At one time Stan Nicholls was best known as a bookshop manager and for his magazine columns and reviews. More recently he has broken into the ranks of fantasy novelists with such series as The Nightshade Chronicles and Orcs: First Blood. But none of this prepares you for the following story.
The row about banks moving out of the countryside took a new twist yesterday when the countryside moved into a bank. Staff at the Ufton Paddesley branch of Clouts were taken aback when a customer wanted to cash a cheque. Nothing odd in that, you might think. Except this cheque was written on the side of a live pig.
Businessman Dirk Penhaligon proffered the pecuniary porker as his latest weapon in a long-standing dispute with the bank. “Clouts have caused me a lot of inconvenience,” Mr Penhaligon, 41, insisted. “Now they know how it feels.”
The entrepreneur, famed locally as a ballcock magnate, decided on his ploy after discovering that a cheque could be written on anything as long as it was signed and dated. “I know my rights,” he said. “It’s the law.”
Clouts branch manager Sidney Doub, 59, commented, “The rules clearly stipulate that we are obliged to honour a customer’s request to withdraw their own money, whatever that request may be written on. For our purposes, this pig constitutes a cheque. Though we have yet to devise a humane way of stamping it.”
Having pocketed his ten pounds, the amount the pig was made out to, Mr Penhaligon remained defiant. “I believe I’ve struck a blow for many other dissatisfied bank customers all over this country,” he declared. “They too should make their voices heard.” But Sidney Doub ridiculed the threat. “I’m sure I speak for the whole banking community in saying that our little difficulty with Mr Penhaligon is in no way reflected nationally. Bank customers are almost universally happy with our services, and have far too much good sense to involve themselves in these kind of antics. Believe me,” he laughed, “this is a one-off.”
The Qualmsley & Beagledale Chronicle
“Your mammals or your life!”
There was nobody else in the alley except the man blocking Eddie Markham’s path. He was massively built, and when a flash of lightning briefly illuminated his face it proved weathered, mean and desperate. The gun he clutched had a muzzle like the mouth of a tunnel.
Sloshing through a puddle as he moved closer, the mugger repeated his demand with a hiss.
A chorus of muffled snorts and scufflings came from Markham’s cart. Coolly, he stepped out of the reins. The would-be robber grinned, exposing broken teeth, savouring the prospect of enrichment.
“If you want it, you’ll have to take it,” Markham told him.
The mugger’s face dropped. Confusion clouded his bovine eyes. He glanced down at his fist. “But I’ve got a gun,” he remembered. “I’ll use it.”
“Go on, then.”
“What?”
“Shoot.”
“So what you waiting for?”
“I’m not mucking about, you know.” He raised the gun uncertainly, his hand shaking. “Give me your livestock or I’ll pop yer.”
“Go ahead.”
“But—”
“You going to talk or shoot?”
“Well, I—”
“You’re going to talk, aren’t you?” He made a show of directing his gaze at the automatic. “Ah, I see why. Trying a bluff, eh?”
Incomprehension creased the big man’s brow. “Eh?”
“Threatening me with a duff shooter.”
“Duff?”
Markham gave him a knowing wink. “It is as long as the safety’s on.”
Ponderously, the brigand turned the gun side on and blinked stupidly at it. It gave Markham the chance he needed for a swift upward kick to the man’s wrist. The gun went flying. Yelping, the mugger took a wild swing at him. Markham ducked and pummelled the thug’s stomach. He doubled over, expelling a loud Ooofff! Markham landed a cracking blow to his attacker’s jaw. Imitating a felled oak, he went down.
Markham picked up the gun. There was no time to do the good-citizen thing and get embroiled with cops. So he dropped the bullet clip through a drain grid. The gun he tossed into one of several large rubbish bins.
There was a rustling in the comatose mugger’s grubby, voluminous overcoat. A couple of white mice shot out of it, followed by a small badger. Ill-gotten gains from some other poor devil, no doubt. The animals scooted off in different directions. Markham didn’t bother chasing them, though he knew that if they weren’t netted by somebody else they became treasure trove.
