The Lord of the Ring Roads (The Final Brentford Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  Neville clutched at his heart and managed, ‘What?’ in a cracked little voice.

  ‘But it was all right,’ said John. ‘The giant saved him and the professor dispatched the monsters with magic. And Leo Felix drove the prince to Buckingham Palace and—’

  ‘Out!’ cried Neville. ‘You bloody lunatics. Out of my pub, you are barred forever more.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ pleaded Jim.

  ‘Guilty by association,’ said Neville.

  ‘It will be all right,’ John said. ‘The monument will be re-erected tonight. Jim will help me.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ said Jim. ‘This is not my fault.’

  ‘Drink up and get out the two of you,’ said Neville and he folded his arms and turned his back on the sorry pair.

  ‘Please, Neville,’ Jim wrung his hands. ‘You cannot bar us from the Swan, you can’t.’

  ‘I can and I have,’ said Neville. ‘You two will be the death of us all.’

  ‘But Neville—’

  ‘Drink with haste,’ said the part-time barman. ‘The knobkerrie aches to split your skulls.’

  The two men drank with haste.

  ‘Well that might have gone better,’ said Jim, as he and John stood outside in the street.

  ‘He’ll come around,’ said John. ‘He always does.’

  ‘This time might be different,’ said Jim. ‘What with you bringing on World War Three and everything.’

  Omally hmmphed and sought his cigarettes.

  ‘And you can get my suit dry-cleaned before you return it,’ said Jim. ‘Is that blood on the sleeve?’

  ‘Royal blood,’ said John Omally.

  Jim sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘What a dreadful day,’ he said. ‘What a dreadful day.’

  ‘Cheer up Jim,’ Omally patted his bestest friend on the back. ‘All will be sorted, don’t you worry.’

  Pooley’s hands were beginning to flap once more.

  ‘And you can just stop that as soon as you like.’ John gave the flapping hands a smack. ‘Because do I have a surprise for you, Jim Pooley.’

  ‘No more thank you,’ said Jim. ‘I have had quite enough.’

  ‘Guess who is coming to Brentford tonight,’ said John.

  Jim shrugged and sighed once again.

  ‘The Cheeky Girls,’ said John. ‘To pull the winning ticket.’

  ‘The bloody who?’ came Neville’s voice through the letterbox. ‘You promised me, Lucy Worsley, just wait there until I fetch the knobkerrie.’

  ‘Time we were off,’ said John to Jim. ‘I’ll race you to the corner.’

  By the time Neville emerged from the Swan, knobkerrie in hand, the two had all but reached the corner.

  And all Neville heard was Pooley’s voice, puffing, ‘John… about… the… lottery.’

  Inspectre Sherringford Hovis, once of Scotland Yard, but now, to his vast disgust, upon a seemingly endless secondment to the Brentford Constabulary, peered over his mirrored pince-nez towards the brace of junior plods.

  ‘Stand up straight,’ he ordered his troops. ‘When in a superior officer’s office you must stand up straight.’

  Constable Meek stood as straight as he could. Constable Gwynplaine just grinned.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said the Inspectre. ‘We have the reincarnation of Woodstock going crazy ape-shit on The Butts Estate and how many members of the local force are policing this event?’

  Constable Meek said nothing. Constable Gwynplaine grinned.

  ‘None,’ said Inspectre Hovis. ‘Because you two are it. Do you know who I have just had on the telephone?’

  The constables slowly shook their heads. Neither had a clue.

  ‘Prince Philip,’ said Inspectre Hovis. ‘Prince f*cking Philip.’

  Constable Meek blanched somewhat at this.

  Constable Gwynplaine grinned on.

  ‘Yes,’ said Inspectre Hovis, in reply to an unasked question. ‘The Prince Philip. And he’s a very angry Prince Philip. Because someone in Brentford tried to murder his son.’

  Inspectre Hovis let these words sink in.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, gently nodding his head. ‘An assassination attempt upon a prominent member of the royal household. Right here in Brentford. Right beneath our bloody noses and where were you, my bonny lads, when this was going on?’

  ‘You sent me to the shops to buy biscuits,’ said Constable Meek.

  ‘And you said I was to man the desk and under no circumstances let any more gypsies talk me into giving them free toilet paper,’ said Constable Gwynplaine.

