precipitated by the assassination of Austria’s crown prince, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to Emperor Franz Josef I, at Sarajevo on 28 June 1914.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ Hovis examined his fingernails. They were immaculate. As ever. ‘Then let me tell you this, history is rarely written up by those who actually make it.’

  ‘Oh I do so agree. As Gibbon remarked in Decline and Fall, Chapter Three, History is indeed little more than a register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Inspectre Hovis.

  ‘And wasn’t it Napoleon who wrote, What is history but a fable agreed upon?’

  ‘I believe it was,’ said Inspectre Hovis.

&nbs
p; ‘And Sir Robert Walpole. All history is a lie, he said.’

  ‘Polly,’ said Inspectre Hovis.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Put the kettle on.’

  Polly smiled once more at Inspectre Hovis. First up against the wall, come the revolution, she thought.

  3

  ‘O Lucifer, Son of the Morning

  And Lord of the Bottomless Pit

  Roll back your celestial awning

  Thy thurible is lit.

  Hail thee that riseth in the east

  Behold the sacrificial feast.

  Amen.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ agreed Tuppe, tucking a napkin into his shirt neck and rubbing his knife and fork together.

  ‘Does your adoptive daddy usually dedicate his dinner to the devil?’ Anna whispered into the ear of Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘Oh no.’ The tall boy gave his bandaged head a careful shake. ‘I suspect he’s just buttering up the Prince of Darkness in the hope of a favour.’

  ‘Damned right!’ Murphy Senior was seated at the head of the Murphy kitchen table. His lady wife at the foot. Tuppe, Cornelius and the lovely Anna ranged variously between. ‘It is my intention to summon forth all manner of banshee, bugaboo and bogybeast. To raise divers demons, dibbuks, ghouls and gorgons. To conjure pigwidgeons and pandemoniacs from those regions which are forever night. And things of that nature, generally.’

  ‘To any specific end, Mr Murphy?’ Tuppe enquired.

  ‘Indeed yes.’ The master of the house raised up his great chest and glared at the ceiling. ‘To unleash a great and terrible pestilence upon the head of Arthur Kobold. Bad cess be unto him.’

  ‘Amen to that also,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Shall I be mother then?’ Mrs Murphy rose, brandishing an electric carver. ‘If I’d known the daddy was planning to invoke His Satanic Majesty tonight I’d have got a goat in, rather than this goose. Leg, anyone?’

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs M,’ Tuppe cast a wary eye over the hapless fowl which graced the greater part of the dining table, ‘but am I right in thinking that this goose is somewhat over-represented in the lower-limb division?’

  ‘You’ve a lovely way with words, young Tuppe.’ Mrs Murphy leaned over and gave the small fellow an affectionate chucky-cheek, nearly putting his eye out with the carving knife. ‘I wonder what they mean.’

  ‘He’s asking why the goose has so many legs,’ her husband informed her. ‘Bred that way, would be my guess. A chap I once knew used to breed chickens with four legs, so all his family could have one. I said to him, “What do they taste like?” And he said, “I don’t know, I’ve never managed to catch one yet.”’

  Anna laughed politely.

  Mrs Murphy hacked at the avian multiped, raising a fine cloud of feathers. ‘I knew I should have plucked this before I cooked it. But I was afraid to open the oven door, in case it got loose again.’

  ‘You cooked it alive?’ Anna was horrified.

  ‘Of course not, dear. I had the gas on for half an hour first.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cornelius. ‘That would explain the smoke-blackening on the walls and ceiling.’

  ‘The firemen were very nice.’ Mrs Murphy passed legs around. ‘They said the house should be condemned. Your father ran them off with a mattock.’

  Tuppe examined the leg on his plate. ‘About the goose.’

  ‘It wandered into the back garden this morning. Well, trucked in really. I think it must have escaped from Polgar’s Pet Shop last night.’

  Tuppe pushed his plate aside. A recent near-fatal encounter with a furry fish was still fresh in his memory. ‘Did I tell you I’ve become a vegan?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ went Mrs Murphy. ‘I didn’t know you could become a vegan. I thought you had to be born there.’

  ‘That’s a Venusian,’ said her husband.

  ‘As in Venusian blind?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Jack Murphy shrugged.

  ‘Well, that’s very nice, Tuppe. I’m glad you’ve got yourself a proper job. Do you commute between the planets, or are you in the office?’

  ‘In the office,’ said Tuppe. ‘By the radiator.’

  ‘That’s nice. More goose, did you say?’

  ‘No thanks, but I’ll have some of those sprouts, please.’

  ‘Help yourself. You’ll have to use your fingers, I’m afraid. My friend Mrs Cohen is having her son circumcised, so I’ve lent her my serving spoons.’

  ‘For the do afterwards,’ Jack Murphy explained to the open-mouthed Tuppe.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to invite Tuppe and me to share your dinner,’ said Anna, raising her hand against another helping of goose. ‘I’ll just stick to this broccoli, if you don’t mind. I’m on a diet.’

  ‘I was on a diet once.’ Mrs Murphy loaded up her husband’s plate. ‘You had to eat nothing but soft furnishings. It was called the G Plan, I think.’

