The next day was to be their last together and they celebrated it not, as one might expect, with a visit to the pub, but over breakfasts of miniature foodstuffs at the IKEA in Milton Keynes. Mma Ontoaste needed to do some proper shopping. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the cafeteria and wearing, with the exception of Carpaccia – who was trim in a navy-blue trouser suit with three wavy gold lines around the sleeve – slightly soiled Highland dress.
Tom was sunk in gloom and could hardly eat a thing. Mma Ontoaste forked the tiny egg from his plate and popped it in her own mouth. Carpaccia raised her beaker of orange-juice-style drink.
‘Let’s drink to all those we have left behind,’ she suggested. They thought for a few seconds of Rambouillet, still lying slumped on the floor of the Richmond mansion; of Lemm Lemmingsson, just at that moment queuing at the video store on Hamngatan, waiting to take out a DVD of Fanny and Alexander; of Mma Pollosopresso, who was so badly treated and still unsure whether Mma Ontoaste blamed her for blowing up the tiny white van; and of Mary Shortbread, who never really came alive in any reader’s imagination.
Tom raised his glass again.
‘To us!’ he said. ‘Or rather, you!’
He gestured at the four detectives. A valedictorian atmosphere had settled on the quintet. The cafeteria was emptying now, shoppers getting ready to face the task of queuing to pay for their goods, and the four detectives were aware that they were in at the end of something. Their joint adventures had led them to this point and it was now over. Later they would be on their way, back to their own countries and their own particular problems. But this had been an adventure, an escape.
‘Rra,’ began Mma Ontoaste. ‘I have enjoyed myself. It has been a road trip, class reunion and detective investigation all rolled into one.’
‘But so many loose ends, Tom. Is there any way to sew them up? We could go through some now?’
Tom was staring into space. Eventually he spoke.
‘No. There’s no need. Let’s just forget about them, shall we? After all, what do they really matter? What does anything really matter? It was fun. It is done. And now let’s not try to read anything else into it.’
‘That’s a wee bit dark, Tom, what’ll you call it?’
Tom waved a hand. What did he care?
‘Defective Detective?’
‘Hmm, nice. A wee bit modest for my taste, though. I’m toying with Kernmantle.’
‘Kernmantle? What is Kernmantle?’
Sometimes it was good to have someone like Wikipedia around.
‘It’s a type of rope, but it mebbe sounds a wee bit Celtic, no?’
‘What about McKernmantle?’ Carpaccia suggested
‘Aye, that’s an idea.’
‘Or you could put an exclamation mark on the end,’ mumbled Colander. ‘And emboss the front of your book.’
‘Oh aye, what about you, then? What are you going to call yours, Mr Swedish Detective?’
‘I am going to call mine The Hour of the Wolf. It sounds apocalyptic.’
‘Apocalyptically boring is what I’m thinking. The Hours and Hours and Hours of the Wolf, more like. What about you, Faye?’
‘I was going to call it Unnatural Presumption, to be a bit more like my other books, but now I think I’ll use The Music Man. Zippier. And it taps into that whole nursery thing.’
There were nods of agreement.
‘And what do you think you will entitle your book, Mma Ontoaste?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The Urine Trail of the Bull or something like that.’
That made them sit back.
‘That’s kinda gross, Delicious, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Well, Mma, it is easy and it sounds a bit sub-Saharan and so, why not?’
There was a brief discussion of deadlines. When they heard how fast Mma Ontoaste could write, the other three detectives drank their coffee.
‘Well, I’ll be away then,’ said Rhombus.
He embraced Faye and then Mma Ontoaste and the tears welled in all their eyes. His brief handshake with Colander changed to a bear hug, with much pounding on the back. Meanwhile the girls were locked in a hug, promising to exchange gossip in the future. One by one they left the store – Colander and Ontoaste taking advantage of the taxi service to have themselves delivered to Heathrow to catch their planes, Rhombus to hitch north and Carpaccia to her submarine – leaving Tom alone. Alone in IKEA. Would that make a good title he wondered? Alone in IKEA by Tom Hurst.
No. It was rubbish. He knew he would never be a detective writer. He just didn’t care enough and he could never get used to the fact that none of it was true and none of it mattered, or cast any light on anything, despite their claims of topicality.
He crushed the plastic cup in his hand and was about to stand up and follow when he saw a familiar figure. It was Alice Appleton.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Looking for you,’ she said. ‘You have to come quick. Professor Wikipedia’s been throttled.’
Who cared? It was bound to happen.
‘Where’s the Dean?’ he asked.
‘No one knows,’ Alice replied.
There was a long silence. Tom saw the gleam of expectation in Alice Appleton’s shining eyes.
‘All right, then,’ he said, collecting his pack of 50 Glimma tea lights, his jar of Lyngonsylt and the Smycka decoration stalks that his mother had asked him to get. ‘Show me the body.’