The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code (8 page)

‘Get to it, then,’ said Inspector Westlake.

Jonny peeped on as two of the environmentally suited fellows pulled aside the toppled armchair to reveal the body of Mr James Crawford.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Jonny as he viewed it.

‘Oh yes,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Very messy business. Same as that Doctor Archy. Head chopped right off the body, and taken away as a trophy by the murderer. We’re dealing with a psycho serial killer here. This won’t be the last, you mark my words.’

And Jonny marked his words.

Jonny Hooker’s hand was tightly over his gob.

The sight of a headless body can elicit a degree of queasiness. In fact, most of us go through life without ever seeing a headless body and so our mettle, as it were, is never tested.

Jonny Hooker swallowed and swallowed again. It would not look good, indeed not professional, for him to hurl up his stomach contents over the chaps in the white environmental suits. Questions might be asked.

Questions!

Jonny Hooker had a moment. Took in a moment. Reality seemed to be long gone. He had bumbled along, a no-mark, a nonsuch for all of his life. True, he
was
a talented musician, but it had never taken him anywhere. For
he
had never taken
it
anywhere.
He
had been too wound up in himself. In the problems he had with himself. Simply with trying to be himself. Simply trying to survive.

But this, all this, was as ridiculous as it was exciting. And it
was
exciting. And he
was
involved in it. Involved directly in something for possibly the very first time in his life. He was attached to this. There was something about this that allowed him a degree of control. Which enabled him.

But it was all so absurd. So unreal. You just can’t bluff your way into a crime scene dressed as a park ranger but posing as a high-ranking police officer, especially when
you
are the prime suspect.

It simply cannot be done.

Yet.

‘Sir,’ said the constable with the rocket launcher, ‘and please understand me, I do hate to have to call you “sir”. But
sir
, as you are evidently possessed of a certain intuition that has clearly not been granted to other senior officers of the law–’ He gestured towards
Inspector Westlake with the business end of his rocker launcher and nearly put Jonny’s left testicle out. ‘–I am thinking that perhaps you should have a look at this.’ And he did a bit of discreet finger-pointing with his non-trigger finger.

Jonny followed the direction of the pointing, a skill that he was now raising to almost an art form, and spied out the object of the pointing: a book, somewhat bloody about the edges, that lay upon the seat of a woebegone armchair.

The constable now raised his trigger-free hand and spoke behind it in a whispery, secretive manner. ‘I was first on the crime scene,’ he secretively whispered, ‘and I had a little flick through that – it was lying on the floor. You might find it of interest. Perhaps a clue or two lies within.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Jonny, and then, ‘What is
that
?’ And he pointed up to the ceiling. It was a loud, ‘What is
that
?’ and it drew the attention of all who were present in the melancholy room. The men in the environmental suits dropped the headless body.

Inspector Westlake just said, ‘What?’

Jonny scooped the book from the armchair and swept it into his pocket.

‘
What?
’ said Inspector Westlake, once again.

‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘Apparently nothing. I thought I saw something, but
no
, it was nothing.’

‘As
nothing
as this stain by the fireplace,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s a damp patch, been here for years by the look of it.’

‘Bravo,’ said Jonny. ‘Has anyone checked out the rest of the premises?’

‘Of course,’ said Inspector Westlake.

‘Splendid,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll just follow up on the details, then. This young officer will accompany me.’

Inspector Westlake waved them away.

‘Are we off to the pub, then?’ asked the police constable, once he and Jonny had left the room of dolefulness.

‘Have
you
checked out the rest of the house?’

‘Well, I did have a bit of a snoop about. The bedroom’s pretty weird.’

‘Weird?’

‘Up there, see for yourself.’

The constable led Jonny to the bedroom. He pushed open the door and turned on a light and Jonny peered within. It was not a happy bedroom. Indeed, if the room directly beneath this bedroom had been a heart-sinking and death-wish-leading-to-suicidal-tendency room, this bedroom surpassed it, or possibly undermined it in the field of wretched disconsolateness, or indeed suchlike.

