Professor Slocombe shrugged. “Whatever can you mean?”
“I discovered this photograph amongst the debris of the Cider Island explosion. A rare coincidence, do you not think?”
“The science of coincidence has never been fully explained, formularized and understood. I have made a study of it for some years now. My conclusions, however, still remain open to personal interpretation.”
“Be that as it may, I feel that an in-depth interview with Mr Pooley down at the station might yield interesting facts.”
“A little uncharitable, don’t you think? He came forward upon his own volition to report this incident.”
“You phoned it in, I so recall.”
“At his prompting.”
“Hm.” Hovis took snuff from the tip of his cane. “If he has nothing to hide then he has nothing to fear.”
“Hm,” said Professor Slocombe. “History teaches us that this is not always the case. More sherry?”
“Yes indeed.” Hovis found his discarded glass and the Professor refilled it. “Something very odd is going on in Brentford,” he said, “and I am the man who will get to the bottom of it.”
“Of that I have no doubt, but tell me, Sherringford, what exactly brings you to the borough?”
“I am here following the course of my inquiries.”
“What else? But would you care to enlarge?”
Hovis pressed shut the french windows and leant upon them; he stared about the Professor’s study, the walls of books, the stuffed beasts, the thaumaturgical objects, the domed wax fruit and antique furniture. “It is a queer business,” said he, “and one which has cost me no small embarrassment.”
“I have no wish to pry.”
“I know this, but no matter. It is gold that has brought me here. The airport gold bullion robbery.”
“Yes, I read of it, a curious business. I had no idea that you were personally involved.”
“My name has stayed thankfully out of the papers, but I was responsible for the security of the entire operation. I was to supervise the loading of the gold at the Bank of England and then its unloading for freight at the airport.”
“And so what went wrong?”
“Herein lies the mystery. The bullion was loaded. I supervised this myself. Unmarked lorries delivered it to the airport. These were sealed into the high security compound for the night. When they were opened the next morning, again under my personal supervision, they were empty.”
“Ah,” said Professor Slocombe. “Of course a thousand questions spring immediately to mind.”
“And not without due cause. My head is on the block over this entire affair, I am being made the scapegoat. If I do not recover the gold then it is farewell Inspectre Hovis. The best I can hope for is to sell my memoirs to the Sunday press and retire with the loot to a bit of beekeeping on the Sussex downs.”
“It won’t be the first time, but it would be an ignominious end to a fine career. So tell me, Hovis, as I am sure you shall, what led you here to Brentford?”
“Logic, Professor, what else? The gold went on to the lorries and the gold was not upon them when they were reopened. I have examined all possibilities. The gold could not have been removed whilst the lorries were in the airport compound. The sheer mechanics of such an operation preclude it. To penetrate the security, unload the bullion, move it out, such is an impossibility.”
“Not an impossibility, but I follow your reasoning.”
“Then follow it to the logical conclusion, if the gold was not removed at the airport then it must have been done so somewhere along the way.”
“The thought had already crossed my mind. So did the lorries make an unscheduled stop en route?”
“They did,” said Hovis, “right here in Brentford. I will not go into the details, the thing has been an almighty balls-up, the lorries were left unattended for more than an hour.”
“Oh dear,” said the Professor. “But surely, even if this was the case you would have no reason to believe that the gold is still here. It could be anywhere.”
“Oh, it’s here all right, Professor, I know it.”
“And how do you know? Intuition? The reliability of this faculty, if faculty it proves to be, remains uncertain.”
“I hear whispers.” Inspectre Hovis tapped at his nose in a significant fashion. “The gold is here all right, the entire invidious operation stemmed from here, the heart of it all is here. It is here and I shall find it.”
“As indeed you must. You have your constables scouring the area day and night, I trust.”
Hovis shook his head. “Perish the thought. There is sufficient going on here without complicating matters further. A hoard of flat-footed bobbies turning out every lock-up garage in the area or giving the local padre the dawn call is the last thing I want. No, I’ve got them all on traffic duty and litter patrol. I will go this one alone.”
“But you are out-borough,” said Professor Slocombe. “I mean, well, you will find it hard going on your own.”
“I have enlisted the help of several locals, who, shall we say, owe me a favour or two. I am not completely on my own. Thus, I regret that for now, last night’s incident must be left to hang in the files. Should further evidence, in the shape of bodies, appear, then the matter will be dealt with accordingly. Other than for that I have no further wish to know what is going on around here.” Hovis held up his hand towards the Professor, whose face now expressed outrage. “I am sorry, but there it is. I have spoken to you in confidence and I trust that you will respect same. The matter is for now closed. There will be no further word of it spoken. Do I make myself clear?”
“You are making a very grave mistake, Hovis.”
“Be that as it may, I have leads to be followed, a skein to be untangled, I must be gone. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” said the Professor, “and good luck, for you will surely need it.”
27
Further days did as one might expect them to and the weeks began to pass. The media were playing something of a waiting game. Regular reports were issued as to the progress of the stadium’s construction, and certainly the sheer scale of the operation and its unique nature made everything newsworthy. But the Birmingham débâcle and the sheer eccentricity of the Brentford project had the newsmen hedging their bets.
