Also by Robert Rankin
The Brentford Trilogy:
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Armageddon Trilogy:
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book Of The Dead
Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:
The Book Of Ultimate Truths
Raiders Of The Lost Car Park
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, composed of:
The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:
Sprout Mask Replica
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Waiting for Godalming
Plus some fabulous other books, including:
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
The Brightonomicon
The Toyminator
the
da-da-
de-da-da
code
Robert Rankin
For
my beautiful
Raygun
With all my love
Thank you for
the inspiration
the love
and the music
and the shoes
mmmm
Contents
Also by Robert Rankin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Da-da-de-da-da-de—Album
Copyright
1
A headless corpse was floating on the ornamental pond.
It troubled the view and it troubled the ducks and it troubled the two park rangers.
The rangers stood, uncomfortably, upon the north shore, before the Doric temple. The elder of the two was smoking a cigarette; the younger was trying very hard to keep his breakfast down.
‘Now, that,’ said the elder of the two, puffing smoke and speaking through it, ‘is the thin end of the wedge. Bikes and baby buggies, crates and shopping trolleys – I don’t know how they sneak the stuff in through the park gates. Nor why they feel the need to chuck it in the pond when they do. But that,’ and he pointed with his cigarette, ‘is too much. Much too much, that is. And,’ he continued, ‘it’s wearing a park ranger’s uniform.’
The younger of the two men, who had lately returned from Tierra del Fuego for reasons known only to himself, was sick into a mulberry bush. Which is more difficult than it might at first appear, because it is generally understood that mulberries grow upon trees.
‘Yes, you get it up, lad,’ said his companion. ‘Better out than in, that is. Egg and bacon and beans. At least your mother loves you.’
From the middle to the near distance came the sounds of police-car sirens.
‘At long last,’ said the ranger who still retained his breakfast, stubbing out his cigarette.
The route that must be taken by vehicles from any of Gunnersbury Park’s gates to the shores of the pond is a complicated one, and it was quite some time before a single police car appeared at the crime scene.
Siren shriek and blue light flash and car doors opening up.
And policemen, numbering two, looking somewhat tired and harassed.
These officers of the law approached the rangers; one had on a helmet, the other a cap.
‘Kenneth Connor?’ asked the wearer of the cap.
‘Ranger Connor,’ said the elder of the two rangers. ‘Not to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor.’ And he put out his hand for a shake.
‘Other Kenneth Connor?’ The wearer of the cap declined the offer of the hand.
‘Star of the Carry On—’
‘So where’s this body, then?’ asked the officer who wore the helmet. Wore the helmet and carried a truncheon, too.
Kenneth Connor, not to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor, viewed this truncheon with suspicion. ‘It’s a dead body,’ he said. ‘It won’t need truncheoning down.’
‘One can never be too careful,’ said the bearer of the truncheon. ‘The dead don’t always stay dead. Sometimes they turn into vampires, or zombies, or booger men.’
‘Put it away, you oaf,’ his capped superior told him.
‘Booger men?’ said Ranger Connor.
The constable sheathed his truncheon in the manner known as huffy.*
‘Inspector Westlake,’ this superior continued, addressing his words towards Ranger Connor. ‘Here on secondment from the Bramfield Constabulary, having travelled far. This enthusiastic officer is Constable Justice.’
‘Justice by name and—’
‘Shut up, you oaf.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your man here?’ said Westlake, indicating the younger ranger, who had now finished his business with the mulberry bush and was making sheepish faces towards all concerned.
‘Ranger Charles Hawtrey,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Not to be confused with—’
‘The Lone Ranger?’ Constable Justice sniggered.
‘Never,’ said his superior, with a voice of stern authority, ‘never ever snigger in my presence again.’
‘No, sir!’
‘So where is the body?’ Westlake asked.
‘I asked that,’ said Constable Justice, ‘and got no response. Should we run these villains in for concealing evidence, Guv?’
Inspector Westlake cuffed the constable lightly around the head. ‘Return to the motor,’ he told him, ‘get the other cars on the blower and aid them in reaching our present location.’
‘But Guv, the body—’
‘Car,’ said Westlake. ‘Now!’ said Westlake. ‘Do it!’ said Westlake, too.
Grumble-grumble-grumble went the chastened constable. And grumbling so he slouched off to the car, muttering the words ‘booger men’ underneath his breath.
‘Children,’ said Inspector Westlake, shaking his head in sadness. ‘They are sending us children nowadays.’