And this was a rather smelly room. A room that was rank indeed.

‘Phewee,’ went Jonny, fanning at his nose.

‘I’d join you in such fanning,’ said the constable, ‘but I might, like as not, put my nose out with this rocker launcher.’

‘You
could
use your other hand.’

‘I
could
,’ said the constable, ‘but I don’t want to, all right?’

‘Fine with me,’ said Jonny. ‘So what is with the horrid smell?’

‘Same business,’ said the constable. ‘Window all soundproofed over. All the walls, too, as you can see.’

‘I do see,’ said Jonny. ‘But what is this all over the walls? They’re scrawled all over with felt-tip pen or something.’

‘Take a close look,’ said the constable.

And Jonny did so.

‘Music,’ he said. ‘Musical notation. Lines and lines of music all over every wall.’

‘
And
the ceiling,’ said the constable, ‘and what can be seen of the floor beneath the wank-mags and the used tissues.’

‘I don’t feel that there was any need for you to mention them,’ said Jonny.

‘Really? I felt it added a certain shock value.’

‘Do you read music?’ Jonny asked.

‘I’m in a band, aren’t I?’ said the constable.

Jonny nodded. ‘So
do
you read music?’

‘Of course not. Who reads music nowadays?’

‘Well, actually
I
do,’ said Jonny. ‘Curious thing – I was able to read music before I was even taught to read and write.’

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of that,’ said the constable.

‘It’s the first time I’ve mentioned it,’ said Jonny.

‘So do you think it’s significant?’

‘What do
you
think?’

‘I’m not paid to think,’ said the constable. ‘I’m paid to do what
I’m told. And hopefully be told once in a while to shoot at someone with this here rocket launcher. A swarthy terrorist, hopefully.’

Jonny Hooker sighed.

‘And could I offer you some advice, whilst we’re on the subject of terrorists?’

‘We’re not on the subject of terrorists,’ said Jonny.

‘Of murderers, then, or at least wanted suspects.’

‘Go on,’ said Jonny, slowly.

‘Well,’ said the constable, ‘and no offence meant, but you really are crap at impersonating a police officer. Don’t you think that wearing a Gunnersbury park ranger’s uniform is a bit of a giveaway, as it were?’

‘
What?
’ went Jonny.

‘I’m not thinking to turn you in, or even arrest you myself but—’

‘
What
?’ went Jonny. An even louder ‘
what?
’ than before.

‘But I really would hightail it out of here if I were you,’ said the constable. ‘Before the truth dawns upon Westlake.’

Jonny’s mouth went flap-flap-flap, but the word ‘what’ accompanied by a question mark did not issue from it yet again. After a moment or two, the words, ‘You recognised me?’ did, though.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ said the constable.

‘I’m not kidding,’ said Jonny.

‘Jonny,’ said the constable, ‘it’s me, Paul – we went to school together, remember?’

‘Ah,’ said Jonny. ‘School together, was it?’

‘It was,’ said Constable Paul. ‘You sat next to me in Mister Vaux’s class. And Mister Jenner took us for music and you used to show off because you could read the music to concertos better than him, so he used to make you go outside and stand in the quadrangle, remember?’

‘I
do
remember,’ said Jonny. ‘I remember all too well. Jonny looked Paul up and down. ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ he said. ‘It must be the uniform.’

‘Really?’ said Paul, and he shook his head.

‘You’re shaking your head,’ said Jonny.

‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘I am thinking that the fact that I told you I was the bass guitarist in Dry Rot should have tipped you off.’

‘Ah,’ said Jonny.

‘Ah indeed,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Seeing as how you are the
lead
guitarist in that very band.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Jonny. ‘But I didn’t want to give myself away. Not in front of Westlake. I did give a sort of secretive smile though. You might have pick up on that. Small world, eh?’

‘Small world?’ said Constable Paul. ‘
Small world
?’

