All sounds of revelry ceased. Cornelius fought with his hair.
‘Good evening,’ he called, smiling invisibly for all he was worth.
‘Bye now.’ The police sergeant waved to Mr Patel. Mr Patel did not wave back. The sergeant shrugged, put the bolt on the front door and returned to the office of Police Chief Sam McAggott. ‘That’s about the last of them, sir,’ he said.
Sam sat with his head in his hands. ‘Ruination,’ was all he had to say.
‘Come now, sir, it’s never as bad as you think.’ Behind his back the sergeant rolled the copy of tomorrow morning’s Edinburgh Mercury between his hands. The front-page banner headline read
DISGRACED POLICE CHIEF TO STAND TRIAL.
‘I know we had to let them all walk free. But we do still have the Campbell.’
‘Ah,’ said Sam. ‘The Campbell.’
‘The Wild Warrior of West Lothian, sir. We have him bang to rights on the kiosk heist and Special Forces caught him red-handed holding up the auction room and trying to make off with a green canvas portmanteau.’
‘A guilty man? And actually in our custody? Can this be right?’
‘Locked up neat and nice, sir. Of course, we’ll have to let him go in the morning.’
‘And just for why?’
‘Well, sir. Apparently someone recorded over the station security video by mistake, the gaunt woman who runs the kiosk is not prepared to testify. The portmanteau can’t be found. Murphy has left town. The other auction bidders are all tied up with litigation against the Special Forces. And the Special Forces guy’s solicitor has advised him not to make any statements.’
‘So the Campbell is not bang to rights at all.’
‘But he doesn’t know that, sir. We’d get a confession out of him easy as blinking. Possibly even tie him into a couple of torso cases and a bullion robbery.’
Sam shrugged. ‘I like the way you think, sergeant. Pull this one off and there could be a promotion in it for you.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ The sergeant rammed the rolled copy of the Edinburgh Mercury into his back pocket and fished down the ring of cell keys from its hook by the door. ‘Shall I bring my big truncheon?’ he asked Sam.
The cells were, as they say, hewn into the living rock. Water oozed from their ceilings and plip-plopped into rank pools. Rats scuttled. Strange cries echoed.
‘Here we are, sir.’ The sergeant turned a key in a cell door.
The door went EEEEEEEAAAAAAAAW as he pushed it open.
‘The Campbell,’ said the sergeant.
‘Get up, Campbell,’ said Sam McAggott.
The Campbell drew a deep breath. Then he got to his feet and glared at Sam McAggott. ‘I’ll be on my way now,’ he said.
‘Not yet, my lad,’ said Sam.
‘Oh yes.’ The Campbell lifted one foot in the air. Then he lifted the other. He hovered a moment in complete contempt for the law of gravity and then he left the cell. At impossible speed.
He swept past McAggott, bowling him from his feet. Soared over the ducking head of the sergeant. Flew along the corridor. Burst through door after police door and was gone into the night.
McAggott climbed over the sergeant, who had assumed the foetal position, and staggered back to his office. He picked up his telephone and dialled out a number. Somewhere a phone began to ring.
‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘McAggott,’ gasped McAggott.
‘Ah. What news? Did all go according to plan?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, no sir. The one you’re looking for…’
‘You caught it?’
‘It escaped, sir. We didn’t know it was…an it. We couldn’t stop it. It moved so fast.’
‘You fool. Did it change? Did you see it change?’
‘No, sir. It glared and it floated and it flew like the Devil. But it didn’t change.’
‘What about Murphy? Is Murphy all right?’
‘He’s fine, sir. We sent him off on his way.’
‘He’d better be fine. Now get your men out after the it. Tell them to shoot on sight. If it can be shot. Who is following Murphy?’
‘No-one, sir. I thought you…’
‘Buffoon. You are a buffoon, McAggott.’
‘Sorry, sir. Goodbye, sir.’
‘Goodbye.’ Arthur Kobold replaced the receiver.
‘And good luck, Murphy. You’re going to need it.’
‘Hello,’ called Cornelius Murphy. ‘Good evening to you.’
