The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (The Brentford Trilogy Book 5)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Dr Malone.’

  ‘Ah yes, old Jim Malone.’

  ‘Dr Steven Malone.’

  ‘Of course. Does he still live in Hanwell?’

  ‘No, he lives in Brentford now.’

  ‘That’s right, in Mafeking Avenue.’

  ‘In Kether House on the Butts Estate.’

  ‘Won’t be the same chap, then. I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. Oh, just one other thing: my sister-in-law left a book of mine in the waiting room. Brentford: A Study of its People and History.’

  ‘Oh, that book,’ said the nurse, giving out with another Sid James.

  Oh dear, thought John. ‘Might I have it back?’

  ‘The doctor on duty took it home with him.’

  Dr Steven Malone was enjoying his breakfast. He was also enjoying Jim’s book. ‘Well, well, well,’ he went, as he munched on kedgeree and swallowed orange juice. ‘Whoever would have thought it? Whoever would have thought that a Brentford corner shopkeeper would be the first man to wade across the Channel?’ He turned another page and glanced at a photograph. ‘And whoever would have thought that?’

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock-knock-knocking. Dr Malone got up and answered the door.

  Upon the step stood John Omally, notebook and biro in hand. ‘Dr Malone?’ he asked. ‘Dr Steven Malone?’

  ‘I am he.’

  Omally viewed the monochrome medic. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to––’

  ‘Many times,’ said Dr Steven. ‘And although it has never been a curse, it’s never been a big bird-puller.’

  ‘Well, my name’s Molloy,’ said John. ‘Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury. I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Tip-off,’ said John. ‘From an inside source at the Cottage Hospital.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you kindly leave?’

  ‘Be pleased to, as soon as you give me a quote. We don’t get a story as big as this very often.’

  Dr Malone began to close the door.

  John stuck his foot in the gap. ‘ “VAMPIRE CLAIMS FIRST VICTIM”,’ he said in a very loud voice. ‘ “ALL BLOOD DRAINED”.’

  You’d better come in,’ said Dr Malone.

  ‘Ah, come in, Jim,’ said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his desk. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’

  ‘Still a bit shaky, sir, as it happens. My head aches something wicked.’

  ‘That might perhaps have something to do with the half a bottle of brandy you consumed.’

  ‘No, it will be the concussion.’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘Oh yes please.’

  Professor Slocombe rang his small brass bell.

  ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’ asked Dr Malone.

  ‘No thanks,’ said John. ‘Deadlines to keep, you know how it is.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ the doctor smiled.

  John Omally didn’t like that smile. In fact he didn’t like anything about Dr Steven Malone. With his pale gaunt features he looked every bit the vampire. Such a brazen approach, although calculated to gain entry, had not perhaps been the wisest of moves. If he was now inside the lair of a genuine undead, was he all that likely to get out again?

  ‘Did you come alone?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said John. ‘Three of my colleagues are waiting outside in the car.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we can clear this up between the two of us.’

  ‘I’m sure we can.’ Omally sat down in a chair with his back to the wall and placed his notebook on the dining table. ‘Between you and me,’ he said, ‘I think this whole thing probably has a simple explanation.’

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘But who cares about that, eh? Give the readers what they want, blood and guts. This one should run and run.’

  Dr Steven’s pale gaunt features turned a whiter shade. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘There is no story here. Jack Bryant died from a haemorrhage whilst evacuating his bowels.’

  ‘I heard he was naked,’ said John. ‘And the words NUMBER ONE were written in his blood on the wall.’

  ‘He was not naked and there were no words on the wall.’

  ‘So you were there, then? You can swear to that?’

  ‘I was there. I arranged for the removal of the body. He was sitting on the toilet with his trousers down.’

  ‘Trousers down you say?’ John made a note. ‘Just the trousers?’

  ‘Just the trousers.’

  ‘And no holes in the neck?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about holes anywhere else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just trying to keep one step ahead of the Sunday Sport.’

  ‘Newspaper, Jim?’ asked the Professor, across the breakfast table.

  ‘No thanks, I never read them.’

  ‘You’re probably wise.’

  ‘Probably. Oh, see if there’s anything in there about Mr Compton-Cummings.’

  ‘A book review? I think that most unlikely.’

  ‘No, about his death.’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘His willy,’ said John. ‘No holes in his willy?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Well, it looks as if I have no story here at all. What a shame.’

  ‘You have my sympathy.’

  ‘No, I mean, what a shame I’ll have to write it up anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My bonus depends on it. If I don’t hand in a story today, I won’t get my bonus. And if I don’t get my bonus, I won’t have enough to buy my dear little white-haired old mother her stair-lift.’

  ‘And how much is this bonus of yours worth?’

  ‘How does fifty quid sound?’

  ‘You sound shocked,’ said Jim. ‘But then I suppose you are.’

  ‘Compton-Cummings dead and you didn’t think to mention it?’

  ‘It somehow slipped my mind. I’d had a rough evening.’

  ‘Compton-Cummings dead,’ said the Professor. ‘Compton-Cummings dead.’

