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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Oh, we’ve got a right one, have we?’ The farmer laughed hideously and fixed Cornelius with a bitter stare. ‘Get your scum off my land.’

  ‘We were leaving anyway,’ said Bollocks, ushering Louise, Candy and the children back into the bus. ‘Come on, Cornelius, let’s go.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere yet,’ the tall boy replied, when all were safely on board. ‘We haven’t had our breakfast.’

  One of the farmer’s colleagues rolled some unspeakable phlegm around in his mouth and spat it at Cornelius. ‘There’s your breakfast,’ he said with a sneer.

  And then Tuppe appeared in the bus doorway. ‘Did someone say breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ The spitter of phlegm gaped at Tuppe. ‘It’s a bleeding dwarf. Got Snow White in there, have you?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Cornelius, who was no longer smiling. ‘You may spit at me if you choose. But you will not insult my friend. He is immune to such crassness, but I find it extremely offensive. Would you care to apologize?’

  ‘Would you care for me to set my dogs on you?’ the farmer asked.

  Cornelius reached down and stroked the neck of the Pit Bull that was sniffing around his ankles. It looked up at him and lolled its tongue. ‘Nice boy,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘Seize him, Prince!’ ordered the farmer.

  Prince, however, seemed disinclined to do any seizing. He snuggled against the Murphy leg. Cornelius bent down and took the dog’s head gently between his hands.

  ‘He’s very good with animals,’ Tuppe whispered to Bollocks.

  ‘Seize him, Prince!’ went the farmer.

  Cornelius smelt the dog’s breath. ‘Prince hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon,’ he informed the now fuming farmer, ‘and then it was on bad meat. Now that isn’t right, is it?’

  ‘I don’t feed bad meat to my dogs.’ The farmer took a step forward, but Cornelius ignored him, he had now turned his attention to the fellow who made the scarecrow remark.

  The tall boy drew a deep breath through his nose. ‘Still poisoning badgers?’ he said.

  And he said it quietly, because the dogs were no longer barking. They were sniffing silently about Prince, the leader of the pack. And Prince was licking the tall boy’s hand.

  ‘Badgers?’ The fat fellow made a face of alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You tell him,’ Cornelius told the last of the three. ‘You were with him. You supplied the poison. Chemicals are really your thing, aren’t they? Those concoctions you pump into your cattle will get you into trouble one day.’

  Three mouths hung open. There was a bit of an unholy silence. Then, ‘What? What? What?’ went the farmers three.

  And, ‘Seize him, Prince!’ went up the cry once more. But Prince remained disinclined.

  ‘Perhaps Prince would prefer Winalot to the sheep’s heads you feed him,’ Cornelius suggested.

  ‘Now just you see here...’

  ‘No,’ said Cornelius. ‘You see here. I have no axe to grind with you people. Although I think what you do is obscene, it is actually none of my business. So, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll forget all about informing the authorities...’ he paused.

  ‘If?’ said the big fat farmer.

  ‘If you apologize nicely and furnish us all with a bit of breakfast. How does that sound?’

  Cornelius had never smelt pure hatred before and he didn’t like the smell of it one little bit. The farmers stared at Cornelius and Cornelius stared back at the farmers.

  ‘And I think, as a gesture of good will, you might raise Tubby Thoroughgood’s share of this year’s take to fifty per cent,’ was the tall boy’s closing shot.

  They all tucked into the wholesome fare the farmer’s wife delivered.

  ‘How did you know all that stuff?’ Bollocks asked.

  Cornelius tapped his aquiline proboscis. ‘Good clean air and farmers who never change their jackets. Mind you, I took a chance on the chemicals. He stunk of cattle and hormones and stuff. I just put two and two together. Him being so fat and all.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Bollocks ladled fried eggs on to the tall boy’s plate. ‘If the kids hadn’t been there, I would have punched their lights out.’

  ‘The dogs would have had you.’ Cornelius got stuck into his breakfast.

  ‘How did you do that with the dogs? Calm them down and everything? That was brilliant also.’

