The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

  ‘That’s something,’ said Inspector Westlake in the constable-crowded vehicle. ‘What is that something?’

  ‘That something,’ said Constable Cartwright, ‘is Joan on the reception desk. She’s a bit of all right, that Joan, isn’t she?’

  Inspector Westlake cuffed the constable lightly on the ear. ‘We are supposed to be discovering the location of the serial killer,’ he said. ‘Impress me, if you will.’

  ‘Will do, sir,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Now here–’ and he did pressings of buttons ‘–Is an architectural schematic of the Big House that I downloaded from the central database. The only people inside the Big House should be the six atendees of the secret meeting—’

  ‘Secret meeting?’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘What secret meeting is this?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know about the secret meeting?’ asked Constable Rogers. ‘What do you think we’re all doing here anyway?’

  ‘That’s what I kept asking,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Again and again I asked.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Constable Rogers. ‘And you never did get an answer, did you?’

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t.’

  ‘Language,’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s not fair.’

  ‘So what is the secret meeting for?’ asked Constable Paul. ‘No one’s told us either. Is it to organise a come-back concert for Elvis?’

  ‘Elvis?’ said Constable Cartwright.

  ‘We came in with him in that limo,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Nice chap. I don’t believe he really has Barry the Time Sprout in his head.’

  ‘Barry the Time Sprout?’

  ‘Enough.’ Inspector Westlake raised a fist and, the constables cringed at its raising. ‘For your information and your information alone, or at least for those of you who don’t already know, a secret meeting is being held in Princess Amelia’s sitting room – a secret meeting of heads of state to sort out the troubles in the Middle East.’

  ‘And Elvis Presley is a head of state?’ asked Constable Justice, for he hadn’t said anything for a while.

  ‘Slightly puzzled about that myself,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘I saw Her Majesty, a shifty-looking Arab, a bloke who looked like Brains out of Thunderbirds and a dog.’

  ‘A dog?’ said Constable Paul.

  ‘There is a dog,’ said Constable Cartwright, pointing to the screen of the advanced SatNav. ‘It’s sitting at the table in Princess Amelia’s sitter. Six around the table. Including a dog.’

  ‘That would be the secret meeting,’ said the inspector. ‘Now scan about a bit and let’s see if we can zero in on our serial killer.’

  Constable Paul chewed on his lip, but kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘Ah,’ said Constable Cartwright, ‘here’s something.’

  Inspector Westlake looked on.

  ‘More people,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘In fact, another five. But they’re not our men because there are none of our men left in the Big House.’

  ‘None of your men?’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘You arrested us,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘We were the Big House secret security team.’

  ‘Just the three of you?’

  ‘There were more.’ Constable Rogers crossed himself. ‘But the invisibility suits, they sort of—’

  ‘Sort of what?’ went Constable Paul.

  As did Constable Justice.

  ‘Sort of blew up one after another. It’s all been a bit stressful really,’ said Constable Cartwright. ‘Which is why we didn’t really mind handing our suits over to you blokes.’

  Constable Paul was now struggling to remove himself from his suit.

  ‘Keep it on!’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘We may have need of it.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Keep it on. And pay attention. If there are no security forces in the Big House, who are the other people registering on the SatNav?’

  Constable Cartwright twiddled further knobs. ‘I’m getting a big reading here. Five people,’ said he, ‘in the basement,’ said he, ‘in one of the storage rooms,’ said he also. ‘And—’ And he paused.

  ‘And?’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘There’s something more, sir. There’s something down there with them and it’s chucking out a lot of radiation.’

  ‘As in heat?’

  ‘As in magnetic, sir.’

  ‘Magnetic?’ Inspector Westlake tried to give his head a scratch, but it was very crowded, so he only succeeded in scratching Constable Justice’s.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Constable Justice. ‘But are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘But pray do tell what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Nuke,’ said Constable Justice.

