The Sprouts of Wrath

6

At shortly after nine: Norman returned from his paper-round whistling a tuneless melody which may or may not have been “Dali’s car”. Just before he reached his shop, however, he discovered to his chagrin that he still had a single copy of the Brentford Mercury in his bag. Being uncertain as to whether he had posted one to Neville when he first set out upon his round he popped it through the Swan’s letterbox. Just to be on the safe side.

The part-time barman, who was still recovering from not only his undeserved nasal larruping but also the trauma of discovering the first ever copy of the Mercury to arrive on his doormat, looked up in horror at the arrival of the second and quickly reached for his dog-eared copy of Krafft Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis.

At shortly after nine-fifteen: Inspectre Hovis strode into Brentford police station. He awoke the snoozing duty officer with a summary blow to the skull from his silver-topped cane, identified himself and poured forth a torrent of instructions, demands, directives, exactions, mandates, impositions, requisitions and ultimatums. Pausing only to draw breath and savour the bewildered sergeant’s look of horror, he asked, “Are you receiving me?”

“Loud and clear, sir, loud and clear.” Sergeant Gotting’s head bobbed up and down between his blue serge shoulders. He was only the second man in Brentford to encounter the great detective, but he was the second to really truly hate his guts.

At shortly after nine-thirty: Jennifer Naylor steered her Porsche into the council car park. Binding, the scrofulous attendant, lurched from his sentry box and put up his hand. “Pass?” he demanded.

Jennifer generally let him do this several times before winding down the window to enquire what exactly he wanted. Today, however, she was in a hurry. Regarding him as she might a dollop of poodle-doo on her Gucci instep, she indicated the pass, affixed as ever to her windscreen.

Binding leant forward, his ghastly hands deep at some nefarious activity within his trouser pockets. He examined the pass and what he could of Jennifer’s cleavage by turn. At length, evidently satisfied that each was in order, he mumbled, “I’ll guide you in,” and turned to view the all but empty car park with a thoughtful gaze. “There’s one over there in the corner by the bottle bank.” But his words were lost amidst a squeal of expensive rubber as Jennifer spun the Porsche into the nearest parking space. That of Major McFadeyen.

“You can’t park there!” wailed Binding, withdrawing his terrible hands from their place of business and waving them in the air. “That’s the Major’s bay! It’s more than my job’s …” A loud blast from the Porsche’s horn drowned out the deadly phrase.

“Thank you,” said Jennifer Naylor, “this will do nicely.”

At shortly after ten o’clock: Jim Pooley left Bob the Bookie’s at the trot, the millionaire’s guffaws ringing in his ears. He had got far greater odds than Omally had predicted. In his eagerness to acquire ten pounds from Pooley all at once, Bob had informed him that upon this special occasion the sky was the limit. Jim felt it best to keep this information from John, as the Irishman would only become over-excited if he knew the true extent of the projected winnings. “Also,” thought Jim, “as I have taken the greater financial risk then so should I reap the greater reward.” Pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument he jingled the last of his small change, winked at the sky and sauntered into Norman’s cornershop in the hope of five Woodbine on tick. “You never know your luck,” thought Jim Pooley. “You never know.”

At shortly after ten-thirty there was a council meeting.