  ‘Priceless,’ said Inspectre Hovis. ‘Oh, and Prince Philip’s missus, who you might recall is the frigging Queen, wants her corgi back.’

  ‘Her what, sir?’ asked Constable Meek, still standing up straight.

  ‘Apparently,’ Inspectre Hovis now rolled his eyes. ‘Leo Felix, used-car dealer of ill-repute, drove Prince Charles to Buck House in the back of his pick-up truck. He was kindly invited in for a cup of tea, but when he took his leave he apparently did so in the company of one of her Maj’s favourite corgis.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Constable Meek.

  ‘Language!’ said his superior officer. ‘So, my fine fellows, I want bodies. What do I want?’

  ‘Bodies,’ the constables agreed.

  ‘Which bodies?’ asked Constable Gwynplaine.

  Inspectre Hovis rolled his eyes once more. ‘We shall start,’ said he, ‘with the mastermind behind the assassination attempt.’

  The constables made excited faces.

  ‘Who’s that then, sir?’ asked young constable Meek.

  ‘Seemingly Mr Stephen Pocklington, our own town clerk.’

  ‘Crikey,’ said Constable Meek. ‘Crikey’s all right, isn’t it sir?’

  ‘Crikey will do,’ said Hovis. ‘According to some garbled account given by Prince Charles, the town clerk set him up as some kind of human sacrifice.’

  ‘Gosh,’ went Constable Meek.

  ‘And people wonder why I hate Brentford,’ sighed Inspectre Hovis.

  Behind the reception desk at the town hall sat Ms Samantha Sterne. Displaying an abundance of bosom, but nothing in the way of literary merit.

  She tapped away at her iPad and when caused to look up, due to the sudden police presence before her, offered but a glassy stare and a widely open mouth.

  The two constables wore what body armour they had been able to find. Although the shoulder pads sported by Constable Gwynplaine were clearly of the American football persuasion. Both had riot shields and electric truncheons.

  Inspectre Hovis was in his tweeds, overlaid by a bullet-proof vest he had purchased from eBay. Unlike his junior officers, he did not carry a truncheon.

  Inspectre Hovis carried a sawn-off shotgun.

  ‘Oh my,’ Ms Sterne finally managed. ‘You are big boys, aren’t you? Do you want to put me in handcuffs? Who told you it was my birthday?’

  ‘Madam,’ said Sherringford Hovis. ‘Allow me to clarify the situation for you right here and now. We are not, I repeat not strip-o-grams.’

  ‘Aw,’ went Samantha Sterne, putting on a pout.

  ‘A popular mistake,’ said Hovis. ‘With many a comedic opportunity. But not. Do I make myself quite clear?’

  The budding author nodded sulkily.

  ‘We have a warrant,’ said the Inspectre, ‘for the arrest of Mr Stephen Pocklington.’

  ‘Oh how exciting,’ said Samantha Sterne. ‘Has he done something terribly naughty? Something racy, perhaps?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to divulge that information, madam.’

  ‘Might I have a look at the warrant then?’ Ms Samantha Sterne stretched out her delicate hand. The fingernails were oh-so-long.

  ‘No madam. Now who else is in the building except for Mr Pocklington and yourself?’

  ‘How did you know Mr Pocklington is here?’ asked Ms Sterne.

  Stuck for an answer Hovis said, ‘We have our sources, madam.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the lovely la
dy. ‘Well there is just him and me, as it happens. I think he hopes to take me out to lunch soon.’

  ‘I regret that he will be denied that pleasure.’ Hovis cocked his sawn-off shotgun. ‘Direct us to his office then quietly leave the building.’

  ‘I know first aid,’ said Samantha. ‘If anyone gets shot I would be happy to apply pressure.’

  ‘Hopefully nobody will get shot.’

  Samantha smiled a carrion smile. ‘First floor, the front office with the great big door. Beautifully decorated it is. Mr Pocklington has exquisite taste. Period furniture, antique French china. He has an original Galle triple-overlay cameo glass desk lamp with gilt bronze swags and inlaid Art Nouveau fruitwood entablatures.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Hovis, a man who really knew his table lamps. ‘So madam, if you would kindly take your leave, the professionals will go about their business.’

