The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (7 page)

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ranger Hawtrey. ‘Give yourself up?’

‘Give myself up?’ and Jonny made the face that Ranger Hawtrey was so good at making. ‘
That
, I have to say, is not an option.’

‘Perhaps, then, you should leave the country. We might alter the uniform you’re wearing, make you look like a merchant seaman and—’

‘No,’ said Jonny, in as firm a manner as he could manage. ‘I am
not
guilty of these crimes. And I’ll prove it. All this is connected somehow. Me, the competition, Doctor Archy, James Crawford – this is all part of something big.’

‘I’m not altogether certain how you reached that conclusion.’ Ranger Hawtrey took to steering Jonny off into some bushes.

‘Just stop pushing me about.’ Jonny made resistance. ‘This
is
something big, I feel it, I know it. Don’t ask me how, but I do. Will you lend me some money?’

‘How
much
money?’

‘How much do you have?’

‘What do you want it for?’

‘Please just give me some money.’

Ranger Hawtrey parted with what money he had and Jonny thanked him for it. And then Jonny asked, ‘Do you by any chance know the late Mister Crawford’s address?’

‘Joan will know it.’

‘Then might you ask her for it?’

And so Ranger Hawtrey did, and he returned to Jonny with the address upon a slip of paper. Jonny thanked him and then he said goodbye.

‘You’ll be back, won’t you?’ asked Ranger Hawtrey.

‘I hope so.’

‘You can sleep in the hut. I won’t tell anyone, you can trust me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jonny. ‘I really appreciate all this.’

And the two shook hands.

‘Oh, thank you, Ranger Hawtrey, I
really
appreciate all this, kiss kiss love love love.’

‘Shut your face,’ Jonny told Mr Giggles.

‘Well, it’s pathetic. I think that Ranger Hawtrey is not so much a park ranger, he’s more of an uphill gardener. He definitely fancies you.’

‘Please be quiet,’ said Jonny.

‘And so now you’re going to go to James Crawford’s house and immediately get arrested by the police?’

‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘I’m going to the pub.’

‘Thank the Gods,’ said O’Fagin as Jonny Hooker entered the bar, collar up and cap-peak down and really in need of a drink.

‘Thank the Gods for what?’ asked Jonny in an Irish accent.

‘Ah, even better,’ said O’Fagin. ‘A
Jewish
police officer, splendid.’

Jonny Hooker mounted a barstool and spoke further words from beneath the cover of his cap. ‘Can I help you in some way, sir?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t think they were going to send anyone,’ said O’Fagin. ‘When I made my report at the police station they just kept sniggering. I didn’t think they’d taken me seriously.’

‘Perhaps you’d better begin at the beginning,’ said Jonny. ‘And please draw me a pint of King Billy whilst you do so.’

‘Absolutely.’ And O’Fagin applied his hand to the pump and his tongue to the telling of stuff. ‘T’were a dark and stormy night,’ he began.

‘And I’ll have to stop you there, sir,’ said Jonny. ‘Was this a recent dark and stormy night?’

‘No, this was back in nineteen thirty-eight. The night that the Devil took Robert Johnson’s soul, in this very bar.’

‘Right,’ said Jonny. And he sighed. Sorrowfully.

‘Ooh, what sorrowful sighing,’ said O’Fagin. ‘That would fair
have me going if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m as hard as a marble headstone, me.’ And he passed Jonny Hooker his beer. ‘On the house,’ he said. ‘I hope it cheers you up.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Jonny. ‘Carry on with your story.’

‘And then they threw me out of the police station,’ said O’Fagin.

‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘Carry on from the point where you left off. In nineteen thirty-eight.’

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

‘Not in the least. I have my beer now and I probably won’t be listening anyway.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said O’Fagin, ‘because I’d be prepared to share the wealth.’

‘Omit
nothing
,’ said Jonny. ‘
What
wealth?’ he continued.

‘Well,’ said O’Fagin, ‘Robert Johnson spent the last couple of years of his life living here in this pub. He lived here with this big buck-toothed n****r – his brother, I think.’

‘I really don’t like that word,’ said Jonny. ‘Nobody should use that word any more.’

‘It’s all right to call another n****r, a n****r, if you’re a n****r yourself.’

‘So I have been unreliably informed,’ said Jonny. ‘But you are
not
a n****r, as it were.’

‘Oh yes I am,’ said O’Fagin.

‘Not,’ said Jonny.

‘Am too.’