It was a snug little bar. Blackened beams ribbed it all around and about. A fine log fire crackled in the inglenook. The floor was of mellow golden stone. The tables and benches burnished bog oak. There were copper kettles and warming pans and horse brasses. Very snug indeed.
‘Aiiiieeeee!’ went the patrons of this snug little bar, cowering in their seats. ‘The Lord preserve us.’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe.
Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
‘A Special Forces pub, do you think?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Away, thou spawn of the pit!’ cried the landlord, flourishing a string of garlic and making the sign of the cross. ‘Back to the depths of Hell with you.’
‘Would there be any chance of a room for the night?’ Tuppe called.
‘The Devil’s familiar!’ The landlord pointed to the small fellow. ‘Back, ungodly issue!’
The cowering patrons were pulling silver crucifixes from their pockets and holding them between trembling fingers. ‘Out, demons, out…’ they began to chant.
‘Stuff this,’ said Cornelius. ‘Let’s try up the road.’
‘Out, demons!’ shrieked the landlord.
‘All right. We’re going.’ The tall boy turned towards the storm.
‘Oh come on in and shut the door,’ said the landlord and the bar erupted into gales of laughter.
‘Ah,’ said Cornelius, fighting down his hair, hauling in the portmanteau and forcing shut the door. ‘This would be some of that famous north-country humour I have read so little about.’
‘Lost on me I’m afraid,’ muttered Tuppe.
He and Cornelius approached the landlord, who was clutching at his mid regions and laughing like the drain of proverb.
‘Take no notice of them, lads. They do it to everyone.’
An extremely attractive young barmaid appeared on the scene. She was pale and willowy, with a large mouth and the most amazing violet eyes that you ever did see. Cornelius observed that freckles on her left cheek mapped out the Tuamotu archipelago of south-west Polynesia. She smiled upon Cornelius and Cornelius smiled mightily upon her.
‘My name is Cornelius Murphy,’ he told her. ‘And I would be honoured if you would bear my children.’
The landlord smacked the counter and fell into further hilarity.
‘Get away with you.’ The barmaid fluttered exotic eyelashes at the tall boy. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘I’ll take a short,’ said Tuppe.
‘The little’n’ll take a short.’ The landlord sank beneath the counter and lay on his back kicking his legs in the air.
‘Smashed out of their bloody boxes as usual.’ The beautiful barmaid shook her beautiful head. ‘Scotch will it be, love?’
‘Two,’ said Cornelius. ‘No ice.’
‘I missed that,’ croaked the landlord. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said, no ice.’ The landlord thrashed about helplessly. The barmaid drew off two measures and passed them across the counter. Cornelius helped Tuppe on to a stool and found one for himself.
‘Would you care to join us in a drink?’ he asked the barmaid.
‘I’ll take the money, if you don’t mind. Someone has to stay sober around here.’
‘As you wish.’ Cornelius handed her a five-pound note. The barmaid rang up the drinks on the till and then pocketed all of the change.
‘Could I have a receipt for that?’ Cornelius asked.
‘What you got in this big trunk, mister?’ A big, ruddy-faced farming type tapped the portmanteau wit
h the steely toecap of his sturdy work boot. ‘Dismembered body, is it?’
His drinking buddies cheered and hooted.
Cornelius made a distraught face and chewed upon his knuckle. ‘It’s my hideously deformed brother,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘We are taking him back to the institution. Don’t awaken him. If he was to get free again…’ The tall boy covered his face. ‘The blood, all the blood…all those chewed-up limbs…’
The patrons collapsed into further mirth.
‘Do you have a vacant room for the night?’ Cornelius asked the barmaid.
‘There’s only the one. Your friend and you will have to share.’
The pub door swung open.‘Aiiiieeeee!’ went the patrons. ‘Save our souls.’
‘Leave it out, you silly buggers.’ A local in a waxy anorak entered, shaking rain from his hat. He shut the door, turned and tripped straight over the portmanteau. The patrons rose to new heights of glee. Laughter rattled the horse brasses and echoed in the warming pans.
