The Brightonomicon (Brentford Book 8) (8 page)

‘Are you telling me,’ I said, ‘that Mister Rune paid you to steal a dog from a house in Hangleton?’

‘Well, he hasn’t paid me yet. I came here because I forgot what number he lives at. What number is it, then, do you know?’

If I could have seen my own face at that moment, I feel certain that it must have been wearing a very broad smile indeed.

‘What are you frowning at, mister?’ asked the … erm … fellow.

‘I am grinning,’ I said, ‘broadly.’

‘Well, that’s young folk for you. I can’t tell the boys from the girls nowadays.’

‘You really should try,’ I suggested, ‘or you might get yourself into all kinds of trouble.’

‘More drinks, ladies?’ asked Fangio, tottering back in our direction.

‘Same again for me, and whatever my new-found friend here is having.’

‘I’ll have a pint of Diesel, please,’ said my new-found friend. ‘My name’s Hubert, by the way.’

‘Is that hyphenated?’ Fangio asked.

‘No, it’s Welsh. It means “he who walks quietly to the cowshed and knows where the shears are kept”.’

‘Cow-shears?’ I asked.

‘It’s one of the reasons why I left Wales,’ Hubert explained.

‘Put these drinks on Mister Rune’s account,’ I told Fangio.

The barlord shook his helmeted head.

‘Or I will pass on to Mister Rune that matter of the first edition that was recently sold at Christie’s.’

‘Coming right up, then,’ said Fangio.

‘And have one yourself.’

‘That’s most generous, sir. I’ll just have a glass of the vintage champagne that Mister Rune suggested I order in, in case of a special occasion.’

‘Knock yourself out,’ I said.

‘Is that compulsory?’

‘No, it is just a turn of phrase.’

Fangio served up our drinks and repaired to the wine cellar, smiling as he went.

‘What was he frowning about?’ asked Hubert.

‘Never mind,’ I told him. ‘Drink up and enjoy the moment.’

The moment passed.

And so did further moments.

These further moments passed to the accompaniment of drinking.

These moments became minutes and these, in turn, became hours.

‘I’m really rather drunk now,’ said Hubert. ‘How about you?’

‘I am
very
drunk,’ I said. ‘But happy.’

‘That’s often the way with drinking.’ Hubert slid his beer glass up and down the counter, thereby bringing grief to Fangio who was a barlord who liked his counter clean. For health-and-safety reasons, obviously. ‘If I tell you a secret,’ said Hubert, ‘will you promise to keep it a secret?’

‘Will it still be a secret if you tell it to me?’ I asked.

Hubert scratched at his head, raising small clouds of purple dust.

‘Don’t confuse him,’ said Fangio. ‘I like secrets.’

‘This is a really scary one,’ said Hubert, ‘and all the more so because it is true.’
^*

‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘I promise that whatever you tell me, I will not confide the details to another soul.’

‘Nor me,’ said Fangio. ‘Unless the mood takes me, of course.’

‘Right, then,’ said Hubert. And he drew us closer to him. ‘It’s about rock stars and why they always die aged twenty-seven.’

‘Do they?’ asked Fangio.

‘They do,’ said Hubert. ‘Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, died aged twenty-seven. Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Gram Parsons from the Byrds, Pigpen out of the Grateful Dead. And Kurt Cobain, who hasn’t been born yet, so we’ll leave him out.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Jones and Jimi, Janis and Jim, and Johnny, of course – they all died at twenty-seven?
^†
Is this true?’

Fangio was counting on his fingers. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘How odd.’

‘Not odd,’ said Hubert. ‘Just the work of the Devil.’

‘That’s a bit strong,’ said Fangio. ‘I know that they call rock ’n’ roll the Devil’s music, but—’

‘Listen,’ said Hubert, ‘I checked it out. I wanted to see where it all began, where it could be traced back to. And I have—’

‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

‘Let me say something,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Eh?’ said Fangio.

‘That is all I wanted to say.’

‘Robert Johnson,’ said Hubert, ‘blues musician – ever heard of him?’

‘Actually, I have,’ I said. ‘He wrote “Cross Road Blues” and “Me and the Devil Blues” and “Hell Hound On My Trail” and “Love In
Vain” – the Rolling Stones recorded that one. Just about every rock musician today pays homage to Robert Johnson. They say that he started the whole thing, put it all together – the notes, the chord progressions, the lot.’

Hubert nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right. So let me tell you this. The story goes that Robert Johnson wasn’t much of a guitarist, but he wanted to be the best, to be remembered. So he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black-cat bone and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil tuned Robert Johnson’s guitar—’

‘I remember reading this somewhere,’ I said. ‘From then on he always played with his back to the audience. Folk who looked at him from the stage side of the curtain swear that he had six fingers on his left hand.’

Hubert nodded. ‘When Keith Richards first heard Robert Johnson’s recordings – and he only recorded twenty-nine songs, all in a hotel room, with his back to the recorder – Keith Richards said, “Who’s the other guitarist playing with Johnson?” because one man alone simply couldn’t play all those notes at the same time.’

