“That’s very sweet of you,” said the chauffeur, whose hearing was very acute, “and I’ve always rather fancied you. Shall we give the concert a miss, do you think, and just go back to my house?”
Back in Gunnersbury House, with the Gandhis’ music rattling the windowpanes and playing merry hell with the foundations, John Omally sat at his grimy kitchen table and listened in silence while Soap told him his tale.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, when the lad had done. “Oh my God, my God.”
Soap stared at the Irishman. He looked on the verge of collapse. The colour had faded away from his face and his hands shook terribly.
“I’m so sorry, John,” said Soap. “Sorry about Jim and sorry I had to spring all this on you.”
“It’s all right, Soap.” John took breaths to steady himself, but these met with little success. “It’s all right. It all makes sense to me now. Why Geraldo wanted my autograph when he met me. Why Jim was so secretive. All of it. It all falls into place.”
“So you can see why it’s so important that we find Geraldo today.”
John nodded slowly, his voice was scarcely a whisper. “You find him, Soap, and let me deal with Wingarde.”
“Now hold on, John. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Stupid?” John’s eyes flashed and his trembling hands became fists. “He killed Jim and that’s all I need to know.”
“Yes, I know that’s how it looks. But we can’t actually prove anything.”
“He’ll confess to me,” said Omally. “And then I will carry out his execution.”
“No, John, that isn’t the way.”
Omally climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached out a hand to Soap, who took it. “Soap,” said he. “This is where you and I part company again. You’re a good man, Soap. Jim was a good man and you’re a good man too.”
“You sound a bit like Brian Epstein,” said Soap. “But please don’t do this, John.”
“It has to be done. Call it revenge, call it whatever you will. But I have to do it, all the same.”
Soap looked up at Omally and they solemnly shook hands. “There’s nothing I can say that will talk you out of this, is there?” said Soap.
“Nothing, my friend.”
“Can I give you a hug?”
“Certainly not,” said John. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” said Soap. “And good luck.”
There had been quite a lot of talk of late in the press regarding the return of the death penalty. Well, in those papers owned by the Virgin Newsgroup at any rate. They’d been running a competition, inviting readers to write in with their suggestions for a new and novel form of public execution that could be broadcast on the Virgin Community TV Network.
Inspectre Hovis had not written in. Not that he wasn’t for bringing back hanging. He was. But the line, in his opinion, had to be drawn somewhere.
Unlike his constables, Inspectre Hovis was not in plain clothes. Nothing about him was plain. He was a character, and as a character he was dressed in style. Today it was a four-piece blue suede suit and a rather dashing pair of riding boots. However, at the present moment, all this sartorial excess was hidden from view. Because Inspectre Hovis was invisible.
He was sitting in one of the latest line in Virgin Community Police helicopters. One with the new stealth mode. This was hovering soundlessly, employing its exterior aural camouflage modification. Based, no doubt, on the principle of Ricky’s silence tape. But who can say for certain?
The Inspectre’s invisible person hung a mere twenty feet above the cheering crowd of Gunnersbury Park.
“Take us up,” Hovis told the pilot. “And make us reappear. The last time I had an experience like this was back in sixty-seven, when Lord Crawford and I did some really bad acid. Mind you, it wasn’t fanboys we saw down there that time. It was vampire sheep.”
The pilot took the helicopter up to five hundred feet and reengaged reality.
“That’s better,” said Hovis, examining his person. “And now tell me about all this electronic hocus-pocus you have on the dashboard.”
“Actually,” said the pilot, who was a stickler for correct terminology, “it’s not called a dashboard. It’s an instrument panel.”
The helicopter dipped alarmingly as Hovis stamped hard on the pilot’s foot.
“Right, sir,” said the pilot, as soon as he had regained control. “Beneath this aircraft is the new High-Spy 3000 Series surveillance camera. One thousand times magnification. Infra-red and ultra-violet tracking systems. Fully integrated missile guidance lock-on facilities.”
“Demonstrate,” said Hovis.
“Certainly, sir. Would you like me to blow up that band on the stage?”
“Very much,” said Hovis. “But I meant the camera. Tell me how the camera works.”
“Well, there’s not much to it, really. Light enters the lens and passes into a system of refracting mirrors that—”
The helicopter took another alarming dip.
“I meant, show me how I work the camera.”
“Just jiggle the little joystick,” said the pilot.
Hovis jiggled the joystick and the camera scanned the crowd.
Soap sat in one of the Virgin control boxes, peering at video screens. These too were scanning the crowd, on the look-out for anyone who was having too much of a good time.
On one of these Soap could see Omally. The Irishman was not having a good time. He was standing at the park gates, his hands behind his back, no doubt awaiting the arrival of Wingarde.
Soap sighed and turned his attention to the other screens. Crowds and crowds and more crowds. Black T-shirts and black T-shirts and an odd little group wearing kaftans and beads.
“Plain-clothed policemen,” said Soap. “And they seem to be looking for someone.”
Soap leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on his knees. He had to find Geraldo and he had to find him soon. Soap felt certain that if he could get to Geraldo, before John got to Wingarde, matters could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, without the need for bloodshed.
It was a good, pure thought, was that. And one that was worthy of a Buddhist such as Soap. And, if this had been a perfect world, where life was lived in little movies and there was such a thing as justice, Soap’s worthy thought would have earned him a bit of Instant Karma and he would have been rewarded by an instant sighting of Geraldo.
But, as events have so far proved beyond any shadow of a doubt, this is not a perfect world. And so Soap sat there in the control box and saw nothing whatever.
And after half an hour of this, poor Soap fell fast asleep.
There’s too many Hoppers for this time of year.
They come in on the wind, I hear.
They get up your nose and into your ear.
I think it’s time for action.
Brave words are fine, but insubstantial.
What we need is help, financial.
A government grant would do the trick.
It needs some toff to shake the stick.
Then, if everything starts to click,
We’ll really get some action.
There’s too many Pikers for this time of day.
They fall from the clouds (or so they say).
And crawl up your bum while you sleep in the hay.
I think it’s time for action.
Proud talk is well, but it’s not enough.
We need more, when the going’s rough.
A word from the Pope would spin the coin,
Or Johnny B. could write a poem.
Or sing a song to get things goin’,
And then we’d see some action.
There’s too many tinkers in the street.
They always get beneath your feet.
They make you trip and drop your sweet.
I think it’s time for action.
Great oaths are grand, but money talks.
We need police to guard our walks.
A dozen for The Avenue,
And in each sweetshop, one or two.
And plain-clothed coppers, quite a few,