Jonny looked O’Fagin up and down. Well, as much up and down as he could from beneath the cover of his cap. ‘Oh,’ said Jonny. ‘Well blow me down, so you are. I never noticed before’.

‘People rarely do,’ said O’Fagin. ‘That’s what I love about West London – class, colour or creed mean nothing. A man is accepted for what he is inside.’

Jonny nodded thoughtfully.

And didn’t laugh at all.

But the sun
did
go behind a cloud and a dog
did
howl in the distance.

‘So,’ continued O’Fagin, ‘that bucktoothed … black chap, he recorded Johnson’s thirtieth song right here in this pub.’

‘And
you
saw this?’

‘No,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I was somewhat handicapped from doing so by the fact that I hadn’t been born then.’

‘Just testing,’ said Jonny.

‘For what?’ asked O’Fagin.

‘Oh, look,’ said Jonny. ‘My beer is finished already. I wonder how that happened.’

‘Probably something to do with the way you’ve chucked it down your gob.’

‘Same again, please.’

O’Fagin took Jonny’s glass and returned to the beer engine in its company. ‘Anyway,’ he said to Jonny, ‘he was in here last night. Asked after my dad. Pointed to that picture back there.’ O’Fagin gestured. Jonny peeped. ‘That’s him, with my dad. And he hasn’t changed at all. How does that work, you tell me?’

Jonny shook his head. He had never noticed
that
photo behind the bar before. Next to the one with O’Fagin’s dad and Robert Johnson, it was. Of O’Fagin’s dad and what could only be described as a black man with large teeth. A black man with large teeth who wore a fez and a brightly coloured waistcoat.

‘Hold on,’ said Jonny. ‘He looked
exactly
the same?’

‘Didn’t seem to have aged by a day. He said he was looking for Jimmy.’

‘Jimmy?’ Jonny asked.

‘James Crawford, the old drunk fella who wore the long, black coat with the astrakhan collar.’

‘Him?’ said Jonny, who had seen that particular old drunk many a time. ‘That chap was James Crawford?’

‘Never a happy man,’ said O’Fagin, ‘what with his great-great-great-granddaddy doing the family fortune on the roulette wheel at Monte Carlo. He used to spend most of his days drinking cider in the park and bleating to passers-by that all the park should have been his.’

‘Right,’ said Jonny. ‘And in all truth I don’t blame him for it. I’d be pretty pissed off if I’d had rich ancestors and they’d wasted away the family fortune before I’d had a chance to do it myself.’

‘Oh,’ said O’Fagin. ‘Then no one’s ever told you about your —’

‘What?’ said Jonny.

‘Nothing,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I must be thinking about someone else. Because you are a Jewish policeman I’ve never met before. So where was I? Oh yes. The blackamoor with the expansive dentition. He wanted to know where Crawford was. Said that Crawford had something of his and he wanted it back and if Crawford didn’t hand it over, he’d kill him.’

‘Golly!’ said Jonny.

‘I’m sure that’s not politically correct,’ said O’Fagin.

‘Do you know where this character is now?’

‘The schwartzer with the big railings?’

‘The very same.’

‘On the run from the police for murdering Jimmy Crawford, I should think. Isn’t that why you are here?’

‘Just trying to get
all
the relevant information,’ said Jonny.

‘Whatever happened to your Jewish accent?’

‘Acclimatisation?’ Jonny suggested.

‘And that’s a very strange police uniform.’

‘Special branch,’ Jonny suggested.

‘It says “Gunnersbury Park Ranger” on your breast pocket.’

‘It says “Calvin Klein” on my knickers,’ said Jonny, ‘And “Kelogue” on my cornflakes, but I’m sure that’s a misspelling.’

‘Gunnersbury park ranger,’ said O’Fagin.

‘Special Branch,’ said Jonny. ‘Trees have branches, special trees have special branches, and there’s loads of special trees in Gunnersbury Park. Even one that involves the word “minge”. I’m sure you’ll agree about that.’

‘I’m always agreeable,’ said O’Fagin. ‘You’d be surprised at what I’ll agree to after I’ve had a few gin and tonics.’

‘I thought you black lads drank rum,’ said Jonny.

‘You racist bastard,’ said O’Fagin. ‘If there was any justice they’d bring back the birch.’

‘I didn’t know it had been away,’ said Jonny.

‘Two weeks in Benidorm,’ said O’Fagin. ‘God, I love this job.’

‘First-class toot,’ said Jonny, ‘but I don’t know whether it’s helping.’

