The blue sky clouded over and the rain came pissing down.
In his present state of mind it was pretty much all Soap needed. He trudged back down the High Street, striking out at the rain with a rolled-up copy of the Brentford Mercury.
The Lord had given it to him. Free, gratis and for nothing.
As a sign of good faith. Or something.
The three-inch banner headline had done nothing to raise Soap’s spirits. It read “LECTER” ON THE LOOSE. Followed by the tasteful subhead “Knob-gobbling cannibal psycho-chef evades police dragnet”
Soap splashed his feet through puddles and as knife-blades of water rained down on his hat, confusion reigned in his head.
What was going on here? This wasn’t April Fool’s Day, was it? He unrolled the sodden paper, lifted his goggles and studied the date. April the first it was not! He scrunched up the press and consigned it to the gutter.
“That’s where you belong,” he told it. And then a little thought entered his head. There was one easy way to find out the truth of all this. Well, of some of it anyway. Soap rootled in his pocket and dragged out the one-pound note. Go into the nearest shop and try to spend it. Simple, easy, bish bash bosh.
He stopped dead in his trudging tracks and looked up at the nearest shop. The nearest shop wasn’t a shop as such, though it was a shop of sorts. It was a cop shop. It was the Brentford nick.
“All right,” said Soap. “If you want to know the time, ask a policeman. So …” And then he paused and he stared and he went, “No no no.”
Soap knew the Brentford nick of old and, like most of Brentford’s manly men, had seen the inside more than once (though never, of course, through any fault of his own). But this was not the Brentford nick he knew. This was a smart, updated nick. A nick dollied up in red and white. A nick that no longer had the words METROPOLITAN POLICE above its ever-open door. A nick that now bore a big brash logo instead.
And what was printed on that logo?
What was it that made poor Soap go, “No no no” in such a dismal way?
The words VIRGIN POLICE SERVICES.
That’s what!
Soap took a step back, tripped on the kerb, fell into the road and was promptly run down by a red and white police car.
He awoke an hour later to find himself inside the nick. Happily, not in one of the cells, but all laid out on a comfy settee. His hat and his goggles had been removed. Soap rubbed his eyes and squinted all around. The room was large and well appointed and had the look of a gentleman’s club. The walls were bricked, with leatherbound books upon shelves of mellow mahogany. Parian busts of classical chaps stood on columns of pale travertine. There were elegant chairs of the Queen Anne persuasion. Tables that answered to every occasion. Rather nice whatnots. Lancashire hot-pots. Rabbits of yellow and purple and green.
All very poetic. All very nice.
Soap blinked and refocused his eyes. “No,” said he, “not all very nice. Well, nice enough, but for the hot-pots and the rabbits.”
“I tend to agree with you there.” Soap now found himself staring into a face that loomed in his direction. It was an elegant face. It had cropped white hair at its top end, a pince-nez perched upon its nose at the middle, and a long chin sticking out at the bottom. “I am Inspectre Sherringford Hovis,” said the mouth of this face, exposing a gold tooth or two. “And I trust that you are all hunky-dory.”
“Hot-pots,” said Soap.
“Hot-pots and rabbits,” said Hovis. “Part of my grandmother’s collection. Bequeathed to me by my late mother. She was mad, you see. Quite mad.”
“Quite,” said Soap.
“And you are?”
“I’m not,” said Soap.
“No,” said Hovis. “I mean, your name. You are?”
“Soap Distant,” said Soap Distant.
“That name rings a little bell. Didn’t I once run you in for an unsavoury incident involving a handbag, some chopped liver and a little boy’s bottom?”
“No, you did not!” Soap struggled up to a sitting position.
“Must have been another Soap Distant, then.”
“Yes, it must.” Soap steadied himself. The room with its hot-pots and rabbits was doing a bit of a waltz.
“You just take it easy. I’ll have someone fetch you a cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” said Soap.
“And then, when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll discuss the damage you did to the squad car and how you intend to pay for it.”
“Eh?” said Soap, and, “What?”
“You quite upset the constable who was driving. He’ll probably need to have counselling. But you won’t have to pay for that, it’s covered by the company.”
“The company,” said Soap, his shoulders sagging.
“Yes,” said Hovis, and his tone lacked not for bitterness. “Everything is covered by the company nowadays.”
“You’re not too keen,” said Soap, a-rubbing at his eyes.
“I’m an old style copper, me,” said Hovis. “Haul ’em in and bang ’em up and throw away the key. But what do they get now? Fines is what they get. Every young copper is on a bonus system, all working hard for the company accountants.”
“Oh,” said Soap, now scratching at his head.
“And what do I get lumbered with?”
“I don’t know,” said Soap.
“Stuff and nonsense. Weirdo stuff and nonsense. Here, come and take a look at this,” Hovis marched off to his desk and Soap rose carefully to follow.
