—Extract from The Mole, April 19, 1988
Aside from the absence of the Sacred Gonga and the fact that it wasn’t held in the visitors’ center, the Jellyman’s Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center dedication went extremely well. Everyone present commented on how it was conducted with the utmost tact, solemnity and reverence. After the dedication ceremony, the Jellyman went on a procession route through the town, stopping off at various places of interest on the way.
The police estimate for the turnout was nearly three hundred thousand, despite the poor weather and the faint possibility of contracting verrucas. Of that it was estimated that 10 percent actually got a good look, 30 percent saw a man in a white suit waving, a further 30 percent saw only a distant white blob, 10 percent thought they saw something but actually didn’t, and the remainder saw nothing at all.
Madeleine, Stevie, Ben, Pandora, Megan and Jerome had been in the unlucky last category. They had left too late and got stuck in the throng, battling with the crowds and dodging street traders who were selling everything from Jellyman key rings to bedside lamps to DVDs of his speeches to dolls that made suitably sagacious pronouncements when you pulled a string at the back of their neck. Pandora and Ben gripped Jerome and Megan’s hands lest they get swept away in the crowd. They got to the Civic Center just as the Jellyman had gone in. When he came out two hours later, a police van pulled up and blocked their view, so all they saw was the back of his white Daimler limousine as he drove off to visit St. Septyck’s new ward for terminal sarcastics. Madeleine thought of waiting for his return in three hours’ time, but the children were tired and it had begun to drizzle. They made their way back home in a subdued mood. It was a bit like visiting the beach one day in the year to find it shut.
“Congratulations, Jack!”
Briggs shook him warmly by the hand, but Jack didn’t smile. The decontamination process has that effect on people.
“They got away, sir. It’s not much of a result.”
“You’re wrong,” Briggs said, handing Jack and Mary champagne glasses. “It’s a very good result. Without you more than ten thousand people would be infected with Dr. Carbuncle’s unbelievably infectious superverruca by now—with potentially millions in the coming months. Swimming pools, beaches and sports halls would have become no-go zones and shoe shops places of dread and suspicion. Spongg’s would be charging what they want, and we’d all be none the wiser. No, it’s a very good result indeed.”
Jack took a sip of the champagne to find that it was, in fact, fizzy apple juice.
“We’re still on duty,” said Briggs in response to Jack’s quizzical look. “Cheers!”
“Cheers, sir.”
Briggs sat at his desk. It was early evening, and the day’s security precautions were being slowly wound down. The Jellyman was at his last official engagement, a banquet over at the sprawling QuangTech facility to celebrate the technological, industrial and artistic achievements of Reading. Jack and Mary had been called up to Briggs’s office quite unexpectedly and were surprised to find Brown-Horrocks there, still dressed in the blue overalls, which were too short and showed at least seven inches of white ankle.
“The Biohazard Response Team went to Dr. Carbuncle’s house and are going to encase it in concrete rather than risk even moving the verruca,” said Briggs. “The Foot Museum is being soaked in disinfectant and won’t be reopened for six months. I’ve had a word with the head of the Center of Communicable Diseases. They’d like to shake your hand without latex gloves on—that’s quite an honor from those chaps.”
“Yes, but what about Lola and Spongg, sir?”
Briggs shook his head. “They won’t find anywhere they can hide in Europe. The deliberate spreading of infectious diseases is serious stuff; the police forces of the Continent will definitely be on the lookout.”
Jack was less than happy. Spongg and Lola’s progress had been charted by a series of sightings in the South of England. It seemed they had commenced their Channel crossing at Lulworth, and the French had sent two reconnaissance aircraft to patrol the coast. They were recalled three hours later when the Hornet Moth didn’t show.
“Have you seen the late editions?” asked Briggs. He showed Jack a copy of The Toad. It carried glowing reports of the extraordinary drama played out in Reading that day and heaped almost as much praise on Jack today as the bile they had dumped on him yesterday. “It’s all going frightfully well. The press want you to issue a statement. Perhaps you could make up a catchphrase for yourself—something like… ‘This inquiry is shut’ — or something.”
“I’d be lying, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
Brown-Horrocks looked up from where he was transcribing his notes, which had faded badly in the autoclave.
“Something’s not right,” said Jack despondently. “Spongg planned to kill Humpty but didn’t. Someone beat him to it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Lola said that she would inherit Humpty’s thirty-eight percent after her ‘husband’s untimely death in the Zephyr.’ If she was in on the whole scam from the beginning, she must have known about the shooting—so why mention the Zephyr? It was how they intended to kill him, but events overtook them. Then, when we visit her for the second time, asking annoying questions about Humpty’s new wife, they decide to use it on us.”
“That’s it?” said Briggs with a laugh. “That’s the sole reason for your doubts?”
“Pretty much. Someone else killed Humpty.”
“Who?”
“A hit man working for Solomon Grundy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve gone down that avenue already. Grundy said he knew that his wife fooled around and didn’t care. I need proof, Jack, proof!”