“Thank you,” said Brown-Horrocks, looking around in an agitated manner. “Aren’t these offices a bit small for you?”

  “We’re moving shortly,” lied Jack. “Ashley, would you get Mr. Brown-Horrocks a cup of tea, please?”

  He said this as Ashley appeared at the door, more to get him out of the way than anything else.

  “What was that?”

  “Constable Ashley. One of the NCD staff.”

  “Is he all right? He looked… well, blue.”

  “All Rambosians are blue, Mr. Brown-Horrocks. He’s an alien.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Brown-Horrocks. “There must be something wrong with my hearing. For a moment I thought you said he was an alien.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Brown-Horrocks stared at Jack, reached into his jacket pocket for a pen and made a note on the clipboard. Jack tried to see what he was writing, but Brown-Horrocks leaned away from him so he couldn’t.

  “Let me explain what my job is,” said the Guild man kindly.

  “As I understand it, you have applied to join the Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives, and your application has been passed to the second stage: a practical demonstration of your skills as a detective and any other attributes that you can bring to the Guild to further enhance and illuminate the Guild’s good standing with the public and the publishers of Amazing Crime Stories. Now, I understand you have four failed marriages. Is this true?”

  “Yes,” said Jack. He didn’t know what Madeleine had written on the application, so he was going to have to wing it.

  “Your application also says you have a drinking problem and are something of a loner.”

  “Yes. I drink to excess, and my family has abandoned me completely. I make do with short-term flings with totally unsuitable and very dangerous women.”

  “Hmm,” said Brown-Horrocks, and made another note.

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Not really.”

  “No, I meant for the application.”

  “I can’t give anything away as regards my report, Inspector, and it would be very improper of you to ask.”

  “Of course. Here’s your tea.”

  Ashley placed the cup and the saucer on the desk and said.

  “Sugar?”

  “Two, please.”

  Ashley looked embarrassed and glanced at Jack.

  “That’s 10, Ashley. He’s a Rambosian,” explained Jack. “They only understand binary.”

  “Only… understand… binary,” repeated Brown-Horrocks slowly, making a note.

  “Yes,” replied Jack, trying to act as if it were entirely normal and not strange at all. “If we need something in, say, eight days’ time, we just tell Ashley it’s needed in 1,000 days. Aside from a few lapses in common sense brought on by cultural differences, as befits a visitor from eighteen light-years away, he’s a model officer.”

  “By the way,” said Ashley, pointing at Brown-Horrocks’s tea, “they were out of milk, so I used emulsion paint.”

  “See?”

  “Yes,” said Brown-Horrocks slowly, making another note and staring at the alien curiously. “Tell me, Mr. Ashley, what’s it like being an alien?”

  “Well, goodness,” he said, tapping one of his thumbs on his temple, “do you know, I’ve never really thought about it before.”

  “Thank you, Ashley,” said Jack before any more damage was done. “Would you check my pigeonhole for any correspondence, please?”

  Ashley got the message and beat a fast retreat.

  “Anyway,” continued Brown-Horrocks, “I’ve got a copy of your interim report, so I have an idea what is going on, although, to be honest, I’m a little disappointed. Repeat interviews with prime suspects to eke out the information have not been undertaken, and two false confessions does seem to push it a bit. I think the second one could have been played down. In fact,” he added loftily, “I’ve never seen a more badly structured investigation. Did you not consider publication at all when you conducted it?”

  “It’s a new technique,” replied Jack hastily, “experimental.”

  “Well, I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Brown-Horrocks said in the manner of a man who won’t. “What do you plan to do today? Interview all the prime suspects and finger the murderer in a stunning turn of events that will challenge and surprise any potential readers?”

  “Brown-Horrocks,” said Jack slowly, “this is a police investigation — not a mystery writers’ convention.”

  Brown-Horrocks lowered his pen and stared at Jack. “You will find,” he said, attempting to keep his obvious dissatisfaction hidden, “that Guild members have many responsibilities. Not only to the victims of crime and the public in need of reassurance against a hostile and dangerous world but also to the publishers of Amazing Crime Stories and the rest of the entertainment business.”

