The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (14 page)

‘Da-da-de-da-da,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘Da-da-de-da-da,’ said Jonny.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Jonny Hooker. ‘Oh my goodness me.’

Mr Giggles peered over his shoulder. Jonny could smell his breath.

Jonny slammed the laptop shut. ‘Best put this somewhere safe,’ said Jonny.

‘The pond?’ said Mr Giggles. Jonny shook his head.

‘So what did you see? What did you see?’ Mr Giggles bobbed up and down.

Jonny Hooker ignored him.

‘Come on, Jonny,’ crooned the Monkey Boy. ‘You have no secrets from me.’

‘No secrets?’

Jonny was having a moment. One of
those
moments. Those moments that you sometimes, although
rarely
, have, when all sorts of things seem to fall into place. Everything appears to make sense. All becomes clear. And things of that nature, generally. Jonny was having one of
those
moments. And he wasn’t on drugs or anything.

The image he’d seen on the screen, the breath upon his neck: the two had triggered the one of those moments.

Jonny Hooker arose. ‘On second thoughts,’ said Jonny, ‘I think it would be best if I were to keep this laptop safe.’ He opened his ranger’s jacket and viewed the big poacher’s pocket. Park rangers’ jackets always have big poachers’ pockets. It’s so they can carry the rabbits and suchlike that they catch in their snares. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

‘So what did you see?’ asked Mr Giggles. ‘Come on, I won’t tell anyone.’

‘That’s a new approach,’ said Jonny. ‘I will tell you one thing that’s on there, top of the alphabetical list: “Apocalypse Blues” by
Robert Johnson. Someone might have nicked the original recording from James Crawford’s collection, but obviously not before he was able to put it on his laptop.’

‘Jonny, you’re not—’

‘Thinking to play it? Listen to find our whether it really does have the Devil’s laughter at the end?’

‘Don’t do it, Jonny. I’m begging you not to.’

‘Begging me?’ said Jonny.

‘You’ll die if you hear it.’

‘And you really believe that?’

‘I do, I really do.’

‘I wonder,’ said Jonny.

‘You will die,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You
will
die, you will.’

‘But why should I believe you?’ Jonny asked.

‘Because I’m telling the truth and I don’t want you to die.’

‘Because if
I
die,
you
die.’

‘And that, yes.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Jonny.

‘No, we will
not
see. Throw the laptop in the pond. Do it for your own good.’

‘You do sound very definite about this.’

‘I do,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Listen, if I tell you something, a secret something, will you promise me that you won’t play the record?’

Jonny thought about this proposition. And it was such a lovely day and the birds were singing and he was having such a good time, such an exciting time, and feeling so alive for the very first time in his life, and everything.

And he
had
just had that moment.

‘All right,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll promise, as long as what you tell me is worth it.’

‘I think you’ll find it pertinent,’ said Mr Giggles, seating himself next to Jonny.

‘Go on, then.’

And Mr Giggles did so.

‘The dead’ns,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Doctor Archy, James Crawford, the mystery man with your wallet in his pocket – I know how they died.’

‘They had their heads chopped off,’ said Jonny.

‘Not chopped,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘More like atomised.’

‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘The suspect will be a police constable, then.’

‘The suspect is there in that laptop,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Those men died because they heard the Devil’s laughter. Too much for the human brain. Kaboom, and head all gone.’

‘You’re having a laugh,’ said Jonny Hooker.

‘I wish I was. It’s how they found Hendrix and Morrison and all the rest. They covered it up in the sixties, of course. And Kurt Cobain “shot his head off”. A likely story, eh?’

‘The Twenty-Seven Club,’ said Jonny. ‘They heard the Devil on Johnson’s last recording and—’

‘Kaboom,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Atomised. Not pretty. So you see, I don’t want this to happen to you.’

‘And don’t you think you might have mentioned this to me earlier?’

‘I told you you’d die if you heard the Devil’s laughter.’

‘But not that you knew how the murder victims had died.’

‘What did it matter? We don’t know who played them the music. Crawford may have put the recording on his laptop, but he had more sense than to play it. He knew what it could do.’

‘Why didn’t he just destroy the original recording?’

‘Perhaps Crawford did. Perhaps it wasn’t stolen. But this is, as I’ve said, the Unholy Grail of music. Johnson’s final recording.’

‘Perhaps he cleaned it up,’ said Jonny, ‘digitally. Removed the Devil’s laughter.’

‘I wouldn’t advise you to check. You saw Crawford’s body. His head had been atomised.’

‘Hm’ went Jonny.

‘I don’t like that “Hm”, and don’t go getting any ideas about testing it on a guinea pig in a soundproof room – it won’t work.’

