“Not really,” Omally confessed. “Where’s Jim?”
“Gone out.” Ricky took from his pocket a spliff of heroic proportions. “I don’t think he slept at all last night. I heard him pacing about. And then he woke me up early and asked if he could borrow my suit.”
“Borrow your suit?”
“I said he could keep it. And he showered and shaved and put it on and went out. He said he had a bit of urgent business he had to take care of. But he said we were to wait for him and he’d be back with lots of money. Is that guy boss, or what?”
Omally sipped and nodded and tried to stay upwind of spliff smoke. He had absolutely no idea what Jim was up to. The lad had refused to tell him anything. Except that he would sort everything out, no matter what it took.
Omally took to worrying, in a manly kind of a way.
Now, if they were ever to organize a Most Manly Man in Brentford competition, the winner would undoubtedly be Bob the Bookie.
Not because he was the borough’s most manly man, but because he would bribe the judges. Being thought of as manly, and always coming first, were big on Bob’s agenda.
Bob had always liked to think of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. And if it hadn’t been for the handicap of having a very small willy, he would no doubt have translated his thoughts into deeds that would have drawn applause from Long John Holmes himself.
But such is life. Bob had a big bank roll, but a small willy. So, considering what an all-round bastard he was, there might, perhaps, be some justice left in the world.
Bob was, if not a manly man, at least a self-made one. He worked very hard at the making of money, and from humble beginnings had built up a nationwide chain of twenty-three betting shops.
But it was here, in Brentford, in the very first shop that he had ever opened, that he liked to spend his time. It was such a joy to take money from his old school chums. Chums who had pulled down his trousers at school and made mock of his midnight growler. Pooley was one of Bob’s old school chums and although Jim had never taken part in the debaggings, Bob still gained enormous pleasure parting Pooley from his pounds.
Upon this particular Thursday morning, Bob was seated behind the armoured plexiglass of his counter window, leafing through a nudie book, when the slash curtains parted and a gentleman walked in.
Bob noted the dark grey business suit, the shirt and tie and the confident walk. A VAT inspector, perhaps? Bob tucked away his nudie book and tried to look humble and poor.
“How may I help you, sir?” asked Bob. And then he did a double-take, and then a double-double.
“Shergar’s shit!” cried Bob the Bookie. “Pooley, is that you?”
“Good morning, Bob,” said Pooley. “And how are you today?”
“I’m … I’m …” Bob gawped at the vision before him. “Where did you steal that suit?” he asked.
“Always the wag, Bob. Always the wag.”
“Yeah, but where did you steal it?”
“I did not steal it. This is a business suit, as worn by those who do business.”
“Oh, I see, you’re going to a fancy dress party. Come-as-your-fantasy, is it?”
“No, Bob. I am wearing it because I am now in business. The music business.”
“Yeah, right,” said Bob. “So what is it really? Got yourself a job as a shop-window dummy? Is that why you weren’t in yesterday?”
“I was working yesterday. In the music business.”
“Sure you were, Pooley. Well, just give me your slip and your stake money and then you can be off about your business.” And Bob laughed in a most unpleasant manner.
“Oh, I haven’t come in here to place a bet,” said Jim. “My betting days are done. My ship has at last sailed into port and I just popped in to say goodbye, before I sail away for ever.”
“And now I know you’re winding me up. So pay up and piss off, why don’t you.”
“I was just wondering if you had any change.”
“That’s more like it,” said Bob. “Need a couple of pence to make up a quid, do you?”
“No, I just need something a bit smaller. For the taxi.” Jim pulled from his pocket the big wad of twenties and gave it a casual thumbing.
Bob’s eyes bulged most horribly at the sight of all this money. “Where did you get that?” he asked in a low and troubled tone.
“Oh, this?” Pooley thumbed a little more. “Just petty cash, actually. Could you let me have four fives for a twenty?”
“I could,” said Bob, his eyes now locked on Pooley’s wad. “I could, but …”
“But?” Jim asked.
“But that is a very large amount of cash you’re carrying there, Jim. Don’t you think it might be advisable to keep it somewhere safe? Perhaps I might look after it for you.”
“Did you say large amount?” And Pooley laughed. “Well, it might be a large amount to you, Bob. But it’s nothing to what I shall be making over the next few months. But if you can’t give me change I’d better be getting along.”
And Pooley turned to leave.
“Hold on, there!” cried Bob. “There’s no need to rush off just yet.”
“Can’t hang about,” said Jim. “More than my job’s worth. People to see. Business to do. Backers to vet.”
“Backers to vet?” asked Bob.
“It’s my job,” said Jim. “To vet backers who want to put money into a nationwide tour of a major new rock band.” He turned back and grinned at Bob. “I have to check their credentials.”
“And what do you know about stuff like that?”
“Well, Bob.” And here Pooley winked. “Actually I don’t know anything about it, but the deal is that anyone who invests in the band will double their money within six months.”
“Bollocks,” said Bob. “I don’t believe that.”
“And why should you?” said Jim. “You’ve never heard the band play—”
“The only music I like to hear is the sound of the bookie’s piano.” Bob gestured towards his cash register. “Ding ding ding, it goes.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Goodbye.”
“No, stop a minute, Jim.” Bob had a bit of a sweat on now. He knew that he would never forgive himself if he let Jim escape from the shop with all that cash in his hand. He had always considered Jim’s money to be his money. And he couldn’t have his money walking out of the door. “Tell me about this band,” he said. “Do you have a tape or something?”
“I think it’s a videotape,” said the constable, handing Inspectre Hovis the package. “Bloke dropped it off for you at the front desk.”
Hovis took the package and leaned back in his chair. “And did this bloke leave his name?” he asked.
“No, but he was a respectable-looking type. Wore the uniform of a library clerk. And if we can’t trust a library clerk, who can we trust? Eh, Inspectre, sir?”
“Bugger off,” said Hovis. “And get on to those glaziers again. I’m sick of the wind blowing in through that dirty great hole in the window.”
The constable glanced towards the gaping hole. “I wonder what happened to the body,” he wondered.
“That is a question I shall be putting to Mr Omally. Here, take this before you go.” He handed the constable a sheet of paper.
“What is this, sir?” the constable asked.
“It’s a requisition form for a bigger cattle prod. A couple of days without rations should soften the blighter up. And then we’ll see what he has to tell us.”
“Nice one, sir.” And the constable departed, whistling in the way they often do.
Hovis pushed photos to left and to right and opened the package on his desk. In it was indeed a videotape. A videotape of the now legendary Beatles’ Wembley concert of nineteen eighty. CONTAINS ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF THE QUEEN’S ASSASSINATION, ran a gaily coloured flyer on the front. Hovis pulled the tape from its sleeve and a note dropped onto his desk. Hovis examined the note and read.