  ‘Just one more thing before I go,’ said John Omally, turning at the open front door. ‘There was another chap died yesterday, a Mr Compton-Cummings. His body must have been brought into the Cottage Hospital. Did you examine it?’

  ‘There was no other body in the morgue.’

  ‘But anyone who dies locally would be brought to the Cottage Hospital, surely.’

  ‘They would. But I know nothing about any Compton-Cummings.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a story there,’ said John.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Dr Steven Malone, closing the front door upon him.

  John set off across the oak-lined street, whistling. Inside his waistcoat pocket he now had ten nice crisp five-pound notes. The day had hardly begun and already he was ahead.

  Dr Steven Malone bolted the front door and shook his pale head. Compton-Cummings? Who was Compton-Cummings? The name sounded strangely familiar. Ah yes, of course, it was the name of the author of that book on his dining table.

  Dr Steven Malone returned to examine the book. He was more than a little peeved to find it wasn’t there.

  ‘Hi-de-ho,’ said John Omally, breezing in through the Professor’s French windows.

  ‘Hi-de-nothing!’ said the old man, rising from his desk. ‘Why did you not tell me about the death of Compton-Cummings?’

  ‘It somehow slipped my mind,’ said John. ‘I’d had a rough evening.’

  The Professor glared at John and then at Jim. Jim winced.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what,’ said Omally. ‘There’s something very strange going on around here. The body of Mr Compton-Cummings never made it to the morgue at the Cottage Hospital.’

  Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow. ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to a Dr Steven Malone.’

  ‘The geneticist, l
ives in Kether House?’

  ‘Geneticist he may be, bloody liar also.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said the Professor. ‘Sit down and tell me everything that happened last night. And I do mean everything.’

  John Omally sat down.

  An hour later a police car arrived at Professor Slocombe’s house. In it was Chief Inspector Westlake. He and the Professor exchanged a certain handshake and Jim’s book was taken into police custody.

  John and Jim were made to sign copies of the Official Secrets Act and issued with very stern warnings. When the Chief Inspector left, Professor Slocombe glared once more. ‘Am I supposed to settle this?’ he said, waving a piece of paper.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Omally.

  ‘It is the bill for a police car. A police car that ran into the canal last night. Something else you forgot to mention.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ said John.

  The Professor didn’t wish them well as he closed the garden gate upon them. ‘Get out and stay out,’ were the words he used.

  ‘I’ve never seen him angry before,’ said Jim as they trudged away. ‘He was very upset about Mr Compton-Cummings.’

  ‘Brothers under the apron,’ said John. ‘But we came out on top, didn’t we?’

  ‘On top? Are you jesting?’

  ‘Slate wiped clean. No longer on the police hit list. And we’ve turned a profit.’

  ‘What profit?’

  John dug four crisp five-pound notes from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Hush money from Doctor Death. This is your half.’

  ‘I don’t want that,’ said Jim. ‘That’s tainted, that is.’

  ‘Well, please yourself. I’ll keep it.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t.’ Jim snatched the fivers from Omally’s mitt. ‘I owe it to myself to come out of this with something.’

  ‘Share and share alike,’ said John. ‘That’s our way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Always has been,’ said Jim.

  ‘In triumph or adversity.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘Let’s shake on it instead.’

  ‘All right, let’s.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘So,’ said John. ‘Your share of the cost of the new police car is eight and a half thousand pounds. Do you want to give me cash, or a cheque?’

  John ducked the flying fist and helped Jim up.

  ‘Eight and a half thousand?’ Jim’s knees were all wobbly again, his hands beginning to flap. ‘Where could I get eight and half thousand?’

  ‘Take it out of your salary.’

  ‘What salary?’

  ‘The one you will be getting as a director of the Brentford Millennium Committee.’

  Jim groaned.

  ‘Unless you have another means of earning it.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then, Jim, as the sun shines down upon us, let luck be a lady and the devil take the hindmost, we set out upon a holy quest. To search for the Brentford Scrolls.’

  ‘Should we have a pint before we do?’

  ‘Let’s have two,’ said John Omally. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

  11

  They strolled along the thoroughfares of Brentford.

  ‘All right,’ said John. ‘My plan is this––’

  ‘Your plan?’ Jim put up his hand. ‘I thought all this was to be a fifty-fifty deal.’

  ‘You have a plan of your own you would like to discuss?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘Well, until you do, perhaps we might try mine.’

  ‘Fair enough. I just felt it needed saying.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Might I continue?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘My plan is this. I go now to the canal and attempt to recover Marchant. You go to the Memorial Library, dig out all the ancient maps of the borough you can find and photocopy them. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, John.’

  ‘My apologies. Bring the photocopies and meet me in the Swan at, say,’ John looked down at his naked wrist, ‘precisely twelve noon, that’s an hour and five minutes from now.’

  ‘John,’ said Jim.

  ‘Jim?’ said John.