‘Spooky stuff,’ said Fangio.

‘There’s more,’ said Hubert.

‘Go on,’ said Fangio.

‘I
was going to say
that,’
I said.

‘Robert Johnson met with an untimely death,’ said Hubert. ‘Murdered by a jealous husband, they say. Or perhaps the Devil claimed his own. Perhaps he always claims his own.’

‘How old was Robert Johnson when he died?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-seven,’ said Hubert.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Fangio.

‘Thank God for
what?’
I said.

‘Thank God it’s five o’clock,’ said Fangio. ‘I can take off this muff-diver’s helmet now.’

‘And I have to get off,’ said Hubert. ‘I have this enormous Russian spaniel outside in my van that has to be delivered to Mister Rune.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘the Russian spaniel. I am really going to enjoy the Russian spaniel.’

‘That’s Thursdays,’ said Fangio.

‘Thursdays?’ I said.

‘Bestiality Theme Night.’

‘We are off,’ I said to Fangio. ‘I doubt whether our paths will cross again. It has been a pleasure to know you.’

‘Don’t forget to mention me in Chapter Nine,’ said the barlord. ‘And don’t forget your pillowcase.’

I did not forget my pillowcase. I followed Hubert around to the rear of forty-nine Grand Parade, where he had parked his van. And here I maintained something of a low profile, for there were several parked police cars to be seen and a lot of that yellow ‘POLICE – DO NOT CROSS’ tape draped all around a taxicab that had apparently crashed into the dustbins.

‘Wait here and I’ll get the dog,’ said Hubert.

And he did so.

It really
was
a very large dog, for a spaniel.

‘It’s grown a bit since I put it in the van,’ said Hubert, struggling to drag it along. ‘It’s almost the size of a Shetland pony now. I wonder how big these things grow. I heard this story about a pig in Henfield once. It seems that—’

‘Follow me,’ I said, and I grinned as I said it.

I turned the handle and then kicked open the door. Mr Rune looked up from his doings, which were playing ‘Love in Vain’ upon his reinvented ocarina.

‘My dear Rizla,’ he said, ‘you have returned.’ And he took out his gold pocket watch. ‘And right on time to the very minute, as I predicted.’

‘You charlatan!’ I cried. ‘I have found you out.’

‘Indeed?’ said Mr Rune. ‘Indeed?’

‘I have the Hound of the Hangletons with me.’

‘Then the case is solved, as I also predicted.’

‘There never was a case. This fellow here—’ I encouraged Hubert into the room. ‘This fellow here—’ Hubert struggled to ease himself past the Russian spaniel ‘—stole the dog at your behest. You scoundrel. You fraud.’

‘Scoundrel and fraud,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Harsh words.’

‘And too good for you.’

‘You’re piddled again,’ said Mr Rune.

‘I am,’ I said, ‘and proud of the fact, for I have done it at your expense.’

‘I knew that Fangio would sell my signed first edition,’ said Mr Rune. ‘I trust that you enjoyed the champagne that I had him lay down for a special occasion.’

‘Actually, I did. He shared it with me.’

‘Splendid,’ said Mr Rune. ‘You can return the hound now, Hubert. Oh – and take this.’ Mr Rune rose and handed Hubert an envelope.

‘What is that?’ I asked.

‘My bill,’ said Mr Rune, ‘for the Orions, for the recovery of their dog. Make sure you get the money in cash, Hubert; don’t accept a cheque.’

‘But
you
had Hubert steal the dog in the first place,’ I said.

‘I was not employed by the Orions to catch the thief, only to recover the dog for them. That has been done, and I am therefore entitled to my fee. I see no flaw in this reasoning, do you?’

‘I …’ I said. ‘I …’

‘And
you
have returned, as I predicted, within three hours to the very minute. And so
you
must honour the oath you swore upon leaving, that should you return to these rooms you would remain in my employ until all the cases are solved. You promised on your life, did you not?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, yes, but—’

‘But me no buts,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Everything has gone exactly as I planned it. Let us now go together to The Pillow Biter’s Elbow, as I believe it to be called at this time of the day, and celebrate our success: a found hound, a fat fee and a partnership that will lead one day to you making a fortune when you publish the book of our exploits. I’d end this chapter here, if I were you.’

And so I did.

The Centenary Centaur

PART I

‘I think that you might find this of interest,’ said Mr Rune to me, as we sat a-breakfasting in our rooms at forty-nine Grand Parade upon a fine morning in April. ‘Give me your considered opinion.’ And he flung the morning’s edition of the
Argus
in my direction.

My hands being occupied with cutlery, the newspaper fell into my breakfast, mashing the fried egg that I had been saving for last.

‘Damn and blast it,’ said I, putting down my knife and fork and plucking up the eggy newssheet.

‘Front page,’ said Mr Rune, availing himself of the last piece of toast.

I took the
Argus
and viewed the front page, and at once saw the headline printed there:
HORRIBLE INCIDENT IN HANGLETON.
And what was printed below this?