  ‘Dogs don’t hate,’ said Cornelius between mouthfuls. ‘Only people hate. People think they can train dogs to hate, but they can’t, the animals don’t understand the concept. Dogs do what their masters tell them, for love. Animals do respond to love. I just showed a little love, there was no trick there.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ said Bollocks.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Cornelius replied. ‘Actually, I am in possession of a talisman of protection, that has been in my family for twenty-three generations.’ He grinned through his toast.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Bollocks loaded up a plate for himself ‘I knew there was a logical explanation. Brilliant. You’re quite brilliant, Cornelius.’

  ‘He’s the Stuff of Epics,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘I’d like to bear your children,’ said Louise.

  ‘Me too,’ said Candy.

  Cornelius grinned a bigger grin than ever. ‘If I can square it with your husbands, I shall be honoured to oblige,’ said he.

  The sun, which had so recently risen upon Cornelius, Tuppe and the folk of the happy bus, rose also upon Inspectre Hovis.

  The man from The Yard lay prone upon the garret floor, smelling strongly of ether and a dire cocktail of illegal substances. The great detective, whose greatness had yet to be proved to many minds, had just the two days left to solve The Crime of the Century. That crime of crimes, which, as yet, possessed the substance of a ghost’s fart in a force-ten gale. Just two days left, before redundancy and goodbye, Mr Hovis. No knighthood, just goodbye.

  The Inspectre dragged himself into the vertical plane. ‘I will survive,’ he told his wash-basin. ‘I will triumph,’ he informed his unmade bed. ‘I will succeed!’ he shouted to the four grey walls.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! went the broom handle on the ceiling below.

  Other people were waking up upon this fine and sunny morning and some in the strangest of places. Mickey Minns opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  His wife rolled over and smacked him right in the face. ‘Get back in your bloody wardrobe,’ she told him.

  Anna Gotting woke up. She stumbled from her bed and bashed her fist on the wall. ‘Keep it down in there!’ she shouted.

  Polly Gotting tried to keep it down. But ‘taking tea with the parson’ can get pretty loud. ‘Sorry,’ said Prince Charles. ‘Was one making too much noise?’

  ‘You might cut out the train whistles. But other than that, you’re doing fine.’

  ‘This is much more fun than polo,’ said the prince.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Polly replied. ‘I’ve never read any of Jilly Cooper’s books.’

  ‘Just like that. Just like that,’ went the prince.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Tommy Cooper. He used to say, “Just like that.”’

  ‘I don’t think I quite understand.’

  ‘It’s a sort of joke thing,’ the prince explained. ‘When you said Jilly Cooper, I pretended that I’d thought you said Tommy Cooper. So I went, “Just like that”. In a zany, goonish, madcap kind of a way.’

  ‘Why?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Because you make me so happy,’ the prince replied.

  20

  There are twenty-three really wonderful things in this world, and being tall, young, handsome, well-endowed and the multi-millionaire lead singer of a world-famous rock band, probably accounts for a good half-dozen of them.

  Or possibly not. Because as someone once said, ‘Money can’t buy you happiness.’ And being world-famous means that you can’t travel on the London Un
derground any more, which must be a real bummer!

  Or possibly not. Although it is to be noticed that a good many rich and famous folk claim to be deeply miserable.

  Of course, they may all be lying through their expensively capped teeth, to make the rest of us feel better, or it might just be true.

  The lead singer of Gandhi’s Hairdryer was deeply miserable, but then he’d always been like that. Tall, young, handsome, well-endowed and a multi-millionaire perhaps. But still a miserable sod.

  At least he could, in all truth, claim that success hadn’t changed him at all. But whether this would have cheered him up very much remains in doubt.

  On this particular morning, as upon so many others, the lead singer awoke to find himself in yet another Holiday Inn.

  And it will come as no surprise at all that he awoke flanked all about by naked females and the debris of yet another night without shame. Because, let’s face it, the wanton excesses of a rock band on tour have been chronicled many times before.

  The frenzied debaucheries, the reefer madness, the whole kith and caboodle and the roadie’s spaniel. We have come to expect these things. Nay, even to demand them. It’s a tradition or an old Charlie-up-the-hooter, or something.

