Part 25 (1/2)

Chief Inspector Lytton put aside his camera. He stood upon the flat roof of a building opposite the cafe. He was a very furious chief inspector. A chief inspector who, not one hour before, had received a telephone call from Prince Charles himself, requesting the reinstatement of Inspectre Hovis and that Lytton pa.s.s on the good news of his forthcoming knight-hood.

Chief Inspector Lytton glanced down at the junior officer who knelt beside him. This officer had his finger poised above the firing b.u.t.ton of an anything--but-regulation police-issue 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun.

'Fire as soon as I give the order,' said Chief Inspector Lytton.

The junior officer, whose name was Constable Ken Loathsome, did a big thumbs up. 'Who eats the lead, Chief?' he asked.

'Two men,' said Brian Lytton. 'A large bald one and a not quite so large gangly one. The large bald one is a serial killer. Twenty-three children. Pulled their still-beating hearts out with his bare hands. And ate 'em.'

'Urgh!' went Ken.

'The not so large, gangly one. He's a much nastier piece of work.'

'Blimey,' said Ken.

'So just make sure you don't miss. Do the job right and you might well find there's a promotion in it for you.

'Right on,' said Constable Ken.

Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome wasn't much of a shot. But then, he wasn't much of an anything really. Distinguished only by a crummy mock-American accent and the desire to shoot people, Chief Inspector Lytton couldn't really have chosen a better man for the job.

It was a little after five of the late-afternoon clock, when two figures, one large and bald and one not quite as large, but gangly, stepped out from The Wife's Legs Cafe and stood upon the pavement. They were shaking hands at the moment Chief Inspector Lytton gave Constable Ken the order to fire.

Ken flipped up the safety cover and rammed his thumb hard down on the firing b.u.t.ton. The 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun did what it did best.

Dispensed 7.62 mm x 51 sh.e.l.ls at the rate of six thousand a minute.

Rapid fire! The constable was hard put to keep the killing end of the mighty weapon trained on anything even vaguely resembling the targets. But at that range, and with such an awesome piece of hardware, you really can't miss.

21.

Hugo Rune took a dozen rounds to the head. The force lifted him from his feet and drove him back through the window of The Wife's Leg's Cafe. Hovis turned in horror, tried to run. Bullets raked across his chest. Riddled him from head to foot.

Somehow Rune was rising. He came forward, his great arms outspread. But bullets rained into him, and he fell across the now lifeless body of Inspectre Hovis. Late of Scotland Yard.

When Constable Ken finally released his trigger finger, twenty-three seconds had pa.s.sed. Two thous-and three hundred rounds had left the minigun. The police had run up a bill for twenty-three thousand pounds in damage claims. And two men lay dead on the pavement.

'So long, suckers,' said Ken briefly. And then he was violently sick.

'Oh my G.o.d,' he continued, and, 'what have I done?'

'You've done a man's job, sir.' Brian Lytton looked upon all that he had made, and found it pleasing.

'Bleeuugh!' went Ken, on to the chief inspector's trousers.

A crowd had already begun to form around the two dead men. Appearing, as if from nowhere.

Those who have read The Book of Ultimate Truths will recognize this as Spontaneously Generated Crowd Phenomenon. Those who have not, will not.

The big men, who had taken cover when the killing started, were now climbing to their feet, dusting themselves down and squaring their shoulders in rugged manly ways.

The wife was already receiving far more comfort than she actually needed.

Chief Inspector Brian 'Bulwer' Lytton smiled an evil smile and led the blubbering constable away down the fire escape.

'You chuck up in the car and you're for it,' said he. 'And you can foot the bill to have my trousers dry-cleaned.'

Prince Charles was taking tea. But not with 'the parson' this time. With Polly and her mum. In their kitchen. He hadn't mentioned to Polly yet about making the phone call to have Hovis reinstated, he thought he'd save that for later. Be a nice surprise for her.

Polly put the kettle on. She never minded doing it at home. Her mum whispered away at her from behind a tea cosy imaginatively fas.h.i.+oned to resemble the head of John the Baptist.

'You know who he looks like?' she asked Polly. 'No,' said Polly.

'Jeff Beck,' said her mum.

'He does not.'

'He does too. My friend Mrs Murphy played ba.s.s for Jeff on ”Hi Ho Silver Lining”. She showed me this picture. Jeff had more hair then. But the ears are the same.'

'Don't you have a meeting of the Chiswick Townswomen's Guild to go to?'

Prince Charles made that curious jaw movement that he does when he's feeling lost. 'This is a charming kitchen,' he said. 'Are these Hygena units?'

'They're Pogue and Poll,' replied Polly's mum, drying her hands on a dishcloth printed with the image from the Turin Shroud. 'My husband Colin fitted them. They came in a flat pack.'

'Were they difficult to erect?'

'Yes quite. The instructions were in Danish. Happily my husband is cunnilingual.'

'The worktops look very easy to wipe down,' said the heir to the throne. 'Is that a faux-marble finish?'

'No, it's Formica.'

'How interesting,' said the prince. 'And do you have any labour-saving devices?'

'Yes, we have a microwave oven.

'Ah yes.' Prince Charles scratched his ear. 'My friend Mark Knopfler used to sing a song about those. Although I forget how it went.'

'There you are,' whispered Polly's mum behind the Baptist's head. 'I know a balding middle-agedex-muso when I see one.' She took herself over to the table and sat down next to the prince. 'Are you in the music business yourself, Mr...

'Windsor,' said himself.

'Windsor? You're not related to Barbara Windsor, by any chance?'

'Barbara?' The prince adjusted his double-breaster.

'Busty Babs, the loveable c.o.c.kney sparrow. Star of countless Carry On films.'