Waiting for Godalming (5 page)

Jim had always had a love for original art. His taste was for certain living artists who produced the kind of abstract stuff that most people wouldn’t give you a thank you for, but Jim adored it and wanted to own a collection.

So what Jim did was to take a short lease on a shop premises in Mayfair and open it up as a very prestigious art gallery. He then contacted the various artists for whose work he had his taste and asked them whether they’d care to exhibit. Unlike other art galleries, he would waive the 40 per cent commission on this occasion and allow the artists to keep all the money their paintings sold for. It would be good for the reputation of his gallery, he told them. A one-off event.

Well, you’d be surprised what greedy blighters some artists can be. The ones who said yes to Jim put a really high value on the pieces they exhibited.

Jim insured the lot.

Not that he expected the insurance company to actually pay up. But he felt that it was nice to have the documentation of the art works’ values, in case he ever chose to sell the pieces on in the future.

The night before the exhibition — which had been widely advertised in the arts media — was to open, Jim went round to the gallery with another hired van, opened it up with his keys, took down all the canvases and removed them to a place that was far far away.

Spain probably.

You might well know of Jim’s final great crime, although it is doubtful that you will have known it for the thing it really is until now. It was a logical progression, though. A matter of seeing potential.

Having graduated from bogus post box to bogus telephone box to bogus AA pickup truck to bogus Securicor van to bogus police van to bogus art gallery, it was natural that Jim would progress to a bogus organization into which millions and millions of pounds might readily pour, week in week out, without anyone ever seeing it for the thing it really was.

So he did.

You probably do know of it.

It’s called the National Lottery.

Allegedly.

But let us return now to Icarus Smith, who is about to have a little action. A great deal of action, as it happens.

But no.

Wait.

Let us not return to Icarus just yet. Let us return instead to Lazlo Woodbine, which is to say, the world’s greatest private eye. Because Laz is about to meet up with an old companion, a very important companion, and that companion is about to impart certain information to Laz which is of major importance to our tale. Information which will change the direction of Lazlo Woodbine’s investigations, and indeed the world, for ever.

We left Laz falling into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion that all great genre detectives always fall into after they’ve been bopped on the head by the dame who does them wrong, or, as in this case, the fat boy barman. So let us join Laz as he regains consciousness.

Over to you, Mr Woodbine, sir.

I awoke from a dream about a doctor’s office and clutched at a dented skull.

“Tongues of the jumping head,” I said. “That hurts more than a broke-dick dog on the rocky road to ruin.”

I didn’t trouble myself with the old “What happened?” or the even older “Where am I?” That stuff’s strictly for the cheap seats; you’re in the dress circle here.

I blinked my baby blues, choked away a manly tear, cast aside all thoughts of pain and even those of taking up a hobby (such as playing Kick butt west of the Pennines, without the aces wild), and copped a glance at my present surroundings.

I lay, sprawled handsomely, though a tad dishevelled, upon a carpet. But it was a carpet of such an unspeakable nature that no words could naturally speak of it. This carpet was spread on the floor of a room which was long and low and loathsome. There was a ghastly hatstand, rising like a gallows tree. A water cooler of evil aspect, dripping poison from its crusted chromium spout. A filing cabinet, coffin black, which surely rotten corpses held. A desk, dark foreboding, and a chair of surly misdemeanour. Above me turned a ceiling fan, its blades slowly cleaving the rank air. Its motion conjured dire thoughts of the pendulum in the tale by Edgar Allan Poe and chilled my soul and placed an icy hand upon my heart.

“What foul and evil den is this?” I cried. “What fetid wretched chamber of despair? Oh, what has it come to, that I should find myself in such a dismal place? What vile crimes have I committed, that I should be cast into this dungeon of hopelessness? This sordid, filthy—”

“Get a grip, chief. You’re back in your office.”

“Aaagh!” cried I. “The evil one himself speaks inside my head. The father of lies. The spawn of the pit. I am possessed.
I am possessed
.”

“Turn it in, you twat, it’s me, Barry.”

“Barry?”

“Barry, chief. Your Holy Guardian Sprout. The cute little green guy who sits in your head and keeps you on the straight and narrow. The little voice that speaks to you and only you can hear. Your bestest friend, who helps you solve your cases. Your little gift from God’s garden.”

“Ah,” said I. “
That
Barry.”

“That would be the kiddy, chief.”

“Yeah. Well, I knew it was you all the time.
And
I knew it was my office. I just thought I’d add a bit of atmosphere and excitement. And demonstrate my skills with the old Gothic prose.”

“Best stick to what you do best, eh, chief?”

“Being the best private eye in the business?”

“That would be the kiddy, chief. You wish.”

“I didn’t catch that last bit, Barry.”

“I said that would be the kiddy, chief, you’re bliss.”

“Thanks, Barry.”