  And as such, the fact that the lead singer awoke all alone, wearing nice green pyjamas, in a neat and tidy room, with his clothes on a peg and his orange juice and Bran Flake breakfast on its way up, accompanied by a copy of the Daily Telegraph, came as a serious let-down.

  But then, as has been mentioned, the lead singer was a miserable sod.

  And on this particular morning, as upon so many others, the lead singer lay in his bed, with his hands behind his head, and dreamed about trains.

  Because, though all the world might know him as Vain Glory, drug fiend, monster of rock and deflowerer of virgins, he was just plain Colin to his mum.

  And, as Colin lay in his bed with his hands behind his head and dreamed about trains, a very strange thing happened. The corners of his mouth turned upwards into a kind of crooked rictus. Muscles which had scarcely seen service were brought into play. A smile appeared upon his face.

  Colin was feeling decidedly gay.

  Not in the “other” sense of the word, of course. He’d tried to be a homosexual, but he’d only been half in Earnest. And although his mother had made him a transvestite, he’d swapped it at school for a train set. Et cetera. Et cetera. The old ones sometimes proving not to be the best.

  Decidedly gay, felt Colin. Because Colin had finally decided, once and for all, to give up rock music and devote his life to the restoration of pre-war GWR rolling stock. He would announce this at the gig tomorrow night. It would come as a big surprise to his fans and to the other members of The Hairdryer. But he felt sure they’d understand and wish him well. He felt sure they would.

  The happy-busers had now finished their breakfast belly-buster. The children were outside, frolicking in the Thoroughgood. Cornelius was up the back end of the bus, enjoying the hospitality of Candy and Louise. That is, having sexual intercourse with them. Whether ‘tea’ was being taken ‘with the parson’, it was impossible to say. The bandages had come off the tall boy’s head and all that could be seen was hair.

  Bollocks was tinkering with a radio set.

  ‘Wotcha doing?’ Tuppe asked.

  ‘Checking to see where everyone is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Tuppe wiped his eggy mouth on his sleeve. ‘I often wondered how all the travellers know where to meet up. CB, is it?’

  Bollocks shook his head. ‘BBC.’

  ‘BBC? How’s that?’

  ‘Well.’ Bollocks made conspiratorial gestures. ‘The BBC organize all the big festivals. Then they broadcast things like, thirty thousand travellers are expected this weekend at such and such a place.’

  ‘You’re winding me up,’ said Tuppe.

  ‘I’m not. There’re two broadcasts, see. The first is to confuse the police, this announces a false location for the festival, so the police set up road blocks all round it and use up their manpower. When this has all gone ahead, the BBC broadcast the real location of the festival. What they say is, “Thousands of disappointed travellers, turned away by police from such and such a place, are now believed to be heading for—” And that’s where the gig really is. And we end up there before the police arrive.’

  ‘But what about all the punch-ups with the police?’

  ‘Well, you can’t make the operation run too smoothly. The police would eventually suss that they were being had. So what happens is, the BBC arrange for there to be some violent skirmishes. It makes the police look like they’re doing their job, and it provides the BBC with some great footage for the six o’clock news. Everybody’s happy.’

  ‘But your blokes get beaten up.’

  ‘Not our blokes. They’re all actors working for the BBC. Check it out next time you watch it. You’ll recognize a few old faces: ex breakfast TV presenters, that bloke who used to be on Blue Peter.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Tuppe. ‘So who is it at the BBC that organizes the festivals?’

  Bollocks shrugged. ‘Probably some old reprobate who remembers the good old days before the war, when the BBC used to make up all of the news.’

  ‘That rings a bell.’ Tuppe scratched his head. ‘I’ve read that somewhere.’

  ‘I read it in The Book of Ultimate Truths.’ Bollocks twiddled the dials on the radio set. ‘Written by a forgotten genius, guy called Hugo Rune. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘I do believe I might.’ Tuppe suddenly became aware that the bus was beginning to rock violently. ‘Keep it down back there, Cornelius,’ the small fellow shouted. ‘We’re trying to get the BBC.’

