The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  Which might, of course, be considered something of an over-simplification, but, in all truth, it is the opinion held by most folk in the Western nations.

  Inspector Westlake read on:

  As you will also know, since you have risen to the rank of inspector and are therefore a 246 Freemason, the Powers of the World would prefer that Middle Eastern conflict to remain localised and not escalate to a global level. To this end We, Ourself, will chair a meeting of these Powers of the World in the hope that reason can be made to prevail, Armageddon averted and the Empire put beyond jeopardy. Upon the recommendation of your superiors, We are placing you in charge of arranging a suitable venue for this meeting. Due to its sensitive nature, it cannot be held upon either Crown or Government properties. It must be in elegant surroundings. It must be secure. It will be held this coming Sunday. You will arrange everything.

  And it was signed by the sovereign.

  Inspector Westlake folded the letter. He sniffed at the letter and sighed after this sniffing. He tapped this letter upon his forehead. And, assured that he was unobserved, he kissed this letter.

  A conference of The Powers of the World. And one that could determine the World’s future, or lack of it. And the arrangements for this were being entrusted to him. And to him alone. He was in charge. He unfolded the letter and read that final line once again:

  You will arrange everything.

  ‘Yes!’ Inspector Westlake made a fist with his free hand and punched it towards the ceiling. This was it, the big one, his big chance. If he pulled this one off in the manner known as without-a-hitch-and-A-Okay, there’d be a knighthood in this for him. ‘Yes! Oh yes!’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Corbett, re-entering the breakfasting room in the company of toast.

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Inspector Westlake refolded the letter, returned it to its envelope and slipped the whole into his breast pocket. ‘Oh yes indeed.’

  ‘Good news, then?’ asked Mrs Corbett, getting a bit of lean-forward going.

  ‘The best,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘But I know not the lie of the land too well hereabouts. Are there any premises nearby where a conference might be held? With elegant surroundings and a degree of security?’

  Mrs Corbett stroked at her bosom, as one might stroke at one’s chin. ‘The only place around here that fits that kind of bill would be the Big House in Gunnersbury Park,’ she said. ‘It’s a museum now, but it was once owned by Princess Amelia and later by the Rothschilds. And I believe they hold private conferences there.’

  ‘The Rothschild’s?’ Inspector Westlake knew of the Rothschild’s. Big in Freemasonry, the Rothschild’s.

  ‘Sounds promising,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘I’ve passed the park several times. I’ll pop in later. in fact, I’ll pop in now.’

  ‘Not before you’ve finished your toast, surely.’ Mrs Corbett grinned a stunning selection of pearly-white teeth. And waggled those bosoms somewhat.

  ‘Well, perhaps a slice or two, thank you very much.’

  Mrs Corbett buttered toast. ‘So what is it, then?’ she asked. ‘Police conference? Police ball? Police peni—’

  ‘Strictly hush-hush, I’m afraid.’ Inspector Westlake made with a wink. ‘All strictly hush-hush. But you know Gunnersbury Park well, then, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Corbett. ‘I’ve never actually been in that park.’

  ‘But you know of the Big House, as you called it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Corbett. ‘I did, didn’t I? Although I’m not altogether certain as to how I do. Perhaps someone mentioned it to me, or put the idea in my head, or something. I don’t really know.’

  She turned to take her leave once more, and as she did so her hand trailed across the table top in front of the inspector. And to her surprise, as indeed to that of Inspector Westlake, the cutlery followed her trailing hand. As if drawn to it.

  As if to a magnet.

  23

  ‘Allah be praised!’ cried Ranger Connor, falling to his knees and wringing his hands in supplication.

  Jonny Hooker looked down upon Ranger Connor. Although only in a physical way. He would always look up to a martial artist.

  ‘What is going on here? Why are you praising Allah?’ Jonny asked. He was now back in the park rangers’ hut. Ranger Connor was in the park rangers’ hut. There seemed to be a lot of drama in the park rangers’ hut.

  ‘It’s Ranger Hawtrey,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘He left a message with Miss Joan on the desk. He’s upped and awayed it to Tierra del Fuego.’

  ‘No?’ said Jonny. ‘Not really?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Indeed and to badness,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘It seems that he aided and abetted the unauthorised release of his brother.’

  ‘The loony or the castrato?’

  ‘The loony, apparently. Sprung him from the Special Wing of the Cottage Hospital. Even boasted in his message about the ingenious manner by which he effected the escape.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Jonny.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Alas and alack and things of that nature generally.’

  ‘So this would be a bad thing, then?’ said Jonny.

  ‘I was grooming that lad for greatness. Such a betrayal this is. Such a disappointment.’

  ‘So why were you praising Allah?’

  ‘At your arrival. For your arrival. You are now my only hope. But have no fear – I will treat you like the son I never had.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Jonny. Doubtfully. ‘Although—’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘I’d really like to learn Dimac. For self-defence only, of course, not so I might go throwing my weight about in pubs and beating nine bells of crap out of anyone who failed to take my fancy.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘I think we’ve already covered that. Self-defence only. Correct.’