I lifted myself into the vertical plane with more dignity than a belted earl at a defecophiliacs’ disco. Made my way across my office with more style and suavity than a dandy in the underground and sat myself down on my chair with more polished aplomb than a plump pink plumber from Plympton.
[7]
And with a certain amount of care in comfying up the cushion, as my piles were playing me havoc at the time.

Before me, on my desk, I spied my snap-brimmed fedora and my trusty Smith and Wes Craven.

“My hat, my gun,” said I with some degree of amazement.

“Say ‘Thank you Barry’,” said Barry.

“Eh?”

“Say ‘Thank you Barry for putting thoughts in a couple of heads and getting my hat and gun back so I can set out once more on a case without looking like a hatless, gunless, gormless git.’”

“There’s no bullets in this gun,” said I, examining same with my eagle eye. “I had at least two bullets left, I’m sure. I remember shooting that black guy in the alley who asked if I wanted to buy the
Big Issue
. And I put two in the head of that fat woman, because she was taking up too much space in Fangio’s and I’ve never seen the point of fat people. And one in the kid with the lollipop, because I can’t be having with dogs and children either. And …”

“‘Thank you, Barry’ not a happening thing at the moment, then, chief?”

“Yeah, sure, Barry, thank you. But like I was saying, I’m certain I should have had at least two bullets left. And bullets don’t grow on trees, Barry. Bullets cost bucks.”

“You ungrateful schmuck.”

“What did you say, Barry?”

“I said you’re a wonderful buck, chief.”

“Yeah, I guess that I am.” And guessed that I was. That’s one of the things that I liked about Barry. He recognized greatness. “So, little green buddy,” I said. “What have you been up to? You weren’t with me in Fangio’s when I got bopped on the head.”

“I always like to miss that part, chief. Rattles me all about inside this empty skull.”

“So where have you been?”

“Been up in Heaven, chief. We Holy Guardians have to check in every week. Put in our expense chitties. Write out our reports. Get a bit of fertilizer rubbed into our leaves by a bra-less Charlie Dimmock lookalike with five-star bottom cleavage. But it’s mostly paperwork. You know how it is.”

“I do,” said I and I did. “So how are things, topside, amongst the choirs celestial? God keeping well, is He?”

“Well, that’s the thing, chief. Actually things aren’t exactly hunky-dory in Heaven at the moment. God’s gone missing again and His wife’s getting pretty upset.”

“God’s
wife
? I didn’t know that God had a wife.” And I didn’t. I knew that every dog had its day and that a trouble shared was a trouble halved and I even knew that if you take two mobile phones, call one of them with the other, then place the two of them ten inches apart on a table with a raw egg between them, the egg will be cooked in less than twenty minutes.
[8]
But I never knew that God had a wife.

“Does He?” I asked Barry.

“Does He what? Own a mobile phone?”

“No. Does God really have a wife?”

“Of course He does, chief. A wife and three kids.”

“
Three
kids?”

“Only one by marriage. The other two, well, you know the story.”

“I don’t,” said I, because in truth, I didn’t.

“Wake up, chief, you do know the story. Little baby, born in a manger, three wise camel jockeys coming over the desert, nice Christmas presents but a really rotten Easter.”

“OK, yeah.” I dug into my desk drawer and brought out a bottle of Old Bedwetter Bluegrass Bourbon. The taste of the South that makes any day a Mardi Gras. I always like to take a slug of Old Bedwetter at times like these. It adds that certain something that you just don’t get from other sippin’ liquors. No siree. By golly.

“Don’t start
that
!” said Barry.

“Start what?” said I.

“Endorsing products.”

“Sssh,” said I. “I never was.”

“You lying git.”

“Barry,” I whispered. “There’s a fortune to be made by endorsing products. It’s a market that’s never been exploited by private eyes. I’m sitting on a gold mine here.”

“I thought you were sitting on your piles. So where was I?”

“You were telling me about God’s wife and His
three
kids.”

“Oh yeah. Well, you know about Jesus. He’s pretty famous. But what you didn’t know was that he had a twin sister called Christene. But she got edited out of the New Testament because God gave Jesus overall artistic control and the full translation rights. Favourite son and all that, you know how it goes.”

“Yeah, OK, Barry, I get the picture.”

“But not the Big Picture, chief. Everyone knows that Mary was the mother of Jesus. Although they don’t know about Christene. But there’s not many who know that God already had a wife and just how peeved she was when she discovered that God was having a bit on the side and had got His girlfriend up the duff.”

“Hoots a crimbo!” I clapped my hands right over my lug-holes. “Put a sock in it, Barry, that’s big time blasphemy.”

“It’s no secret in Heaven, chief. But God eventually managed to smooth things over with His missus. He can be a real charmer when He wants to be. And one thing led to another and the other thing led to the bedroom and Colin was born.”

“Colin?”

“The third child of God. Born within wedlock this time. But he’s a bad lot, that Colin, chief. I hate to speak ill of the governor’s son, but that Colin. Phtah!”