Ignoring the robber’s groans, he went to the cart, lifted its lid and spent a moment soothing his change. Then he climbed back into the reins and continued his journey.
The rain was easing as he rejoined the teeming streets. Most people were hauling carts. Some were so big that their owners laboured to drag them, or else they were pulled by sweating couples. Others were small enough to bounce along on tiny wheels, drawn with a length of string. Markham’s was somewhere in between, and about average.
As usual, the noises and smells were near-intolerable. Slatted trucks nosed through the traffic, valuables bleating. Horns were honked at a small herd of Friesians being shepherded by nervous security guards. Naively, someone in the crowd pushed a battered supermarket trolley, their wealth on open show.
Markham passed a shop with trays of hamsters, tortoises and terrapins in the barred window. The standard offering for a jeweller’s. Next to it stood a block of luxury flats, his destination. A doorman checked his appointment, then directed him to the visitors’ holding pens. Markham deposited the cart. Taking his ticket from a dour parking attendant, he jabbed his finger at him and said, “Don’t get any ideas. I know what’s nesting in there.” He left the man suitably affronted and made for a lift.
He stepped out of it into an opulent penthouse apartment. There was no one about. He looked around at the sumptuous furniture and expensive ornamentation. But what really impressed him were the more obvious signs of wealth. A big tank of tropical fish, any one of which represented a month’s income for him. On the marble hearth, a pure white Persian cat, eyeing them. And a gilded cage on a silver stand, housing a pair of lovebirds.
He moved to a window occupying the far wall. Below was a large back garden. It was surrounded by a high, electrified fence and divided into corrals and wire-topped enclosures. Some held cattle, mostly rare breeds. There was a flock of flamingos, a group of antelope and a pack of baboons. He spotted llamas and camels. Craning his head, he saw what might have been kangaroos. He was obviously in a moneyed burg.
“A gerbil for them, Mister Markham?”
He turned. The voice belonged to a fat man. But it was self-confident fat. He was in his middle years, though his chubby, babyish face seemed unmarked by time, as is the way with rich fat. A pencil moustache slashed his upper lip, his eyes were powder blue. He was immaculately tailored. By comparison, Markham was a scarecrow in a body bag.
“Lonnie Fairfax,” the fat man explained, unnecessarily, “at your service.” He oozed charm, but didn’t offer his hand. “You were admiring my depository?” He nodded at the window.
“Like they say, money chirps. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
“Good, we see eye to eye. How would you like something worth flaunting yourself?”
“I’d like it fine, Mister Fairfax. But I’m wondering why a guy who owns his own zoo needs a private investigator. You must have plenty of people on your payroll to do whatever it is you want doing.”
“To the point. I like that.” He indicated a table laden with food. “Take some refreshment while I explain.”
It was an offer Markham would normally refuse, on the grounds of not mixing business with pleasure. But then he noticed meat, a rarity when only the rich could afford not to be vegetarians. He weakened.
“So how can I help you?” he asked, mouth full.
“It’s a matter of some delicacy.”
Markham took a swig of wine. “That’s my speciality.”
“A matter I wish kept confidential even if you turn down the commission. Though I don’t think you will.”
“Understood.”
“I want you to locate something.”
“Missing spouse? Stolen property? Runaway business part—”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Fairfax leaned closer. His voice dropped to an undertone. “Have you ever heard of . . . the Macclesfield Macaw?”
Whatever Markham expected the sealionaire to say, it wasn’t that. “Sure,” he replied casually. “Everybody has. What about it?”
“I want it.”
“It’s a myth. A story bankers tell their kids at bedtime.”
“No, Mister Markham, it’s not a myth.” Fairfax’s eyes burned with a messianic intensity. “The Macaw is very real.”
“How do you know?”
“Believe me, it exists. It has narrowly eluded my grasp several times in the past. A bird of unusual size and markings. Quite a unique item.”
“I would have thought a man like you had enough already.”
“I have just about everything, true. But I don’t have the bird. Ergo, I must acquire it.”
“I bet you were a coin collector in the old days.”
It was meant as a jibe, but Fairfax looked mildly surprised. “How did you guess?”