The work progressed nightly and more and more pre-constructed sections were pressed into place, but the greatest wonder of all was that none of the stadium was actually visible come morning. A thin and hazy line delineated its expanding borders but the solar cells and the ingenious system of sub-stadia optics projected daylight on to the borough and laid an all but perfect camouflage. But the eyes of the world were upon it, or at least upon what little they could see of it. Reporters prowled the borough seeking a twist or a turn that might be moulded into an exclusive. But they got little in return for their pains. Through motives entirely unconnected both Ms Jennifer Naylor and Inspectre Sherringford Hovis saw to that.
At a little before ten-thirty on a particular Thursday morning John Omally strolled into the Flying Swan. The terrors of the night on Griffin Island were pressed far to the back of his mercurial mind; his thoughts were now, as ever, fixed upon the main chance. As such he was singularly unprepared for the horror which now met his naked gaze.
At the end of the bar-counter Neville stood glowering, his teeth and hands painfully clenched and the cause of his consternation all too apparent. In the centre of the saloon bar perched upon a bar stool sat Young Master Robert, demon spawn of the master brewer. About him moved his evil catspaws, coldly and efficiently tearing the living heart from the grand old watering hole.
Omally caught at his breath, his head swam and his eyes bulged painfully from their sockets. He had known many shocks and traumas during the course of his eventful life, but this, this was torment to the very soul. Nightmare become reality.
“Away,” quoth the Young Master, gesturing to the line of Britannia pub tables, which, it had been previously assumed, nothing
less than the long awaited nuclear holocaust event would have been capable of shifting. “Out with the old and in with the new.” A menial dragged away one of the antique tables exposing four bright discs of carpet which hadn’t seen daylight for one hundred years. “To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump,” sang the boy wonder in a ghastly parody of the Lone Ranger’s famous theme.
Omally staggered over to Neville. The part-time barman stared through him, his good eye ticcing violently. “Neville,” gasped Omally, “Neville, do something!”
The part-time barman’s eye finally focused upon a friend. “John,” he whispered, “John, do something.”
“Bin the chairs,” cried Young Master Robert unfolding an enormous set of plans across his bony knees. “I want a line of chrome bar-stools over there. Where are the video machines?”
“Video machines?” Neville gripped the bar-counter for support. He was fast approaching “wipe-out”.
Omally glanced about in desperation, searching his brain for a solution. Kill them all, said his cerebellum, spare not even their children lest the evil persist. “Shotgun,” ordered Omally, “where is the shooter, Neville?”
“No guns,” stuttered the banjoed barman, “no killing in my pub, John, anything else, do something, anything.”
“Get the dartboard down,” crowed the young vandal, “Bin it.”
“Kill them all!” shouted Neville. “Spare not even their children lest the evil persist!”
There were five brewery menials, big fellows to a man. John considered that he could bring down at least two of them, possibly three if luck was on his side, but as a long-term solution to any problem, violence had only so much going for it and no more. There had to be another way and one that did not endanger life and limb. “Leave this to me,” said Omally, straightening his dicky bow.
“What are you going to do?”
Omally looked long and hard into the face of Neville. It was a face he had known for nearly twenty years, through long and short and thick and thin, but it had never looked like this before. The barman’s expression spelt defeat. His face said “beaten”. John patted the good man upon the shoulder. “Chin up,” he said, “Just leave it to me, I’ll sort it out.”
The barman’s mouth said “thank you” but no words came from it.
Omally straightened his shoulders and strode across the bar towards the Young Master. He owed Neville, every regular in the Swan owed Neville. In Brentford Neville was respected and in a manner which had no side to it he was loved also. No-one, no matter for the what, which or why, should be allowed to do this to him.
Omally strode across the bar this day a titan, an avenging angel, a Knight Templar. He didn’t have an idea in his head.
“What do you want?” asked the Young Master, when John was near enough to make his presence felt.
“I … er, whatchadoing?” asked Omally.
“I would have thought that was clear enough.”
John looked about, as if seeing the carnage for the first time. “Oh,” said he, “redecorating, is it?”
Young Master Robert ignored him and returned to his plan. Yokel, he thought.
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” said John Omally, holding up a corner of the plan. “You’ve got it upside down,” he added helpfully.
“I know what I’m doing, kindly clear off.”
John thrust his unwanted hands into his pockets. “It’s a brilliant concept, ideas-wise,” he said thoughtfully.
The Young Master eyed him over the plan. “You approve?” he said with suspicion.
“Oh yes,” lied Omally, peering at the plan with a knowing eye and convincing enthusiasm. “I see that the wall-bars are going to divide the saloon bar from the public; where do you propose to put the Nautilus machine?”
“Right here.” The Young Master pointed appropriately, watching for Omally’s response.
“Across the entrance to the gents, shrewd,” said John, “Very shrewd.”
“You think so?”
“Indeed yes, the punters will literally have to work out on the machine to get to the gents, work up a thirst, eh?”
“That’s what I thought,” said Young Master Robert, though he hadn’t until now.