  ‘So, will you train me?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘In fact we’ll start at once. You can begin with the special Dimac Wrist-Flex exercises.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Jonny. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You clean this frying pan that some lowlife scoundrel – no doubt in the shape of that ingrate Ranger Hawtrey – has defiled with blackened sausage. Wax on, wax off, that kind of business. Then you can do the floor, then repaint the outside of the hut, then—’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t want to learn Dimac after all,’ said Jonny.

  Ranger Connor shook his head. ‘You can’t back out now,’ he said. ‘You asked me to teach you. That’s as good as taking a blood oath.’

  ‘Will I be able to maim and disfigure, with little more than a fingertip’s pressure, by lunchtime?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘No,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Clean the dishes,’ said Ranger Connor.

  Jonny cleaned the dishes and, as he did so, putting in a lot of vigorous wrist-action, he asked himself the question that others had asked before him, and certain others were asking now.

  ‘Why am I here?’ asked Jonny.

  As in, ‘What am I doing here?’

  He had decided, had Jonny, that he would lie low for a little bit, maintain a low profile, let the dust settle, keep his head down and so on and so forth. Just go to work as usual and see what there was to be seen.

  And, it had to be said, he really quite enjoyed being a park ranger. And to Jonny it appeared that being a park ranger mostly seemed to involve strolling around the park wearing a uniform, and, once he’d learned a bit of Dimac, duffing up any chavs who defiled the park with their presence.

  And there was one further thing: Jonny wanted to have another look around the storerooms that lay beneath the Big House. Another look at the Protein Man’s printing press. Perhaps James Crawford had left some clues, some something that would lead Jonny to Crawford’s murderer. The murderer? The Air Loom Gang? Something.

  A knock came at the door of the hut. Ranger Connor answered that knock, words were exchang
ed and Ranger Connor closed the door once more. ‘Well well well,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘I am summonsed to the Big House. It appears that some bigwigs wish to hold some kind of secret conference. Countess Vanda requests my presence.’

  ‘Countess Vanda?’ Jonny asked, up to his elbows in Fairy.

  ‘Curator of the museum. She grants few interviews. The gardeners don’t even believe she exists – they say that there’s a waxwork and a tin can on a string involved.’

  ‘Strangely,’ said Jonny, ‘you’ve lost me there. What about this wrist-action?’

  ‘Nice wrist-action.’ Ranger Connor admired Jonny’s wrist-action. ‘Countess Vanda is photosensitive, or something, so she conducts interviews with the staff in almost total darkness in her office in Princess Amelia’s sitting room. The gardeners think that there’s no Countess Vanda, just a waxwork dummy, a puppet, and that the voice is done through a tin can attached to a string. The voice being that of a popular children’s TV presenter with a high voice and a warped sense of humour.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jonny, nodding thoughtfully. ‘And people think I’m mad.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Ranger Connor asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Jonny. ‘Well, you go off and speak to Countess Vanda and I’ll finish the washing-up and get stuck into all these other chores, which naturally are not really chores but subtle forms of Dimac training. I’ve seen The Karate Kid, I know how it works.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Fate has brought you to me and no mistake.’

  Jonny splashed on in the sink and Ranger Connor, like Elvis before him, left the building.

  Although obviously Elvis didn’t leave this particular building.

  Obviously.

  Jonny whistled ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, dried his hands and, having given Ranger Connor sufficient time to be on his way, slipped off to the Big House himself.

  Through the entrance hall, then down the secret passage to the storeroom. Although—

  Jonny slipped through the entrance hall, unnoticed by Joan who was doing her nails and watching daytime TV. He slid back something or other and entered the secret passage. Which was where the ‘although’ came into it.

  Although, thought Jonny, although I do want a look at that printing machine, I’d also rather like to have a look at this countess curator. She was obviously a new curator, as the one who had done the curating when Jonny’s father had first brought Jonny to the museum had been a big fat fellow called Stan, who smelled of model train sets and carried himself in the kind of fashion that wasn’t the fashion any more.

  And secret passages lead in all kinds of directions. And all these kinds of directions were remembered by Jonny.

  So Jonny crept and skulked along, the light of Ranger Hawtrey’s torch tunnelling the darkness before him. Smells of ancient plaster and dust and pigeon poo and rats’ muck and mildew. And gently creep and gently skulk along.

  And up this time rather than down. And Jonny shone the torch before him and found that little hatchway affair, switched off the torch and removed the hatchway affair. The hatchway affair lay behind a portrait of Sir Henry Crawford, many times great-granddaddy of the recently deceased James. This portrait hung over the fireplace in Princess Amelia’s sitting room. And the little hatchway affair removed the eyes from the portrait, to be replaced by the eyes of Jonny Hooker. Just like in those old-fashioned movies, which sometimes starred Bob Hope. And didn’t you always want to live in a house with a secret passage and a big portrait with the removable eyes that you could peer from behind, all secretive-like?

  You didn’t? Well, shame upon you.

  Jonny Hooker always had and he was loving this.

