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“Watchamate, John,” it said.
“Jim?” gasped Omally in a cracked and broken voice. “Jim, is that you?” The apparition stepped into the room and nodded its weed-clung head. “Jim, you’re alive!” Omally toppled out of his footbath and fell to his knees before him. “You’re alive, Jim!”
“It was a close run race.”
“Then did you …? Did you?”
“Did I bloody what?”
“Did you save the betting slip?”
Professor Slocombe buried his face in his hands and groaned dismally.
20
A thin yet insistent drizzle, of the type one generally associates with bank holidays and state occasions, fell upon a borough that was suffering a severe case of that “morning after” feeling.
A hazy mist arose from the embers of last night’s holocaust as Inspectre Hovis delved here and there with the tip of his cane, seeking a why or a wherefore. Several constables, hands deep in their blue serge pockets, shuffled their feet, hunched their shoulders and shared wistful thoughts of poached eggs and kippers.
Hovis rooted with a will. His four short hours of sleep had been anything but restful. He had tossed to and fro in his bed whilst terrible dreams assailed him from every side. Headlines sprang up before his eyes: TERRORISTS SABOTAGE BRENTFORD OLYMPICS! POLICE HELPLESS AS GAMES BOMBED! BUNGLING INSPECTRE GIVEN THE ELBOW!!!
He’d only been in the borough for forty-eight hours and already he’d banged up half the town council, read the riot act and become embroiled in an international terrorist bomb plot. This sleepy west London suburb was proving to be about as sleepy as Beirut, Afghanistan, Libya and the Falls Road all rolled into one. And amidst all this confusion and distraction here was he, desperately seeking to save his tattered reputation and redeem himself in the eyes of his superiors and the world. He didn’t need all this, what a carve-up.
At the end of his cane something colourful twinkled. Hovis stooped to pick it up, wiping away the ash. Although somewhat charred about the edges, the photograph, for such it was, shone out at him like a little Kodak-colour jewel.
Hovis examined it with interest. It was a holiday snap, a foolish red-faced tourist in a sombrero drinking wine from a Spanish pouron. The Inspectre’s eyes swiftly became hooded slits. This was it. A clue, a mug-shot, God-given. Many people would have seen many things in that snapshot, well, not that many, but a few at least. But Hovis saw only one, the face of a born killer, a revolutionary of Pancho Villa proportions. The face of Public Enemy Number One.
“Inspectre.” The voice belonged to Constable Meek. “What do you make of this, sir?”
Hovis picked his way through the sodden ash to join the young constable. “What is it?”
“Look, sir.” Meek pointed up towards the wall of a gutted warehouse, which had taken, by its appearance, the full force of the blast. “It’s like a shadow, sir.” Hovis cocked his head upon one side and stared up at the wall. Clearly outlined upon the charred concrete was a curious image. “What do you think, sir? A man crouching, or a dog perhaps?”
Hovis flicked open his cane and applied snuff to his nose. The image was disproportionate, exaggerated. It glowed with a dull effulgence and struck an odd chord of recognition. Hovis was, however, unable to name that tune in one. “Get the forensic lads to take some photos before the rain washes it off. It may be significant, it may not.”
“Yes, sir!”
Hovis drew a tentative finger gently across the image, being careful not to disturb the outline. He examined his finger with interest. “Now what does that look like to you, Constable?”
Meek peered at the Inspectre’s fingertip. “Gold paint, sir, or gold leaf.”
“Or gold dust. Full marks for observation, Constable. Well done.”
Meek puffed out his chest. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now get on to forensic, get the photos and get them on to my desk by lunchtime and no later.”
Meek’s chest sank away. You bastard, he thought. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Je
She freighted the delicate cup into the living room, where an occasional table rose to meet almost any occasion upon legs of faux-grained maple. Its sun-golden top bore the weight of several Sunday newspapers which lay in a casual composition. Je
Je
Amongst the papers lay a large metallic foil envelope which had arrived by special delivery that very morning. Je
Hers not to reason why. Je
Anticipating possible difficulties with local ecologists, traditionalists, reactionaries and other spoilsports, it was considered prudent to bring forward the schedule of works by a day. Work on the five sites would begin at once.
Je
Reverently she turned the page of the print-out and noted to her further wonder a list entitled: DISSENTERS: CLASS A SECURITY RISKS. Below this encircled in red, were only two names, yet two she knew almost as surely as she knew her own: James Arbuthnot Pooley and John Vincent Omally.
The two dissenters were enjoying a hearty breakfast. They had bathed, slept soundly and now sat in their newly laundered clothes enjoying a magnificent spread in the Professor’s dining room.