Markham figured that if a man wanted to throw his money away on a wild macaw chase he wasn’t going to stop him, particularly if the money was crawling in his direction. “Okay, let’s assume the bird does exist,” he said. “How do I come into the picture?”
“I believe you may be able to obtain it for me. Based on information I’ll supply.”
“You haven’t told me why you can’t use somebody who works for you.”
“You’re not known to. That has its advantages.”
“I won’t do anything illegal.”
Fairfax raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. As to your fee—”
“I’ve got a set rate.”
That was waved aside. “For this task I expect to pay well. I’m offering a Thompson gazelle as a retainer. And shall we say a fully grown African crocodile on successful completion?”
Markham was awed. The most he’d ever pulled in for one job before was a manky rhino. But he kept his face poker and pushed a bit. “Expenses?”
“You think I have Labradors to burn?”
Glancing around, Markham came back with, “Well . . . yes.”
“How about a brace of woodcock a day?”
“Done.” He raised his glass. “What’s the information you have on this bird’s whereabouts?”
“I’m told it’s currently in the possession of Ray Blythe.”
Markham choked on his drink.
“I see you’ve heard the name,” Fairfax reasoned.
“Who hasn’t? He’s one of the biggest crime bosses in town. Maybe the biggest. I can see why you’re paying so well.”
“All you have to do is establish contact and negotiate the bird’s purchase.”
“What if he ain’t selling?”
“I’m prepared to go as high as a giraffe.”
Markham let out an appreciative whistle. “You really want this bird, don’t you?”
“Will you do it, Mister Markham? Will you achieve my ambition and bring me the Macclesfield Macaw?”
Draining his glass, Markham shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Outside, he was approached by a beggar who told him he hadn’t got two shrews to rub together, and could he spare a marsupial for a cup of coffee? Feeling generous, Markham tossed him a budgie.
Back in his shabby office, Markham had hardly started telling his secretary all about it when she had to take a phone call.
“Markham Investigation Agency, Shirley Binch speaking. Oh, hello, Brenda.” My sister, Brenda, she mouthed at him.
“I gathered,” he mouthed back, and set to on a long thumb-twiddling session.
Eventually she hung up, and gushed, “It’s her and Osbert’s fourth wedding anniversary on Friday. I said I’d take care of the catering for their party. And I’ve been racking my brains for a suitable present. What’s a fourth wedding anniversary?”
He was baffled; a not unfamiliar state in Shirley’s presence. “What do you mean, what is it?”
“You know, diamond, gold, silver . . .”
“Oh, right. Er, bubblewrap, isn’t it?”
She gave him one of her blistering looks and changed the subject. “What were you saying about this new job?”
“There’s big bucks in it, Shirley.”
“You haven’t accepted those darn’ pests for payment again, have you?”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“Well, don’t give me turns like that.”
He sighed. “Just do something for me, will you? Turn up everything you can on Ray Blythe.”
“The Ray Blythe? The crook? You’re not getting into something deep, are you, Eddie?”
“That’s why there’s big . . . that’s why the fee’s high, if I earn it. But it’s nothing dangerous.”
She looked doubtful but held her tongue. “I’ll get onto it.”
His attention was caught by the TV set silently flickering in a corner. It showed a race meeting from Kempton Park. He increased the volume.
Shirley spun her swivel chair. “Do you have to have it so loud, Eddie?”
“Sshhh. It’s the Jockey Handicap.”
The jockeys were in line. Several pawed the turf, straining at their bits. The starting prices popped up, showing the number of horses wagered on each runner. If his bet came in he stood to win a very nice string.
Then they were off. Legs pumping, elbows jabbing, the runners vied for lead position.
“Who’s yours?” Shirley whispered.
“Number five,” he replied absently. “Calls himself the Twelfth Primate.”
The jockeys were using their riding crops on themselves now. Their breeches were getting mud-splattered and here and there caps flew off.
“Come on, number five,” he muttered, clutching the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening. “Come on, Twelfth Primate.”
His jockey was in the middle of the bunch, fighting to reach the front, jostling with the other competitors.