Ranger Hawtrey made a face. ‘Surely that is illegal,’ he said.
Inspector Westlake yawned and stretched. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘perhaps not the best way to begin a bright spring day, but where is the body?’
‘Floating there.’ Ranger C
onnor lit another cigarette and pointed with it. ‘Headless and horrible and messing up the pond.’
Inspector Westlake peered. ‘Indeed so,’ he said, cocking his head from side to side. ‘You’ve a body there and no mistake.’
‘Your lads will have it out before the park opens, won’t they?’
Inspector Westlake shook his head. ‘The park won’t be opening today,’ said he.
‘But it must,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Even Hitler’s Luftwaffe couldn’t close the park. The park closes on Christmas Days only.’
‘It was closed yesterday, as you know full well,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘And it will be closed today also, and that is that. The pond will have to be dragged in search of the head, and the entire park searched also, inch by inch, by trained specialists in the field.’
‘Them at the Big House won’t like this,’ said Ranger Connor.
‘Them at the Big House will have to lump it, then.’ Inspector Westlake patted at his pockets. As was ever the way with police inspectors, he was in the process of giving up smoking. ‘You couldn’t spare a fag, I suppose,’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Ranger Connor, ‘I could not.’
The headless body bobbed in the pond. An inquisitive duck peeped in at its neck hole.
At length three further police cars appeared and a white van with the words ‘Scientific Support’ emblazoned in red upon its colourless sides. From this issued a number of men, clad in environmental suits.
‘Spacemen,’ said Ranger Hawtrey, who was standing with his back to the pond.
‘Scene of Crime Investigators. Specialists in their field,’ said the inspector. ‘Forget about Horatio Caine and all that CSI Miami toot. You don’t solve crimes by having ginger hair and standing about in a brown suit with your hands on your hips. Or putting on sunglasses and then taking them off again.’
‘Or speaking very slowly,’ said Ranger Connor, who was a secret fan of CSI Miami.
‘Quite so. Scotland Yard has the very crème de la crème of Scene of Crime Forensic Investigators in the known world.’
‘What are they doing?’ asked Ranger Hawtrey. ‘What is that they’re pulling out of their van?’
‘I’ll have to ask you to move along now,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘The public are not permitted to watch … at work.’
‘…?’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘What is …?’
‘It’s the name of the unit. They are so elite that even their acronym is top secret.’
‘It’s a barbecue,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘They’ve got a barbecue out of their van. They’re not Crime Scene Investigators, they’re a catering unit.’
‘Move along now, sir,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘or I shall be forced to let my officer employ his truncheon.’
‘They’re getting out a garden umbrella and folding chairs now.’
‘Move along please, sir.’
‘And a crate of beer,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘And alcoholic beverages may not be consumed within the park’s environs without express permission from the management.’
‘You too, sir,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Job for the professionals now, this. Thank you for your cooperation. Please go about your business.’
‘But this is my business.’ Ranger Connor stood his ground. His uniform was every bit as impressive as that worn by Inspector Westlake. His even had medal ribbons sewn into it. And his shoes were more highly polished. And this was his territory. He’d worked in this park for twenty-seven years. He wasn’t going to be bullied by some bumpkin bobby. Bramfield was a village in Sussex – he’d once passed through it by mistake while on his way to the Bluebell Line (Ranger Connor had a thing about steam trains). And he’d had a very trying week, one way and another. And there was the matter of the landmines that had been sown on the pitch-and-putt, but he wasn’t going to go into that at the moment.
‘I’m not leaving,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘It would be irresponsible of me to do so. I know every inch of this park and it’s my job to see that not an inch is abused. I’m not having your mob trampling my flower beds.’
‘You tell him, Ken,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.
‘I will,’ said Ranger Connor, who hated being called Ken. ‘And furthermore—’
‘Constable,’ called Inspector Westlake to Constable Justice, who was sitting on the bonnet of their police car, smoking a cigarette. ‘Come over here and arrest this gentleman, will you?’
‘Arrest?’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Arrest me? On what charge?’
‘For being a ruddy nuisance. There’s a dead man in that pond and I don’t have time to bandy words with you.’
‘Who wants hitting?’ asked Constable Justice, hurrying up and unsheathing his truncheon.
‘The big one,’ said the inspector. ‘If he still refuses to move.’
