The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (17 page)

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.

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.

‘Do 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.

‘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.’

The reconstructed saloon bar door opened to admit the passage of Paul. He strolled over to Jonny and leaned upon the bar counter. ‘I love all the plastic sheeting,’ said Paul. ‘It looks as if Christo has turned this pub into an installation.’

‘Any luck?’ Jonny asked.

‘Regarding what?’

‘You know
exactly
what. What I whispered to you about when Inspector Westlake told me to leave the pub.’

‘Following the body?’ said Paul.

‘That’s what I asked you to do. And to find out what the pathologist said.’

‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘And it could well have put my job at risk.’

‘Paul,’ said Jonny, ‘I never knew exactly why you decided to join the police force.’

‘For the uniform and the violence,’ said Paul. ‘Same as everyone else.’

‘Perhaps. But I do not see you as a copper, as it were. You are a musician. You
know
you are.’

‘You’re right.’ Paul took off his helmet and placed it on the bar counter. As he did so, Jonny noticed that the interior of Paul’s helmet was
not
lined with tinfoil. Jonny straightened
his
headwear. He had no intention of taking that off.

‘You are right,’ Paul continued. ‘I joined for the uniform, but it turned out to be dark blue, not black. I’d always thought they were black. Even the body armour is dark blue. Apparently you have to be in Special Ops to get a black uniform. And as for the violence – it’s like sex.’

‘Not the kind of sex I usually have,’ said Jonny.

‘You usually have
no
sex,’ said Paul. ‘But what I mean is that sex is great. I love sex, but sex every day?’

Jonny sighed.

Mr Giggles sighed.

‘
Every
day,’ said Paul. ‘You get tired of it. You really do. It’s not a treat any more. After a few weeks of laying into Joe Public with my extendible truncheon the novelty began to wear off.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear it,’ said Jonny. Who wasn’t.

‘So you augment it with a bit of torture down in the cells. Or “interrogation”, as I believe it’s otherwise called. But eventually you get bored with that. So then you’re into your vigilante Mad Cop Street Justice scenarios – arresting drug lords, taking them into the woods and executing them, that kind of thing. But then that pales and what are you into then?’

‘Cannibalism?’ said Jonny.

‘Exactly. But soon you find yourself getting bored with that, so—’

‘Stop,’ said Jonny. ‘Please stop.’

‘Exactly,’ said Paul. ‘So I’m thinking of stopping being a policeman.
I thought perhaps I’d become a doctor, or something.’

‘A doctor,’ said Jonny. Without enthusiasm.

‘Well, I expect you’d get the chance to perform radical new procedures and insane medical experiments on people. Once you’d got bored with taking out appendixes, of course.’

‘Did you follow the body?’ Jonny asked.

‘To the morgue? I certainly did.’

‘And?’ said Jonny.

‘I listened at the door. Then later I slipped in and nicked stuff.’

‘Top man,’ said Jonny. ‘What did you nick?’

‘A ham sandwich,’ said Paul, ‘and a Thermos flask. I haven’t opened that yet, so I don’t know what’s inside. But it’s at least half-full.’

Jonny Hooker gave Paul a certain look.

‘Don’t ever look at me like that again,’ said Paul, ‘or I will be forced to forget the long years of our friendship and experiment on you with a really horrible-looking piece of medical kit that I also nicked.’

Jonny Hooker sighed.

‘All right,’ said Paul. ‘I listened and this is what I heard.’

And Paul related unto Jonny all that he had overheard of the conversation between Inspector Westlake and the pathologist. All that stuff about mummified bodies, antique clothing and the fingerprints matching and everything.

‘About those fingerprints,’ said Jonny. ‘Did they say whose fingerprints they were?’

‘Not on file, apparently. And they did a DNA test. Did you know that everyone’s DNA is put on file when they’re born? With or without their parents consent. It’s been going on for the last twenty years.’
^*

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ Jonny said. ‘But no match, I assume?’

Paul shook his head and, with his helmet now off, got his long hair trailing in Jonny’s beer. ‘Which reminds me,’ said Paul, removing his hair and wringing it out, ‘buy me a beer.’

