Raiders of the Lost Car Park (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  Mickey turned his head to the side.

  ‘Shiva’s sheep!’ He was blinking at a head-load of golden hair. And now at the face of Anna Gotting.

  ‘Good morning, Mickey,’ said Anna, yawning and stretching, luxuriously, with naked arms. ‘I’d bet you’d like some coffee.’

  ‘I...’ Mickey rammed a knuckle into his mouth. ‘I...’

  ‘You were wonderful,’ sighed Anna. ‘Where did you learn all those moves? I’ve never “taken tea with the parson” before. Incredible.’

  ‘I...’ Mickey fought with his brain. Come on, you bastard, he told it. Remember. Please remember. He jerked upright and began to belabour his skull with his fists. ‘Remember, or I’ll smash you to pieces!’

  ‘Stop it,’ Anna leapt to restrain him. She didn’t have any clothes on.

  ‘Naked!’ Mickey doubled the assault on his head.

  ‘Stop it. You didn’t do anything. I was just winding you up.’

  ‘What?’ Mickey’s fists hovered in the air. ‘What?’

  ‘I was walking home and I found you asleep in a phone box. I dragged you back here and put you to bed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Oh,’ said Anna.

  ‘Oh rats!’ Mickey struck his head once more.

  ‘Stop hitting yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Minns fell back on the pillow and draped a forearm over his face. Not too far to obscure his view of Anna’s nakedness, but just far enough so she couldn’t see him looking.

  As the silken sheet covering Mickey’s mid-section began to rise, Anna said, ‘Forget it, Mickey. I’ll get you some coffee.’

  She flipped out of the bed, into a peach-coloured towelling robe and was gone from the room.

  Inspectre Sherringford Hovis sat all alone in the Portakabin. And he was actually smiling. He rubbed his palms together and considered the big fat file which lay upon the desk. The file of Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune.

  ‘I think I can state, without fear of contradiction,’ said Hovis with a chuckle, ‘that I have definitely seen the last of that appalling young woman. Which leaves me two full days, all alone and undisturbed, to solve The Crime of the Century.’

  Now, a lesser man, having suffered as Hovis had suffered, under sentence of redundancy, and faced with the prospect of trying to solve a crime which had yet to be committed, might well have given up the ghost and tossed himself off some high building.

  But not Inspectre Hovis. Soon to become Lord Hovis of Kew. No tosser he! The future peer of the realm tapped a smiling mug shot of Hugo Rune with the fingertip of accusation

  ‘You, my fine fellow,’ he said to it. ‘You, the face at the wheel of the speeding silver car. I know you, don’t I? And I know that car. My extensive knowledge of automotive arcana tells me that was nothing less than the now legendary MacGregor Mathers Water Car. I spy a pretty pattern here, and no mistake. A train from nowhere. Diamonds from nowhere. A green demon from God knows where. And the return of Hugo Rune. Add to this two burnt-out cars, of rare vintage and unknown origin, on Kew Green and two more in the surrounding area.’

  Hovis took up the mug shot and studied the broad and grinning face. ‘The great unsolveds,’ said he. ‘And the greatest yet to come. But not unsolved this time. Oh no, sir. Not this time. You are the man I seek, sir. And you are the man I’ll find. You’re out there somewhere, hatching some diabolical scheme,

  ‘I can feel it in my water. I will have you, Hugo Rune. You see if I don’t.’

  If the ears of Rune were burning, the Master showed no sign. He placed his great hands on the table and heaved his not inconsiderable bulk from his chair. ‘We are going to best and beat these blighters,’ he declared. ‘Wipe them out. Delete them. But, as I have said, most eloquently, before, it is not sufficient that we do it in private. Retribution must be seen to be done. The whole world must watch us when we do it.’

  ‘The whole world?’ Tuppe whistled.

  ‘The whole world.’ Rune pushed his chair aside and began a ponderous pacing. ‘We must expose the villains. Expose what they have done to mankind. Reveal the truth. The Ultimate Truth. That they have manipulated us throughout the centuries. All the world must know. And all the world must watch.’ He ceased his pacing and made that ‘picture this’ gesture that people sometimes make. ‘In order that the world might watch, the world must be given something that it wants to watch. Something really well worth watching.’