“Phtah?”

“That was the sound of me spitting, chief.”

“What? Inside my head? You …”

“Don’t get yourself in a lather. It’s only a bit of vegetable phlegm. But anyhow, God’s gone missing and His wife is in a right state. She reckons He’s down on Earth again, getting up to hanky-panky. He has this thing about Jewish virgins, you see, and—”

“Enough!” I gave my head a clout.

“Ouch!” went Barry.

And “Ouch!” I went too. “But turn it in, will ya? You’ll bring down the wrath of God on the both of us.”

“I didn’t have you down as being pious, chief. I thought you always said you were an atheist.”

“What? With
you
in my head?”

“I thought your psychiatrist told you that I was a delusion and that you were suffering from multiple-personality disorder and that the voice you heard in your head had been caused by some tragedy that had happened in your youth, which, allied to your drink problem and your broken marriage and your need to reach out to your feminine side and—”

“All right! All right! All right! I
do
believe in you. OK, I’ve said it now. Are you satisfied?”

“Always a pleasure, ever a joy.”

I took another slug of Old Bedwetter and lit up a Camel. I always smoke a Camel on occasions like this. The rich mellow taste of the fine Virginia tobacco gives me that special satisfaction which you just don’t find with other smokes.

“I can hardly wait till you put on your pile ointment, chief.”

“Yeah, right. But I can’t chitchat with you all day, Barry. I have a thousand big ones up front and a case that needs solving.”

“Forget that, chief. This is
really
big. God’s gone missing. Don’t you hear what I’m saying?”

“Sure I do, Barry. But if God’s got the hots for some piece of kosher tail, that’s hardly my business. God knows His own business best.”

“No, chief, you’re missing the point. If God doesn’t get back on the job, there’s no telling what might happen to the world.”

“But I thought you were implying that God
was
on the job, which is why His wife’s so upset. Haw haw haw.”

“Chief, pay attention. If God isn’t up in Heaven, managing things down here, then things down here are going to get hairier than a prize-winning pooch in a hirsute hound competition.”

“Ease up there. But I don’t get you, Barry. What do you mean about God managing things down here? Everybody knows that God doesn’t exactly have a hands-on approach to running the planet. God gave man free will. He doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t take sides. God’s neutral. Like Switzerland.”

“That’s what God would have you believe. But it isn’t so. God has always taken an active part throughout the course of human history.”

“You mean by inspiring people? Like poets and painters? Like prophets and priests?”

“No, chief. They’re all just nutcases. God never actually speaks to anybody, but He has shaped human history. And would you like to know how?”

“I would,” I said, and I would and I did.

“The weather, chief. God controls the weather.”

“Oh,” said I, and “does He?”

“Yes He does. Think about it. The entire colonization of the world depended on which way the wind blew and there are heaps of battles that were won or lost according to the weather. The Spanish Armada blasted away in a storm. Hitler expecting a mild winter in Russia. Rain stopping play each time England get near to winning back the Ashes. Everything in human history has ultimately been governed by the weather.”

“Well, I never knew that.”

“Of course you didn’t. But think about this. The only things you can’t insure against are acts of God. And that’s floods, lightning and earthquakes and all that palaver. And that’s God sticking His oar in.”

“You live and learn,” said I.

“Well, some of us do.”

“What’s that, Barry?”

“Nothing, chief. But what I’m saying is that God manages the weather and the weather manages human affairs and human history.”

“So what exactly
does
God have against the Ethiopians?”

“I think they nicked the Ark of the Covenant. God does have a very long memory. You never heard of a Jewish saint, did you?”

“No,” said I, “I did not. But what has all this got to do with me?”

“Wakey-wakey, chief. God’s gone missing. His wife wants Him found.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That very much depends on what it is you think I’m saying.”

“Me?” I said. “You want
me
to find God?”

“God’s wife wants you to find God. Someone told her that you were the best in the business.”

“
Someone?
Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you think I’m saying that it was me—”

“Barry, I love you.”

“—then you’re wrong, chief.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, chief. Not a thing.”

“Me!” I upped right out of my chair, skipped the light fandango and turned cartwheels ’cross the floor.

“Whoa! Don’t do that, chief! Agh! Eeek! Ooh!”

“Sorry, Barry.” I fell into a perfect splits position before back-flipping over my desk to land once more upon my chair. There to turn a whiter shade of pale.

“The piles, chief?”

“Urgh!”

I sat upon an ice pack and pondered my position. I was being called in to
find
God. This
was
the Big One. This was
The Case
. Every great detective dreams of
The Case
. And this had to be it.

“Barry,” said I, with more seriousness than a Sudanese soothsayer, “this is the Big One, but I have a problem here.”

“You could strap the ice pack into your underpants.”

“Not that kind of problem. I’m already engaged on a case. I’ve taken the thousand big ones up front. And although these are now only small ones, compared to the Big One, I can’t just quit the case.”