“The professor’s dead,” said Johnny Boy. “They killed him.”

“I feared as much.”

“Hold on,” said Icarus. “I want to know what is going on here.”

“There’s no time now,” said Captain Ian. “But I’ll tell you everything you need to know. There is someone else I have to rescue first. I was hoping that you might assist me in this.”

“I think we owe you one,” said Icarus. “Who needs rescuing?”

“A detective,” said Captain Ian. “A very famous detective.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” said Johnny Boy.

“Lazlo Woodbine,” said Captain Ian.

“Lazlo Woodbine?” Johnny Boy scratched at his little dolly head. “Lazlo Woodbine is here?”

“He was brought in unconscious this evening. They’re holding him in the medical facility. There’s a doctor interviewing him now.”

“I don’t like the way you said doctor,” said Johnny Boy.

“The doctor is, as you might say, a wrong’un.”

“Hold on,” said Icarus. “This Woodbine character. How was he dressed? Was he wearing his now legendary trenchcoat and a fedora?”

“No, actually he was wearing an old tweed jacket.”

Icarus let out a plaintive sigh.

“That was one hell of a plaintive sigh,” said Johnny Boy. “Why did you let that out?”

“Because of the old tweed jacket. That’s the disguise he likes to wear. He believes that it fools people into believing he’s a reporter for the Brentford Mercury.”

“I didn’t know Lazlo Woodbine ever wore a disguise,” said Johnny Boy.

“He doesn’t,” said Icarus. “Because the man who is here is not the real Lazlo Woodbine. The man who is here is my barking mad brother.”

“What?” went Johnny Boy.

“My brother,” said Icarus. “The one with the smouldering socks. The one who I told you was a nutter. The one who lives in a world of fantasy. The one who believes that he’s Lazlo Woodbine. That’s not the real Lazlo Woodbine they’ve brought in here. That’s my lunatic brother.”

12

Now, I’m an only child. They broke the mould before they made me. And being an only child means that you’re a loner. You don’t have any big brothers to get you out of sticky situations. You have to learn to deal with things yourself. To think on your feet, or even when you’re off them.

And, like I’ve told you before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. No great detective ever needs more. So, when I awoke after falling into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion, to find myself in a fifth and unscheduled location, I had to think on my feet, or in this case, off them.

Yes siree.

By golly.

“Open your eyes, Woodpecker.” I heard the voice of Sam Maggot, but I wasn’t opening my eyes.

“Come on, you son of a bitch, we know you’re awake.”

“OK,” I said. “I’m awake already. But I’m not opening my eyes.”

“Oh please do,” said Sam in a voice like syrup. “There’s something I want you to see.”

“What’s that?”

“A little piece of video footage.”

“Oh, fine,” I said. “I’ll watch that. Would you mind turning all the lights out, so I can see the screen clearly?”

“You’re wacko, Woodpecker. But OK.”

Now Sam had a sidekick. Guys like Sam always have a sidekick. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. I’ve never had a sidekick myself, because, like I say, I’m a loner. Sam’s sidekick switched the lights off and I opened my eyes. The room was in darkness, and hey, darkness is darkness, right? I could have been in any darkness. In the darkness of my office, or wherever.

“Just watch the screen,” said Sam and a television screen lit up, as the eyes of a beautiful babe will do when she sees me coming out of the shower.

“Alleyway behind the Crimson Teacup,” said the voice of Sam. “Closed-circuit surveillance footage. This evening, eight thirty p.m.”

I cast a steely peeper at the footage. There was the alleyway, and there was me, busting the back door. And there were the two guys standing at the end of the alleyway talking. And there was me, ducking back, unholstering the trusty Smith and West End Girls and then leaping out and gunning the two of them down and …

“Hold it right there,” I shouted. “Play that footage again.”

“Oh, you like it, do you, Woodpecker? Want to see yourself committing the murders again and again? Perhaps you’d like me to make you a copy, so you can watch it in the death cell. You murdering piece of—”

“There’s something wrong there,” I rightly protested. “Something wrong with that footage. That’s not the way it happened.”

“OK, I’ll run it again.”

Sam ran the footage again and once again I burst out of the door and once again I gunned down two innocent talkers.

“No,” I said. “There’s a fix in here. This footage has been tampered with.”

“No, Woodpecker. There’s no fix. We’ve got you on video, committing the murders and talking to yourself. You’re a wacko, Woodpecker. You’re barking mad. It was only a matter of time before you did something like this. Playing the detective and gunning down innocent victims. You’re gonna fry in the chair for this one, Woodpecker. You’re gonna take that long last walk.”

Captain Ian marched along the corridor. Icarus plodded behind. Johnny Boy ran at full pelt to keep up.

Icarus viewed the captain as he marched. The forceful motions of his shoulders. The confident stride. The sheer sense of purpose. This was certainly not the Captain Ian he had seen in Stravino’s. That was a war-scarred veteran, who wore the look of one who had seen too many terrible things.

But now, with his new gift for true vision, Icarus could really see the captain. An angelic being, radiating light. And he’d had a sword, hadn’t he? A golden sword, that had driven into the chauffeur’s back and dragged him from his feet. But there was no evidence of a sword now. Which had Icarus perplexed.

Was there more that might be seen? More beyond the capabilities of the Red Head drug? More truth? A higher truth?

Icarus didn’t have the time for such thinking now.

“He’s in here,” said Captain Ian, pointing to a formidable door, all steel and rivet-pimpled.

“That’s a very secure-looking door,” said Johnny Boy, catching up and catching his breath. “And it doesn’t seem to have a handle.”

“Or a keyhole, for that matter,” said Icarus.

“We must blow it open,” said the captain.

“This should be good,” said Johnny Boy. “I like a big loud explosion.”

“I don’t,” said Icarus. “We’re in some underground labyrinth here. The noise of an explosion will have those creatures coming running from miles.”

“No problem,” said the captain. “I’ll use a silent explosive.”

“A silent explosive?” Icarus made the face of grave doubt.

“Latest thing,” said the captain, drawing out a stick of something dangerous-looking from his pocket. “The SAS use it all the time. It goes off without a sound. You’ve heard of gelignite and dynamite? Well, this stuff’s called—”

“Don’t tell me,” said Johnny Boy. “Silent nite.”

“No,” said the captain.

Johnny Boy creased double laughing. “It’s a good ’un though, isn’t it?” he said, between guffaws. “Silent nite. Silent night? Get it? Silent night and angels, what a good ’un, eh?”

“It’s not that funny,” said Icarus.

“No,” said Johnny Boy, straightening up. “I suppose it’s not that funny.”

“It’s SHITE,” said the captain.

“Oh come on,” said Johnny Boy. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“No, the explosive is called SHITE. S.H.I.T.E. Silent High Intensity Transcalent Explosive. The SAS could probably have called it by a more polite name, but they’re — well hard, those lads.”

“What does transcalent mean?” asked Johnny Boy.

“It means, permitting the passage of heat. The explosive instantly melts anything within the range of the explosion. So there’s no noise, you see. Clever, isn’t it?”