  ‘I hope you get your bike back okay.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘So there’s this Eskimo,’ said Old Pete. ‘And his snowmobile breaks down, so he hauls it to the garage. And the mechanic has a look at it and says, “I think you’ve blown a seal, mate,” and the Eskimo says, “No I haven’t, it’s just frost on my moustache.” ’

  There was a moment’s silence in the Flying Swan before the lunchtime patrons took in the enormity (and indeed the genius) of this particular joke. And then there was a great deal of laughter.

  ‘Surely,’ said Small Dave the postman, ‘that is somewhat racist.’

  ‘Not if it’s told by a policeman,’ said Old Pete.

  John Omally entered the bar, sighted Jim in a far and private corner and squelched over. ‘You’re squelching,’ said Jim, looking up.

  ‘I had to wade.’

  ‘But you got Marchant back?’

  ‘What’s left of him. I carted the old boy around to Norman at the corner shop. He has agreed to rebuild him for me.’

  ‘That will cost a bob or two.’

  ‘Not a penny. I have offered Norman a seat on the board of the Brentford Millennium Committee. He was happy to accept.’

  ‘Did you mention to him that all depends upon us finding the Brentford Scrolls?’

  Omally tapped his forehead. ‘It somehow slipped my mind.’

  Pooley grinned. ‘I’ve got you a pint in.’

  ‘Cheers. Are those the copies of the maps?’

  Jim spread the photocopies before him. ‘There’s not a lot to go on, but we have to start somewhere.’

  Omally sat down, tasted ale and joined Jim in perusal.

  ‘The Professor must have been through all these,’ said Jim.

  ‘The Professor is a scholar, Jim. A magus, an illuminatus.’

  ‘And we’re a couple of louts.’

  ‘I am not a lout. What I mean is, his approach to a problem differs from ours. We are free spirits, we think differently.’

  Jim swallowed ale. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s always been like that for me. I could never be one of the gang. When everyone else was being a mod, I was being a beatnik.’

  ‘I was a mod,’ said John. ‘I had a Vespa. Now that was a big bird-puller.’

  Pooley thought Sandra and said, ‘Well, we’re certainly not part of the herd, whatever we are.’

  ‘We are individuals, Jim, and you are a character, sir.’

  ‘So does this mean that we can find the scrolls in a couple of days, when it’s taken the Professor God knows how long not to find them at all?’

  ‘It means that if we set about the task and do it our way, we’ll succeed.’

  ‘So, where are the scrolls hidden, John?’

  ‘Good question.’

  John gave the maps further perusal. ‘Which is the earliest one?’

  ‘This one. It’s dated 1580.’

  ‘About the right period, then. So what’s on it?’

  ‘Very little really.’ Jim swallowed more ale. ‘A few tracks, some farms. A tavern, right here, Ye Flying Swanne, a manor house, and a few rude huts.’

  ‘Why do they call them rude huts, do you suppose?

  ‘Because of the arse-ends, I think.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Arse-ends, wooden trusses that support the roof.’

  ‘Fascinating. Anything else on the map?’

  ‘Only the monastery.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on. But I suppose we should check the obvious places first.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Jim. ‘And where might those be?’

  Well, if you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?’

  ‘In my boots.’

  �
�In your boots! Very good, Jim. And there was I thinking that monks wear sandals.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Do monks wear underpants, do you think? Or are they like Scotsmen with kilts?’

  John drummed his fingers upon the table. ‘I will ask the question again. If you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?’

  ‘I know. In the monastery.’ Jim gave John the old thumbs up.

  John gave Jim the old thumbs down. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not in the monastery. In the pub.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When you’re really drunk––’

  ‘Which I can rarely afford to be.’

  ‘But when you are, what is the last thing you say before you leave the pub?’

  ‘Goodnight?’

  ‘No, you say, “Neville, please mind my wallet.” ’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Oh yes. And the next morning I wake up and I can’t find my wallet and I get all depressed and I’m really hung over, so I gather up some pennies and halfpennies for a hair of the dog and I come into the Swan and Neville says, “You left your wallet here last night,” and I get really cheered up.’

  ‘Exactly. So if you were a monk and you’d just come back from this pilgrimage to Rome and you were really proud of yourself because you’d pulled off this great deal with the Pope and you wanted to get a skinful for celebration, where would you go?’

  Jim pointed to the map. ‘I would go to Ye Flying Swanne.’

  ‘And so would I. So let’s check here first.’ John finished his ale, took up the two empty glasses and went over to the bar.

  ‘––the Irish Uri Geller’, said Old Pete, ‘rubbed a spoon and his finger fell off.’

  ‘You old ratbag,’ said Omally.

  ‘Who are you calling old”? That’s an ageist remark. There should be a law about people making comments like that!’

  John held the glasses out to Neville. ‘Two of similar, please.’ And the part-time barman did the business. ‘Neville,’ said John. ‘Do you have a lost property cupboard?’

  ‘Certainly do. It’s a priest hole, been there since the pub was built.’

  ‘Really?’ said John, in a casual tone.

  ‘It’s got stuff in it going back years.’