‘Well, it
is
a coincidence. I didn’t even know you were a policeman. I recall you telling me that you were something big in rock ’n’ roll in the city.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m not,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Oh, and
this
is for you.’ And without any warning. Because that is the way you must always do it if you wish to do it successfully. He swung a fist at Jonny and caught him right on the chin.

Jonny fell back, arms all flailing, mouth all going ‘Owch’ and ‘Oooh’.

‘You twat,’ cried Constable Paul. ‘Getting yourself wanted by the bloody police when we’re playing a gig on Friday at The Middle Man and O’Fagin was going to pay us and everything.’

‘You hit me!’ Jonny lay amongst tissues and mags.
^*

‘You’re unbelievable,’ said Constable Paul, and he looked to be squaring up to administer further hittings should Jonny choose to regain his feet. ‘Park keeper’s uniform—’

‘Park
ranger
,’ said Jonny.

‘And bloody wanted man! And you turn up
here
. Murderers always return to the scene of the crime, is that it?’

‘That
isn’t
it. Of course that isn’t it. I didn’t murder anyone.’

‘Then what are you doing
here
?’

‘I have to find out.’ Jonny didn’t try to rise, just sat there looking glum. ‘I
have
to find out,’ he said once more, ‘what is really going on. And something
is
going on, something big. I know it. I just know it.’

‘And you’re going to solve this … whatever it is, this something big?’

‘I’m part of it and it’s part of me. I can’t explain, but I know that whatever it is, it’s making me
alive
– do you know what I mean?’

Constable Paul shook his head. ‘You can get up now,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t hit you again.’ And he helped Jonny back to his feet. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

‘Several things,’ said Jonny. ‘Three things, in fact. First thing – could you photograph all these walls and the ceiling and what you can of the floor for me?’

‘No sweat,’ said Constable Paul. ‘Can do that on my mobile phone.’

‘Second thing – I have to make a swift getaway,’ said Jonny.

‘Out the way you came and away in the police car you nicked.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Jonny. ‘I’ll call you and we’ll meet up later, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Constable Paul. ‘And the third thing?’

Jonny kneed Constable Paul in those oh-so-tender regions.

‘Speak to you later,’ he said.

‘Violence!’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You administered violence.’

‘He hit me first,’ said Jonny. ‘I was simply balancing things.’

‘Balancing things? You’re growing out of control. Punching that Doctor Archy was bad enough. But as for kneeing Paul in the nuts—’

‘He hit me first.’

‘All wrong, all wrong. He could have turned you in, but he didn’t.’

‘What are you getting so upset about?’

‘I abhor violence,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘How strange,’ said Jonny, ‘as you’ve put me in positions so many times in the past that have caused folk to mete out violence to me.’

‘I never have!’ said Mr Giggles.

‘Oh really?’ said Jonny. ‘And yet I recall so vividly the time you persuaded me to play “Point out the Porker” in KFC and that very large woman beating the bedoodads out of me.’

‘How was I to know that she knew Dimac?’

‘How indeed?’ Jonny had ditched the police car. He hadn’t wanted to, because it was a comfortable ride and it
did
appear to command a certain degree of respect from fellow motorists, But he had been forced to as he’d heard the ‘all-points-bulletin’ being put out over the dashboard radio regarding the fact that the car had been TWOCed
^*
and that officers were being encouraged to shoot upon sight the potential terrorist who had done the TWOCing thereof. Or the
said
TWOCing. Or whatever.

Jonny now rode in a black Chrysler Cruiser.

‘And that’s another thing,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘You TWOCing
this
car. How did you know that the keys from the police car would work in
this
car?’

‘Everyone knows
that
,’ said Jonny. ‘Police car keys are special keys that can work any vehicle.’

‘Are you sure that
everyone
knows that?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Jonny. ‘The same as everyone knows that if you leave your hall light on at night when you go out, burglars will think you’re in and not attempt to break in and rob you.’

‘And everyone knows
that
?’

