The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Believe it or not, there is a class of person in this country who derives considerable pleasure in thwarting the forces of the law. Criminals, we call them in the trade. Perhaps you have heard of them.’

  ‘Most amusing.’ The pathologist buffed the bone-saw on his sleeve. ‘But let us, for argument’s sake, say that you are correct. Then how would you explain this?’

  He took himself over to the rack of filing cabinet jobbies where the dead were filed in a certain order and yanked out one of the drawers.

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Inspector Westlake.

  ‘Jonathan Hooker, if the tag upon his toe is to be believed.’

  Inspector Westlake said nothing.

  ‘I believe you attended the crime scene, Inspector. Indeed, I believe you supervised the loading of this particular body into the Scientific Support vehicle once the garden furniture had been removed from it, and directed its transportation here.’

  ‘I did,’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘And I examined the body, made my report and—’

  ‘Gave it to an impostor,’ said Inspector Westlake.

  ‘So it appears. However, this impostor never entered the morgue. I placed the body in this cabinet. So kindly explain this.’ With a suitably theatrical flourish, the pathologist whipped aside the sheet that covered the body to expose—

  ‘A mummy,’ said Inspector Westlake, viewing the withered hand that showed beneath a lacy cuff and the sleeve of a green frocked coat.

  ‘Another mummy,’ said the pathologist. ‘And I mentioned the significance of the year seventeen ninety, only because he had papers in his pocket with that date upon them.’

  Inspector Westlake scratched at his head. ‘I have to confess,’ said he, ‘that this is all most perplexing.’

  ‘A word I think one might use without fear of being accused of exaggeration.’

  ‘One thing,’ said the inspector, lifting the wizened, spectral hand and letting it plop back down with a dull thump. ‘Could it be some disease, or contamination, or – God spare us – some terrorist chemical weapon?’

  ‘That is capable of changing clothes from present day to those of an antique persuasion?’

  Inspector Westlake shook his head. ‘I have to further confess that I have no idea what this means,’ he said. ‘Have you drawn any conclusions? Do you have any theories?’

  ‘None that I would wish to put upon record for fear of my reputation.’

  ‘But which you might care to vocalise? In private? Off the record? On the level and under the arch?’ And Inspector Westlake did certain Masonic gesturings with his fingers.

  ‘In private and off the record – strictly off the record—’. The pathologist returned the inspector’s gesturing with certain of his own. ‘—I believe that this body is the same body you had sent here. How it changed in this manner I do not know. How the clothes were changed I do not know.’

  ‘What makes you believe it’s the same body?’

  The pathologist lifted the dust-dry right hand. ‘We fingerprint every body that comes in here, as soon as it comes in – standard procedure. We fingerprinted the body you dispatched to us. This mummy here – I played a hunch and fingerprinted it again. Even allowing for the process of mummification, which would make any kind of positive identification difficult, in this case it wasn’t – the prints are the same. It’s the same body.’

  ‘Bodies everywhere,’ said Henry Hunter, in the darkness lit only by that little slice of light. ‘Here, in this very room. And it doesn’t end there. There were further summit meetings held here, and at each something unaccountable occurred. Deaths again and again. Each of these summit talks had a direct effect upon world events. Each was held here with those involved not knowing what had happened here in the past. The only ones who knew were those who organised these summit talks, who orchestrated the murderings, who covered up the truth: the Secret Order of the Golden Sprout.’

  ‘And you believe that this will happen again?’

  ‘I read the newspapers and watch the news the same as everyone else. I, like you, know what is going on in the Middle East and how it could trigger a global holocaust. If this is a summit meeting of those who truly control the affairs of this world, there is no telling what those who seek to control these controllers intend.’

  ‘This Secret Order of the Golden Sprout?’

  ‘The same,’ said Henry Hunter.

  ‘It is a fascinating tale,’ said Countess Vanda. ‘It is also, of course, the king of all conspiracy theories. I confess that I have heard of this Secret Order. I believe, however, that there is no positive proof that they have ever existed.’