“Come on!” Markham yelled, waving a clenched fist. “You can do it, boy!”
They rounded a bend and went into the home stretch.
“Come on! Move it! Come on, Twelfth Primate!”
The finishing line was in sight.
“Come on . . . Twelfth . . . Pri . . . mate . . .”
It came in twelfth.
He turned his betting slip into confetti.
“Lose much?” Shirley asked, unable to keep a note of disapproval out of her voice.
“I had a pony on it,” he told her glumly.
“I hope you’re doing better with your more conventional investments.”
He punched Teletext on the remote. The Stock and Fowl Market prices came up. “Hmm. Down a bit, actually.” He flicked off the set and grumbled, “They should never have handed over the Exchange Rate Mechanism to the RSPCA.”
“That reminds me,” she said, “I’m running short on petty cash.”
Markham went to the wire strongbox and fiddled with the combination. Scooping a handful of white mice, he deposited them on her desk as he made for the door, calling, “Back later.”
He left her dropping the squeaking currency into a drawer.
The bar held the usual afternoon crowd of deadbeats and lounge lizards, although most of the latter were securely tethered.
Under his overcoat, Markham wore his best suit. Outside in the guarded parking lot his cart was crammed with wherewithal supplied by Lonnie Fairfax. The Dog and Ducat seemed like a good place to wait until Ray Blythe’s casino opened.
Unfortunately, Markham hadn’t reckoned on the attentions of a pub bore.
His name was George. For some strange reason he occupied the only table with a vacant seat. George started by complaining about the cost of a pint, and how it had gone up from a canary to a seagull in all the local boozers. He grumbled that you could pay as much as a greyhound for a decent bottled draught, and went on to bemoan not having the kind of rare fauna needed to buy spirits. Then he hit his stride.
“That bloody Penhaligon,” he lamented, quickly adding, “Pardon my French. But, I ask you, they call him an ’ero. Bleedin’ menace, I say.” He sat back, arms folded across a swelling chest, and adopted the pose of public-house oracle. Markham fought an urge to strike him. “The banks were taking the mickey, granted,” he continued portentously, “but can we really say we’re any ’appier now?”
Markham shook his head in a vacant, noncommittal sort of way and daydreamed chainsaws.
“Anybody could ’ave told the banks other people would copy that twerp Penhaligon. So you had ’em taking in cheques written on cows, horses, sheep, all sorts.” He began jabbing the air with an uncertain finger. “Where they went wrong, them banks, was in trying to discourage people by ’onouring ’em. Silly bleeders . . . ’scuse my—” He yawned cavernously. “Took the cheques and gave animals in exchange, didn’t they? A livestock cheque for twenty pounds equalled . . .” His forehead creased. “What was it? A pair of goats, I think.”
Markham wanted to tell him that he knew his history as well as anybody. Or else bottle him. While he dithered, he was lost.
“But it didn’t put ’em off, did it?” George ploughed on. “Soon, everybody was cashing hedgehogs, tortoises and Highland terriers. Pop stars were having their royalty cheques written on zebras. The banks had to do away with their vaults and build pens. Next thing you knew the shops were taking animals for goods.” He leaned in and confided indignantly, “My boss started paying me in chickens.”
Markham wished he had a newspaper to hide behind.
But relief was at hand. Someone turned on the television above the bar. It carried a newsflash. There had been a daring robbery, caught on CCTV. They ran grainy black-and-white footage of hooded men rustling a herd of cows. A grim-looking announcer gave a telephone number and promised a reward that ran to fourteen hands. Then a financial wildlife programme came on and the sound was killed.
Fearing a further deluge of George, Markham avoided eye contact and reached for his glass. In the event, the pregnant silence was broken again when the jukebox started up. It belted out an old hit by the once fashionable Space Gals, a record that caught the spirit of the monetary revolution.
“Monkey can’t buy everything, it’s true
But what it can’t get
I’ll find at the zoo.
Oh give me monkey,
That’s what I want . . .”