‘Talking the toot always helps,’ said O’Fagin.

The sound of police car sirens reached the ears of Jonny Hooker.

‘See,’ said O’Fagin, ‘I told you.’

‘What?’

‘That talking the toot always helps. I saw you through the window as you were approaching the pub – recognised you at once. There’s a reward on your head, so I called the police on my mobile. I’ve kept you talking the toot in order to give them time to arrive. I expect they’ll have the place surrounded by now. I’m really looking forward to spending the reward money.’

‘How much reward money?’ Jonny asked.

‘One thousand pounds,’ said O’Fagin. ‘That was the wealth that I mentioned. That I was prepared to share. I lied about being prepared to share it, though.’

‘
One thousand?
’ said Jonny. ‘For one thousand pounds, I’ll turn myself in.’

‘You can’t do
that
!’ O’Fagin fell back. In alarm.

‘You just watch me,’ said Jonny and he put up his hands.

‘But that’s not fair,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I made the phone call.’

‘I’ll give you the money for the call,’ said Jonny. ‘That’s only fair.’

‘Thanks,’ said ‘Fagin. ‘No, hold on, that’s
not
fair. I want the reward money, all of it.’

‘Sorry,’ said Jonny. ‘It’s mine. Although—’

‘Although
what
?’

‘Well,’ said Jonny, ‘it’s only a thought. I don’t know whether you’d be interested.’

‘I would,’ said O’Fagin. ‘I really would.’

‘Well,’ said Jonny, once more, ‘if I were to make an escape now, maybe bop you over the head to make it look as if you tried to stop me – I bet they’ll raise the reward money.’

‘Do you really think so?’ O’Fagin scratched at his head.

‘They’d double it, I’d bet,’ said Jonny. ‘Then you could turn me in at a later date and make twice as much money.’

‘Right,’ said O’Fagin. ‘We have a deal.’ And he put out his hand for a shake.

And Jonny Hooker shook it.

‘I’ll show you the secret passage,’ said O’Fagin.

The secret passage emerged from the far side of the pub’s car park. Jonny Hooker emerged from it.

There were police cars all around The Middle Man.

Most of these, however, were unoccupied, their occupants now storming the premises. As it were.

Jonny Hooker took himself over to the nearest of the unoccupied vehicles. He did this in what is called a skulking fashion.

The key was in the ignition.

Jonny Hooker entered the car and, as officers of the law unnecessarily employed one of those big steel cylinder jobbies to smash open the unlocked saloon bar door of The Middle Man, Jonny backed the police car slowly from the car park.

The valiant policemen, having stormed into The Middle Man, would find its landlord prone upon the saloon bar carpet, cruelly struck down by a copper warming pan. The brutality of this new atrocity would elicit a doubling of the reward money.

‘You’ve been ever so quiet,’ said Jonny, as he drove along.

Answer came there none to Jonny’s ears.

‘Oh, come come,’ said Jonny. ‘Surely you have something to say on the matter.’

Mr Giggles, however, remained silent. And unseen to Jonny at the present also, as it happened.

‘All right,’ said Jonny. ‘Don’t talk to me. ‘I’m more than happy for you not to talk to me.’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘Do you really?’

‘You think that
I
killed James Crawford, and the doctor, too.’

‘It does rather look that way, doesn’t it?’ said Jonny.

‘It will never hold up in court.’

‘But it
does
look that way. I was in the Special Wing of Brentford Cottage Hospital, drugged up to the eyeballs, your presence suppressed from my mind. So where were
you
during that time? Perhaps you are some kind of shapeshifter, capable of moving from the noncorporeal to the corporeal at will. Perhaps
you
killed the doctor after I left. And you became the large-toothed black man once more and then killed James Crawford.’

‘Outrageous,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You have no evidence whatsoever to support this outrageous allegation.’

‘Perhaps not, but it does fit together rather neatly, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m Mister Giggles,’ said Mister Giggles. ‘I’m
not
Mister Homicidal Maniac.’

‘I don’t know what you really are,’ said Jonny, ‘but I
will
find out. Oh yes, I
will
. You just wait and see.’

‘This is all a bit sudden, is it not?’ asked Mr Giggles. ‘All this assertiveness. Making decisions for yourself, getting all bold and adventurous.’

‘Do you mean taking control of my life?’ Jonny asked.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Mr Giggles.

‘To the house of the late James Crawford.’

‘Let’s go to the shopping mall instead.’

‘No,’ said Jonny. ‘Let’s not.’