  ‘Oh, they exist,’ said Henry. ‘I have seen them with my own eyes. Meeting here in this very room.’

  ‘And how did you see them?’

  ‘I would prefer not to say. But I have. And they do exist. They have the tattoo, here.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Here.’ Henry held his left forearm in the shaft of sunlight. ‘The golden sprout above the triangle.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mister Hunter. Your tale is indeed interesting, but I do not have any reason to believe that Her Majesty is in danger. We will be honoured to have her attend the meeting here and I have every confidence in Inspector Westlake’s ability to handle the security.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry Hunter. ‘No. No. No.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Countess Vanda. ‘Your concern is noted. Now please return to your work. We’d like the reception area returned to its former glory as quickly as possible.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry Hunter. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘My conscience will not allow it. I will inform Inspector Westlake. And if he does nothing, I will inform the press.’

  ‘Oh dear no.’ The voice of Countess Vanda surprised Henry Hunter. Because it did not come from before him now. It came from behind.

  Softly and above his left shoulder.

  ‘The talks must go ahead. Here,’ she said.

  And then Henry felt two hands upon his neck.

  And there was a twist and there was a sickening crunch and Henry Hunter toppled sideways into darkness.

  And just for a moment, just for a flash, the naked left forearm of Countess Vanda was to be glimpsed in the shaft of sunlight.

  And there was a tattoo upon it.

  That of a triangle with a golden sprout above it.

  31

  Jonny Hooker shuddered.

  ‘Someone walk over your grave?’ asked O’Fagin.

  ‘As if I’d know,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Anyway,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’m glad your nuts grew back.’

  ‘What?’ asked Jonny, and not without reason.

  ‘Well,’ said O’Fagin, ‘being a publican you have to remember people’s names and faces and all kinds of minutiae about them, so you can name them and mention details and stuff, so the punters think that since you remember these things, you must like them. Which, of course, you don’t, you only want their money.’

  ‘How candid,’ said Jonny. ‘How charming.’

  ‘We aim to please, sir.’

  ‘And the point?’ Jonny asked.

  ‘Well,’ said O’Fagin, once more, ‘you were introduced to me yesterday as Charlie Hawtrey’s castrato brother. But you’re not speaking in a high voice now, so I assume that your nuts must have grown back.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘Right,’ said Jonny. ‘That would probably be it,’ said Jonny, also.

  ‘See, I don’t miss stuff,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’m on the ball, me, all the time. On the ball, get it?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jonny. ‘If you’re so good on continuity,’ said Jonny, ‘perhaps you can tell me whether I’ve had my lunch here yet?’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’ O’Fagin flourished a menu. ‘Don’t get me going on pub grub,’ he continued.

  ‘I’ll try not to.’ Jonny perused the menu.

  ‘D
o you ever feel,’ asked O’Fagin, whilst Jonny was engaged in this perusal, ‘that everyone, except yourself, seems to be having a really interesting life and that somehow you’ve been left out?’

  Jonny looked up from his perusal. ‘All the time,’ he answered. ‘Well, up until recently. Well, yes, I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘So,’ said O’Fagin, ‘what’s it like, then? Because me, I live on the cutting edge, life in the fast lane and all that kind of business.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a cheese sandwich,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Oh, very adventurous.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll have the cheese and pickle.’

  ‘Do you sometimes think that life is going on all around you but somehow you’re not taking part?’

  ‘Isn’t that the same question you just asked?’

  ‘There are subtle differences. I think the problem with life is that most of us never get out of life what we’d like to get. We don’t even ask for much. But things always conspire, people always conspire to cheat, or trick, or fool us out of what we want.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Jonny.

  ‘I know so,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Let’s use this sandwich as an example. Cheese and pickle, you said.’ O’Fagin got his notepad out. ‘Was that on white bread, or brown?’

  ‘White,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Butter or margarine?’

  ‘Marge,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Cheddar or Jarlsberg?’

