Incompetence

by Rob Grant

  'No, I checked that out. Seems it wasn't really frogspawn, it was clarified fish stock, heavily reduced and set into pearls of jelly with a single beluga caviar egg suspended in the middle. Looks like frogspawn, tastes divine. A whole lot of fuss to create even a single pearl. Only a truly dedicated idiot would even think of trying to make it.'

  'Right. And only a truly rich idiot would even think of paying for it.'

  'So? Have you got me a murder weapon?'

  'Absolutely. It's the canaps all right.'

  'I figured.'

  'Thing about seeds, most seeds are indigestible. That's how they work, see? Tomatoes can't run around planting themselves, so they just hang around getting all ripe and delicious-looking till some animal comes along, gets himself all tempted and eats them. The seeds survive the trip through the digestive system mostly intact. The animal dumps his load. Voila! He's not only planted the seeds, he's provided them with natural fertiliser to boot. You check it out next time you see a sewage outlet: you'll find tomato plants growing wild. In fact, that's how they assess the level of human sewage in the sea: measure the percentage of tomato seeds in a given volume.'

  'Checking the levels of human sewage? Now there's a job from hell's own situations vacant column.'

  Jonhan laughed. 'What did you do at the office today, darling?'

  'Sheese. You'd never get your hands clean. So, the murder weapon?'

  'The liquorice bark "canoes" are the killers.'

  'The liquorice bark "canoes"?'

  'Not the liquorice bark, though; the stuffing.'

  'Dry-roasted Granny Smith pips? Are you serious?'

  'Lethal at twenty paces. Chock full of cyanide. A bucket of those, you could take out a battalion.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Never surer.'

  'Apple seeds?'

  'Three or four of them, no problem. A few dozen, you're an ex-parrot.'

  I made a little more small talk, out of respect for Jonhan, but I wasn't feeling in a small-talk frame of mind.

  Apple seeds.

  Well, well, well.

  Now I knew for certain I was on the case Klingferm had got himself all dead about. On the same road in that case, too. I'd better be careful where I put my feet: Klingferm stepped on the wrong set of toes somewhere along this line, and I'd do well to avoid them.

  I'm a lone wolf. That's the nature of my business. I don't have the time or the resources for truly dogged detective work. So I have to play the probabilities. Maybe some things slip past me that way. Maybe a lot of things. But, most times, probabilities will get you there.

  My best guess, here, was that the killer would turn out to be the canap delivery guy who faked having Tourette's. He was late arriving because he took time out to add a little something extra to the menu. Chances were a couple like the Fabrizis would have a video security camera on their front door, and Mr Tourette's would be on tape. Chances were Superintendent Debary probably had a copy of that tape down at Food Crime HQ. Chances also were the tape would probably be useless. Mr Tourette's would have been aware of the camera, and would have steered clear of it as much as possible. He would certainly have been heavily disguised. Making mistakes was not Mr Tourette's favourite hobby.

  I had his modus, but that's all I knew. I had no idea which of the guests was his intended target, or why. Or how he could have guaranteed nailing his victim. Was he killing indiscriminately, just for the fun of it, or was there just one, specific target? Did twenty-six people die needlessly so Johnny Appleseed could get his man? He was probably capable of that.

  He was probably capable of anything.

  Someone had to stop him. And now I was the only someone who even knew he existed.

  Like I say, I have to play my hunches, and my hunch here was that I'd got as far as I was going to get in Paris. I decided I'd head for Vienna tomorrow, and track down Twinkle or Twonkle.

  And tonight? Well, tonight I had a date so damned hot you could brand cattle with it.

  I kidded myself I wasn't being even slightly irresponsible by not hotfooting it to Vienna right away. I'd been through three cities in one day, had I not? I deserved a little R & R, n'est ce pas? But the truth was, I'd have been in that bar all washed and powdered at eight twenty-eight if there'd been a nuclear bomb to diffuse and I was the only man in the civilised world who could do it. I hadn't spent an evening with a woman in, what? Thirteen years? Who was going to begrudge me?

  I checked my watch. I had a little over forty-five minutes. Time to get back to the hotel and get another couple of baths in.