  Cornelius forked up some spinach. ‘Your cheque bounced also then?’ he asked the daddy.

  Murphy Senior nodded gloomily and speared an asparagus tip with his fork. ‘It’s not the principle of the thing that troubles me, it’s the money! I was actually planning to pay Mike the mechanic for the car I gave you.’

  ‘The Cadillac Eldorado.’ Cornelius chased peas around his plate. ‘About that...’

  ‘It got dumped on,’ said Tuppe. ‘From a great height. Would someone pass the petits pois, please?’

  ‘Dumped on?’ Jack Murphy fell back in dismay. ‘You lost the Cadillac?’

  ‘In as many words, yes.’ Cornelius nodded sadly.

  ‘Kobold?’

  ‘In as few words, yes again.’

  ‘That does it! Roll back the lino, Mother, we’re raising Behemoth tonight.’

  ‘Not until everyone’s finished eating, dear. Have some more courgettes, Anna. Try the yellow ones. I know they look like Chinamen’s willies, but they taste delicious.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Anna. ‘These aubergines are excellent, by the way.’

  ‘The beautiful Cadillac.’ Jack Murphy sighed. ‘Arthur Kobold must pay for his transgressions.’

  ‘He will.’ Cornelius munched upon a parsnip. ‘He can run, but he can’t hide.’

  ‘Can’t he?’ The daddy helped himself to more cauliflower.

  ‘He cannot.’ Cornelius forked up some greens. ‘I have the plans for the reinvented ocarina. I intend to free Rune and bring Kobold and his cronies to justice.’

  ‘And grab the booty,’ Tuppe put in. ‘Pass the pimentos.’

  ‘Good lads.’ Murphy Senior gave his adopted son a hearty shoulder-pat. ‘This news cheers me up no end. Now, if there is anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘Is that anything, as in anything?’ Cornelius didn’t hesitate to ask.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Then I need an ice-cream van please. And I need it by midnight.’

  The daddy’s eyelids didn’t even flicker. ‘Naturally,’ said he, finishing up the last of his green peppers. ‘I shall see to it that you have one. More carrots?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine on carrots.’ Cornelius smiled broadly. ‘But you might pass the crambe repitita.’

  * * *

  ‘About the ice-cream van?’ Anna asked. She, Cornelius and Tuppe were now ensconced in the daddy’s garden shed. The meal had reached a successful conclusion, with three puddings, a cheese tray, brandy and Turkish cigarettes. Unaware that her husband’s cheque was going to bounce, Mrs Murphy had cast aside her normal ecological convictions and spent lavishly at Safeway. ‘I don’t think I could manage any ice-cream. I’m full.’

  ‘It’s the van I want. Not the ice-cream,’ Cornelius told her. ‘The van has a public-address system on the top. For playing music. And if we pull out all the interior fixtures and fittings, then there’ll be plenty of room.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the booty.’ Tuppe rubbed his tiny hands together. ‘We’ve got Rune’s A-Z, with all the entrances to the Forbidden Zones marked in it. We driv
e up in the van. Play the magic music through the speaker system. A portal opens. We roar in, grab whatever we can, then make our getaway. A sort of inter-dimensional ram-raid.’

  ‘Mrs Murphy was right, Tuppe. You do have a lovely way with words.’ Anna turned to Cornelius ‘She’s an interesting woman, your mum. Did she really play bass for Jeff Beck on “Hi Ho Silver Lining”?’

  ‘She told you that?’ Cornelius had the ocarina in the vice on the daddy’s workbench and was worrying at it with the electric drill. The drill still lacked a plug but as there were no power sockets in the shed, this didn’t really matter.

  ‘She also said she was the fourth Beverly Sister.’

  ‘She told me she was one of the Five Tops.’ Tuppe rooted about amongst the interesting things beneath the workbench. ‘Why is there always a half-empty bag of solid cement in every shed?’ he enquired.

  ‘It’s a tradition,’ Cornelius told him, ‘or an old charcoal grill, or something.’ He undid the vice, took up the ocarina and blew drill dust from it. ‘All done, I think.’

  Anna leaned over to take a look. ‘And you really truly believe that when you play this thing these secret portals will open?’

  Cornelius checked his handiwork against the route map. ‘They’ll open.’

  ‘They will,’ Tuppe agreed. ‘Trust Cornelius, he knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Thank you, Tuppe.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Cornelius. But harken, harken. What is that I hear?’ Tuppe cupped a diminutive palm to an ear of a likewise confection.

  ‘It’s “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”.’

  And indeed it was. It issued from the speaker system of a smart new ice-cream van. A smart new ice-cream van which was even now drawing up outside twenty-three Moby Dick Terrace. Home of the family Murphy. And stepping down from the cab was none other than the father of the house.

  ‘Fortune’s always hiding,’ he sang. And he smiled as he sang it.

  The taxi went west towards approaching midnight. The unmarked police car followed it at a respectable distance. The taxi took the slip-road from the fly-over and cruised down to the Chiswick Roundabout. The unmarked police car followed it. The taxi turned left on to the Kew Road, went through green lights at Kew Bridge and rolled on towards Brentford.