  ‘Cheddar.’

  ‘Branston or Major Grey’s?’

  ‘Branston.’

  O’Fagin did tickings. ‘The cheese and pickle are off,’ said he. ‘The bread is all stale, we’re out of margarine and the cat ate all the pickle. I can do you a steak pie and chips.’

  Jonny Hooker grinned and turned his menu towards O’Fagin. On it the steak pie and chips were circled.

  ‘Did you scrawl that on my menu?’ O’Fagin asked.

  Jonny nodded. ‘While you were just explaining to me what the problem with life is,’ said he. ‘With this souvenir pen with the top shaped like a dinosaur.’

  ‘Was all of this supposed to mean something?’ O’Fagin asked.

  ‘I think so,’ said Jonny. ‘Recent events have taught me that everything means something.’

  *

  ‘Everything must be done as I want it done,’ said Inspector Westlake into a telephone receiver. ‘If something goes wrong after that, then I will take the blame. But I will only carry the can if it’s my can. Do I make myself understood?’

  At the other end of the line was the Extra-Special Operations Unit, that Above Top Secret Special Operations unit that deals with all the high-security whatnots that come up and someone has to deal with when all the usual Special Operations Units are saying ‘that’s not within our jurisprudence’. The man in overall charge of the Extra-Special Operations Unit was an English gentleman. He wore a grey pullover, a checked shirt and a knitted tie. He sported a curious beard and smoked a pipe. He had appeared regularly on the Open University during the nineteen eighties when the Open University was a channel only watched by British spies who knew all the codewords and what the Open University was really all about.

  Of course, we all know now.

  The gentleman’s name was Thompson. These gentlemen are always called ‘Thompson’. There have been generations of them, all doing the same job. Father to son, father to son. Since around 1790. Apparently.

  ‘Give me the “gen” one more time, me old cock-sparra,’ said Thompson.

  ‘I want a ring of steel placed around Gunnersbury Park,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Important talks are to be held there this Sunday. Some queer occurrences have come up and I want to be one hundred per cent certain that those at the talks will be completely secure.’

  ‘Which is why you called the Extra-Special Operations Unit,’ said Thompson. ‘For the record, how did you get our number? Was it from a card through your door, a card in the newsagent’s window or Yellow Pages?’

  ‘I’m a Freemason,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Couldn’t you tell by the way your telephone rang?’

  ‘Only testing,’ said Thompson. ‘We have to be very careful in this game, I can tell you. We have to know who’s who and what’s what. So, have you made a list?’

  ‘I’ve faxed you a map,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘The layout of Gunnersbury Park, the location of the Big House and the room within where the talks will be held.’

  ‘I have it here,’ said Thompson. Who did. ‘It looks reasonably straightforward. We’ll run a fence around the entire perimeter, twenty feet high, electrified, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll lay down minefields, laser trips, braggers and flame wasps. I’ll have fifty men in full camo dig in around the perimeter. We’ll put a couple of silent birds above.’

  ‘Silent birds?’ Inspector Westlake asked.

  ‘Stealth helicopters. You can’t see them, but they can see you.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘And who will be footing the bill for all this?’

  ‘Just put in your invoice,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘All expenses will be covered.’

  ‘And you wish to take overall control of this operation yourself? We can supply a management team.’

  ‘It is my call,’ said the inspector. ‘My watch. Nothing and no one is going to mess with this operation. Nothing and no one is going to enter that park without my approval. Nothing and no one is going to endanger the lives of those at this meeting. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Utterly clear,’ said Thompson. ‘All forces and security procedures will be in place within twelve hours. You have nothing to fear, Brother Inspector – nothing and no one will penetrate security. Nothing and no one will be allowed to enter the park that could in any way endanger the talks or those engaged in them.’

  Parked behind the Big House, under the shade of a tree, unblemished by the earlier gunfire, unnoticed by all concerned, was a white Ford Transit van. The side doors and indeed the rear doors of this van were open and at the behest of a chap dressed in a top hat and red ringmaster’s coat, two dwarves were unloading a number of boxes.