  I went out onto the street. The traffic was in nightmare mode, even for Paris. There had been talk of a public transport strike, and it looked like it was just happening. I decided to walk. I could make it back and still have time for at least a shower.

  Halfway there, I realised I'd left my IDs at the apartment. I didn't have time to retrieve them and still get back to the hotel for a scrub up. Well, I needed to be squeaky clean tonight, my friend. Who knew what long-lost parts of me were going to have to put in a convincing appearance? I decided the IDs would be safe till morning.

  Good decision, Harry.

  I was just strolling up the Ambassadeur's front steps when a big guy in a serious suit stepped out in front of me. He held up a gold shield. Europol. Federal. It looked genuine enough. But then, so do mine. He said: 'I think you should turn around, my friend.'

  I didn't much like the sound of that, but he didn't make it sound as if the subject were open to conversation.

  I turned, slowly. The lump behind my ear I'd earned this very morning began to throb, anticipating that it might soon acquire a companion and become part of a matching pair.

  But I didn't get cold-cocked. I got something much, much worse.

  I turned to find Captain Zuccho standing at the foot of the steps, his temples throbbing, his eyes bulging and his gun unholstered and aimed at my three favourite things.

  The fed behind me called out, 'This him, Zuccho?'

  'This is him, all right. This is him. Gotcha! You dirty whore's pussy canker!' His bulbous eyes widened with glee. 'You're under arrest, you son of a bitch.'

  SIXTEEN

  REVISED CAUTION CODE AAZ PARA. 10.4

  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if anything you do not say is later relied upon in court by you. Anything you do say which is later contradicted by something else you say, may be counted against you. Things you do say which are not true may later be considered lies, and will also be counted against you. If you do not say something at the time of your arrest, which you at some later time claim to be true, your credibility may be impinged upon. You have the right to request legal advice, though if you do request legal advice, this may be considered an admission of wrongdoing. If you do not request legal counsel, and later require it, this may count against you. If you waive your right to legal advice, and are later found guilty, you may regret it. If English is not your primary language, you may ask the arresting officer for a transcript of this warning in any official European language, not including Basque or Catalan. Do you understand?

  If you do not understand, or fail to acknowledge understanding, this may count against you down the line. If you do understand, you must acknowledge in one of the following ways: 1) you may say 'Yes' or the alternative affirmative in any official European tongue; 2) you may grunt in an affirmative manner; 3) you may sign the word 'Yes' or the letters 'Y-E-S' in any official sign language; 4) you may nod your head briskly; 5) if you are mute, illiterate in sign language and wearing a neck brace for bona fide reasons and cannot therefore nod your head, you may write the word 'Yes' or an acceptable alternative on the notepad with the unsharpened wax crayon provided by the arresting officer; 6) if you are a deaf mute who cannot sign and are suffering severe neck injury, and are a registered dyslexic, you may indicate comprehension by simply smiling.

  The following alternative words and phrases may be substituted for 'Yes': 'Yup,' 'Yep,' 'Yeah,'
'Yo,' or any colloquial variation of 'Yes'; 'OK,' 'Aye,' 'Sure,' 'Why not?' 'Agreed,' 'If you say so,' 'I do,' 'No problem,' 'Fine,' 'Okey dokey,' 'Of course,' 'Roger,' 'Ten-four,' or 'Uh-huh.' Noncommittal responses such as 'Whatever,' 'Blah blah,' 'Yak-yak,' and 'Who cares?' will be taken to indicate a positive understanding, as will expletives, curses and profanities, though these, in themselves, may lead to further charges including, but not limited to, verbal violence and blasphemy.

  If you do not understand, you must indicate with the word 'No' or any official European linguistic or acceptable colloquial substitute, or sign language, or written alternative, or grunt in a negative manner, or shake your head briskly from side to side, or any combination of these techniques. If you are a dyslexic deaf mute with neck trauma, you may indicate incomprehension by pulling a very sad face.