“This kind of theme bar is definitely the bar of tomorrow,” John continued. “I was only chatting with Lucas about it the other day.”
“Lucas?” queried the Young Master.
“Lucas Mucus,” said John, “of Membrane, Mucus, Willoby, Turncoat and Gladbetook. Covent Garden,” he tapped his nose, “one of the big five, need I say more?”
“Oh, that Lucas…”
“Which other? Surely you know him?”
“Slightly,” said Young Master Robert. “You know him well then?”
“Like a brother. We did visual design, marketing management, advanced concept realization, audio and televisual of course “Oh, of course.” Robert’s head nodded foolishly.
“Consumer response-objectivity and mass-media inter-inductional transmogrification at the Slade.” Omally studied the Young Master’s face for signs that he had been rumbled.
“Go on?” said the buffoon, very much impressed.
John did so, with growing confidence. “Surely I see the hand of Lucas at work here?” he said, gesturing grandiloquently.
“No, no, this is all my own work.”
“Brilliant,” said John, “I am very impressed. So how did you get wind of it then, a bit of industrial espionage, eh?” He pulled at his lower eyelid in a lewd manner.
“Sorry?” said Young Master Robert. “I don’t think I follow you.”
Omally nudged the hoodlum confidentially in the rib area. “Come on,” said he, “you’re not telling me this is a coincidence?”
“Coincidence? What are you talking about?” John studied his toecaps. Without the Young Master’s prompting, work in the Swan had ceased and the menials were standing about like run-down clockwork automatons. So far so good, thought Omally. “Out with it,” demanded the Young Master. “What are you talking about?”
Omally beckoned conspiratorially and put his arm about the brat’s rounded shoulder. “All this,” said he, “you sly dog, you got wind, eh?” He tapped his nose with his free hand.
“Got wind?”
“Certainly, got wind that the brewery’s rivals were about to convert all their pubs into theme bars of a similar ilk.”
“They what?” Young Master Robert toppled backwards from his stool. Omally considered stopping him, but the thought passed on almost as soon as it had been born. He helped the boy up from the floor.
“Now don’t come the innocent,” he said. “Lucas told me that his company were engaged in converting the Four Horsemen, the North Star, the Jolly Alchemist, the Hands of Orloff, the Shrunken Head, the …”
“I… stop! Wait!” Young Master Robert flapped his hands at the menials who were doing nothing anyway. “All the other pubs?” he asked Omally. “All of them?”
“Every other local,” said that man, crossing his heart and hoping not to die in the process.
“Shit,” said Young Master Robert. “Oh shit, shit, shit!”
“Oh no,” said Omally, striking his forehead, “now I see it all.”
“You do? You do?”
“Of course, what a fool I am!”
“You are?”
“I am,” said Omally, who was anything but. “They’ve stolen the idea from you, of course, it all makes sense now. One of them was in here a few nights back. Neville must have let the cat out of the bag.”
“You bastard.” The boy turned upon the part-time barman, who stood alone in silent prayer.
“Pardon?” said Neville. “I what?”
“No, no,” said John, “it’s not his fault, he was only blowing the brewery’s trumpet. You never told him it was a secret. Professional pride got the better of him. That man worships you.”
Robert looked from Omally to the part-time barman and back again. For one terrible moment John tho
ught the game was up. “He does what?”
“Not a man to show his feelings,” said John hurriedly. “There’s a way out of this though, I’m sure there is.”
“Think, man, think.”
Omally sought inspiration amongst the bumblies upon the Swan’s nicotined ceiling. “I have a plan,” said he, suddenly. “It is an old trick but it might just work.”
“Tell me… tell me.”
Half an hour later Neville stood alone in the Flying Swan, it was just as it had ever been, same threadbare carpet, same tables, same chairs, same dartboard, same everything.
Omally stood in the doorway waving goodbye. “Don’t mention it,” he called, “any time.” The door swung shut upon the sound of Young Master Robert’s departing BMW.
“How?” said the part-time barman. “How did you do it?”
Omally turned to his esteemed employer, the look upon Neville’s face was one John would forever cherish. “Psychology, ” said the great man of Eire, “and a small white lie or two.”
“Have a drink,” said Neville, making for the whisky optic, “have two, have three if you like.”
“Not when I’m working, sir,” said John in a voice of mock sincerity.
Neville drew off a couple of large stiff ones. “Sit down and tell me,” he said. “Every last little bit.”
“There’s not much to it,” said John sipping Scotch. “I simply told him that to my knowledge the rival brewery were converting all their pubs into Olympic theme bars and that to really clean up, with the big influx of Yanks, the best thing to do was to retain the Swan’s ‘Olde Worlde’ atmosphere. An island of unspoilt old England in a sea of pseudo-Americana was the phrase I used. Quite a nice one I thought. Seemed to do the trick rather well.”
“You are a genius,” said Neville. “But what when he finds out that it’s all lies, when the other pubs don’t do the conversions?”
“I took the liberty of telling him that the other pubs were not going to be converted until the day before the games begin, so when he does find out it will be too late anyway.”
Neville looked thoughtful. “But when he does find out…” His voiced trailed off.
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