‘Oh, come on, we can play “Mumma or Munter?”’

‘“Mumma or Munter?” What’s that?’

‘It’s a game I’ve just invented. It would make a really great reality-type TV show. You go to the shopping mall and pick out big fat women with big fat stomachs and you poke them with a stick and ask them whether they are pregnant, or simply fat – “Mumma, or Munter”? See. There’d be a prize if they’re a mumma, and a forfeit if they’re just a fat munter. You stomp on their mobile phone or pie them in the face or something.’

‘That is appalling,’ said Jonny. ‘I would
never
think of doing such a thing.’

‘But if
I
am a figment of
your
imagination, then you just did.’

‘I’ll get to the bottom of you,’ said Jonny.

‘Or “Look Out Behind You”,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘That’s another game. You shout “Look out behind you” at people. Now sometimes they will and sometimes they won’t, but whatever they do, we do
something painful to them. Or there’s “Whoops Sorry I Pushed You Into the Path of a Speeding Car”. Or “Smack the Commoner”. Or we could go to Argos and look through
The Laminated Book of Dreams
. You always like that.’

Jonny Hooker sighed. ‘
The Laminated Book of Dreams
,’ he said. Dreamily.

‘But the point is,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘that that’s the kind of jolly good fellow I am. All laughter and jolly japes. How could you ever think that I could murder people?’

‘Hm,’ went Jonny. And left it at that.

And presently arrived at the house of the late James Crawford.

‘All right,’ said Mr Giggles, ‘if you are determined upon this reckless course of action, the best way to approach the situation is—’

But, ‘Shut up!’ Jonny told him.

The road was taped across and police constables stood on guard. They carried semi-automatic weapons, because there was always the off chance that this might just have something to do with international terrorism, so you could never be too careful. Numerous newspaper and media Johnnies stood about, smoking cigarettes and making lewd remarks to passing women PCs.

Jonny drove the police car right up to the tape, scattering numerous newspaper types before him. A constable with an AK-47 gestured for Jonny to wind down his window. Jonny wound it down.

‘Drop the tape please, Constable,’ said Jonny.

‘On whose authorisation?’ asked the PC

‘On whose authorisation,
what
?’ asked Jonny.

‘On whose authorisation,
sir
!’ said the PC

‘Drop the tape
at once
,’ commanded Jonny.

The constable dropped the tape.

And then saluted.

‘Ludicrous,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘Tell me that that did not just happen.’

Jonny Hooker grinned a wicked grin.

‘And stop doing
that
,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You’re frightening me.’

Jonny Hooker drove slowly down the blocked-off road. Of course, it had been too easy. Ridiculously easy. Impossibly easy. But
that wasn’t to say that it
was
impossible. Implausible, perhaps. But
not
impossible.

And that, perhaps, was the point.

There was a big white van double-parked before the house of the late James Crawford. The back was open and men in environmental suits were unloading picnic chairs and a table-tennis table. Jonny drove around them and parked up. Then he hooted the horn.

A constable issued from the house of the deceased. He carried a General Electric minigun.

Jonny beckoned to him through the open car window.

‘Hurry up, lad,’ he called as he beckoned. ‘This door won’t go opening itself, will it?’

‘No,
sir
,’ said the constable.

And he opened up the door.

‘So what do we have here?’ asked Jonny Hooker, inside the house now and in the front room.

‘And who are
you
?’ asked a certain body.

‘Chicoteen, Special Branch, hence the dress uniform. And you?’

‘Inspector Westlake,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘on special secondment from the Bramfield Constabulary. I am awaiting information regarding the very special and top-secret assignment that I have been called here to deal with. In the meantime I thought I might as well solve this murder. It is within my compass, as it were.’ Inspector Westlake made a certain gesture.

‘I see,’ said Jonny. And it sounded as if he did. And he made a certain gesture of his own. ‘Well, just carry on. I’ll take a little look around on my own, if you don’t mind.’

‘Well, actually I
do
,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Might I see your ID?’

‘I trust you noted
that
,’ said Jonny, pointing to a stain upon the wallpaper just to the right of the fireplace. ‘Suggestive, would you not agree?’

‘Eh?’ said the inspector.

Jonny considered an ‘Eh
what
?’ But then thought better of it. ‘I’m sure you know your own business best,’ he said. ‘I’ll just leave you to it.’

Inspector Westlake went to examine the stain.

Jonny cast an eye about the room.

