“Let me whisper, just to be on the safe side,” said Jennifer Naylor, drawing the likely lad into the aura of her exclusive perfume.

The sun, slanting away beyond Royal Kew, laid its trail of shadows and turned the gasometer, the flatblocks, the Arts Centre and the ancient island oaks into frail theatrical props.

From the black shadow of the gasometer, a car of still deeper black emerged, as if drawn from a dark wall of water. A small quizzical face was scarcely visible, peering through the steering wheel. A chauffeur’s cap perched upon the dwarfish head and tiny gloved hands guided the silent vehicle towards the Ealing Road. At intervals the car shuddered violently and the chauffeur flinched. Within the rear compartment something fearful was occurring.

Blows rained upon the dividing glass screen and a series of great thumps, as of something heavy being tossed to and fro, sent shivers through the weird black automobile. The chauffeur pressed his foot to the floor.

“Be still,” he whispered. “Please be still.” A sharp little tooth penetrated his lower lip and a slim line of blood divided his up-turned chin. A strangled, death-rattle cry arose from the crippled throat of the unseen occupant and a curious smell penetrated the driver’s cab. A smell, strange and haunting and unfathomable.

12

Those soothsayers, weather-watchers, old-wife-taletellers and local shepherds who, having taken delight in the red sky of the previous night, felt confident to predict a great day on the morrow, awoke upon a Saturday morning that was to be a turning point, nay a veritable watershed in the borough’s history. For today, the eyes of the world would turn upon Brentford.

Some, of course, knew it was coming. Bob the Bookie, for instance, who had watched the dawn rise and who even now sat alone in his betting shop weeping bitterly into his gin glass.

And Jennifer Naylor, who enjoyed a most pleasant evening at the “Comfy Canard”, dining upon oysters in Armagnac and fricasséed quail with pâté de foie gras. All at the expense of Inspectre Hovis. Much to Jennifer’s surprise, the detective had turned out not only to be a witty and skilful conversationalist, but a gourmet of the first magnitude.

And then there were the brothers Geronimo who had been despatched upon a sacred mission. One which, as Hovis had put it, required the cunning of the native coyote, the eye of the mountain eagle, the heart of the black bear, the ears of the pampas jack rabbit and the sagacity of the ring-tailed possum.

But for most, the unexpected arrival of the Brentford Mercury’s Special Olympic Souvenir Edition came more as a terminal shock than as a pleasant surprise. Jaws descended, eyes popped, pyjama tops were biblically “rent asunder” and phonelines jammed as the first murmurs of what is euphemistically referred to as Public Unrest rumbled ominously across the borough.

Some, like internationally famed journalist Gary Jenkins, smelt griffin and returned to their sleeping partners. Others, and this must certainly include the likes of John Omally within their avaricious ranks, could only smell the green and folding stuff.

By ten o’clock the Mercury’s office was under seige. The crowd spilled from the pavement and blocked both sides of the high street. Traffic ground to a halt. Horns were honked, hooters hooted, blasphemies exchanged and invective given its full head. From his open window on high the editor, already in a state of high delirium, raved at the crowd who answered his words with cat-calls, hoots of derision and the waving of improvised banners. For the most part his words were lost amidst the ferment below and lovers of mime were similarly lost in admiration for the dramatic, although often enigmatic, nature of his gestures.

The Mercury office, being less than one hundred yards from Brentford Police Station, the arrival of the boys in blue seemed very much on the cards. And so it was that — their official coffee-break completed — the gallant lads climbed into their squad cars, set the sirens a-wailing and the beacons a-flashing and sat eagerly in the car-park waiting for the traffic to clear.

At a little after ten-thirty Inspectre Hovis appeared on the scene. He entered the Mercury’s office by the rear door, thrust the gibbering editor away from the window and addressed the crowd through an amplified loud-hailer.

His speech was brief and to the point. He informed the crowd that a model of the Olympic stadium complete with full plans and specifications could be seen that very afternoon at the town hall from two o’clock onwards. He made some mention of riot shields and extendible truncheons, tear-gas canisters, rubber bullets and policemen on horseback. And went on to offer his own feelings about the severity of sentences currently being meted out to rioters and those engaged in unlawful assembly. Finally, for good measure, he read the riot act.

All in all it proved quite successful upon this particular occasion. The plucky Brentonians, who were strangers to such matters, hung on his every word, digested the intelligence to be found therein, perused the lines of SPG officers who had lately materialized on every side and finally drifted away with talk of pressing engagements at Tesco’s and Safeway’s.

Inspectre Hovis joined the editor in a glass of Fleet Street Comfort. “I am going to be keeping a watchful eye on you in the future,” he told the gibbering wreck. “And I shall take a very poor view of it if I see any headlines such as TRIGGER HAPPY COPS SAVAGE SATURDAY SHOPPERS.”

The editor tossed a triple down his throat. “I was thinking more along the line of GALLANT INSPECTOR QUELLS MOB.”

“Inspectre,” said Hovis. “It is so much more enigmatic, don’t you think. You’ll want a photograph of me for the front page. I’ll have an officer drop you round a couple of ten by eight glossies.”

“Thanks very much,” said the editor of the Brentford Mercury.

13

Jim Pooley sat upon his favourite bench before the Memorial Library. Hands clasped behind his head, legs outstretched, Special Olympic Souvenir Edition aproning his knees. Jim appeared to be whistling, “Money Makes the World Go Round” — that or an ancient Abba hit, but the air was constantly disjointed by contented sighs and deep chuckles. Once in a while Jim would stretch out his arms and punch at the sky, much after the fashion of a Wembley Cup tie striker who had just hammered the winning goal into the back of the net. The sun was certainly in Jim’s heaven and all seemed very much all right with the world.

Pooley was, however, finding some difficulty in coming to terms with his good fortune. Within the span of twenty-four short hours he had risen from the ranks of “no-mark” to those of potential millionaire. In a strange way he had almost come to resent it. Basically because it was not of his own doing. He’d been betting away for years, with scheme after scheme and system after system. Then along comes Omally who, to Jim’s knowledge, had never laid a bet in his life and the next thing you know — Eureka! Shazam! Bingo! — things of that nature. And it wasn’t just that. There was also Omally’s remarkable and uncharacteristic altruism in allowing him to place the bet in his own name, even though he knew it was a sure thing. That was most puzzling.

And so there sat Jim, torn between moments of rare joy and others of brooding bafflement, although it must be fairly stated that the rare joy was winning the uneven struggle.

From the corner of his eye, Pooley noticed a scruffy-looking individual approaching. Normally he would not have given a stranger a second glance, but there was something furtive and suspicious in the way that he moved which set Jim almost instantly upon the alert. A small red warning light flashed on the dashboard of his brain. In the light of future events, those of a mystical nature might incline to the belief that our old friend, the sixth sense was at work again. Those of a more cynical disposition might well suggest that it was nothing more than a cliched literary device aimed at holding the reader’s wandering attention. Whatever the case, Jim, recalling a night at the Flying Swan when he’d watched a drunk who claimed to be ex-SAS roll an ordinary newspaper into a sharpened point and, to Neville’s horror, drive it a full inch into the bar top, began to twist his copy of the Mercury into a clumsy sausage which might possibly have put the wind up a poodle.