‘Well,’ said Jonny, ‘this is all most interesting. And no doubt pertinent. But
I
have a pressing engagement.’

‘You do?’ said Mr Giggles.

‘I do,’ said Jonny. ‘Big as my breakfast was, I now fancy lunch. And a pint of King Billy. I’m off to the pub.’

The pub was not on Inspector Westlake’s schedule. He was all gung-ho and well fired-up and filled with motivation. And he was
now at the Big House in Gunnersbury Park and having a word at the reception desk.

‘Inspector Westlake,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘on special secondment from the Bramfield Constabulary, here to supervise the security arrangements for Sunday’s conference.’

‘And what conference would that be?’ Joan asked as she regarded the inspector in the manner known as coquettish.

‘Top secret,’ said Inspector Westlake, giving his nose that certain tap.

‘Which would be why I haven’t been informed of it,’ said Joan. ‘Would you care for a light-up pencil with a dinosaur on the top? We’ve just had a delivery of them. And a great many other such items.’

‘No, madam, I certainly would not.’ Inspector Westlake looked this way and that.

Constable Justice looked the other.

Joan grinned at Constable Justice. ‘Saucy,’ she said as she grinned.

‘A word with your superior, please,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Spoke to her earlier on the blower. Countess Vanda by name, pleasant lady, rather posh voice.’

‘I’ll give her a little tinkle,’ said Joan, and she did so: spoke words, received others and put down the phone. ‘She said she’ll be down in just a moment.’

‘Splendid,’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘Little balls,’ said Joan.

‘Madam?’ Inspector Westlake raised his eyebrows.

‘We have little plastic balls,’ said Joan, ‘for sale, here, in the museum shop. They’re new in, too – transparent, they have dinosaurs inside them.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Inspector Westlake, whose foot was beginning to tap.

‘You have restless legs,’ said Joan, ‘which must make you posh, I suppose.’

‘Must it?’ the inspector enquired.

‘Your other chap had restless legs and he’s posh.’

‘My other chap?’ Inspector Westlake made a baffled face.

‘Police security chap. Very well dressed, black suit, white shirt, really expensive sunspecs.’

‘Police security chap? What are you talking about, madam?’

‘He’s just popped down the corridor to the toilet.’

‘Just popped? Who is this fellow? Did he identify himself to you?’

‘He said I was to call him Joshua. He left his warrant card with me, said I wasn’t to look at it because it was top secret.’

‘Kindly show me this card.’

‘But it’s top secret.’

‘Madam, I am an officer of the law. Kindly show me this card or I will have no option other than to have you shot.’

Joan fished the card from her cleavage. She handed it to the inspector.

Inspector Westlake drew out a pistol.

‘A gun!’ shrieked Joan. ‘No, please—’

‘A gun indeed,’ said Constable Justice. ‘An all-chrome Desert Eagle, forty-four long-slide semi-automatic with double-lever action.’

‘You certainly know your handguns, Constable,’ said Inspector Westlake. And he drew out another such weapon and flung it to his fellow officer.

‘Sir?’ said that fellow.

‘Terrorist threat,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Get on the blower to the station, Constable – we have a situation here.’

Joan began to flap her pretty hands about.

‘No cause for alarm, madam,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘We are professionals. We are trained to deal with this kind of situation.’

‘But he’s not a terrorist. He has a posh voice. And terrorists are common folk, foreign, swarthy, with beards. Everyone knows that.’

Inspector Westlake proffered the card. ‘This is
my
warrant card,’ he said. ‘Or rather a copy of my warrant card. Down that corridor there, you say he went?’

Joan pointed, and then she ducked.

As did Inspector Westlake.

But he not only ducked.

He returned fire also.

Constable Justice assumed the position. Which is not to say that of the captured villain. This was the down-on-one-knee-with-the-gun-at-arm’s-length-held-tightly-between-two-hands position. Constable Justice had assumed this particular position many times in the past, but always in the comfort and privacy of his cosy bedroom. He had not been allowed on the shooting range. He had not been issued with one of the If-he’s-looks-a-bit-foreign-looking-and-suspicious-and-likely-to-be-tooled-up-shoot-to-kill licences, which all armed British policemen carry in the interests of national security, but pretend that they don’t.

Regarding the matter of being allowed on the shooting range: he
had
signed on for the firearms course and he had been accepted. But there had been a bit of bother when he’d been handed the gun. There had been a bit of, perhaps, light-headedness on his part. The excitement of holding a real firearm, had, perhaps, got the better of him. There had been gunshots. There had been minor injuries. Happily there had been no loss of life.

‘Die, motherf**ker!’ shouted Constable Justice, and he let off with the full clip.