‘Everyone except for burglars,’ said Jonny. ‘The world is a wonderful place, is it not?’

‘What did you say?’ asked Mr Giggles.

‘You heard what I said.’

‘I heard it, but I don’t believe that I heard it.’

‘I have no comment to make on that,’ said Jonny, and he took a corner at speed and had a passing cleric off his bicycle.
^*

‘You’re enjoying yourself,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘I am,’ said Jonny.

‘That’s not right,’ said Mr Giggles.

‘You don’t want me to enjoy myself? I thought that you dedicated yourself to helping me enjoy myself. Encouraging me to enjoy myself. Doing everything within your power to ensure that I enjoy myself.’

Mr Giggles went, ‘Hm,’ in a ‘certain’ manner.

‘So you must be so happy for me,’ said Jonny.

‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Giggles. ‘I am, I really am. So where are we going now?’

‘Back to the park,’ said Jonny.

‘Back to the park?’

‘It’s lunchtime.’

And, of course, it was. Because time
does
pass quickly when you’re enjoying yourself and Jonny Hooker really
was
enjoying himself. And he’d had a busy morning and it was a little after one of the afternoon clock and so he returned to Gunnersbury Park.

And parked the stolen Chrysler in amongst some bushes behind
the public car park and ambled off to the park rangers’ hut.

Ranger Hawtrey was very pleased to see him.

Ranger Connor not so much.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked Jonny.

‘Litter patrol,’ said Jonny. ‘Caught some school truants having a cigarette, formed them into a litter patrol – I hope you approve.’

‘I do,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Well done, that man.’

Ranger Hawtrey smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s French omelettes today,’ he said, ‘seasoned with cinnamon, garlic, galingale and nutmeg, with a salad on the side and crispy fries.’

‘Wow,’ said Jonny. ‘A gourmet repast.’

‘My hobby,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘That and learning to play the classical violin. But that’s a bit tricky because I’m left-handed.’

‘Why so tricky?’ Jonny asked.

‘There’s no such thing as a left-handed concert violinist,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘You can’t have one in an orchestra because their bowing arm would bump into the other violinists.’

‘Well, I never knew
that
,’ said Jonny.

Ranger Hawtrey served Jonny up with lunch. As he passed him a Queen’s pattern knife and fork, he whispered, ‘How is it going?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Jonny. ‘Could you pass the tomato sauce?’

Ranger Connor had finished his lunch and settled down in one of the Queen Anne chairs, put his feet up on a Persian pouffe and got stuck in for a bit of a nap.

Ranger Hawtrey pulled a copy of
Southpaw Violinist
from one of his loaded pockets and, despite his eagerness to know what Jonny had been up to, took to the reading of it.

Jonny ate and appreciated his lunch, took the bloodstained book from
his
pocket and gave it a bit of perusal.

It was a leather-bound notebook kind of jobbie of the variety that friends of authors buy for authors as Christmas and birthday presents because ‘it’s a really nice thing and you can make notes for your next novel in it’. And which authors always put to one side and mean to use and then lose. Although they really
are
nice things. And the gifts of them are
really
appreciated.

On the flyleaf was written, in a shaky hand:

THIS BOOK BELONGS TO JAMES CRAWFORD

And beneath this, James Crawford’s address.

And beneath this, what appeared to be the title of the book. And this title was:

ANSWERS?

‘Answers?’ thought Jonny. ‘Answers to what?’

‘To the meaning of life, maychance,’ said Mr Giggles.

But Jonny ignored him.

Jonny turned the page and read the words:

IF YOU ARE READING THIS BOOK

THEN IT MEANS THAT I AM DEAD.

I DO NOT CLAIM TO HAVE ALL OF

THE ANSWERS. THE ONE WHO COMES

AFTER ME WILL FIND OUT ALL OF

THE ANSWERS. I ONLY HOPE THAT

THIS BOOK WILL PROVIDE

HIM OR HER WITH SOMETHING

TO WORK ON.

