‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Although I find this a good deal more amusing than Brentford rhyming slang, my bet is that you won’t be able to keep it up for very long.’
‘I will you know. I’m on Viagra.’ Oh how we laughed.
Norman tottered off once more and then a voice said, ‘Psst.’
‘I’m not,’ I said.
‘No. Psst. Come over here.’
I turned to see Michael standing in an alcove and beckoning to me with his foolish glove.
Hello, I said to myself What’s this?
‘Come over here and hurry.’
I sauntered over. ‘What is it you want?’ I asked.
‘It’s me,’ said Michael.
‘I know it’s you,’ I said.
‘No. It’s me. Lazlo.’ And Lazlo lifted up a corner of his face. ‘Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.’
‘By God,’ I said. ‘You certainly had me fooled. You really are a master of disguise.’
Michael’s face smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a bit of a cheat, really,’ said Lazlo. ‘The guards shot the real Michael trying to shin over the fence.
‘Then there is a God,’ I said.
‘The guards dumped his body in the woods. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, so I sort of—’
‘You sort of what?’
‘Sort of flayed his body and put on his skin.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said. ‘I thought you were going to say something really disgusting.’
‘How dare you! But listen, we must talk. I know who the murderer is. But I also know a lot more than that. It’s a global conspiracy. The end of civilization as we know it is only a few hours away. The Secret Government of the World is going to take over, the minute all the computers crash. They’ve been planning it for years. We have to stop them.’
‘Now hold on,’ I said. ‘Let’s just flip back a bit here. Who is the murderer?’
‘It doesn’t matter about that.’
‘It does. It really does.’
‘It does not. What matters is that we warn everyone.
‘No no,’ I said. ‘What matters most is that you tell me who the murderer is.’
‘That’s not important, we— ‘It bloody is important. I’m paying your wages, you bastard. Tell
me who the murderer is and tell me now.
‘Oh all right,’ said Lazlo. ‘The murderer is...’ And then he paused.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘The murderer is.
‘The murderer is...‘ And Lazlo clutched at his throat. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.
‘O’Shit? Is that an Irish name?’
‘Urgh,’ gasped Lazlo. ‘I’ve been shot in the throat with a poisoned dart.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that now. Just tell me the name of the murderer.’
But did he tell me?
Did he bugger.
He just dropped down dead on the floor.
22
Da de da de da de da de da de da de...thriller night.
Now, you know that panicky feeling you get when you’re hosting the biggest celebrity bash of the century and the party’s hardly got started yet and the private detective you’ve hired to track down the killer of your bestest friend gets shot in the throat by a poisoned dart and he just happens to be wearing the skin of the world’s most famous pop star?
You don’t?
Well, no, I suppose it doesn’t happen all that often.
Celebs were already beginning to stare. One of their own was down in a corner and this always draws a good crowd.
‘Ooh-er,’ they went, ‘what’s happened to Michael?’
‘Michael’s fine,’ I told them. ‘Michael’s fine. He’s just had too much brown ale. You know what he’s like.’
I tried to lift Lazlo onto his feet. I don’t know why. To pretend that he hadn’t been shot in the throat by a poisoned dart, I suppose. You don’t always behave altogether rationally under these circumstances.
I succeeded in getting him into a kneeling position. But my attempts at doing much more were being sorely hampered by Bubbles the chimp, who had become amorously involved with my left leg.
‘Get off, you stupid ape,’ I told him, kicking out and struggling. At which point Lazlo’s head sort of toppled forward into my crotch and Michael’s hair got all entangled with my belt buckle.
At which point the staring celebs began to applaud. Drawing an even bigger crowd.
Happily with Norman amongst it.
‘Blimey,’ said Norman. ‘This is one for the album.’
‘Don’t just stand there,’ I shouted. ‘Give me a hand.’
‘No thanks,’ said Norman. ‘It’s not really my thing. And anyway, I’ve just got Camilla warmed up.’
‘Come here, you bloody fool.’
Norman clip-clopped over on his stack-soled shoes.
‘He’s dead,’ I whispered to him.
‘Then there is a God.’ And Norman laughed. ‘What’s really happened?’
‘He’s really dead, look at him. Get off me, Bubbles!’
‘Really dead?’ Norman gaped and gazed. ‘Well, if he’s really dead, then I think what you’re doing to him is in very bad taste. And in front of all these people and everything.’
If I’d had a spare hand, I’d have clouted Norman with it. ‘It isn’t Michael Jackson,’ I whispered, teeth all clenched and left leg kicking. ‘It’s Lazlo Woodbine.’
‘Then he really is a master of disguise.’
‘He’s wearing Michael Jackson’s skin.’
‘Now hang about,’ said Norman. ‘Let’s just get this straight.’
‘I don’t have time for that. For God’s sake, help me shift him out of here.’
‘The things I do for you,’ said Norman. ‘Come on then, let’s lift him up.’
Now, all right. I know it wasn’t Norman’s fault. He was only trying to help. And I’m sure that if I’d been wearing big built-up shoes like his, I’d have found it difficult to keep my balance. And matters weren’t improved any by that damned chimp who was humping away at my leg and the fact that Michael’s hair was still all tangled up in my belt buckle.
Norman sort of tugged at Lazlo’s shoulders. Norman sort of tugged, then sort of toppled. And he elbowed me right in the face and I sort of fell backwards into the crowd, bringing Michael’s head-skin with me and this sort of ended up in my lap like a big hairy sporran. And Lazlo’s body sort of slumped over, with his head all sort of gory and Bubbles sort of freaked out and went sort of berserk.
Sort of.
It was the first major embarrassment of the evening.
And it really took some explaining away, I can tell you.
I let Norman do it.
I dragged the body outside and stood about freezing my million-dollar nuts off Finally Norman joined me. He was in a right old strop.
‘You stupid bastard!’ he shouted.
‘What?’
‘Is there something you’d like to say to me?’
‘Thanks for sorting out the situation?’
‘No. Not that.’ Norman stamped his foot and nearly broke his ankle.
‘If it’s about me leaving the top off your iodine bottle—’
‘No. It’s not about that. I’ve just been on the walkie talkie to the guards at the gate.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
‘Yes, ah. You ordered the guards to shoot anyone who tried to climb over the fence. And they’ve just shot Jeffrey Archer.’
‘Then there is a God.’
‘It’s no laughing matter. Have you gone completely mad? You can’t have famous people killed. This isn’t France, you know.’
‘Eh?’
‘I mean, it’s all right with Michael.’
‘It is?’
‘Of course it is. I can rebuild him. He’s mostly made out of Meccano anyway.’
‘Allegedly,’ I said. ‘Allegedly.’
‘I’ve ordered the guards to put away their guns. Before someone who matters gets hurt. So what have you done with the body?’
‘I rolled it under that big black lorry over there.’