The four pubs in question are the Copper Beeches, the Golden Prince-nez, the Sussex Vampire and the Mazarin Stone.

Out of these, the Mazarin Stone is undoubtedly the best for a pub lunch. Run by one Reginald Musgrave, inheritor of certain West Sussex estates and a manor house at Hurlstone, it serves many an illustrious client and it was here that the famous Brentford naval treaty was signed, which officially ended Britain’s war against Spain. Built on the site of the original Priory School, it boasts two ghosts, a veiled lodger and a creeping man, and its upper rooms are available for parties and wedding receptions. There’s karaoke every Tuesday night and a raffle on Sunday lunchtimes.

“Get ready to use the spectremeter,” shouted Icarus.

“Aye aye, captain. Oooh, I feel really odd. It’s good odd though, not bad.”

Johnny Boy tugged the spectremeter from his pocket and smiled stupidly at it. “This is a really nice spectremeter,” he said. “This is the nicest spectremeter in all the world.”

“Turn it on then, please.” Icarus glanced into his mirror. Johnny Boy now resembled a miniature snowman, but at least the sleeper was starting to stir.

“Whoa!” he went, jerking upright. “Oh yeah! Wow! God do I feel great. Wow! I mean, hey!”

“I love you, man,” said Johnny Boy.

“I love you too,” the other replied.

“We’ve lost them, boss. Which way did they go?” The evil chauffeur peered through his tinted windscreen.

“I hate them!” Cormerant rocked in his seat. “Find them! Kill them!”

One of the demons peered through a tinted rear window.

“There.” He pointed. “There they go, down there.”

The chauffeur tried to reverse the car, but there was a dustcart coming up from behind and the back roads of Brentford are narrow.

“Get to the top end of the road!” bawled Cormerant. “Cut them off. Get to it.”

“You got it, sir.” The evil chauffeur put his foot down.

“Drive!” roared Cormerant. “Drive!”

“That’s my brother driving,” said a foolishly grinning individual with a lot of white stuff round his hooter. “He’s my hero, my brother, I love that man.”

“I love him too,” said Johnny Boy.

“When we were kids,” said the foolish grinner, “he used to lock me in a suitcase and push it under our mum’s bed.”

“I never did,” shouted Icarus.

The taxi scraped along a row of parked cars, sending up a glorious shower of sparks.

“You did too. And you used to hide my teddy and leave clues around the house that I’d have to follow so I could find him again.”

“Lies, every bit of it.” Icarus knocked an old boy off his bike. “Sorry,” he called through the window.

“There, he’s said sorry,” said Johnny Boy. “He wants you to forgive him.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said the foolish grinner, putting his arm around Johnny Boy’s shoulder. “I love him. I forgive him. It really got to me though, that suitcase. Gave me a real terror of cases. Suitcases, briefcases, handbags, shoulder bags, duffel bags, pormanteaus, dressing cases, pigskin valises, steamer trunks, sea chests, Gladstone bags, overnight bags …”

“You sure know your luggage,” said Johnny Boy.

“Buddy, in my business, knowing your luggage can mean the difference between …”

“Go on.”

“I don’t know. Could we stop off for some lunch, do you think? I’m getting really hungry. We could have a walk in Kew Gardens afterwards. It’s really beautiful there. Watch out for that lady with the pram.”

“Sorry,” called Icarus, out of the window.

“And there’s a long dark automobile blocking the street ahead.”

Icarus put his foot on the brake and swerved the taxi around.

The woman, who was picking up her baby from the road, fled screaming as Icarus performed a remarkable U-turn.

You can do that, you know, in a taxi. They have virtually the smallest turning circle of any wheeled vehicle; cabbies are always proud of telling people that. But then cabbies have so many things to be proud of. They’re wonderful people, are cabbies.

And of course, they never use drugs. Especially whatever weirded-out mixture it was that Icarus had found.

Icarus put his foot once more to the floor and the taxi took off at the hurry-up, through the maze of roads that was back street Brentford.

It rushed up Abbadon Street, along Moby Dick terrace, turned left into Sprite Street and right into the Ealing Road once more and passed the Flying Swan again.

“That cabbie you head-butted was quite right about his directions to the Flying Swan,” said Johnny Boy. “They do have the knowledge, those boys.”

“I love taxi drivers,” said the grinner, giving Johnny Boy a hug. “And I love you and I love my brother Icarus.”

“Nice,” said Johnny Boy, licking his snow-covered fingers.

Icarus turned left at the Mazarin Stone and they passed the football ground once more.

“After them! Faster, Faster!” Cormerant made taloned fists.

“I’m doing my best, sir,” the chauffeur said. “But it’s a bloody labyrinth round here and those taxis have virtually the smallest turning circle of any wheeled vehicle. And they are, of course, driven by highly skilled professionals who have the knowledge and never use drugs.”

Cormerant smote the chauffeur on the back of his smartly capped head. “Drive after them. Faster, you buffoon.”

“They’re going down there!” A demon pointed as the taxi came momentarily into view.

“No,” said the other demon. “There. They’re going down there.”

“No, they’re coming up there,” said the chauffeur. “No, hang about, you might be right.” The long dark automobile raked along a row of cars on the other side of Mafeking Avenue.

“I think we’ve lost them,” said Icarus. “Switch off the spectremeter.”

“Off?” said Johnny Boy.

“Yes, switch it off.”

“Oh,” said Johnny Boy. “I hadn’t got around to switching it on yet. Mind out for that wheelchair.”

“Sorry,” called Icarus, out of the window.

“I don’t think he’s ever really sorry,” said the grinner. “Our dad was in the removal business, you know.”

“I didn’t,” said Johnny Boy. “Go on.”

“Icarus used to shuffle up his delivery schedules.”

“I never did. Will you switch on the spectremeter? Please?”

“And our dad couldn’t read very well, so he used to deliver all the furniture and stuff to the wrong locations.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Perhaps I did have this switched on all the time,” said Johnny Boy. “Is this off or on?”

“I don’t know,” said the grinner, suddenly ceasing to grin. “But I seem to have double vision. I can see two of you now.”

“And I can see two of you.”

“There!” shouted one of the demons. “They’re coming straight at us. Smash into them.”

“It’s two cabs,” said the chauffeur. “Driving side by side.”

“Well smash into both of them.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Icarus. There was a taxi in front of him now.

“Is that us?” asked Johnny Boy, climbing up. “That looks like the back of Mr Woodbine’s head.”

“What, the Mr Woodbine?” asked the erstwhile grinner. “Lazlo Woodbine, private eye? The world famous detective? Is that really him, do you think?”

“I’m backing up,” said Icarus. “I’m going to go another way.”

“There’s a taxi coming behind us now, really fast.”

Smash went something into something.

No it didn’t.

“They went right through us,” said the chauffeur. “Like ghosts.”

Cormerant made tighter fists. “They’re using the bloody spectremeter. Just smash into every taxi you see, we’ll get the right one sooner or later.”