‘I do,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘And I am obliged to warn you, before any attempts are made to hit me in any fashion, that I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest martial art in the world. That my hands and feet are deadly weapons and that I am master of Poison Hand, a cruel, disfiguring and mutilating technique, which—’
‘Threatening an officer of the law,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘That’s as good as smiting. Strike this malfeasant down, Constable.’
Constable Justice hesitated. ‘Dimac?’ he said in a doubtful, wary tone.
‘Dimac,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘Schooled in Chicago by Count Danté himself. Deadliest man on Earth, Count Danté. I’ve seen Ranger Connor’s certificate – he has it up on the wall in the rangers’ hut.’
‘You have your own special hut, then?’ asked Constable Justice. ‘How interesting.’
‘Constable!’ roared Inspector Westlake. ‘Take these two men into custody now. I’m charging them with impeding the course of justice.’
‘I’m sure they’ll move along if you ask them nicely, Guv,’ said Constable Justice.
‘Ask them nicely? I’m a police inspector. I don’t have to ask anyone nicely.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a member of the Scientific Support unit, ambling up in his environmental suit (sans helmet). ‘Is there a socket somewhere that we can run an extension cable to? We need to plug in the candyfloss machine.’
‘Not now!’ bawled Inspector Westlake, growing most red in the face. ‘Constable, arrest these men at once.’
Constable Justice raised his truncheon and dithered with it raised.
‘I really wouldn’t,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘It’s not worth the months of hospitalisation. And learning to walk again can be a very painful business.’
‘Right.’ Inspector Westlake snatched the truncheon from the constable’s hand, raised it swiftly over his own head …
And …
Accidentally struck the wearer of the environmental suit a really cracking blow to his helmetless head.
Which was witnessed by the environmental suit wearer’s similarly clad fellow workers, who were struggling to erect what looked for all the world to be a tombola stall.
Constable Justice sniggered once again.
Inspector Westlake hit him with the truncheon. ‘I warned you not to snigger,’ he said.
And then the inspector swung at Ranger Connor, and things took a serious turn for the worse.
2
One Week Earlier
Most, if not all, of Mankind’s problems stem from Man’s natural inability to accurately predict future events. Think about it, do, just for a moment. Imagine how things might be if we were gifted with the ability to accurately foretell future events. And know, in advance, what would be the result of any particular course of action we were thinking to take. How simple things would be, then. We would never make any mistakes and there would be love and laughter all around and nation would speak peace unto nation and there would be no crime and we’d all live happily ever after.
Although …
What is certain is that a lot of thought would go into each particular action. So much so, in fact, that society would probably grind to a hal
t.
Discuss.
It is absolutely certain, however, that in the case of Jonny Hooker, had he been granted the gift of precognition, he would not have taken the course of actions that he did, a course that would lead inevitably to him floating headless and lifeless in the ornamental pond at Gunnersbury Park, a short seven days into the future.
Jonny was not aware that this was what Fate had in store for him, and even if he had been, it is doubtful whether he would have cared.
For Jonny wasn’t a happy man. Very far from it, in fact. Jonny was a tormented soul, tormented in so many ways.
We learn quite early on as children that life isn’t fair. That the world is composed of the haves and the have-nots and that the have-nots greatly outnumber the haves.
But we are also taught that if we work hard and do our best, we will receive our fair share and be right up there with the haves. And most of us learn sooner or later that, sadly, this is a lie.
Jonny had been taught many things, but had learned very few. He had learned that he was a have-not and that life wasn’t fair, so he had at least grasped the essentials of life. Above and beyond these, he had been granted a basic knowledge of the English language, a natural ear for music and an extraordinary talent as a guitarist (a talent that in keeping with the unfairness of life, would sadly go unrecognised until after his tragic early death). Jonny had acquired a few friends and, to his mind, too many enemies.
So Jonny wasn’t a happy man.
And today being the day that it was, there was a farmers’ market.
Thirteen stalls, local produce, numerous varieties of cheese, free-range eggs, home-made yoghurts, beeswax candles, quiches and flans, and pies made from prime porker pigs.
And as ever the market was being held upstairs, in the loft above Jonny’s bedroom.
Jonny lay upon his old rotten cot, his hands clamped over his earholes, his teeth gritted, his eyes tightly closed. He lay in what is known as the foetal position.
The sounds of chatting farmer lads filtered down to him through the ceiling’s yellowed plaster. Bucolic ribaldry, hail-fellow-well-mets, palms all spat upon and smacked together to signify fair transactions. A goat went bleat. The porker pies were silent.
The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code Page 1