  Jack thought of telling him to take his clipboard and stuff it up his arse, but opportunities to join the Guild didn’t come around every day. Despite Chymes, he still wanted to join. The cash would help. And the kudos. And he might get a few convictions, too. He needed to defuse the situation — and fast.

  “Is that tea all right?”

  “It’s undrinkable.”

  “Excellent. Ah, Mary,” he said with some relief. “Mary, I’d like you to meet Mr. Brown-Horrocks, who is from the Guild.”

  “Oh!” said Mary, who understood the difficulties of the situation at a glance and panicked into saying the first thing that came into her head: “You’re very tall.”

  “Why do people think I might not have noticed?” asked Brown-Horrocks with a trace of annoyance.

  “No, it’s just that Jack has a reputation for killing — ”

  “Thank you, Mary. DS Mary is my potential Official Sidekick and has a few interesting character traits of her own that would doubtless make good copy.”

  “What are they?” asked Brown-Horrocks.

  “Yes,” said Jack, looking at Mary expectantly. “What are they?”

  “Well,” said Mary, thinking hard, “I live in a half-converted flying boat.”

  “So does my uncle,” replied an unimpressed Brown-Horrocks.

  Ashley returned, and Brown-Horrocks looked at him curiously. “What about you, Constable Ashley? Any strange character traits?”

  “None at all,” replied the alien wistfully. “I enjoy car-spotting which is like train-spotting but with cars. I keep them in a book and swap the numbers with friends. I collect jam jars, beer mats, buttons, and I’m building a hyperspace-propulsion unit in my garage.”

  “You’re right,” muttered Brown-Horrocks, “nothing odd there.”

  “Good morning,” said Gretel as she walked in the door. “They gave me a violet security — Oh!”

  “This is Constable Gretel Kandlestyk-Maeker,” announced Jack, “another member of our team.”

  They shook hands. Brown-Horrocks stared at Gretel, and Gretel stared back. Being of greater-than-average height can sometimes be a lonely business.

  “Six foot… three and a half?” asked Brown-Horrocks.

  “Two and a quarter,” replied Gretel shyly. “It’s these boots.”

  “Right,” said Jack, who was desperate to be anywhere but here. “I’m going to interview Lola Vavoom again to see if she can shed any light on Humpty’s new wife. Brown-Horrocks? I suppose you’ll stay here and await results?”

  “Not at all,” he replied with a sigh. “I am here to observe you and your ‘experimental’ techniques whether I like it or not. Lead on.”

  38. Lola Vavoom Returns

  VAVOOM BREAKS SELF-EXILE TO CLAIM,

  “I WANT TO BE ALONE”

  The actress Lola Vavoom broke her self-imposed exile of fourteen years yesterday to demand that the press leave her alone. The reclusive fifty-five-year-old former star of screen and stage who has been absent from newspaper columns since 1990 demanded that the press stop hounding her every move and making her life a misery. “I thought she was dead,” admitted “Skip” McHale, The Toad’s entertainment correspondent, “but now I know she’s around and wants to be left alone, we can dig up some of her ex-husbands to spill the beans on her bedroom antics for a crisp twenty-pound note and eight minutes of fame.” Miss Vavoom is to give a televised broadcast to eight networks tomorrow evening to decry her “lack of privacy.”

  Extract from The Mole, April 22, 2004

  “Did you ever see Anthrax! The Musical?” asked Brown-Horrocks as they climbed up the creaking stairs at Spongg Villas to Lola’s apartment.

  “No, I think I missed that one.”

  “Brilliant piece of work,” said Brown-Horrocks reverentially. “You would have thought that a musical about the experimental anthrax bombing of the Scottish island of Gruinard would be tasteless but Miss Vavoom’s performance of chirpy biological-warfare scientist ‘Boobs’ McGonagle was both sensitive and touching.”