He was quite taken with the looks of the Inspectre. The long lean frame, encased in a three-piece suit of Boleskine tweed. The stiff Victorian collar. The blue velvet cravat. The watchchains and the pince-nez and the spats. This fellow was a “character” and that was fine with Soap.
“What do you make of these?” asked the character, gesturing all about his desk.
“Photos,” said Soap. “You have hundreds of photos.”
“I have thousands of photos,” said Hovis. “And all showing the same damn thing.”
“Why?” asked Soap. “What are they?”
“Take a look for yourself.” The Inspectre pushed a pile in Soap’s direction.
Soap took one and peered at it. “It’s a picture of a road,” he said.
“It’s a picture of a motorway. The M25, to be precise. Taken by a police speed camera. So we can fine motorists who drive above the legal limit.”
“That’s clever,” said Soap. “How does it work?”
“I don’t know how it works. It’s digital, some computerized nonsense. It’s triggered automatically to catch the registration plate of the offending motorist. Surely you’ve heard of the damn things.”
“Well …” said Soap. “I’ve never actually owned a motorcar. In fact I’ve never actually been on a motorway. But I get the picture.”
“And what do you get from looking at that picture?”
“Well …” said Soap.
“Well, look at it, man, what do you see?”
“I don’t see any motorcars,” said Soap.
“No,” agreed Hovis. “No motorcars at all. But what about that?” and he pointed.
“Oh,” said Soap. “It’s a man in the middle of the road. A fat man. In a black T-shirt and shorts.”
“Yes,” said Hovis. “And what is he doing?”
“He’s walking along,” said Soap.
“Isn’t he, though. And look at the little figures in the bottom left-hand corner of the photograph. The ones in miles-per-hour. Tell me what speed he’s walking along at.”
“Oh,” said Soap, “that can’t be right. It says here he’s walking along at one hundred and forty miles per hour.”
“Pretty spry for a fat bloke, don’t you think?”
“There must be something wrong with the camera.”
“Would that there were,” said Hovis. “But look,” and he pushed further photos at Soap. “Here he is again, caught on another camera. And here again and here and here.”
“And he’s in all these photographs?”
“Not all,” said Hovis. “There’s at least twelve different men involved. All dressed alike. Each of them strolling along the middle lane of a motorway at impossible speed in the early hours of the morning.”
“Avoiding the traffic.”
“Good point,” said Hovis.
“Thank you,” said Soap. “So how’s it done?”
Inspectre Hovis made a fearsome face.
“Sorry,” said Soap.
“Never mind. I have certain theories, of course. Or should I say, had?”
“And these were?”
“Well, firstly I thought that perhaps some whizzkid joker was hacking into the computer system and feeding these images in. But that won’t wash because the cameras aren’t linked to a central system and, before you ask, they haven’t been tampered with. Secondly, I reasoned that it was some new form of automotive technology. A stealth car, perhaps.”
“Stealth car?”
“Like the stealth bomber that evades radar. This car evades speed trap cameras and throws up some kind of holographic after-image to take the piss out of honest policemen who are only doing their duty.”
“But it’s not?”
“Certainly not. If such technology existed the police would have it first.”
“So where does that leave you?”
“It leaves me, Mr Distant, with a bloody great pile of photos on my desk.”
“Ah,” said Soap. “But why your desk?”
“Because I am Brentford’s Detective in Residence.”
“I don’t think I quite understand.”
“No, and that is because there is something I neglected to mention. You see, we’ve plotted the routes taken by these moonlight strollers. Plotted them out on a map. Would you care to take a look?”
“I would,” said Soap.
“Then be my guest.”
The map was a big’n and was blu-tacked to the bookcase behind the crowded desk.
Soap gave the map a good looking over. There were twelve lines drawn upon it. Each followed the route of a motorway or A-class road. They began at twelve separate points of the compass, but all met up at a single location.
That single location was Brentford.
“Oh,” said Soap.
“Yes, oh indeed. The photographs were taken two nights ago and there have been no further sightings. Whoever, or whatever they are, they’re here. Right here in the borough.”
“Oh,” said Soap once more.
Bad Memory
By the bound Victorian gasogene.
By the black slate memory board.
By the swish French cooking calendar.
By the shutters I secured.
By the rows of hanging plantpots.
By the slightly dripping fridge.
By the wibbly wobbly worktop.
By the dust along the ridge.
By the rack of grey enamelware.
By the strangely angled shelf.
By the larder door that does not close
That I also fitted myself.
By the ceiling lights that don’t light up.
And the dimmer that does not dim.
By the waste disposal unit
That bit my uncle Jim.
By the nasty Kenwood blender.
By the red tiles on the floor.
I’m obviously in my kitchen.
But what did I come in here for?