  ‘No,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘You are not going to nuke anyone. I know how much you love your weapons, but—’

  ‘No, sir, not me nuke, sir. In the basement. Something big, giving off magnetic radiation. I remember reading in Jane’s Megaweapon Catalogue that the new Apocalypse Three Thousand (Gamma Knubnub Kill-the-lot-and-let-God-sort-’em-out, one-size-slays-all) bomb, the one that can fit into a suitcase, gives off magnetic radiation when it’s about to … ’ Constable Justice’s words trailed off.

  ‘Explode?’ asked Constable Paul.

  *

  ‘Boom!’ went Elvis. ‘Then boom, boom – how many booms did you say there’d be, Mister Ahab the A-rab, sir?’

  ‘Six should be enough.’

  Mr Bagshaw nodded his great big head. ‘We will lose all of the Middle Eastern oilfields,’ he said as he nodded, ‘but this will not present any difficulties as the Russian ones we are presently opening up can more than cover the shortfall. Or if not, we can always resort to the MacGregor-Mathers Water Car.’

  ‘What in the name of glory is that, sir?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘It’s a car that runs on water, rather than, as you colonials put it, gasoline.’

  ‘I want me one of them,’ said Elvis.

  ‘And you might well get one. We’ve been holding back the patent for decades. At a pinch we could put them into production.’

  ‘One with fins,’ said Elvis. ‘And weather-eye air conditioning.’

  ‘And a litter tray,’ said Bob. ‘Although that’s really a pussy thing, but I do get caught short sometimes.’

  ‘So, are we all agreed?’ asked Her Madge, clicking away with her needles. ‘Boom boom boom and all that kind of caper?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Mr Bagshaw. ‘Positively inspired, in my opinion.’

  ‘Oh, how splendid,’ said Her Madge. ‘We can all be home in time for tea. Well, at least I can, because I only live up the road.’

  ‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ said Ahab the A-rab. ‘That’s off The A-Team, by the way. We get that, too, dubbed as well. That Mister T is a bit of a character, isn’t he? I love the way he endorses Islamic Jihad every week.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Queen, ‘then I don’t think we need to spend any more time on this matter. The solution is indeed inspired. In fact, I have to say that I personally do not feel that I can take credit personally, personally, as it were.’

  ‘How so, your loveliness?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Well, dear,’ said Her Madge, ‘as you know We are English, and We are the Queen, so naturally enough We are greatly loved by God. But We have to confess that He rarely, if ever, speaks to We personally. So when, during the course of this meeting, He has been singing away in We’s head telling We what to say, then that is what We mean by inspired. Divinely inspired.’

  ‘You’ve been hearing the voice of Allah?’ asked Ahab the A-rab.

  ‘Well—’ said Her Madge.

  ‘Because so have I. Although at first I thought it was Father Ted.’

  ‘I thought it was Colonel Tom,’ said Elvis.

  ‘I thought it was my mum,’ said Mr Bagshaw.

  ‘I thought it was your mum, too,’ said
Bob. ‘But if it was God, well, so much the better for it, I say.’

  ‘The voice of God?’ Jonny Hooker gazed at the screen of the laptop. ‘The voice of God?’

  ‘Just like Joan of Arc,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘Not like that at all. Don’t you get it? They haven’t been making those terrible decisions. It’s not them.’

  ‘It looks very much like them,’ said Mr Giggles.

  ‘It’s not them,’ said Jonny, ‘making the decisions. It’s the Air Loom Gang. The Parliament of Five have been magnetised. They think they are being inspired by God, but it’s not God, it’s the Air Loom beaming words into their heads. How could I have been so stupid as not to realise what was really going on?’

  Mr Giggles didn’t answer.

  Mr Giggles was silent.

  And sometimes silence can say so much.

  And this was one of those times.

  49

  Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

  And things of that nature, generally.

  ‘Evacuate! Evacuate!’ Inspector Westlake comethed.

  ‘Evacuate who?’ asked Constable Paul.

  ‘To where?’ asked Constable Justice.