  Spongg Villas had been surrounded by journalists, all eager to speak to the actress since Thomm’s body had been discovered the day before, but Jack, Mary and Brown-Horrocks had just pushed their way through.

  They reached her apartment, and Jack pressed the doorbell. It didn’t work, so he knocked instead.

  Lola opened it like a whirlwind but seemed surprised to see them. She was wearing a kimono and looked faintly alluring.

  “Ah,” she said, “it’s you, Inspector.” She lazily extended a hand for him to shake, then looked at Mary.

  “DS Mary, isn’t it?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Well! Haven’t we all got extraordinary names? Quite unbelievable, don’t you think? Who’s the giant?”

  “This is Brown-Horrocks of the Guild of Detectives, Ms. Vavoom, and he’s not technically a giant. He’s a big fan of your work.”

  “Oh, Brown-Horrocks,” she cooed, “you are indeed my biggest fan!”

  “Kjdshdieupw,” said Brown-Horrocks, struck inarticulate in her presence.

  “Won’t you all come in?”

  She walked away without waiting for an answer, and they followed. Her apartment smelled of lavender, and the walls were adorned with black-and-white photographs of Lola as a young woman with the stars of the screen and stage in the seventies and eighties.

  “So you kept good company?” asked Jack as he pointed at a photo of her with Giorgio Porgia. She pulled down one of the blinds on the window and laughed a high, shrill laugh.

  “In the early days. He was a charming man, Inspector. When one searches for exciting men who treat a girl with respect, one is willing to overlook the shadier aspects. Gentlemen like Giorgio just don’t exist anymore, either side of the law.”

  The room was lit mostly by table lamps. There were several drapes hanging on the walls, and all around them were the collected memorabilia of her short yet illustrious film career. Her Milton was on the mantelpiece, in pride of place among an impressive array of other awards. She lay on a chaise longue and indicated the chairs opposite her. “Please.”

  They sat down.

  “A few questions, Ms. Vavoom. You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I was rather hoping you’d have that handsome constable with you. How can I help?”

  “We’d like to know a little bit more about Humpty Dumpty — and women.”

  She looked up at the ceiling and placed her head on one side. “He was devoted to his first wife.”

  “Lucinda Muffet-Dumpty?”

  “Yes; he never really got over her death. She died in a car accident when he was in prison. I don’t think he ever forgave himself. If he had been there, he often said, it might have been different.”

  She sighed. “Whatever his second wife told you, they were never that close. He thought that by marrying again, he could retain some of the stability he had enjoyed with Lucinda and perhaps recoup some of his lost fortunes — I understand Laura Garibaldi had quite a bit of cash.”

  “She used to.”

  “Sorry, it was dreadful, wasn’t it? Anyway, it didn’t work. Not more than six months after his second marriage, I noticed him inviting young ladies to his flat next door. I don’t think he wanted to upset Laura — he just loved women. He was a very amusing man, Inspector, witty, charming and erudite.”

  “What would you say if I told you Mr. Dumpty had got remarried?”

  Lola looked shocked. “Humpty? Married again? I would have thought he’d have learnt his lesson from the last one.”

  “You met her?”

  “No, it was what I was saying earlier. He had hoped the marriage would be as happy as the first time. I think he was disappointed.”

  “Isn’t that the thing about multiple marriages?” commented Jack. “How you always hope the next one will be the perfect one.”

  Lola flinched. Jack had obviously touched a raw nerve. She flashed a look at him and then got up and walked over to the piano.

  “When they were giving out tact, Inspector Spratt, I assume you were at the end of the queue. I’ve been married sixteen times. Each time, as you say, we wish for the perfect one. My first husband was a plumber from Wantage. We married when I was still behind the cosmetics counter. He gave me more than the Earl of Sunbury ever did. That mean bastard only ever gave me paste jewelery and a dose of the clap. I could still call myself a lady if I wanted, but I’d have to use the Sunbury name, and who wants to be associated with Sunbury in any way, shape or form? He was my fifth husband. We were married for over seven months, and when we divorced, I swore I would never get married again.”