The ruddy-faced fellow fingered his joke crucifix. ‘Pray that you have not awakened the mad brother,’ said he, helping the fallen anorakster to his feet.
‘Do they always carry on in this fashion?’ Cornelius asked.
The barmaid nodded. Cornelius caught the fragrance of L’Air du Temps. ‘They didn’t used to be like this. They used to all sit glowering into their beer. Then the mill closed down. And the crops failed. And the brickworks went out of business. And the processing plant moved to Solihull. And now they’re all on the dole with no prospect of ever working again.’
‘I see,’ said Cornelius.
‘I don’t,’ said Tuppe.
‘Then,’ continued the barmaid, as Cornelius sniffed on appreciatively, ‘this meteor came down in old Jack Spar’s field, least as how they thought it were a meteor. But it weren’t. It were a kind of metal cylinder. The men dug it out of the ground where it fell and hauled it back to the village. The old boys said it were a gift from the elder gods and they built a special shrine for it in the square.’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe.
Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
They finished their drinks.
‘Might we see our room now?’ Cornelius asked.
‘Certainly. I’ll show you the way.’
Tuppe and Cornelius hastened to collect the luggage. The barmaid led them from the bar and up some rickety steps. The patrons cheered their departure and raised glasses in salute.
‘There were this big storm, see. Just like tonight. And lightning struck the shrine and the cylinder cracked open and out came this thing.’
Cornelius bumped the portmanteau up the stairs behind the barmaid. ‘White stockings,’ he sighed.
‘You’ll have to duck your head here, love.’
Clunk went the head of Cornelius Murphy. ‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘Out came what thing?’ he asked.
The barmaid swung open a door and switched on the light. It was a snug little bedroom. Oak-framed bed. Chintzy bed cover. Plump goose-feather pillows. A cozy little fire burned in the hearth.
‘Fell out.’ The barmaid turned down the chintzy bed cover. ‘It were a machine inside. A sort of box with dials on and a little television screen. And a microphone.’
‘Probably an inter-rositor,’ said Tuppe, who had seen This Island Earth three times.
‘No, it weren’t an inter-rositor, them has triangular screens and positronic wave cross-band modulators which operate on the principle of ionized beta photons bombarding the nucleus of an alpha particle. Same as a linear accelerator.’
‘Not one of those then?’
‘No.’ The barmaid tossed her head. A swirl of soft brown hair. ‘It were a karaoke machine.’
Cornelius sighed once more. But this time it had nothing to do with white stockings. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘Or is there more?’
‘There’s more. Let me give you a hand with that suitcase, little manny.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tuppe.
The barmaid humped the suitcase on to the bed. ‘Is this real crocodile skin?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Cornelius shook his head. The barmaid tittered. ‘That time when you shook your head, your hair just stayed still.’
‘It does that. Go on then. The karaoke machine?’
‘Well see. They brought it into the bar. It were a bit charred by the lightning, but they plugged it in and music came out and the words to the music came up on the little television screen.’
‘That’s what they do.’ Tuppe put down the rucksack and kicked it under the bed. ‘Or so I’ve been told.’
‘Well maybe they do. But this machine played music no-one had ever heard before. Catchy tunes, though, and everyone had a singalong. Cheered them up no end it did.’
‘And so that’s why they’re all so jolly?’
‘No, that’s not it at all. Just you listen. It were a month after they first started playing with the machine that someone hears one of the tunes they were singing on the wireless set.’
‘That’s what the machines do,’ Tuppe explained. ‘They play popular tunes of the day.’
‘No,’ said the barmaid. ‘I’m not explaining myself right. The karaoke machine had played the tune a month before the tune turned up on the wireless set. It played music from the future. Next month’s top ten, to be precise.’
‘Next month’s top ten?’ Cornelius sat down on the portmanteau. ‘You are making fun of us, surely.’
‘I am not. The machine played music from the future.’
‘I see,’ said Cornelius, who was beginning to. ‘So the folk of the village capitalized on this gift from the gods, that had come to them in their darkest hour. Let me guess, they placed bets with bookmakers about who would be top of the charts at Christmas. They took out copyright on lyrics that had not even been written yet. In short they are all now fabulously wealthy. That’s why they laugh all the time.’
