In any case, I didn't like them and neither did Spike, and whatever it was they wanted it would have to be pretty weird. No one calls Spike until every avenue has been explored. He is the last line of defence before rationality starts to crumble.
We pulled on to the verge, where two large black Bentley limousines were waiting for us. Parked next to them were six standard police cars, the occupants looking bored and waiting for orders. Something pretty big was going down.
'Who's she?' demanded a tall agent with a humourless demeanour as soon as we stepped from the car.
'Thursday Next,' I replied, 'SO-27.'
'Literary Detectives?' he sneered.
'She's good enough for me,' said Spike. 'If I don't get my own people you can do your own weird shit.'
The SO-6 agent looked at the pair of us in turn.
'ID.'
I showed him my badge. He took it, looked at it for a moment, then passed it back.
'My name is Colonel Parks,' said the agent, 'I'm head of Presidential Security. This is Dowding, my second-in-command.'
Spike and I exchanged looks. The President. This really was serious.
Dowding, a laconic figure in a dark suit, nodded his greeting as Parks continued:
'Firstly I must point out to you both that this is a matter of great national importance and I am asking for your advice only because we are desperate. We find ourselves in a head-of-state deficit condition by virtue of a happenstance of a high other-worldliness possibility situation and we hoped you might be able to reverse-engineer us out of it.'
'Cut the waffle,' said Spike, 'what's going on?'
Parks's shoulders slumped and he took off his dark glasses.
'We've lost the President.'
My heart missed a beat. This was bad news. Really bad news. The way I saw it, the President wasn't due to die until next Monday, after Kaine and Goliath had been neutered. Missing or dying early allowed Kaine to gain power and start the Third World War a week before he was meant to and that was certainly not in the game plan.
Spike thought for a moment and then said:
'Bummer.'
'Quite.'
'Where?'
Parks stretched his arm towards the busy traffic speeding past on the motorway.
'Somewhere out there.'
'How long ago?'
'Twelve hours. Chancellor Kaine has got wind of it and he's pushing for a parliamentary vote to establish himself dictator at six o'clock this evening. That gives us less than eight hours.'
Spike nodded thoughtfully.
'Show me where you last saw him.'
Parks snapped his fingers and a black Bentley drew up alongside. We climbed in and the limo joined the M4 in a westerly direction, the police cars dropping in behind to create a rolling roadblock. Within a few miles our lane of the busy thoroughfare was deserted and quiet. As we drove on, Parks explained what had happened. President Formby was being driven from London to Bath along the M4, and somewhere between Junctions 16 and 17 where we now were he vanished.
The Bentley glided to a halt on the empty asphalt.
'The President's car was the centre vehicle in a three-car motorcade,' explained Parks as we got out. 'Saundby's car was behind, I was with Dowding in front, and Mallory was driving the President. At this precise point I looked behind and noticed that Mallory was indicating to turn off. I saw them move on to the hard shoulder and we pulled over immediately.'
Spike sniffed the air.
'And then what happened?'
'We lost sight of the car. We thought it had gone over the embankment but when we got there nothing. Not a bramble out of place. The car just vanished.'
We walked to the edge and looked down the slope. The motorway was carried above the surrounding countryside on an earth embankment; there was a steep slope that led down about fifteen feet through ragged vegetation to a fence. Beyond this was a field, a concrete bridge over a drainage ditch and beyond that, about half a mile distant, a row of white houses.
'Nothing just vanishes,' said Spike at last. 'There is always a reason. Usually a simple one, sometimes a weird one but always a reason. Dowding, what's your story?'
'Pretty much the same. His car started to pull over, then just, well, vanished from sight.'
'Vanished?'
'More like melted, really,' said a confused Dowding.
Spike rubbed his chin thoughtfully and bent down to pick up a handful of roadside detritus. Small granules of toughened glass, shards of metal and wires from the lining of a car tyre. He shivered.
'What is it?' asked Parks.
'I think President Formby's gone . . . deadside.'
'Then where's the body? In fact, where's the car?'
'There are three types of dead,' said Spike, counting on his fingers. 'Dead, undead, and semi-dead. Dead are what we call in the trade "spiritually bereft" the life force is extinct. Those are the lucky ones. Undead are the "spiritually challenged" that I seem to spend most of my time dealing with. Vampires, zombies, bogles and what have you.'
'And the semi-dead?'
'Spiritually ambiguous. Those that are moving on from one state to another or are in a spiritual limbo what you and I generally refer to as ghosts.'
Parks laughed out loud and Spike raised an eyebrow, the only outward sign of indignation I had ever seen him make.
'I didn't ask you along to listen to some garbage about ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, Officer Stoker.'
'Don't forget "things that go bump in the night",' countered Spike. 'You won't believe how bad a thing can bump if you don't deal with it quick.'
'Whatever. As far as I can see there is one state of dead and that's "not living". Now, do you have anything useful to add to this investigation or not?'
Spike didn't answer. He stared hard at Parks for a moment and then scrambled down the embankment towards a withered tree. It had leafless branches that looked incongruous among the summer greenery, and the plastic bags that had caught in its branches moved lazily in the breeze. Parks and I looked at one another then slid down the bank to join him. We found Spike examining the short grass with great interest.
'If you have a theory you should tell us,' said Parks, leaning against the tree. 'I'm getting a bit bored with all this New Age mumbo-jumbo.'
'We all visit the realm of the semi-dead at some point,' continued Spike, picking at the ground with his fingers like a chimp checking a partner for fleas, 'but for most of us it is only a millisecond as we pass from one realm to the next. Blink and you'll miss it. But there are others. Others who loiter around in the world of the semi-dead for years. The "spiritually ambiguous" who don't know they are dead, or, in the case of the President, are there by accident.'
'And?' asked Parks, who was becoming less keen on Spike with each second that passed. Spike carried on rummaging in the dirt so the SO-6 agent shrugged resignedly and started to walk back up the embankment.
'He didn't stop for a leak at Membury or Chieveley services, did he?' announced Spike in a loud voice. 'I wonder if he even went at Reading.'
Parks stopped and his attitude changed abruptly. He slid clumsily back down the embankment and rejoined us.
'How did you know that?'
Spike looked around at the empty fields.
'There is a motorway services here.'
'There was going to be one,' I corrected, 'but after Kington St I mean, Leigh Delamere was built it wasn't considered necessary.'