The chap in the dark suit did a sort of judo roll from one side of the corridor to the other. The corridor was flanked by a row of marble columns. Fluted, they were, with marble bases, and richly ornamented in their upper regions. They had been designed by Inigo Jones for the occasion of Sir Henry Crawford’s wedding. The bullets from Constable Justice’s pistol strafed across these columns. Carrara marble flew in blurry chips. Stucco cascaded down.

The chap in the black suit came up firing. Souvenir Taj Mahals decorated with dinosaur motifs exploded and went to ruin.

Inspector Westlake shouted, ‘Raise your hands and drop your
weapon.’ Then took to ducking once more. Bullets ricocheted and priceless artworks took the onslaught. Down behind the reception desk, Inspector Westlake radioed for back-up.

‘Terrorist attack, the Big House, Gunnersbury Park.’

It was a simple message, a mere seven words. It got the job done back at the local constabulary.

‘Oh oh oh!’ went Constable Mulberry Grape, a young and eager fellow who had a shared love for water sports and Westlife. He pressed the blood-red alarm button and ordered the breaking out of the high-velocity broad-area-havoc-wreaking terror weapons.

‘Sir,’ said Constable Justice, crawling over to Inspector Westlake, ‘I think we have the b
^*
stard pinned down. Do you want me to creep around to the rear of the Big House, smash my way in through a window, creep up behind the b*gger and shoot him in the *rse?’

‘Don’t think I quite understand you there, Constable,’ said the inspector, further ducking as Gunnersbury Park souvenir mugs shaped like Stegosauruses popped and burst above his head and rattled all about. ‘Esperanto, is it?’

‘I creep round to the rear of the house, sir, and—’

‘No, Constable, the words with the “*s” in them.’

‘Censored swear words, sir. Police constables are forbidden to swear.’

‘And who forbade you to swear, Constable?’

‘The Chief of all policemen, sir, in a memo. Sir Robert Newman.’

‘Ah,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘That c*nt.’

‘Oh look, sir,’ said Constable Justice, plucking something up from the chaos. ‘A souvenir dinosaur in the shape of a dinosaur.’

‘Dinosaurs ruled the Earth for ages and ages,’ said O’Fagin the landlord to Jonny the customer.* ‘They’d be ruling the world today if it wasn’t for the fact that they all died out.’

‘A pint of King Billy, please,’ said Jonny.

‘Cut yourself shaving?’ asked O’Fagin.

‘The old ones are always the best,’ said Jonny.

‘Hence my talk of dinosaurs.’

Jonny watched O’Fagin pull the pint. O’Fagin was wearing a lot of gold jewellery. Several sovereign rings adorned his horny hands. Many chains of gold hung round his ragged neck. A golden earring pierced each ear. An ampallang of gold worried his willy. Although Jonny couldn’t see the ampallang. Happily.

‘So,’ said Jonny, ‘dinosaurs today, is it? And I thought that perhaps you would be asking me whether I loved it when a plan came together.’

‘Why would that be?’ asked O’Fagin, proffering the pint.

‘Because you are clearly sporting all this bling as a tribute to Mister T out of the A-Team.’

‘I prefer the word “homage”,’ said O’Fagin. ‘But then I’ve always been a lover of cheese.’

Jonny paid him for his pint with the fifty pound note.

O’Fagin held it up towards a shaft of sunlight. ‘So you sold your story to the Sunday tabloids, too,’ he said.

‘Not yet,’ said Jonny. ‘But when everything’s done and dusted I certainly hope to.’

‘Hope springs eternal,’ said O’Fagin, ringing up ‘no sale’ on the cash register, fishing out many pound coins and shrapnel and dutifully short-changing his customer. ‘Sadly, however, the dinosaurs did not possess the gift of eternal life.’

‘Well done you,’ said Jonny. ‘Nicely done.’

‘Thank you, sir. I do pride myself that once I get some good toot going, I’m a hard man to shift from the subject.’

‘So,’ said Jonny, ‘I see by that poster that you have a band playing here this evening – Dry Rot. Are they any good?’

‘They’re rubbish,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I’d far rather have Dinosaur Jnr.’

‘Or even a T. Rex tribute band?’

‘Not forgetting Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs,’ said O’Fagin.

‘Who could?’ said Jonny.

‘Or even Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band.’

‘Don’t quite see the dinosaur connection there,’ said Jonny.

‘On the legendary album
Lick My Decals Off, Baby
there’s a track called “Smithsonian Institute Blues” – it’s about dinosaurs.’

‘Bravo,’ said Jonny.

‘And that song contains almost as many Devil’s Intervals as “Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy”.’

‘It’s a wonderful world that we live in,’ said Jonny.

‘And a better one without dinosaurs,’ said O’Fagin. ‘We can all thank our lucky stars that they were too big for Noah to get them on his Ark and so all drowned in the Great Flood.’ And he went off to serve a ringmaster and a couple of dwarves who had recently entered the bar.

