“Ma’am,” I said, “you can rely on me.”

“Yes, I know that I can. Because if you fail to deliver, within one week from today, I shall visit upon you such torment that even the devil himself will turn his face away from the horror. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“Absolutely, ma’am,” said I. And boy, did I need the toilet.

She didn’t leave in a puff of smoke, or anything fancy like that. She just kind of got off my chair and dragged Her big butt out of my door. No thank yous, no fond farewells and no sweet goodbye kisses.

Off She went and that was that and I was left alone.

Alone!

“Er, Barry,” I called. “Barry, my dear little pea green buddy. Where are you, Barry, my friend?”

In my head was silence. Stillness. Hush.

“Barry,” I called. “Where are you, Barry?”

In my head was quietude. Tranquillity. Dead calm.

“Barry, dear Barry. Where are you?”

“Sorry, chief. I was having a nap. Have I missed anything?”

“Barry! You little …” I pummelled at my skull. “You traitorous cur, you lowdown dirty …”

“Leave it out, chief. Stop. Oh ouch! Oh ow!”

“You could have warned me, you lowdown double-dealing …”

“Chief, what could I do? I—”

“You let me walk in here and insult God’s widow and now I’m in deeper doo than a coprophile in a cow manure Jacuzzi.”

“You’ve got seven days, chief.”

“Seven days? She knew, Barry. She knew that God was dead. She turns up in my office less than half an hour after He gets it. And She’s even got His will with Her. The will that clearly implicates Her son.”

“Seems like an open and shut case, chief. One that even you could solve.”

“Barry, you little green golly. She knew. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“I think you’re saying She knew, chief.”

“That is what I’m saying. She was here and She knew and She wasn’t even concerned. God is dead and She doesn’t give a damn. And why, Barry, why?”

“Well, chief …”

“There’s no other explanation. I didn’t get to be the best in the business by missing the most obvious clues. She was here. She knew. She had the will with Her. The will implicates Her son. She did it. Case closed.”

“Well, not exactly, chief.”

“Not exactly, Barry? How much more exactly would you care for?”

“Well, chief, exactly how She knew might help.”

“She knew, because She ordered the hit.”

“Er, no, chief. She knew because I told Her.”

There was silence once again. But it wasn’t just in my head this time.

“You told Her?” I fairly roared. I did. I kid you not. “You told Her? You told Her?”

“Calm yourself down, chief. I had to. I was only doing it to save you from Her terrible wrath, if She’d found out some other way. You’d have never got away with dressing up as a Muslim. I had to come clean with Her. Explain that it wasn’t your fault and that you’d find out who’d done it.”

“But She did it.”

“No, chief, I’ve just explained that. She didn’t do it.”

“Then it was Colin.”

“Well, chief, I do agree that he looks a likely candidate. And he is a real bad lot. But whether he’d really have the guts to top his own father, I don’t know about that.”

I dropped into my chair, dragged open my desk drawer and brought out the Old Bedwetter. At times like these, when the going gets rough, I find that a slug of—

“Don’t start that again, chief. And advertising B. K. Flamers. How low will you stoop in the cause of an easy buck?”

“Barry, do you realize the trouble I’m in here?”

“Of course I do, chief. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, right!” I took a hefty slug.

“If you go down, I go down, chief. I only get one shot at this Holy Guardian game and if I foul up, I’m on the celestial compost heap. I do have your best interests at heart. And I do want you to solve this case. Think of it, chief. This is the Big One. Woodbine brings the murderer of God to justice. How could there ever be a bigger case than that?”

I nodded thoughtfully. And I did it with style. I mean sure, my hat was in sodden tatters and my trenchcoat gone to ruination. My socks were smouldering and I had third degree burns over 60 per cent of my body. I was up to my neck in the deep brown stuff and had just seven days to solve the crime of the eternity, knowing that if I didn’t, I would become toast in a million ways more than one. But like I say, I nodded thoughtfully.

And I did it with style.

Now there are some times when you have to sit and think. Mull things over. Cogitate. Employ your mind. Cerebrate. Conceptualize. Contemplate. Commune with your inner self.

And I guess that’s all OK if you’re one of those tormented-soul detectives with a drink problem and a broken marriage, who’s had some big trauma in his childhood and is searching after his feminine side, or however that load of old toot always goes.

But hey, this is Woodbine.

The man. The detective.

The guy who makes his own wind and doesn’t shoot the breeze.

“OK, Barry,” I said. “We’re gonna make a move.”

“Are you going to change your clothes, chief? You look a right palooka in that charred hat and mash-up trenchcoat.”

“I’ll wear my old tweed jacket,” I said. “It’s always good for a bit of disguise.”

“And just why would you want a bit of disguise?”

“Because we’re going under cover, Barry. We are going to return to the crime scene in search of clues. I shall adopt one of my many alternative personas and probe this case with a penetrating eye. You just stick with me, little guy, and you’ll see why I’m the best.”

“Perhaps I’ll grow to like the compost heap.”

“What did you say, Barry?”

“Nothing, chief.”

The alleyway was rather crowded now. There were policemen coming and going and wandering around and stepping on evidence and getting in each other’s way and generally carrying on in the manner that all policemen do. They’d set up some lights and stretched a lot of that yellow tape about. And they’d parked their police cars up real close and left the beacons flashing on the tops to give that extra bit of atmosphere.

I shouldered my way tweedily into the blue serge throng. “Make way,” I said. “Member of the press.”

A guy turned to face me. And I knew this guy. It was none other than Police Chief Sam Maggot of the L.A.P.D. He and I had run up against each other on more than one occasion and he and I did not see eye to eye.

Possibly due to the difference in height, as he is something of a shorty.

Police Chief Sam Maggot had not been having a good day. He rarely, if ever, had a good day. It was not in his remit to have good days. Police chiefs always have bad days. Every day is another bad day, that’s the way they do business.

“Who are you?” asked Police Chief Sam.

“Molloy,” said I. “Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury.”

Police Chief Sam looked me up and up. “Molloy?” said he. “Molloy?”

“That’s me,” said I. “What happened here?”

“It’s not you,” said Sam. “It’s Woodpecker. Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.”

“The name’s …” Well, he nearly had me there. “The name’s Molloy,” I said. “Scoop Molloy. Some call me Scoop.”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Sam. “But you do bear an uncanny resemblance to Woodpecker. Although he wears the snap-brimmed fedora and the trenchcoat and you’re wearing—”

“An old tweed jacket,” I said. “So I must be a news reporter, mustn’t I?”

“Well I guess you must. And naturally, as the police always want to help out members of the press, I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know.”

“That’s fine. So what happened here?”

“Murder,” said Sam. “Murder most foul. Two Greek businessmen. A Mr Georgious Bubble and a Mr Mikanos Squeak. Gunned down in cold blood.”