‘Did you bring me anything?’ Jonny said. ‘Apart from sandwiches and a Thermos flask?’

‘They’re not for you. But I did nick this.’ Paul drew out one of those plastic evidence bags with the sealy-up tops. ‘Contents of the pockets of the deceased.’

‘Splendid,’ said Jonny and he unsealed the sealy-up bit and tipped the contents onto the bar counter.

‘Beer?’ said Paul.

Jonny hailed O’Fagin.

‘A pint of King Billy for Paul,’ said Jonny.

‘Excellent,’ said O’Fagin. ‘And many thanks to you, Paul, for your generous contribution to tonight’s fundraiser.’

Paul opened his mouth to reply.

But Jonny stopped him.

O’Fagin pulled Paul’s pint. ‘Weird old couple over there,’ he said as he pulled, throwing in a small shoulder shrug in the appropriate direction. ‘Chap with aristocrartic bearing and a long, black beard and some spaced-out redhead with long rubber gloves on. They smell like an old dog basket and talk like characters out of a
Carry On
movie.’

‘Which one?’ Paul asked.

Jonny shook his head. ‘Silly boy,’ he said.

‘Well,’ said O’Fagin, ‘now that you ask – what was the one that had that bloke in it?’

‘I liked that one,’ said Paul. ‘But wasn’t that bloke in two of them?’

Jonny Hooker ignored the coming conversation and examined the items that lay upon the bar counter. A lace handkerchief with the initials ‘S. G.’ embroidered upon it. A horn snuffbox, its lid inlaid with the same initials in silver. Jonny opened the snuffbox and took a little sniff. Then sneezed all over Paul.

‘Pardon me,’ said Jonny.

There were a number of coins – a silver sovereign, some pennies and halfpennies. All looked new, but all dated from the seventeen eighties. Jonny pocketed these coins. There was a wad of what appeared to be some kind of sweetmeat, wrapped in waxy paper. And a brass something or other.

Jonny examined this something or other.

It looked a bit like a miniature flute. A slim brass cylinder with a hole at one end and a kind of flattened mouthpiece at the other
with a narrow slit above it, or
below
it, depending upon which way up you held it.

Jonny held it with the narrow slit upwards, put the mouthpiece to his lips and gave it a little blow.

No sound issued from the slim brass tube. Jonny blew once more and once more no sound came. Jonny took a really deep breath and gave a really big blow.

And every optic behind the bar counter, and every empty glass stacked and racked upon stacker and racker and every single window that had escaped the assault of the Paddy Wagon—

Exploded.

‘Wah!’ went O’Fagin, ducking and cursing and spitting and effing and blinding.

Paul looked towards Jonny Hooker.

Jonny Hooker shrugged and went off to the toilet.

Inspector Westlake returned from the toilet. The toilet at the police station. He returned to his office. Returned to his office, locked the door, sat himself down at his desk.

Inspector Westlake had one of those sealy-up-topped evidence bags. His had papers in it. Papers that had been taken from the pocket of a frocked eighteenth-century coat that clothed a mummified body. The one in the wall-cabinet jobbie. The one with the Jonny Hooker toe tag.

Inspector Westlake spread the papers before him on his desk. And examined them through an overlarge magnifying glass.

‘Tiny, tiny writing,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Although … ’ He held the paper up to the light. ‘The watermark is clear as clear, as if the paper is brand-new. But it’s dated seventeen ninety. Curious indeed.’ He further examined and ‘hmmmed’ and ‘indeeded’ as he did so. ‘A musical score,’ he said. ‘Complete notation for a single instrument. What, though? Ah, an organ, by the look of it. And the libretto. But surely not a song as such. These words do not scan. It is more as if the music underscores a spoken text. Ah, spoken by several different speakers, according to the notation. I see. I see.’

And Inspector Westlake read the text aloud.

And then he read the text aloud again.

And then Inspector Westlake cried, ‘No. No. This must not be.
This must not come to pass. Oh no, such evil, such evil.’

And for a moment his voice cracked and tears welled up in his eyes.

And then he cried, ‘No! The End of the World. The Apocalypse! Oh no!’