  Samantha Sterne arose in a buxom flurry and departed on heels that should only be worn in the bedroom.

  ‘Right then, bonny lads,’ said Hovis. ‘You know the drill. We creep up the stairs, stand to each side of the door—’

  ‘—in case of gunshots,’ said Constable Meek.

  ‘In case of gunshots, constable, yes. Then I knock and—’

  ‘—say “open up in the name of the law”,’ said Constable Gwynplaine.

  ‘Bravo, constables,’ said the Inspectre. ‘Then if he does not open up in the name of the law, we kick the door in and Bob’s your uncle—’

  ‘—Bob’s my uncle?’ queried constable Meek.

  ‘I will fire if necessary. You have my permission to set about him something wicked with your electric truncheons should he choose to put up a fight.’

  Constable Gwynplaine grinned a little more broadly. The setting about something wicked side of policing was one of his very favourite things.

  ‘Right,’ said Hovis, ‘follow me.’

  The thickly carpeted stairs allowed for a silent approach and when Inspectre Hovis got to shout, ‘open up in the name of the law,’ it would have come as quite a surprise to anyone sitting in that office.

  The lack of response to the Inspectre’s command, brought joy to Constable Gwynplaine. But the kicking in of the door might have gone better. It was a very sturdy door and put up a silent display of defiance which caused poor Hovis grief.

  As he hopped about on one foot, rueing the day and cursing the name of, Constable Meek stepped forward, turned the handle and pushed the great door open.

  With hearty cries and waving truncheons the constables bounded into the room, followed by their limping superior.

  They were not prepared for the sight that met their eyes.

  Nor indeed the pungent odour that assailed their naked noses.

  Of grandiose furniture and high art hung in gilded frames, the office was, as Mother Hubbard’s famous cupboard, bare.

  Ragged, filthy sacking served as carpet. The desk was a pasteboard table upon twisted rusty legs. The chair a grubby plastic garden jobbie. Where might have been fine paintings, newspaper pages were glued, it seemed, to the walls.

  Around and about lay rotting vegetation and what was very likely human waste.

  Constable Meek threw up on the floor.

  Hovis edged away a fanning his nose.

  Proving to be of remarkably stern stuff, Constable Gwynplaine surveyed the ghastliness of the office. ‘Most odd,’ said he, ‘most odd.’

  ‘Odd?’ called Hovis. ‘He left us a two-fingered calling card, I’d say.’

  Constable Gwynplaine shook his head. ‘This was not done today,’ he said. ‘The way the stains have spread, the way the newspaper pages curl at the edges. None of this is new at all.’

  Inspectre Hovis returned to the room, an oversized red gingham handkerchief worn cowboy-style about his chops. ‘Good work, constable,’ he said. ‘Fine observation. And yes,’ he poked about with the toe of his immaculately polished brogue, repelled by the stickiness it encountered, ‘you would appear to be right, this filth and fetor has been this way for months, by the looks.’

  ‘But the lady with the big charlies said—’ put in Constable Meek.

  ‘Yes she did and in some detail.’ Hovis nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is a job for the boys of Forensic. They’ll get to the roots of it.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Constable Gwynplaine, putting up his truncheon. ‘Sir, as you know the force in Brentford has been reduced due to government cut backs.’

  Inspectre Hovis made the grimmest of faces.

  ‘Which is why there’s just the three of us, sir. Which I think makes you the head of forensics.’

  ‘Hardly a job I’d relish.’ Hovis coughed uneasily into his bandit-style nose-guard.

  ‘Sir,’ said Constable Gwynplaine once more. ‘Any closer examination of this unsavouriness would prove unnecessary, if one were to accept an explanation, which although on the face of it might appear ludicrous, from a detached viewpoint, is the only possible explanation that could fit the bill. As it were. Sir.’

  ‘Eloquently put, constable. But what are you talking about?’

  ‘Well sir, we must assume that the blousey lady downstairs was not knowingly trying to mislead us.’

  Hovis nodded.

  ‘She must have entered this office time and again over previous months.’

  Hovis nodded once more.

  ‘And she saw only works of art and antique furniture.’