Markham checked his watch. It was time to go. But something had been troubling him. He bent George’s way and said, “What’s a fourth wedding anniversary?” Responding to the blank look he got, he elaborated. “You know, twenty-five years or something is diamond and—”
“Oh, got yer. Me and me missus ’ad one of them. Let’s see . . . fourth . . . fourth . . . Isn’t that asbestos?”
Finishing his drink, Markham headed for the door.
At the bar, a young lad was paying for a round. Mindful of counterfeits, the landlord wouldn’t accept the ferret he was offered without biting it first.
Ray Blythe’s casino, Big Game, had the smell of affluence about it. Which is to say the smell of big game.
Having shown the doorman the colour of his magpies, Markham was ushered into the plush interior. After a cocktail at the bar, costing an arm and a claw, he sauntered into the playing hall. He stood for a moment to watch the action at a roulette table, where a suntanned punter was playing red continuously, slapping down guinea pigs and occasionally having a hedgehog slide back as winnings. Bigger rollers were leading away muzzled cheetahs.
Wandering off, he passed a row of obsessives feeding slot machines with sparrows, and arrived at the blackjack table. He began playing, to establish his credentials, and managed to lose two salamanders and a gecko in twenty minutes. Then he figured it was time to see Ray Blythe.
He approached one of the goons in ill-fitting dinner jackets who watched the hall. Employing one-syllable words and sign language, he conveyed that he wanted to see the boss, on a matter that could benefit him. The lout took it in without dribbling, then told him to wait. Markham leaned on the bar, watching the bustle and half-listening to the singer with the band.
“I’d like to get you on a slow goat to China . . .”
The goon returned, with a clone. They grunted for him to follow, and Markham wondered if they might be heading for a back alley. To his relief it proved to be a wood-panelled office big enough to have its own ecosystem, complete with the usual menagerie denoting conspicuous affluence.
Behind a desk fit for helicopter landings sat Ray Blythe.
That was a mistake; it only emphasized his titchy status. Three Blythes to one Fairfax, Markham estimated. And when he rose, his tiny frame was all the more apparent. Markham found himself bending his knees in an attempt not to appear to be looking down on him. It was a futile exercise. Blythe’s head barely reached the PI’s chest.
There were no pleasantries. “I’m a busy man,” Blythe announced frostily. “State your business, Mister Markham.”
“Fine by me. I only want a little . . . er, a few minutes of your time.” Blythe glared at him, ready to take offence. Markham took another step into the linguistic minefield. “I mean, it’s just a small . . . a trifling matter.”
“Not too trifling, I hope,” Blythe responded with a hint of menace, “or I might think you were wasting my time.”
“The long and the short of it—”
Markham tried again. “The . . . gist is that I’m here to make you an offer for . . . an item I think you have.”
“An item?”
“A certain avian asset,” Markham replied, adopting a conspiratorial air.
“A what?”
“A bird.”
“I’ve got flocks. What’s special about this one?”
Markham suspected he was being toyed with, but carried on. “It’s a one-off. Very unusual markings. In size it’s said to dwarf—” Blythe winced. “—Uhm . . . it’s big.”
“And would this . . . bird come from a northern nest?”
“It would.”
There was a tense moment while Blythe mulled things over. “Just suppose I did know this commodity’s whereabouts. What of it?”
“I represent somebody who wants to trade.”
“Who?”
“I’m supposed to keep that under wraps.”
“It’s Lonnie Fairfax, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“You’re a good bluffer, Markham, but it takes one to know one. It’s Fairfax, isn’t it?”
“Does it matter? The offer’s genuine.”
“It’s Fairfax. He’s got the hots for the damn’ thing.”
“Whatever. Point is, my client wants to buy and he’ll pay top beast.”
“If this bird’s as rare as you say, why would anybody want to sell it?”
“It’s unique, not easily passed.”
“Except by its lawful owner.”
Markham realized he’d implied Blythe wasn’t. “True,” he said slowly. “But how much better for its owner, whoever that might be, to exchange it for less conspicuous stock.”
“There might be some benefit in that,” Blythe conceded shiftily. “Leave your number and I’ll see what I can do.”