  Tuppe nodded enthusiastically. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘A crime,’ said Rune. ‘A great crime. Committed live before the watching world. A crime of such magnitude and audaciousness, that it will be considered The Crime of the Century. This crime will arouse the passions of the world. This crime is part one of my stratagem.’

  ‘Golly,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘Picture this,’ said Rune, referring back to a gesture he’d prepared earlier. ‘The great crime is committed. The world looks on. The authorities are baffled. The police are baffled. Everyone is baffled. And then one man steps forward. “I can solve this crime,” he says. “I can lead you to the door, to the many doors in fact, where the criminals lurk.”’

  ‘The entrances to the Forbidden Zones,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘The very same. To all of them in London. Every one. At the same time. Imagine it. All those armed policemen. All those Special Forces chappies in the body armour. All those fine young soldiers. All that weaponry.’

  Cornelius thought he could imagine it only too well. And he did not like this imagining one little bit. ‘This one man who steps forward to solve the crime. That would be you, I suppose.’

  ‘None other,’ said Rune.

  ‘And the crime itself. That would be committed by...?’

  ‘Yourself and your companion. Under my instruction, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally. But about this crime. This Crime of the Century that will have the world sitting on the edge of its collective seat. What will this crime be, exactly?’

  ‘The kidnapping of Her Majesty the Queen,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘On prime-time TV.’

  Colin Collins was sitting all alone in his little glass booth at the Job Centre when Polly Gotting walked in. He was dreaming about trains.

  His full name was Colin does-anybody-want-to-fish-this-bugger-out-then? Collins. Which was all to do with the vicar dropping him into the font during the christening.

  Now, this would have been nothing more than a tired old gag, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the vicar did it on purpose.

  At the time, the cleric’s extraordinary behaviour bewildered the little congregation of family and friends. But as the years dragged by and Colin dragged himself towards the estate of manhood, all those who had attended the christening considered that, perhaps, it might have been better if ‘the bugger’ had not been fished out at all.

  It wasn’t that Colin was evil. That would have been considered acceptable in a family that proudly numbered amongst its ancestry three iconoclasts, two serial killers, a well poisoner and a horse mutilator.

  It was that Colin was dull. Dull! That’s what he was. Soul-destroyingly, mind-numbingly dull. His father, Colin Collins Senior, was dull. But his was an everyday, easy-going sort of dullness. And all those who knew the Collins family considered Collins Senior the very acme of wit and personality, when placed against his son.

  Now it is a well-known fact amongst those who know it well, that the world is full of Colins. They are everywhere, though, as a rule, you don’t notice them. There’s one in every class. Study any old school photograph, you’ll see him. Middle row, easy to miss and no-one can remember his name. It’s Colin.

  And when they leave school, these Colins, they go to work for the DHSS.

  Here they sit, wearing those glasses, those shirts, those ties, those cardigans, those open-toed sandals and those grey socks.

  And they dream about trains.

  Other than for Polly, the Job Shop, as it had been humorously renamed, by a man called Coli
n, was a veritable Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, when it came to seekers after employment. This was probably because there weren’t any jobs for sale.

  Polly surveyed the uncompromising row of little glass-fronted booths. All appeared unmanned. She strode up to the first and rapped on the glass. ‘Shop,’ she called.

  Colin stopped dreaming about trains. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

  Polly glanced in the direction of the voice. It came from the next booth. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Do you want a green form?’ Colin asked.

  ‘What shade of green is it?’

  ‘This shade.’ Colin held up the green form.

  ‘Not really,’ said Polly.

  Colin’s eyes began to glaze over.

  ‘I want a job.’

  ‘You’ll have to fill in a green form then.’

  ‘But I already filled one in.’

  ‘Well, give it to me and I’ll get it stamped.’

  ‘You already have it.’