  If you do not understand, and have indicated that lack of understanding by employing one of the officially acceptable methods described, you will be read this caution one further time. If, after this second reading you still do not understand, the arresting officer will read you an alternative, simplified warning. If you do not understand that, you may be compelled to undergo a battery of IQ tests in custody, which may be counted against you in a court of law.

  This caution is also available in Braille and Morse code.

  ALTERNATIVE, SIMPLIFIED CAUTION

  You do not have to say anything, but if you do not say anything, bad things will probably happen to you. You can ask for a lawyer, but some people might get mad at you if you do. Do you accept this simplified caution, or would you like me to read out the full version again?

  SEVENTEEN

  Zuccho seemed pleased to see me, but in all the wrong ways. I was none too delighted having him point his weapon at tonight's star prize, the mood he was clearly in. I put my hands up, all polite and everything, and smiled warmly to try and reduce the tension.

  'Captain Zuccho. Good to see you again.'

  'Yeah, I'll bet it is. I'll bet it's good to see me. I'll bet you'd like to come on over here and give me a warm embrace. I'll bet you'd like to kiss me. I'll bet you'd like to drop my trousers on the spot and dry-hump my butt hole with glee, you prick.'

  Good, he was getting calmer. 'You're arresting me?'

  'No. I flew over here all die way from Rome to bring you a Christmas card and a message of world peace from the blessed Father, His Holiness the Pope, you whore-sucking scumball.'

  'What's the charge?'

  'What isn't the charge? That would be quicker. What didn't you do, you filthy piece of dried dog crap? Let me see, let me see. You didn't try stealing the British Crown Jewels lately, as far as we know. But that's about it. That's about all you didn't do. I'm not going to throw the book at you, though. I'm going to take the book and force-feed you with it. I'm going to shove the book so far down your throat, you'll be getting newsprint on your toilet paper.'

  The fed behind me said: 'We can start with impersonating a federal officer.'

  What? Not possible. My credentials should have checked out better than bona fide. 'Obviously, there's been some mistake, here...'

  'Yes, there's been a mistake.' Zuccho's trigger finger was looking awfully trembly. 'Certainly there's been a mistake. Your first mistake was being born, you dumb punk. Your first mistake was crawling out of the abortion clinic trash can, where your hooker momma left you. Your second mistake was trying to play me for a cocksucker and thinking you could get away with it.'

  Zuccho was close to foaming. He was pretty het up, even by his own dismal standards. Still, he had just caught the plane from Rome to Paris, and we know what that can do, even to a normal, even-tempered, completely non cranky person. Such as me. Right?

  'Captain Zuccho,' the fed behind was sounding nervous, 'can we calm things down here?'

  Whoops. Whoops a doody.

  'You want me to calm down?' Zuccho was rumbling now.

  'It's not like the guy raped your cattle and stole your children.'

  'You think I should calm down?' He was about to erupt. I started edging backwards, subtly.

  'Just take it down a notch or two, that's all.'

  'Here!' Zuccho was almost screaming now. 'I'll calm things down! This should be calming for us all. How's this for calmmmmmmmm!?'

  He dropped into firing stance, drew a bead on my crotch and pulled the trigger.

  He pulled the trigger fifteen times.

  I know, I counted every last one of them.

  And though I jerked back at every pull, all that came out of the gun were fifteen empty clicking sounds.

  Zuccho just stayed there, motionless in his shooting crouch, breathing deep and heavy, his chest heaving, his forehead purple and throbbing.

  I didn't move, either, except to tilt my head slightly to check my valuables were still safely in my netherwear.

  The fed said, 'Shit.'

  Zuccho looked at his gun and chunked out the clip. 'You are one lucky son of a bitch, you son of a bitch. I must've forgotten to reload after this morning.'

  The fed stepped in front of me. Brave man. 'Captain Zuccho, maybe it would be a good idea if you waited in the car for us?'

  Zuccho stared. Slowly the red mist of ire began to fade from his eyes. He lowered his head and nodded. 'Yeah. Yeah, maybe that would be best.' He holstered his weapon. 'Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. I'll go wait in the car.' He turned, took a step, then stopped and turned back to face the fed. 'I'm going to offer you an apology for what just happened. You, not him.' He jerked a venomous little nod in my direction. 'Guess I got a little overly frisky, back there.'