  The dwarves had an odd look to them. There was something quaint and old-fashioned about their attire. In fact, it had a positively antique look to it, as if these dwarves had stepped straight out of the Regency period.

  About, say, 1790.

  ‘Hurry along now,’ said the ringmaster, an odd-enough body himself at close quarters, what with the made-up face and the periwig that showed beneath his top hat. ‘Down the secret passage and into the storerooms beneath.’

  The dwarves made haste, but not without difficulty, for the boxes they carried were heavy. Heavy, wooden, dusty and very old-looking, they were. And printed with antique lettering upon the sides of these cases were the words

  ACME AIR LOOM COMPANY.

  THIS WAY UP.

  32

  ‘Well, I haven’t said too much for a while.’ The voice of Mr Giggles was once more at Jonny’s ear. Jonny didn’t welcome this voice and did what he could to ignore it.

  Jonny supped upon further beer.

  Mr Giggles prattled away. ‘Get that down you and let’s be going,’ prattled Mr Giggles. ‘Whatever the situation is, it is approaching that time when it becomes out of control. Put your faith in me, buddy boy, Tierra del Fuego awaits.’

  ‘Now that I remember it,’ said O’Fagin to Jonny, ‘did you want to buy a ticket?’

  ‘I know I am putting what is left of my sanity at risk by asking,’ said Jonny, ‘but a ticket for what?’

  ‘For tonight’s benefit gig. Dry Rot are playing – they’re a girls’ drum and fife band. Should be worth watching.’

  ‘Dry Rot are heavy rock,’ said Jonny. ‘I think I did mention this before.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said O’Fagin, ‘but it’s odds-on that I wasn’t listening. Tickets are a tenner, by the way. Or four for fifty quid.’

  ‘I won’t
need a ticket,’ said Jonny.

  ‘You will if you want to get in.’

  ‘I am in the band,’ said Jonny.

  ‘Nobody told me it was a transvestite drum and fife band. This puts an entirely different complexion on things. I’ll have to charge you twelve pounds.’

  ‘I’m with the band,’ said Jonny. ‘Dry Rot – I’m the lead guitarist.’

  ‘Jonny Hooker is the lead guitarist,’ said O’Fagin, ‘which I find confusing, because I’m sure I heard that he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m his replacement.’

  ‘Ah, very pleased to meet you.’ O’Fagin stuck his hand across the bar counter for a shake. So Jonny shook it. ‘And allow me to thank you for your generosity.’

  Jonny Hooker shook his head now and said, ‘What?’

  ‘For donating your fee to the pub rebuilding fund. The five hundred pounds will come in very handy.’

  ‘Five hundred?’ said Jonny. ‘You only ever pay fifty. Well you always promise to, but you always say that you don’t have any change and that you’ll pay next time.’ Jonny paused. ‘Well, at least that’s what I’ve heard. From a very accurate source. You’ve certainly never paid any band five hundred pounds.’

  O’Fagin did that nose-tapping thing. ‘I have according to my accounts and tax returns,’ said he. And he went off to serve a gaunt gentleman of aristocratic bearing who wore a long, black beard and a curious young woman with bright-red hair who wore long rubber gloves.

  ‘It’s a pity—’ said Jonny.

  ‘Are you addressing me?’ asked Mr Giggles.

  ‘Let’s say yes,’ Jonny said, ‘I am, and it’s a pity that the solving of the Da-da-de-da-da Code business seems unlikely to bring me any financial reward. Because if it did, I would most certainly use it as a deposit on buying a pub. It seems there are fortunes to be made in that game.’

  ‘You’d hate it,’ giggled Mr Giggles. ‘Always starts well in the early evening, when folk are pleasant and sober. But by chucking-out time, these same pleasant and sober folk have turned into foulmouthed drunks who don’t want to go home at all. You’d hate them in no time.’