  ‘Do I?’ Colin scratched his head. He had dandruff. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Well, somebody does. I filled it in the last time I was here.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About four weeks ago.

  ‘I wasn’t here then.’ Colin straightened the row of Biros in the top pocket of his cardigan. ‘I was doing in-house training.’

  ‘Learning makes a man fit company for himself As Young once wrote.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never mind. Would you like to go and get my green form from your files?’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Colin rose from his chair. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know my name first? It might help.’

  ‘I know your name. It’s Polly Gotting.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You used to be in my class at school.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. I sat next to you.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Polly tried to make it sound convincing. ‘It’s Dermot, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s Colin,’ said Colin.

  ‘Oh yes. Colin. That’s it.’

  ‘I’ll get your green form then.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not Colin any more,’ said Colin, drawing Polly’s attention to the smart name badge he wore. ‘It’s Mister Collins now.’

  It was a very big filing cabinet. And G can take a bit of finding. Especially if you’re dreaming about trains.

  ‘I’ll have to hurry you now,’ said Mr Collins, when he finally returned. ‘It’s half-day closing.’

  ‘Is that my green form?’

  ‘Yes. It all seems to be in order. What did you say your query was?’

  ‘I don’t have a query. I want a job.’

  ‘But you have a job. And a good one too. With a pension.’

  ‘I just got made redundant.’

  ‘Redundant is a red form,’ said Mr Collins.

  ‘I just want another job. What do you have?’

  Mr Collins studied Polly’s green form. ‘Polyhymnia Gotting. Polyhymnia?’

  ‘The muse of singing and sacred dance. It’s Greek.’

  ‘It is to me.’ Colin had a go at a smile. But he just couldn’t pull it off. ‘You passed all your exams,’ he said. ‘All of them.’

  ‘That’s what they were there for. To be passed.’

  ‘I didn’t pass any of mine.’

  ‘Perhaps you weren’t clever enough. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken. But it can’t be anything to do with being clever.’

  ‘It can’t?’

  ‘No. Because I’m clever enough to be in full-time employment, and you’re not.’

  Polly was clever enough to keep her temper. ‘Do you have any jobs on offer?’

  ‘Not for you.’

  ‘Why not for me?’

  ‘Because you are over-qualified.’

  ‘What does that do?’ Polly pointed to a gleaming new computer terminal that stood on Mr Collins’s desktop.

  ‘That’, said Colin proudly, ‘is an on-line computer. It gives an hour-to-hour update of all new job opportunities. You punch in the qualifications of the applicant and the computer matches them to any available employment and prints out the reply. It’s brand new. It only arrived half an hour ago.’

  ‘Why not punch in my qualifications and see what happens?’

  ‘I’d love to. But I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s half-day closing. And we just closed.’

  Polly would dearly have loved to drag Mr Collins from his little glass-fronted booth and punish him severely. But instead she smiled.

  ‘It looks incredibly complicated,’ she said.

  ‘It is. Very.’

  ‘I can understand you being wary about operating it.’

  ‘Who said I was wary?’

  ‘Careful then. It must be a bit of a responsibility. I know, if I were in your, er, sandals, I wouldn’t fancy trying it out without my supervisor present.’

  ‘I am fully capable of using it. I did it at in-house training.’

  ‘Of course you did. But I can understand you being nervous.’

  ‘I’m not nervous.’

  ‘It probably doesn’t work anyway.’

  ‘Of course it works.’

  ‘Sure it does. I bet.’

  ‘It does work and I’m not nervous about using it.’

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and speak to your supervisor,’ said Polly. ‘I expect she’s a woman. She’ll have the bottle to try it out. Always best to go straight to the top. Cut out the unambitious technophobes who don’t want the glory of being the first to make a placement with such hi-tech equipment. Men have sight; women insight - to quote Victor Hugo. So long, Colin.’ Polly turned upon her heel.

  Mr Collins dithered. He hadn’t understood half she’d said. But he got the general gist. ‘Just you come back here,’ he said.