Markham nodded, flipped a business card onto the aircraftcarrier desk and made to leave. He stopped at the door. “One last thing.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s a fourth wedding anniversary? You know, gold, ivory . . .”
Blythe snapped his fingers at one of his aides.
“I think it’s Latex, boss,” the goon opined.
Markham closed the door quietly behind him.
It was raining again as he stood in a telephone box.
“. . . And I still can’t find a decent catering company,” Shirley reported. “As for a present—”
She took a breath and he jumped in. “What did you find out about Blythe?”
“Oh. Er, more or less what you’d expect. Claims to be legit these days but nobody believes it. The police reckon he uses that casino of his as a sheep dip.”
“Money laundering, eh? Figures.”
“And he was recently suspected of involvement in a scam where polecats used to pay for costly shop items turned out to be low-denomination squirrels in zipped suits.”
“Still up to his old tricks, then.”
“You know what they say, Eddie: a leopard never changes his socks.”
“Do they?”
“Well, cold hands, warm kippers. Something like that. Mind you, that client of yours, Fairfax, doesn’t seem much better.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I checked. He was once charged with druggling smugs.”
“You mean smuggling drugs.”
“I know what I mean, Eddie. Smugs are small South American rodents. But you don’t want to know what druggling is, take it from me.”
“I believe you.”
“Point is, both of them look like the sort of people who’d put ants in charity collection boxes.”
He glanced at the display on the phone. “I’ve gotta go now, Shirley, my mice are running out.”
“Why don’t you get a mobile, skinflint?”
“’Cos I’m not made of wildebeest.”
He was cut off.
Turning up his collar, he got into the reins and began the haul home with plenty to think about.
Next morning his way to a meeting was blocked by a commotion on the streets. Riot squads were out trying to keep dogs and cats apart as bewildered older folk struggled to herd their income support. He’d forgotten it was pension day.
Eventually Markham got to the café and found his contact waiting for him.
He used to be known as Harry the Ferret. Since events made that superfluous, he was more often addressed as Erstwhile Harry. Or simply, if controversially, Harry.
As far as Markham knew, Harry had never been a boxer. But he looked as though he had. His not-recently-shaven head was shaped like a roughly hewn granite block. He sported cauliflower ears and a nose badly reset after a break. His piglet eyes were never still, and there was always an air of furtive paranoia about him. He hunched.
Nodding at his informant, Markham ordered a late breakfast. When it arrived he couldn’t help but wonder why he was eating it. Early in the new order, people cottoned on to the idea of breeding money, and speculators with large quantities of rabbits watched their investment multiply to a fortune. That was outlawed, and certain species excluded from the currency. A normal birth, of a calf or lamb, say, was regarded as honestly earned interest and tagged as such. Rabbits, having no trading value, filled another niche.
God, Markham was sick of Bunnyburgers.
After a bite he dropped it back on the plate and got down to business. “I want to know what the word is on the street about a certain bird,” he whispered.
Harry’s gaze darted nervously. “What bird might that be?” he replied guardedly.
“Some say it’s mythical. And it’s from the North.”
“Would the thirteenth letter of the alphabet have some bearing on it?”
Frowning, Markham swiftly counted with his fingers, lips moving silently. “Er . . . yes. Twice.”
Harry gave him a plotter’s nod. “What about it?”
“I believe it’s in the hands of . . . let’s say a prominent member of the alternative economy.”
“And would this wrong-side-of-the-tracks entrepreneur be associated with the second and eighteenth letters of the alphabet?”
“It’s Ray Blythe, for goodness’ sake!” Markham hissed.
“If you know that, why ask me?”
“I want to confirm that he really has it. And if he does, where.”
“I might be able to help.” Harry’s eyes skimmed the café again. “For a consideration, of course.”
“Of course.” Markham glanced around the room too, then pushed a slumbering tawny owl across the plastic table top.
Harry quickly stuffed it inside his jacket. “The gentleman you’re referring to has a small farm just outside town.” He gave the location and added, “If you were looking for something, that’s probably where it would be. But don’t expect no chimpanzees’ tea party. The place is gonna be well guarded.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“You didn’t hear it from me. Right?”