  ‘The Queen first, I think. We have to clear the area.’ And as there was just room for him to get his hand upon the truck’s ignition key, and as he was sitting at the steering wheel, Inspector Westlake keyed the ignition, put the big truck into gear, brrmed the engine and let that trucker roll.

  ‘Sir?’ went Constable Cartwright. ‘Sir, can you actually drive this vehicle?’

  ‘Out,’ cried Inspector Westlake. ‘Constables Paul and Justice stay in this truck with me. Other constables out – alert the Special Operations unit to make away from the park at the hurry-up.’

  ‘To where?’ asked Constable Cartwright.

  ‘Perhaps Brighton,’ said Inspector Westlake, swinging the wheel and ploughing through a rather lovely flower bed that had been designed by the late Henry Hunter, based upon that of Francis Dashwood.

  ‘Out then, out!’

  Constables Cartwright and Rogers took to tumbling from the truck.

  ‘I think we should probably evacuate, too,’ said Constable Justice, preparing to join the evacuating constables. ‘Live to fight another day, eh?’

  ‘Not a bit of it my lad. You will aid me in disabling the nuclear device and making the arrest, or possibly the termination of the suicide bombers.’

  ‘Termination?’ Constable Justice mulled that one over. It would be a risky business. In fact, it was a risky business. The bomb could go off any minute. But terminate …

  ‘Would that be terminate with extreme prejudice, sir?’

  Inspector Westlake nodded, hunched low over the wheel and swerved the truck through further flower beds (somewhat unnecessarily, in Constable Paul’s opinion) towards the Big House.

  Wherein.

  The laptop was back in the poacher’s pocket.

  Jonny Hooker was making haste along a secret passage.*

  ‘We’re off to the pub now, aren’t we?’ asked Mr Giggles. ‘Or is it an internet café?’

  ‘It’s neither,’ said Jonny. ‘I have business here.’

  ‘But no weapons,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘No big laser cannons or atom-blasting ray guns, or anything.’

  ‘I’ll manage, somehow.’ Jonny bumbled on in the darkness. But he bumbled with determination. A man on a mission, as it were. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and all that kind of caper.

  As Her Majesty might have said. But she wasn’t saying it now. She was having another cuppa and dunking a custard cream, in that antechamber next door to Princess Amelia’s sitter.

  ‘You can come round to my house for tea,’ she said to Ahab the A-rab. ‘You can all come round, if you want to.’

  ‘If you’d just like to sign the official documents,’ said Countess Vanda. ‘I’ve had them printed out on the photocopier. If you’d sign two copies each, one for yourself, the other for the PM and the President – you all know the drill.’

  Biros were brought to bear, signatures were signed.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the fact that it’s all down to God,’ said Bob, ‘we could all give ourselves pats on the back. Would someone like to pat my back anyway – it does get me really excited.’

  Elvis turned away and dunked his biscuit.

  The Queen gave Bob’s little back a pat.

  And then things got a bit confusing, as there was suddenly a lot of shouting and bustling-in as an inspector and two constables, one of whom had a very large weapon, made an unexpected, unwarranted and quite unwanted police presence.

  ‘Emergency situation,’ panted the inspector, who’d got a bit puffed on his way up the stairs. ‘Have to ask you all to evacuate the premises immediately.’

  ‘Before we’ve finished tea?’ asked Her Madge.

  ‘Best to,’ said the inspector. ‘I have reason to believe that a nuclear device is primed and ready for detonation in the basement of this building.’

  ‘Perhaps not my London house, then,’ said Her Madge. ‘Perhaps Balmoral.’

  ‘If you would be so kind, Ma’am,’ said the inspector. ‘my constable here will lead you down to your car.’

  ‘I can see right through your constable’s stomach,’ said Her Madge. ‘Is that right?’

  Black Betty (Bam-a-Lam) knew what was right.

  And proper.

  And taking on other jobs when you were waiting to pick up a celebrity client was neither.

  Black Betty sat in his limo, listening to a rather depressing programme on Radio 4 all about the crisis in the Middle East and how if talks weren’t held soon and problems ironed out, it looked like kiss-your-arse-goodbye time for the denizens of Planet Earth.