‘Hm,’ went Jonny, and he read on. The writing was all in capital letters and all in violet ink. Neither boded particularly well, but Jonny persevered. After all, if he was looking for a clue, then
this
was definitely it.

‘“They are amongst us”,’ he read. ‘“There is no telling how many of them there are; one can only guess. What is known from recorded history is that they form themselves into tight covens or gangs. That they hide themselves in secret places. That they construct their machines in secret places and that they man their machines in these secret places. These machines, these Looms that weave the air, the sounds, the music, are used to effect control. The subject chosen for control is magnetised; this can be done at any time. The Magnetiser may disguise himself in a hundred different ways, perhaps as a postman or a house-painter, a dog-walker or a simple passer-by. But however he is disguised, he administers the magnetisation, which
is done through electrical contamination. Once the subject is magnetically marked, then the Loom can be tuned to his frequency. An individual Loom’s range is not unlimited, but as Looms exist dotted throughout the kingdom, the subject will rarely be out of range of one of them. Once the Loom is attuned to the unique magnetic vibration of the chosen subject, then the keyboard will be manipulated and the notes dispatched as a magnetic flux, or vibrating wave, or carrier signal. This music, which is played upon the keyboard by the member of the gang who is known only as the Glove Woman, passes its rhythms to the subject not as the notes, which they are, but as the words that are in accordance and sympathy with these notes. Which is to say that the scale is also an alphabet of sound. The notes become words when absorbed into the subject’s head. The subject hears these words, coming apparently from without. They will be interpreted according to the subject’s belief system. The voice of God? The voice of the Devil? The voice of inspiration? An alien life form? An imaginary friend—”’

Jonny paused at this, munched upon a crispy fry and took a sip of tea. And then he read more.

‘“Why do these gangs target a particular subject? The reasons are many and various, but all to one end: control. Ultimate Control. To control individuals with a view to controlling all. There is no escape for the subject once marked by the Magnetiser. For not only does the Loom weave its music, but other music all about will conspire with it. The subject cannot escape from the music of others, in the supermarket, in a café, or restaurant, or public house, issuing from the headphones of fellow travellers, or passers-by or from windows, or indeed from their own record or CD collections. Or from the radio, or television, or indeed any electrical apparatus capable of issuing a pulse that might be a regular beat. All this music, indeed
all
music, contains the hidden formula. The hidden code. And all can be activated by those gangs who work the Looms. Such it has been for centuries. And such it will continue to be unless—”’

Jonny Hooker turned the page.

‘Unless
what
?’

There was no more text. Jonny flicked this way and that, but that was it. Jonny Hooker closed the book and returned it to his pocket.

Ranger Hawtrey laughed out loud and pointed to a page of his
magazine. ‘Southpaw fiddle humour,’ he explained. ‘Don’t mind me.’

‘Ranger Hawtrey,’ said Jonny.

‘Call me Charlie,’ said Charlie. ‘I know I should have said to call me Charlie earlier, of course, but I’m a bit shy.’

‘Right,’ said Jonny. ‘Well, Charlie, remember how you were telling me about your brother? The one you gave the iPod to?’

‘I do recall,’ said Charlie.

‘And he’s banged up in the Special Wing at Brentford Cottage Hospital.’

‘I prefer to use the expression “receiving treatment”, but in truth it amounts to the same thing.’

‘Well,’ said Jonny, ‘I was just thinking – it’s a very nice day and everything. What say we pop to the hospital after work and pay your brother a visit?’

Ranger Charlie made a thoughtful face. ‘But,’ and he whispered to Jonny, ‘and no offence to you, believe me, but do you not feel that as a wanted suspect in the murder of Doctor Archy at Brentford Cottage Hospital, you turning up there this afternoon might just be asking for trouble? I mean, a bit like going to the zoo and sticking your head in the tiger’s mouth?’

Jonny Hooker nodded, and he grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said to Ranger Charlie. ‘Just like that.’