  Arthur Kobold sat in his dingy little relocated office, deep somewhere in a Forbidden Zone. He was fed up.

  ‘I’m fed up,’ he said.

  ‘You’re fed up? How do you think I feel?’ This question was addressed to him by the big deflated green thingy, which now lay in a wrinkly heap on the guest chair, looking not unlike one of Ed Gein’s hand-stitched evening suits.

  ‘Stuff you,’ said Arthur.

  ‘If you’d be so kind. Yes please.’

  ‘What are you doing here in my office anyway? You retrieved the diamonds. What do you want?’

  ‘I want my money.’

  ‘Money? What money?’

  ‘My time and a half for after midnight. And there were some out-of-pocket expenses. I’ve filled in a chitty.’

  ‘Filled in a chitty? Have you gone stark raving mad? You don’t get any time and a half after midnight. You’re a conjuration. Moulded from etheric space by a process of controlled resonance, involving the use of certain restricted words of power. Imbued with a rudimentary intelligence and the physical wherewithal to achieve a certain end. To wit, the reclamation of the diamonds. This you have achieved. Hence, your work is done.’

  ‘You’re making me redundant,’ complained the wrinkly heap of skin.

  ‘You are redundant,’ said Arthur Kobold.

  ‘Then I want my redundancy money.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m making myself clear.’ Arthur rose from his chair, plodded around his desk, plucked up the swathe of skin, tucked it to his chest, folded it once, folded it twice, smoothed out the wrinkles and folded it a third time. Then he went over to his filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, dropped the neatly folded redundant conjuration into a vacant file and slammed shut the drawer.

  ‘Get the picture?’ he asked.

  ‘Let me out,’ cried a muffled voice. ‘Unfold me at once, you fat bastard. Let me out, I say.’

  Arthur Kobold returned to his chair. ‘Put a sock in it,’ he said. ‘Or it’s the paper shredder for you.’

  Inspectre Hovis was in the Portakabin. He was shredding paper, loads and loads of paper. He had already shredded the important case notes for no less than twenty-three big unsolveds. Not to mention a quantity of vital documents, bound for the office of Chief Inspector Lytton, which had turned up in his by acci
dent.

  Hovis was thoroughly enjoying himself. When the telephone began to ring, he had considerable difficulty in finding it.

  But when he had, he picked up the receiver and said, ‘Inspectre Hovis speaking,’ the way that only he could say it.

  ‘Sherringford, my dear fellow,’ said a voice. ‘None the worse for your regrettable wetting, I trust.’

  ‘Who is this speaking?’

  ‘It is I. Rune.’

  ‘Rune? I don’t believe I know any Rune.’ Hovis floundered frantically amongst the shreddings. He had to find another phone, get this call traced. ‘Rune, you say. How do you spell that please?’

  ‘As in Rune, you buffoon. You know me well enough. My file lies before you. Somewhere beneath the shreddings, I have no doubt.’

  ‘I do believe your name rings a small bell.’ Hovis ceased his foolish flounderings. The Portakabin did not possess, amongst its manywell- hidden charms, another telephone.

  ‘A small bell?’ roared the voice of Rune. ‘How dare you, sir. My name is a clarion call. A mighty chime of hope, issuing from the tower of Ultimate Truth. For such as was, is now, and shall be ever more.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hovis. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Help me? Help me? You think that you can help the man who has brought succour to the crowned heads of Europe? The man who taught the Dalai Lama to play darts? The man who shared his sleeping-bag with Rasputin, J. Edgar Hoover and Sandra Dee? The man who once scaled the Eiffel Tower in fisherman’s waders, to win a bet with Charles de Gaulle?’

  ‘What do you want, Rune?’ asked Inspectre Hovis.

  ‘Do you still have my diamonds?’ Rune enquired.

  ‘What diamonds are you referring to?’

  ‘Oh wake up, Hovis, do. The Godolphins. I sprayed the damn street with them. At no small risk to my health and well being. Thought they might stir up your interest. Tickle your fancy. Do you still have them?’

  ‘No,’ said Hovis. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Nabbed by the blighter who reduced you to your underwear. Am I right?’