  Polly watched him as he worried at the computer keyboard. Her mother had told her, as she had told her sister Anna, that all men were basically stupid. And she, like her sister, would pass this information on to daughters of her own one day.

  ‘Eureka!’ said Colin. suddenly.

  ‘Eureka?’

  ‘Eureka. It was an LNER passenger train. Classic 4-6-2 arrangement. Four-wheel bogie in front, six coupled driving wheels and a pair of trailing wheels. Eureka.’

  ‘It’s Greek to me.’

  ‘It’s a perfect match.’ Mr Collins was looking quite excited. ‘On the computer. The job just came up this very minute. And your qualifications match it exactly.’

  Coincidence?

  Synchronicity?

  The steam-driven bogie truck of destiny?

  ‘It’s at Buckingham Palace,’ said Colin. ‘Personal assistant to His Royal Highness Prince Charles.’

  The steam-driven bogie truck has it!

  16

  Hugo Rune had gone off to the toilet.

  Having witnessed him single-handedly complete the breakfast that had become elevenses, then lunch, Tuppe and Cornelius were hardly surprised.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone eat like that before,’ said Tuppe. ‘Not even when I was travelling with the circus. Are we really going to kidnap the Queen, by the way?’

  ‘No,’ said Cornelius, ‘we are not. We are going to get out of here, and fast.’

  ‘Before pudding?’

  ‘At once. I don’t know whether that man is really my daddy. But I know one thing, he’s barking mad.’

  ‘You noticed that too?’

  ‘He’s a monomaniac. Let’s get.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll let us get? He’s a bit nifty with the old magickal passes.’

  ‘Just leave the talking to me.

  Rune returned from the bog. ‘Have you noticed’, he asked, ‘how, no matter where you go in this world, the smell in the gents is always the same?’

  Cornelius put up his hand to speak.
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  ‘You have my attention.’ Rune settled back into his chair.

  ‘Tuppe and I have been discussing your stratagem.’

  ‘And naturally you find no fault in it.’

  ‘Naturally. But it occurred to me, as one who has studied The Book of Ultimate Truths, that you are not without friends amongst the royal household. That you used to be, in fact, a regular guest at the palace.’

  ‘There are few in high office with whom I am not on intimate terms.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. So wouldn’t it be better if you took care of the actual kidnapping part, yourself?’

  Rune nodded thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It just wouldn’t do. It is a long time since I have seen the Queen, but she would recognize me at once.’

  ‘You could wear a mask,’ Tuppe suggested. ‘And a cloak, if wanted.’

  ‘No,’ said Rune. ‘It simply wouldn’t wash. The whole point of this brilliantly conceived two-part stratagem, is to stir up the world and stir up the fairy folk, have the whole world look on, get the blighters into their great hall and squash the lot of them in the magic table. I will have much to organize. You must see that the Queen is in the great hall when the popping off begins.’

  ‘Why must she be there?’

  ‘Because she’s one of them, of course.’

  ‘One of them?’

  ‘One of the fairy folk. She isn’t just our queen. She’s their queen as well.’

  ‘You are saying that the Queen of England is not a real human being?’

  ‘I never thought she was,’ Tuppe said. ‘After all, she doesn’t go to the toilet.’

  ‘Of course she goes to the toilet.’ Cornelius sssshed Tuppe.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen her.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Cornelius took off his cap and flapped it all about. ‘This is complete and utter madness. Eighteen years in the Forbidden Zones has addled your brain.’

  Rune rose once more to his feet and cast his chair aside. ‘I am Rune!’ he cried, his voice echoing amongst the hammerbeams. ‘I am the Logos of the Aeon. The greatest thinker of this or any age. I am Babylon. Alpha and Omega. Rune, do you hear? I think, therefore I’m right!’

  ‘And I am Cornelius Murphy,’ said the tall boy, with a fearlessness that surprised even himself. ‘And I am the Stuff of Epics. I am not your cat’s-paw, nor your acolyte. I will not call you guru and fall at your feet. Your stratagems bring insanity to an art form. I will have none of them.’