  He nodded again, to himself, then turned back and slouched off towards the waiting cop car.

  We both watched him go, the fed and I, just in case he decided to reload and get a little overly frisky again.

  The fed shook his head. 'What is with that guy?'

  'He has anger management issues.'

  'He has shit for brains.'

  'That too.' I nodded. 'That too.'

  'He sure hates the crap out of you.'

  'Zuccho? No. Zuccho just hates the crap out of everybody.'

  The fed took out the laminated card, unfolded it, and read me my rights. I was looking over at the bar where I was supposed to meet Gina. It was just a little after eight, so she probably wouldn't be there, yet. I'd have been disappointed if she had. She was my perfect woman, right? And my perfect woman would never be ahead of time. My perfect woman would always keep me waiting, just a little. Just long enough to let me know she knew her value. And I'd always be waiting there patiently, with nary a cross word, to show her I knew it, too.

  I made the fed read me my rights again, then asked for the simplified version, and then asked for the whole thing all over again. I wasn't trying to cheese him off, I just wanted to make sure Zuccho had plenty of time to calm down.

  Even with the sirens on and Zuccho driving with a total disregard for the sanctity of human life, his or anyone else's, the trip downtown took a good forty minutes, which gave me a chance to wheedle a couple of things out of the fed in the back.

  'This is a big mistake, you know,' I told him.

  The fed nodded. 'So you said.'

  'You tried calling my superiors?'

  He nodded again. 'We made all the calls. Nobody ever heard of you, friend. Nobody ever heard of a Detective Harry Pepper. You're the original man who wasn't there.'

  That was bad. All my IDs are supported -- they have to be. Someone makes an enquiry on one of them, the enquiry gets rerouted, I get verified: I'm a valuable member of department whatever. Long-serving, diligent, all that. Somehow, my Harry Pepper identity had been deactivated without my knowledge. I didn't see how that could have happened.

  I thought I might try pulling myself out of this mess by claiming I'd been operating undercover in Rome, but I'd have a hard time corroborating the claim. I'd left my French IDs in the apartment. Ultimately, that was probably a good thing. Getting arrested with another couple of identities in my pockets could have
made things very complicated.

  'Somebody tip you off?' I tried.

  The fed just kept his lips tight.

  Zuccho bought it though. He turned his head round and grinned. 'Yeah. A little bird sang us a sweet song. You're such a nice guy, Pepper. All your friends love you. They love you like a rat loves poison.' A horn blared and Zuccho had to turn back to yank the wheel round and thereby handily avoid ploughing through a bus stop crammed with screaming teenagers.

  Well, I had a pretty good idea who'd set me up. But how? How did he get hold of my ID? I never let it out of my sight.

  Then it hit me.

  The ID had been out of my sight for a few minutes in Rome.

  The garbage patrolman.

  He wasn't looking after the garbage yard. He wasn't interested in my money. He'd just wanted to cold-cock me to get his hands on the details of my ID. But why? It didn't make sense. If that had been Klingferm's killer, he could have done away with me easy. He could have blasted my brains all over the trash bags there and then, and buried me under the fox poop. No one would have even come looking. He could have slit my throat, quiet like, while I was out cold, dreaming of cheese. He could have bundled me into a landfill bin bag and topped it up with faecal matter, ready for collection on Wednesday.

  But he didn't.

  He didn't do any of those things.

  And you have to wonder why.

  I was formally charged under the name of Harry Pepper: impersonating a federal officer, and stealing evidence from the scene of a crime -- the security tapes from the Martini building, it turns out. I didn't even bother denying it. My address was a problem. I didn't want to give away my Paris apartment -- those IDs were my lifeline, and I needed to keep them free from search warrant scrutiny. And I had to assume they didn't know I'd booked into the Ambassador as Harry Salt, so I couldn't give them the hotel, either. So I wound up having to give my address as 'no fixed abode', which is a real magistrate-pleaser. They took my prints, for all the good that would do them, and had me pose for some snapshots, which would be a problem down the line, if I ever got out of this mess.