  Except for the cockroaches, of course. Because, as everyone knows, they will survive a nuclear war.

  Next to Black Betty’s limo there was only one other limo. The other three limo drivers having slipped away with their limos to fit in other jobs.

  And the remaining black stretch limo parked next to that of Black Betty (Ram-a-lam-ding-dong-da-da-de-da-da) was lacking for a driver.

  Its driver, Mr Esau Good of Smack My Bitch Up Motors had gone off to take a walk by the ornamental pond and feed the ducks. And tell himself again and again and again that he must not, for fear of that exploding implant, ever again mention the name of Elvis Presley.

  ‘Mister Presley is leaving the building,’ said Elvis as he was ushered down the stairs, through the entrance hall and out onto the drive to where the only limo possessed of a driver was standing. Quietly.

  And joy of joys, there was no unpleasantness.

  Because Black Betty (Boom-bang-a-bang-loud-in-your-ear) was a professional. And a gentleman. And so he ushered each and all into his limo and drove away in the direction of Scotland.

  ‘And let that be a lesson to you,’ said Inspector Westlake to his two constables.

  ‘A lesson in what?’ Constable Justice asked.

  ‘In evacuation. There’ll be medals in this, if we pull it off properly.’

  ‘Are there any medals that have black ribbons?’ asked Constable Paul.

  ‘It is very black in here. How do you know where you’re going?’ asked Mr Giggles the Monkey Boy.

  ‘I know exactly where I’m going and exactly what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  In the darkness, Jonny shook his head. ‘You knew,’ he said. ‘You knew that the people at the meeting upstairs were being manipulated by the Air Loom Gang. You knew!’

  ‘So did you,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘The manipulating is what all of this is about, surely.’

  ‘I was misled,’ said Jonny. ‘Or fooled, or confused, or—’

  ‘Well, don’t go blaming me.’

  ‘I’ll fix this,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll fix all of this. I have that bunch upstairs recorded on the laptop, and as for the bunch down below—’

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Go on.’

&nbs
p; ‘You’ll see.’

  *

  ‘I can still see you,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Can you still see me?’

  He and his constables were once more in the entrance hall of the Big House.

  ‘Is this a game anyone can play?’ asked Joan. ‘Like “hide the sausage”.’

  ‘Madam,’ said Inspector Westlake, drawing his attention away from Constable Justice, ‘you should not be here. You should have evacuated the building.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Joan. ‘When?’

  ‘Because there is a bomb in the basement. And now.’

  Joan shrugged. ‘There, you see, you have it,’ she said. ‘A complete lack of continuity. I must have been sitting at this desk when you hustled Her Majesty and Elvis and the rest down the stairs, right past my desk here and out to the limo. But did I get told to evacuate? No. It was just as if I didn’t exist. Complete lack of continuity. Appalling.’

  There was another of those silences.

  And the sun did go behind a cloud.

  And a dog did howl in the distance.

  ‘So, can anyone play?’ asked Joan.

  ‘Madam—’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘Call me Joan,’ said Joan.

  ‘Joan,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘it is very possible that a nuclear bomb, which has been secreted in the basement of this building will shortly be detonated. So I suppose that it matters not whether I call you “madam”, or “Joan”. ‘So, madam, I was just checking, with my constable here, as to whether our invisibility suits are working.’

  Joan shook her head.

  ‘You’re shaking your head, madam.’

  ‘That is because you are not wearing an invisibility suit. Just your constables. The continuity is all over the place, I’m telling you. And as for a nuclear bomb in the basement.’ Joan laughed. Loudly.

  ‘You are laughing, madam,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘and I am finding all this talk about continuity somewhat alarming.’

  ‘As well you might.’ The receptionist leaned back in her receptionist’s chair, stretching her arms up above her head and giving her bosoms that special thrust out. ‘There is no bomb in the basement,’ she said. ‘No bomb at all.’