‘Brontosaurus?’ Jonny heard him say. ‘Don’t get me started on that.’

‘I’m thinking,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘that perhaps we’d better have another look at that laptop.’

Jonny ignored Mr Giggles.

‘Well, think about it, Magnet Boy – your new super-magnetic powers might well be scrambling the laptop’s innards.’

Jonny smiled and said nothing at all.

‘This isn’t a bl**dy dry-cleaning service!’ Jonny heard O’Fagin shout at the ringmaster. ‘Out of this pub this instant and take your two strange children with you.’

The ringmaster left the pub in a sulk. And a top hat and red ringmaster’s coat.

‘Bl**dy d*mn ch**k!’ said O’Fagin.

‘Pardon?’ said Jonny.

‘Sorry,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I do have a tendency to lapse into Esperanto when someone gets my goat.’

‘I didn’t know you owned a goat.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘What did he say to you?’ Jonny asked.

‘The goat?’ asked O’Fagin. ‘A talking goat? Where? Where?’

‘The ringmaster,’ said Jonny. ‘Chap in the top hat and red ring-master’s coat.’

‘Oh,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Ringmaster, was he?, I thought he was a Royal Welsh Fusilier. He wanted directions to Gunnersbury Park. This is a pub, I told him, not a bl**dy dried-Kleenex server, whatever that is.’

‘Slightly puzzled by that one,’ said Jonny.

‘Gimme a break,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I can’t pronounce “cartographer”.’

‘Why did he want to go to Gunnersbury Park?’

‘Probably to play on the pitch-and-putt like everyone else.’

‘Odd,’ said Jonny.

‘You think
that’s
odd?’ said O’Fagin. ‘Then take a look at
this
.’

But Jonny had left the bar counter. He’d made it over to the front windows, lifted a corner of the nylon net curtain
^*
and was peering out through an unwashed pane.

The ringmaster and the two dwarves were in the car park, beside a white transit van. It did not have a ‘circus’ look to it and there was no sign of any other performers, nor their distinctive wagons, nor the fairground paraphernalia and freak-show booths that make a good circus a great one. And so on and so forth and suchlike.

The ringmaster was being offered directions by a police constable. Jonny looked on as the police constable, obviously in response to a call on his police radio, spoke into it, listened and then began to jump up and down. And then hustled the ringmaster and the dwarves into the transit van, which then left the car park at speed.

‘Double odd,’ said Jonny.

‘If you think that’s double odd,’ said O’Fagin, ‘then check this out – if I press it here it goes—’

And he passed out.

And Jonny left the bar.

‘Got them on the blower, sir,’ said Constable Justice. ‘They’ve left the station, proper mob-handed. They’ll be here as soon as can be.’

‘I thought you were creeping around to the back of the building in what might be mistaken for Esperanto,’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘Seemed like a good idea at the time, sir,’ said the constable, ducking further as further gunshots caused him further to duck, ‘but then I considered that I’m not wearing that Teflon body armour that the Special Ops chaps wear and so I might take a round to the chest. And frankly, sir, much as I love the job, I don’t love it that much.’

‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘But tell
me, Constable, what exactly is that that you’ve further ducked yourself into?’

‘Only me,’ said Joan.

And down Pope’s Lane they came in force, those officers of the law. Jonny, who had stepped from the bar to watch the departure of the white transit van, stepped back swiftly into the bar as the police cars all swept by.

‘Do-da-do-da-do-da,’ went the police car sirens.

‘Da-da-de-da-da,’ went Jonny.

O’Fagin raised his head from behind the bar counter. ‘I’m not doing
that
again,’ he said. ‘I know that every boy should have a hobby, but you have to draw the line somewhere.’

Things went suddenly silent in the entrance hall of the Big House. But for a gentle sighing that came from Joan, all was peace and quiet.

‘Do you think he’s run out of ammo, sir?’ whispered Constable Justice.

‘Why don’t you stick your head up above the reception desk and check?’

‘Not keen, sir. I could hold a gun to this lady’s head and tell the terrorist that if he doesn’t give himself up, I’ll shoot her.’

‘What?’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘If you think it might work,’ said Joan.

‘Just stay down,’ whispered the inspector, and, doing the ‘keep-down’ gesture, he climbed slowly to his feet. ‘Last chance,’ he called. ‘Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands held high.’

And then the inspector went, ‘Waaaah!’

As he fell back onto Constable Justice, Constable Justice saw why. The figure in black reared over them. He was up on the reception desk and then – and here the ‘Waaaah!’ became involved – he was up above them. He was across the ceiling, scuttling like a great black spider.

And then he was down and out of the door.

And things went quiet again.