“And the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“I thought there were three bodies.”

“No,” said Sam. “Just the two. Just two innocent men viciously murdered. Brutally slain. Cruelly done to death by some pathetic psychopathic scumbag. Some piece of human filth. Some vile loathsome degraded specimen of sub-humanity. Some—”

“Just the two bodies?” I said. “Just the two?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, chief?”

“Not now, Barry.”

“What did you say?” said Sam.

“Nothing,” said I. “But you’re absolutely sure that there’s only two bodies?”

“Absolutely sure. And I’ll tell you more. The murderer barged open that rear door to the Crimson Teacup, then ducked back into shelter. Then he leapt from cover and shot both men dead. Two clean shots. The work of a professional.”

“You’re right there,” said I.

“Forty-four calibre ammunition,” said Sam. “I would say from a trusty Smith and West Indian steel band.”

“Hm,” said I.

“The killer then walked along the alleyway and kicked the corpses. One mean son of a bitch, eh? One heartless evil murdering slimebag. One—”

“I suppose you can tell me next what he was wearing?” I said.

“Absolutely,” said Sam. “He was wearing a trenchcoat and a fedora. And he was talking to himself. They do that, you know. The real loons. Voices in the head. God tells them to do it. That kind of caper.”

“I’m impressed,” said I. And I was. “And you worked all this out from scene of crime evidence?”

“No,” said Sam. “From that.” And he pointed.

I turned my head and I looked in the direction of his pointing. High on the wall above the rear door of the Crimson Teacup was mounted one of those sneaky closed-circuit TV cameras. The type you see, if you look real hard, overlooking nearly every street in the big city nowadays. The type that are linked up to VCRs and record everything they see.

Everything.

“Ah,” I said. “That was handy.”

I smiled back at Sam.

But Sam wasn’t smiling.

Sam held a gun in his hand and that gun was pointing at me.

“You’re under arrest, Woodpecker,” said he. “Loons like you always return to the scene of the crime. They like to have a gloat, don’t they? Get off on what they’ve done.”

“Now just you see here.” I reached for my piece.

“Don’t touch that gun,” said Sam. “That’s the murder weapon or my name isn’t Sam Maggot and yours ain’t Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.”

“The name’s Woodbine.” I had to say it. “Lazlo Woodbine”, and “Some call me Laz.”

“Raise your hands and turn around,” said Sam.

“Now listen, please. You’re making a big mistake.”

“Just raise your hands and turn around.”

“Aw come on now, Sam.”

“Don’t Sam me, you psycho. Raise your hands and turn around.”

“OK. But you’re really making a …” I raised my hands and turned around “… big …”

And then he hit me hard on the back of the head.

“… mistake. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” I went.

“I’ll join you in that one,” said Barry.

And I was falling once more into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion that all great genre detectives fall into.

But not at this point in the case.

11

When the hurricane hit, Icarus was in a long dark automobile, sitting next to a creature of Hell and being driven to an unknown destination.

“Where are you taking us?” Icarus asked, when he could find his voice to do so.

The creature that was Cormerant flickered its quills and moved its terrible mouthparts. “To the Ministry,” it said. “Where you will be interviewed.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“But you will. You will tell us everything we need to know.”

The car took a sudden lurch to the left.

“Drive carefully, damn you!” shouted Cormerant.

“I’m trying.” The chauffeur glanced back across his shoulder. “The weather’s gone mad. A storm’s come out of nowhere.”

“Always the weather,” said Cormerant. “Gets blamed for everything, the weather does. Have you ever thought about that, young man? The way the weather affects everything that people do? The wrong kind of leaves blown onto the track and the trains can’t run. The trains can’t run, so some man is late for an important meeting. The meeting is cancelled, a business goes bust. Its shares are wiped out on the stock exchange. A shareholder loses everything, goes mad, hangs himself. Leaving a wife who might have given birth to a child who would have one day become the President of the United States and saved the world from terrible war that would wipe out half of mankind. All because of some leaves blown onto the track by weather. Is it fate, or is there a purpose behind it? What do you think, young man?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Icarus hunched himself up and glanced towards the handle of the door.

“Central locking,” said the creature that was Cormerant. “A new innovation. All the doors and windows are locked. You have nowhere to run.”

Without, the storm raged madly on. Within the car, Icarus Smith sat trembling.

The Ministry of Serendipity is situated beneath Mornington Crescent underground station. Much legend is attached to the station, which for many years was closed to the public and which now does not remain open later than nine thirty at night. The belief amongst conspiracy theorists is that the Ministry of Serendipity is the English Area 51. That a vast tunnel network and massive underground complex exists beneath Mornington Crescent station. And that dirty deeds, involving alien spacecraft and back-engineering and indeed those little grey blighters with the Ray-Ban eyeballs, are done there, whilst Londoners walk blissfully unknowing on the pavements far above.

Icarus knew of such theories, but had paid them scant attention, according them the disbelief he’d always considered they deserved. Such nonsense had always been, in his opinion, more the province of his barking mad brother.

The storm-ravaged automobile turned left at the Station Hotel, crossed the road, and somehow entered the station opposite. Exactly how this happened, Icarus never understood. For at one moment the car was above ground in the wind and the rain and the next it had entered a tunnel and was purring along down a tube of darkness bound for no place pleasant.

The journey time was short, but as to the distance covered, Icarus could only wonder. But he was presently in no mood to wonder. His thoughts centred on a single goal, this being one of escape.

The automobile cruised out of the tunnel and into a great cathedral of a place. It was clearly the work of Victorian artisans, having all those wondrous soaring cast-iron roof-ribs, rising from those marvellous fluted columns, with the rivets and the rusty bits, where pigeons love to roost.

Icarus and Johnny Boy were encouraged to leave the car by the gun-toting chauffeur, who explained to them that hesitation would be rewarded by death. And Icarus found some relief in this, as his nearness to the creature that was Cormerant had troubled him no little bit.

Johnny Boy looked out and up and all around. “From down here where I am,” he observed, “this is one bloody big building.”

“And one very deep in the ground,” said Cormerant, climbing from the car. “Welcome to the Ministry of Serendipity. Take care with all those papers, young man. We wouldn’t want any to get lost on the way, now would we?”

Icarus felt that indeed, yes he would. And had been hoping at least to toss the lot out of the window while the car was in motion. As far as he was aware, there were only two men living on the planet who had taken the Red Head drug and knew the truth about what was really going on in the world. And those two men were himself and Johnny Boy and it looked to be a terrifying likelihood that the secret would shortly die with them. “Go on,” said the chauffeur, “move.”