  He had to do some getting-accustomed: the room was in mostly darkness. A single shaft of sunlight slotted down between the curtains and fell upon the now naked head of Ranger Connor, who had his cap off. Jonny could not see Countess Vanda. He could hear her, though.

  ‘Ranger Connor,’ she said. ‘One hears good reports of you.’

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ said the ranger.

  ‘And one hears so many bad reports nowadays. So much trouble and strife in the world. So dispiriting.’

  ‘Indeed, Ma’am,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘And so much of it caused by young fellow-me-lads who would benefit from a spell of conscription and a short, sharp shock.’

  ‘One does so agree.’

  Ranger Connor nodded his naked head. Sunlight sparkled on his baldy patch.

  ‘And so,’ continued Countess Vanda, ‘it is with great pleasure that one learns that the Powers of the World are to hold some kind of major peace conference right here in the Big House this very Sunday. One gave one’s go-ahead to this at once, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ranger Connor, bowing his sunlit scalp.

  ‘Now, there will be policemen, policemen aplenty, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Jonny shrank a little back at this.

  ‘But one does not wish for you to become involved with these policemen, Ranger Connor. Common folk are these. I wish you to form your own security force. How many rangers do you have under your command – twenty, thirty?’

  ‘Just the one, sadly, ma’am,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘We were cut back, in the last financial year. The choice, I seem to recall, being between rangers and a new car for the chairman of the borough’s Parks Committee.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Countess Vanda. ‘My word,’ said she, too.

  ‘It’s probably a bit eleventh-hour for me to take on any extra manpower,’ said he of the sunbathed bonce, ‘but I am skilled in the martial arts and I have a good man under my command. Even if he is a bit of a weirdo.’

  ‘Weirdo?’ whispered Jonny.

  ‘Then be my eyes and ears. Stay away from the policemen, but keep an eye out for trouble. The threat of terrorism is ever present. Anything suspicious, report directly to me. Which is to say, to one. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘I was wondering, ma’am – this conference, it will involve heads of state, will it?’

  ‘It will.’

  ‘Including our head of state?’

  ‘Her Majesty?’ Countess Vanda paused, and it was a long, silent pause. ‘Her Majesty will be present,’ she said, when done with pausing, ‘which is why great trust is being placed in you. Policemen are buffoons. No threat must come close to the monarch.’

  ‘I see.’ And Ranger Connor nodded. ‘So will it be permissible for me to tool-up, as it were? Carry a weapon, concealed or otherwise?’

  ‘On this occasion, yes.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Ranger Connor rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I help myself to something from the stores?’

  ‘As long as it does not leave the park.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘Now leave me, I have much to do.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.’ And backing away and rubbing his hands together once more, Ranger Connor left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Jonny Hooker drew back his eyes and prepared to replace the hatch. A flicker of movement caught his attention. Jonny Hooker paused.

  Countess Vanda had risen to her feet, possibly from behind a desk, or a table – Jonny was unable to see. But he caught that flicker of movement and now he caught also her profile, caught itself in that shaft of sunlight.

  And Jonny Hooker noted well that profile. Because he had seen it before. The darkest of hair, the greenest of eyes and the sweetest of noses. A profile he’d seen so recently.

  That of Nurse Hollywood.

  24

  ‘Hit the ground running and head for the hills, buddy boy.’

  Mr Giggles was most emphatic. Jonny shook his head.

  ‘The peelers,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘The Bill, the filth, the fuzz, the buggers in blue. They’ll be crawling over every inch of this place come lunchtime.’

  ‘You think?’ said Jonny.

  ‘I know, buddy boy.’

  ‘And don’t “buddy boy” me, please.’

/>   ‘Away,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Sprightly, on your toes.’

  This advice was offered in the dark, as the battery of ex-Ranger Hawtrey’s torch had given up its ghost and Jonny was now feeling his way about in a secret passage.

  ‘Things couldn’t be worse,’ said the disembodied voice of Mr Giggles. ‘You are oh so so in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jonny. ‘Really? Do you think?’

  ‘And you’re being all too calm and collected.’

  ‘And you don’t like that, do you?’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean. My, it’s darker in here than your mate Paul’s soiled underwear. Let’s head for daylight, then up and away.’

  ‘And this would be your considered opinion?’

  ‘Take my advice,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I know what’s good for you.’

  ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it,’ whispered Jonny, ‘the occasions when you choose to speak and those when you do not.’

  ‘You told me to keep quiet unless I had something really pertinent to add.’

  Jonny nodded invisibly and continued to feel his way along. ‘And you really think that I’m going to run away, do you?’

  ‘A strategic withdrawal is not necessarily a retreat. In fact, a strategic withdrawal can make the love making oh so much sweeter.’

  ‘Please be silent,’ said Jonny. ‘I have things to think about.’

  ‘No you don’t, no things at all.’

  Jonny stopped and spoke with a certain sharpness in his voice. ‘I think that I do,’ he said. ‘You are not going to suggest this is coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘That I am here and that what is clearly going to be a most important meeting of, how shall I put this, the “controllers” of the world, is going to take place here on Sunday.’

  ‘And what would such a meeting have to do with you?’