  Jack, Mary and Brown-Horrocks said nothing, so she carried on.

  “Then I met Luke. What a joy. He was young and carefree, funny and gregarious. He was the perfect man.”

  “What happened?” asked Mary.

  “I married his brother. We were having a double wedding, and there was a mix-up at the church. We divorced as soon as we could.”

  “Couldn’t you just have had it annulled?” asked Mary. “If it wasn’t consummated, it — ”

  Lola silenced her with a baleful stare. “The temptation was too great. It might have turned out better, but on balance I think I preferred Luke. Trouble is, by the following morning, he had fallen for his accidental bride. They went to Llandudno and opened a fish shop. Then there was Thomas Pring. When I was being courted by him, he gave me a huge diamond, the fabulous Pring Diamond. They warned me about the curse that went with the Pring Diamond, but I ignored them all and we married.”

  She held up a cocktail shaker. “Gargle?”

  They declined. She shrugged and poured herself a martini.

  “It was then that the Pring curse made itself apparent.”

  “And the curse?”

  “Mr. Pring. He was a pig of a man. He used to cut his toenails in bed and rarely washed. I divorced him citing the 1947 Personal Hygiene Act.”

  She sat down on the chaise longue again.

  “How I prattle so! You must be busy. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

  “Only if you can think of one particular girlfriend of Humpty’s that he might have liked enough to marry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve no idea.”

  Jack stood up. “Well, I think that’s it for now.”

  “For now?”

  “You don’t mind if I come back should any other questions arise?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Just one more thing. Would you sign Brown-Horrocks’s clipboard? I know he wants you to.”

  They thanked her and left. As soon as Lola had closed the door, she put a worried hand to her face, strode quickly to the window and raised the blind. She then picked up the telephone.

  “It’s Lola,” she said. “He suspects.”

  39. The Red Ford Zephyr

  RED HERRING USE TO BE CONTROLLED

  Blatant red herrings and overused narrative blind alleys could land a detective in hot water if the Limited Narrative Misdirection bill becomes law later this year. The controversial new law called for by readers’ groups has few friends among the Guild of Detectives, which still maintains that there is “no problem” and that self-regulatory guidelines prepared in 1904 are “more than adequate.” “We’re not asking much,” explained a representative of the twenty-million-member readers’ lobbying group TecWatch. “We just want to see good investigations — not routine rubbish padded out with inconsequential nonsense.” The bill follows the successful passing of the so-called surprise assailant act last year, which outlawed the publication of investigations where the murderer is suddenly revealed two pages from the end without a single mention in the previous one hundred thousand words.

  Extract from The Owl, October 1, 1979

  Spongg Villas was only a ten-minute walk from Reading Central, and by the time they got back, there had been a development.

  “We’ve just had an anonymous phone call with info on Humpty’s car,” said Gretel, talking to Jack but looking at Brown-Horrocks.

  “Who from?”

  “They didn’t say. Male caller from a phone box in Charvil. Gave the information and then rang off.”

  “Headway at last. Whereabouts?”

  They stepped closer to the Reading and District wall map, which had to be hung sideways as it was the only way it would fit on the tiny wall.

  “They said it could be found…” muttered Gretel, looking at the address on the piece of paper and finally jabbing a finger perilously close to the edge of Andersen’s Wood. “Here.”

  Jack looked at the place Gretel had indicated. There were no houses within a mile in any direction.

  “Right. Mary and I are going out to have a look. Check out the owners of the closest houses and see if you can spot any link.”

  The crossroads where they’d been told they could find the Zephyr was in a rural setting to the west of the city, from where they could easily see Andersen’s Wood on the next hill. A single signpost with peeling paint sat forlornly at the roadside, and there was no evidence of habitation in any direction. After the bustle of the town over the past few days, the peace of the country was a welcome diversion. The roar of the M4 had been soothed into a gentle rumble by the distance, and for once it wasn’t raining.