“Right.” Markham stood, ready to leave. Then he paused. “There’s another piece of information you might have.”
Harry shrugged. “Sure. A man’s got to earn a crustacean.”
“You know how wedding anniversaries are associated with certain things? Coral, silver, that sort of stuff.”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s a fourth?”
Harry creased his brow. “I’ll put out the word,” he promised.
“And you say you have a lead on the item’s whereabouts?”
“Yes, Mister Fairfax.”
“But you’re not going to say where.”
“Not on an open line. Sorry.”
“Your next move?”
“A reconnaissance. To try and make sure the third party really has it.”
“Very wise. Have a care, Mister Markham, and keep me informed.”
The line went dead. Eddie hung up.
From the other side of her desk, Shirley had displeasure written all over her face. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Ray Blythe’s not the sort to tangle with lightly.”
“I’m not going to tangle with him, just take a look.”
“Your funeral.”
He was only half listening. Her PC screen showed stock prices on the Internet. He thought they were looking a bit heated.
“Here.” Shirley handed him a mobile phone.
“What’s this? You know we can’t afford—”
“It’s pre-pay, and I’ve charged it with three stoats. After that you can fork out for it yourself.”
Grumbling, he slipped it into a pocket.
“And keep it turned on,” she commanded.
He left her making more calls to catering companies.
Markham took a devious route, in case he was being followed.
An hour later he parked in a lay-by off a country lane and proceeded on foot, alert for guards. There seemed to be nobody about, so he eased himself over the two-bar fence surrounding the farmhouse. Approaching furtively, he noted that the doors were firmly closed and all the windows were shuttered.
A lorry appeared on the road, horn tooting. Markham dived behind a stone trough. Peeking over it, he watched as three men emerged from the farmhouse and opened the gates. Then they set to unloading a quantity of sacks bearing the logo of a birdseed company.
Once the cargo was dragged in and the truck had left, Markham crept from his hiding place. By the wall stood a row of dustbins. He went to them and began carefully lifting their lids. The first two were empty. But the third held several jumbo-size Frobisher’s cuttlefish wrappers, and in the bottom of the bin he found a mass of millet husks, picked clean.
A distant, eerie noise froze him. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was a hearty squawk. Markham reckoned that clinched it.
He was halfway to the fence when shouts rang out. Looking back, he saw men spilling from the house. He ran, vaulting the fence, and made off down the lane. The cries followed, and he was fighting for breath when he reached the car and fumbled with his keys.
Pulling away as the first of his pursuers came into sight, waving their fists, he thanked goodness that dogs were too valuable to use these days.
Later, killing time while he waited for Blythe to get in touch, Markham took a walk and bought a sandwich. He went by a cinema showing the new spaghetti western everybody was talking about, A Fistful of Dormice, then came to a TV shop with a small crowd outside gaping at the screens. About to investigate, he stopped when he noticed that his trousers appeared to be ringing. Fishing out the forgotten mobile, he took a frantic call from Shirley.
No sooner had he taken it in – he was still reeling – than somebody laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the expensively suited tough who had hold of him, then down a bit at the other two.
“You’re coming with us,” the giant announced.
Markham dropped his sandwich as they bundled him into a stretch limo with smoked windows.
They wouldn’t tell him where they were going. Wouldn’t speak at all, in fact. So he spent the time trying to listen to the car radio they’d left on low volume.
“Less than eighteen months after Penhaligon presented his historic cheque, the UK went over to the Bulldog standard. Before long, Bulls and Bears on the Stock Exchange were trading in bulls and bears.” The goons weren’t paying any attention. Markham strained to hear. “The global implications were profound. Japan adopted the Goldfish standard, France the Snail and America the Eagle. Soon, every nation had based its currency on animal reserves. But now—”
The driver snapped off the radio as the car swept into the underground garage of a swish tower block. Markham recognized it, and wasn’t surprised.
Five minutes later he was hustled out of a private elevator for an audience with Lonnie Fairfax.