The barmaid shook her head. More brown swirlings, more L’Air du Temps. ‘No. That’s not it at all. Though the other fellow did say all the kind of things you just did say.’
‘Other fellow. What other fellow?’
‘He was from London. His name was Jack, I think. There was this storm see, just like tonight. And he were a taxi driver and he’d got lost. And when he come into the pub he hears the village lads singing along with the machine and he has a go himself and gets to talking with everyone. A real friendly fellow he were by all accounts, bought ‘em all drinks.’
Cornelius did not possess a machine that could predict the future, but he felt certain he knew just how this tale was going to end. ‘He took the machine away with him, didn’t he?’
‘How did you guess? That’s just what he did. He said he had connections with the music industry and how he was always having famous musicians and producers sitting in the back of his cab. And how he could make all the village wealthy.’
‘And the villagers let a complete stranger drive off with a machine that could play music from the future…’
‘Course they didn’t. Do you think we’re all daft? No, they sent a big strong farmer’s lad down to London with this Jack, to make sure there were no funny business.’
‘I’m sure I’m missing something here. How long ago did this happen?’
‘Oh, before my time. About thirty years back. And do you know what?’
‘What?’
‘They never heard from either of them again. So…’
‘So?’
‘So, you have to laugh, don’t you?’ The barmaid slapped her knees and did just that.
Cornelius set free another sigh.
‘This big farmer’s lad?’ Tuppe asked. ‘I travel about a bit. You don’t happen to recall his name, by any chance?’
‘Brian.’ The barmaid dabbed at her eyes. ‘Brian somet or other.’
‘Epstein?’ Tuppe enquired.
‘That’s it. Brian Epstein. Do you know him then?’
Tuppe shook his head. ‘Just a lucky guess,’ said he.
‘Brian Epstein!’ The barmaid had departed and Cornelius was unpacking his suitcase. ‘Brian Epstein indeed.’
Tuppe was toasting his feet by the fire. ‘I’ve travelled, like I say. And I’ve heard that story before.’
‘Not true then?’ Cornelius unfolded his pyjamas. Tuppe caught sight of them. Cornelius stuffed them hastily back into the suitcase.
‘I’m not saying it’s not true. Only that I’ve heard it before. Perhaps if you hear a thing told often enough, it makes it true. What nasty pyjamas, by the way.’
‘They are rather vile, aren’t they?’ Cornelius closed his suitcase. ‘I suggest we have a look in the portmanteau. That is why we’re here after all.’
‘What a good idea.’
They dragged the portmanteau into the middle of the room. Cornelius prised open the locks and lifted the lid. A stale musty old smell filled the air.
‘That’s a dirty old duffle-coat, if ever there was one.’ Tuppe leaned into the portmanteau, scooped out the duffle-coat and tossed it into a far corner. ‘But see, here is your brush-and-comb set.’
Cornelius took it up. ‘This case is never calfskin. Plastic.’
‘Perhaps you might put it back into next week’s auction.’
‘I think not. Now, what papers do we have?’
They didn’t have many. And what they did were mostly bills of the unpaid variety. These covered a wide range of goods. Expensive cigars. Brandies and liquors. Rare books. Exclusive clothing. The bills were all made out to Hugo Rune. Demands for payment and court summonses were pinned to most of them.
‘He certainly knew how to live, this Rune.’ Tuppe flicked through the bills. ‘Big-game rifles. Hand-tailored shirts. Imported toiletries.’
‘What is this?’ Cornelius brought to light an ancient photograph. Curly at the edges and mottled with age.
It was a group shot of four men. Three were young, smiling. The fourth, who stood head and shoulders above them, was older. He wasn’t smiling. He wore a plaid plus-fours suit over a more than ample frame. His head was a great shaven dome. His eyes dark and piercing. Across the photograph was scrawled in blue ink, US WITH THE MASTER. HIS BIRTHDAY, JULY 1936. Beneath this was an arrow pointing down and the words, TO MOLLY.