Now, some rooms are certainly happy. They have a jolly feel to them. They have cheerful wallpaper and a sunny disposition. One can sit in such a room and feel elevated. Happy. Given to a peacefulness of mind.

This was
not
one of those rooms.

This room was a sorry room. A room given to despair. A lost room, a room that had abandoned all hope. A room that was crying inside. And all around and about.

Glum was this room.

Glum and grim. Of dismal aspect.

‘No natural light,’ Jonny observed.

‘Pardon?’ said a constable, who was carrying a rocket launcher.

‘No natural light. What is that over the window?’

‘Soundproofing,’ said the constable. ‘It’s all over the room – there, there and even up there.’ He swung his rocket launcher up towards the ceiling, nearly putting Jonny’s eye out. ‘This whole room is soundproofed, and double thickness. I know these things, see, because I’m in a band and we’ve recorded in a real recording studio.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Jonny.

‘Do you really think so? I have one of our CDs here. Perhaps you’d like to hear it.’

‘Love to,’ said Jonny, and he accepted the proffered CD. ‘Dry Rot,’ he continued. And a smile appeared upon Jonny’s face. It was a sort-of secretive smile, a smile that, if you’d asked it what it meant, would have replied that it meant something that you didn’t know but wasn’t going to tell.

‘That’s the name of our band,’ said the constable. ‘We play at The Middle Man on Metal Nights. You should come along sometime.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Jonny. ‘But in the meantime, if you don’t start calling me “sir”, I will have you court-martialled, or whatever the police equivalent of that is.’

‘Pork-martialled?’ suggested the PC. ‘I’m not really into the respect-for-your-superiors side of policing. I joined up for the weapons and the suspect interrogation. I’ve got really long hair tucked up inside my helmet.’

‘Where is the body?’ Jonny asked. ‘Has it been removed to the morgue?’

‘No, it’s over there, behind the upturned armchair. But I wouldn’t go looking at it if I were you. It’s pretty grisly.’

Jonny glanced some more about the miserable room. ‘He had a lot of gramophone records,’ he said, sighting many a shelf-load.

‘About thirty thousand by my reckoning,’ said the constable, ‘and some real gems amongst them. I had a little delve. All catalogued, alphabetical order. Pick a band, have a look. I’ll bet there’s a copy here.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Jonny.

‘Name a band,’ said the constable.

‘Dry Rot,’ said Jonny.

‘Oh, that’s not fair,’ said the constable. ‘We only cut a dozen copies on vinyl. They’re very expensive to get done. Mind you, a damn fine mini-album, it was, called
Pretence of Strategy
. The best track is “Sides to a Story”. But there won’t be a copy here. He’s not likely to have got hold of one.’

‘He might,’ said Jonny.

‘He won’t have,’ said the constable.

‘Humour me,’ said Jonny.

‘All right,’ said the constable. He pushed past Inspector Westlake, who was studying a stain upon the wallpaper with the aid of a magnifying glass, and applied himself to one of the record shelves.

‘
Some Call Me Laz
,’ he went, ‘by Lazlo Woodbine and the Wood-binettes. Blimey, that’s rare. And the original soundtrack album for
Plan Nine from Outer Space
. And … blimey.’

‘Blimey?’ said Jonny.

‘A copy of our demo,’ said the constable. ‘The
first
copy. I thought
I
had
that
.’

‘Where are the Js?’ Jonny asked.

‘Js?’ asked the constable.

‘For Johnson, Robert Johnson.’

‘King of the Delta Blues?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘He was the man,’ said the constable. ‘He invented it all.’

‘Would you check the Js, please, Constable?’

And whilst Inspector Westlake continued to inspect a stain upon the wallpaper and a couple of chaps in environmental suits fussed about at this and that whilst erecting a swingball in the centre of the
room, the musically inclined constable checked the Js for Robert Johnson.

‘Damn me,’ he said. ‘Yep, the full complement. A collector’s dream.’

‘All thirty?’ asked Jonny.

‘He only recorded twenty-nine,’ said the constable. ‘See, all numbered, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine—’

‘And thirty,’ said Jonny, and he pulled a brown card slip-sleeve from the shelf. “Apocalypse Blues,” he read. ‘Recorded London, August 16th, nineteen thirty-eight.’

‘No way!’ said the constable.

Jonny put his hand through the hole in the centre of the sleeve. ‘Empty,’ said he. ‘The recording is gone.’

‘We’re going to move the body now, sir,’ came a muffled voice, muffled by the plastic face-mask jobbie on the Scientific Support chap’s environmental suit.