“Eh?” said I.
And “Eh?” said Dave.
“– that I have no qualms in identifying Mr Cheese as a serial killer. This man must be found and brought to justice.”
I looked at Dave. And Dave looked at me.
The newscaster looked at Chief Inspectre Sherrington Hovis. “I understand, Chief Inspectre,” he said, “that Parliament has passed a special Act to reinstate the death penalty for Mr Cheese. Is this correct?”
“It is,” said Inspectre Sherrington Hovis.
I looked at Dave once more. But Dave just shook his head.
“So great are this man’s crimes against society,” said the chief Inspectre, “that he cannot be permitted to live. Our investigations are ongoing and we expect to be able to tie Mr Cheese into over one hundred brutal killings.”
“One hundred?” I said.
And Dave whistled.
“Don’t whistle,” I told him. “I haven’t murdered one hundred people. Nowhere near that figure.”
“The fix is in,” said Dave, turning his face to me. “You’re in the frame. He means to clear the London murder crime sheets for the last five years by stitching you up for all of them.”
“But I’m innocent,” I protested.
Dave raised an eyebrow to me.
“Mostly innocent,” I said.
“I think we’d better go,” said Dave. “It’s definitely South America for us. I’d best get on the phone to Mr Biggs and tell him we’re coming.”
“I think we can forget about Mornington Crescent,” I said. “Let’s head for Dover.”
“Hold on there.” Dave made hold-hard hands-putting-ups. “I don’t have any money. Do you have any money? No, don’t tell me, you don’t. We can’t get to Rio without many pennies in our pockets. It’s Mornington Crescent or you might as well give yourself up. Or let me bring you in. There’s bound to be a big reward.”
“You wouldn’t?” I said.
“No, of course I wouldn’t – you’re my bestest friend. But we need big bucks and we need them now. And Mornington Crescent is the last place that anyone’s going to be looking for you. Let’s do the job, take the booty and flee these shores for ever. What do you say?”
I didn’t hesitate. I said yes.
“That’s sorted, then,” said Dave. “Finish your breakfast, then I’ll pay up and leave.”
“Oh, you’re going to pay. This is new.”
“We don’t want to call attention to ourselves, do we? We just want to behave as if we’re perfectly normal people. Just like all the other people in this café.”
I glanced around and about. “Dave,” I said. “Dave.”
“What?” said Dave.
“Dave, we suddenly seem to be all alone in this café.”
Dave glanced all around and about also. In particular he glanced towards the cash register. “The proprietor’s gone,” he said. “And all the waitresses, and the griddle chef too.”
And then we heard it. It came from outside, from the car park. I’d only heard it before in the movies and, I can tell you, it’s much scarier in real life, especially when it’s addressed to yourself.
It was, if you hadn’t already guessed. A voice. A policeman’s voice. And it was coming through one of those special police loud-hailers. Or bullhorns, as Laz used to call them. And anyone else too who lived in nineteen-fifties America, of course.
“Gary Charlton Cheese,” came through the police loud-hailer. “We know you’re in there. We have the place surrounded. Come out with your hands held high.”
“The format hasn’t changed at all since the days of Laz,” said Dave. “It’s good to know that some things, at least, never change.”
“Very comforting,” I said. “But how?”
“I suspect that the proprietor recognized you from your face on the TV, called the cops and quietly ushered out the patrons while we were talking,” said Dave.
Which explained everything, really.
“You have one minute,” said the voice from outside, “before we employ the use of a short-range tactical missile and destroy the entire café.”
Another voice shouted, “Oi, hang on, that’s a bit drastic”
This was the voice of the café’s proprietor.
“Serves him right for grassing you up,” said Dave, who was now underneath the table.
“What are we going to do?” I asked him.
“Give yourself up. I’ll forget about the reward. I’ll even own up that I didn’t die in your arson attack on the telephone exchange.”
“That’s very big of you.”
“What are friends for?” asked Dave, which was probably a rhetorical question.
“We have to get out of here.”
“I can’t see how.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, not from down there. Come on, think of something.”
“You have thirty seconds,” came the police loud-hailer voice.
“It might not be him,” came the shouting voice of the café proprietor. “In fact, now that I come to think of it, it didn’t actually look like him at all. The bloke in there is a big fat fellow. And black, with dreadlocks. And one eye. That can’t be him, can it?”
“Twenty seconds.”
“And a wooden leg. With a parrot on his shoulder.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“It’s been nice knowing you,” said Dave to me. “Would you have any objections if I just ran outside with my hands up, before the tactical missile strikes home?”
I shrugged. “No, I suppose not. I’m just sorry that we didn’t have longer. We could have had one of those deep and meaningful conversations about the nature of friendship, with flashbacks to our childhood and stuff like that, like they do in the movies.”
“Ten seconds.”
“Shame,” said Dave. “Sorry there’s no time to shake your hand, but …”
“Five seconds.”
“That was a bit quick.”
“Three … two … one …”
And then there was this incredible explosion.
Half the side of the café came down. Chairs and tables rocketed towards us, borne by the force; pictures were torn from the walls; light fittings and fixtures shattered and toppled. There was tomato sauce everywhere. And mayonnaise, in those little hard-to-open sachets. And amidst all the force and the dust and the mashing and mayhem a voice called out to me. And the voice called: “Come with me if you want to live.”[22]
I looked up and Sandra looked down, from the cab of the white transit van.
“Hurry up!” she shouted. “My head nearly came off, driving through that wall.”
Dave and I scrambled from the rubble and scrambled some more into the transit. Sandra reversed it out at the hurry-up.
“Zero!” came the loud-hailer voice.
And then there was a real explosion.
22
I was really impressed with Sandra. That was genuine loyalty. That was love. That is what marriages are all about. And she drove very well for a woman. Especially a dead one. She managed to mow down at least three policemen as we left the car park. And a couple of civilians who were looking on.
Which served them right for being so nosy.
“I’m really impressed,” I said to Sandra, as she put her foot down and we sped away. “That was genuine loyalty. That was love. That is what marriages are all about.”
“Sandra not do it for Masser Gary,” said Sandra. “Sandra do it for Dave. Him great lover. Him has always been.”
“The woman’s overexcited,” said Dave. “She did it for you. She really did. Didn’t you Sandra? You did it for Gary. Who won’t put your head in the fridge any more. Or possibly rip it off and stamp on it, if he thought that you hadn’t done it for him.”
“I did it for you, Masser Gary,” said Sandra. “Sandra love Masser Gary.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Dave.
“I’m upset by this,” I said to Dave, fishing a London A-Z from the glove compartment. “Now, which way to Mornington Crescent?”
And then we heard the police sirens.
“Best put your foot down, Sandra,” said Dave.
22
I know that this has now become a legendary phrase, uttered by the great Arnie Schwarzenegger. But, for the record, it was first uttered in that café in 1977.