  Hovis cocked his head upon one side. ‘Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel so, sir,’ said Gwynplaine. ‘The dictionary definition is, I believe, “an enchantment placed upon a person or persons to create an illusory attractiveness and beauty. A magical deception”.’

  ‘You speak of The Glamour,’ said Hovis.

  ‘I do, sir, it’s the only explanation.’

  Inspectre Hovis ground his teeth. ‘I really hate Brentford,’ he said.

  17

  John and Jim sat dejectedly in the saloon bar of the Rusty Trombone. Around and about them morris dancers jigged, as the Lady Gardeners played.

  John Omally’s head was fairly buried in his hands. ‘Raffle tickets,’ he said for the umpteenth time. ‘Norman sold them raffle tickets. Thousands and thousands and—’

  ‘—thousands,’ said Jim. ‘And each book with the same numbers.’

  ‘To use the modern vernacular,’ said John. ‘We’re toast.’

  ‘It’s that we again,’ said Jim. ‘You forgot to have the lottery tickets printed, John. You and no-one else.’

  John shook his head. ‘But we still have money left.’

  ‘I don’t have much,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll have to pay the bearded Johns later.’

  ‘The bearded Johns?’ asked John Omally. ‘Is this another morris dancing band?’

  ‘Hairy Dave and Jungle John,’ Jim explained. ‘Dave has changed his name to John to avoid any further confusion.’

  ‘You have employed those two dead-heads to up the tarmac?’

  ‘Who else is there in Brentford?’

  ‘We’re toast,’ said John.

  ‘You really booked The Cheekies?’ asked Jim. ‘Really?’

  John nodded and sipped at substandard beer. ‘One of them really fancies you,’ he said.

  ‘I have never met a Cheeky Girl,’ said Jim.

  ‘Your passport is in your jacket pocket here. I showed them your photo.’

  ‘Passport?’ said Jim. ‘I wonder where I might have been going.’

  ‘It is out of date,’ said John.

  ‘But one of the talented twins fancies me, which one?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked John. ‘They both look the same.’ And John sighed, which was something he rarely did. ‘Oh, the Cheekies,’ he sighed.

  ‘And one each,’ said Jim. ‘Wouldn’t that be a dream come true?’

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ John said.

  ‘We could take what money we have and run away with the Cheekies,’ Jim suggested.
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  ‘You are wise beyond your years, Jim Pooley. But the monument must be replaced upon its plinth or surely will Professor Slocombe wreak evil havoc upon me. And I must repair the damage I have done. I have put the borough in terrible, terrible danger.’

  ‘You have a good heart my friend,’ said Jim. ‘You are a greedy, unscrupulous womanizer, but you do have a good heart.’

  ‘And a conscience,’ said John. ‘And a loyalty to the borough.’

  ‘I’ll help you with the monument,’ said Jim. ‘But then I am sure you knew that I would.’

  ‘I hoped,’ said John. ‘And you have a very big heart, my friend.’

  ‘We could ask Mr Pocklington for another advance,’ said Jim.

  John now did coughings into his beer. ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing Mr Pocklington again,’ said he. ‘From what I saw and what the professor said and putting two and two together, as it were, Mr Pocklington would seem to be the evil mastermind behind all of this.’

  ‘And the ring road is all his idea. So what is the point of the ring road, do you know?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, my friend, but no doubt it will all be explained in good time.’

  ‘That is often the way of things,’ said Jim. ‘And so,’ Jim rubbed his hands together, ‘we must apply our considerable intellects to the problem of the lottery.’

  ‘There is one obvious way of dealing with it,’ said John.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed,’ said Jim, ‘that running is out of the question.’

  ‘Not running,’ said John. ‘I mean the other obvious way.’

  ‘Which is?’ Jim enquired.

  ‘Dishonesty,’ said John Omally. ‘We fix the lottery.’

  SIX LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT

  THE CHEEKY GIRLS

  Fact 1.

  The Cheeky Girls can trace their ancestry back

  to Vlad the Impaler.

  Fact 2.

  Both the Cheeky girls hold degrees in Social

  Anthropology. Gabriella’s is quoted in Jennifer

  Naylor’s forthcoming PhD thesis.

  Fact 3.

  If you multiply the height of a Cheeky Girl (168cm)

  by 82.74, it equals the height of the