“You only had to call if you wanted a meet,” Markham told him.
“I needed to be sure you’d come,” Fairfax replied dryly.
“Now I wonder what you want to talk about. I don’t think.”
“I had a brilliant idea. I thought, why pay you to negotiate the purchase of the Macaw now that you’ve found out where it’s being hidden? It should be a simple matter for me to arrange its . . . liberation and cut out the middleman.”
“I’m sure that was never your plan from the outset,” Markham returned sarcastically.
“So all that now remains is for you to reveal the location.”
Markham started laughing.
“Bravado is very commendable, but it won’t stop you telling.” He nodded at his henchmen. “My colleagues can be very persuasive.”
But Markham carried on guffawing. “You haven’t been keeping in touch, have you, Fairfax?” he spluttered. “None of it matters now.”
“What do you mean?”
Markham dabbed at his watering eyes and pointed to the TV. “See for yourself.”
Scowling, Fairfax snatched up the remote. A news report flicked on.
“. . . Events came to a head. The international money markets have nose-dived. United Aardvarks has crashed. Konsolidated Koalas went down sixty points in the last fifteen minutes. Investors have withdrawn support from the Australian Roo and the Transylvanian Bat, and the European Cuckoo is under extreme pressure.” The newsreader was passed a sheet of paper. His expression grew sterner. “There has been a run on the Swiss Poodle.”
Ashen-faced, Fairfax punched through the channels. All showed scenes of financial chaos. Mobs stormed the banks, making off with herds of antelope and flocks of ewes. There was a brief vox pop of a man sporting the apron, peaked cap and shovel that marked him out as an accountant. People were pushing wheelbarrows full of white mice into baker’s shops.
“You’re wiped out, Fairfax,” Markham smirked. “You, me, everybody.”
Fairfax wasn’t listening. Sweat-sheened, he had two phones to his head at the same time as barking orders to his goons. Frenzy prevailed.
Nobody noticed, or didn’t care, when Markham slipped away.
He braved anarchy in the streets. It was a little easier without the cart. Shirley was in the office, but she wasn’t alone. Ray Blythe and a cohort of heavies were waiting too, and they barred his exit.
The bantam-sized crime boss moved closer. A couple of goons backed him. Markham braced himself for a duffing-up, or worse.
Blythe loomed below him, his expression severe. “It seems we have some unfinished business,” he intoned.
“Do we?” Markham responded in what he hoped was a casual manner but knew wasn’t.
“Oh, yes.” Blythe lifted a well-manicured hand and snapped his fingers.
Markham flinched. There was an intake of breath from Shirley.
But no onslaught ensued. Instead, another tough entered, bearing a large wicker basket draped with a blanket.
“Looks like we’re all ruined now,” Blythe said. “So I won’t be needing this.” The blanket was whipped away, revealing the head and neck of a massive, disputatious-looking bird with unusual markings. “Give that to your boss.”
“I think Mister Fairfax has troubles of his own right now.”
Blythe smiled sardonically. “Good.” Then he beckoned his entourage. The bird was set down and they all trooped out.
Shirley and Markham vied for biggest sighs of relief.
“Well, you kind of cracked the case,” she ventured, making the best of it. “Pity the thing’s worthless.”
“Bit of a drawback, isn’t it? But we’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Probably literally.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Have a party. Brenda and Osbert’s do is still on, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. I mean, we might as well. Though I never did find a catering company. Or a present, come to that.”
“There’s just one thing that’s been bothering me.”
“About the case?”
“No, about your sister’s wedding anniversary. You found out what a fourth is, right? What represents it.” A tone of desperation edged his voice. “Tell me!”
“What? Oh, that. No, I never did. Doesn’t matter though, does it?”
He slumped, head in hands. A screech from the basket brought him out of it. He looked at the bird. The bird stared back, its beady, mean eye unwavering.
Markham hefted the basket and plonked it on Shirley’s desk. The beast squawked belligerently. “There you go, for Brenda and Osbert.”
“I hardly think devalued currency is appropriate as a present, Eddie,” she sniffed.
“Who said anything about a present? This is the catering.”