The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code
Read The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code Online
Authors: Robert Rankin
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Humorous
The Brentford Trilogy:
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Armageddon Trilogy:
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book Of The Dead
Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:
The Book Of Ultimate Truths
Raiders Of The Lost Car Park
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, composed of:
The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:
Sprout Mask Replica
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Waiting for Godalming
Plus some fabulous other books, including:
The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
The Brightonomicon
The Toyminator
the
da-da-
de-da-da
code
Robert Rankin
For
my beautiful
Raygun
With all my love
Thank you for
the inspiration
the love
and the music
and the shoes
mmmm
A headless corpse was floating on the ornamental pond.
It troubled the view and it troubled the ducks and it troubled the two park rangers.
The rangers stood, uncomfortably, upon the north shore, before the Doric temple. The elder of the two was smoking a cigarette; the younger was trying very hard to keep his breakfast down.
‘Now,
that
,’ said the elder of the two, puffing smoke and speaking through it, ‘is the thin end of the wedge. Bikes and baby buggies, crates and shopping trolleys – I don’t know how they sneak the stuff in through the park gates. Nor why they feel the need to chuck it in the pond when they do. But
that
,’ and he pointed with his cigarette, ‘is too much. Much too much, that is. And,’ he continued, ‘it’s wearing a park ranger’s uniform.’
The younger of the two men, who had lately returned from Tierra del Fuego for reasons known only to himself, was sick into a mulberry bush. Which is more difficult than it might at first appear, because it is generally understood that mulberries grow upon trees.
‘Yes, you get it up, lad,’ said his companion. ‘Better out than in, that is. Egg and bacon
and
beans. At least your mother loves you.’
From the middle to the near distance came the sounds of police-car sirens.
‘At long last,’ said the ranger who still retained his breakfast, stubbing out his cigarette.
The route that must be taken by vehicles from any of Gunnersbury Park’s gates to the shores of the pond is a complicated one, and it was quite some time before a single police car appeared at the crime scene.
Siren shriek and blue light flash and car doors opening up.
And policemen, numbering two, looking somewhat tired and harassed.
These officers of the law approached the rangers; one had on a helmet, the other a cap.
‘Kenneth Connor?’ asked the wearer of the cap.
‘
Ranger
Connor,’ said the elder of the two rangers. ‘Not to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor.’ And he put out his hand for a shake.
‘Other Kenneth Connor?’ The wearer of the cap declined the offer of the hand.
‘Star of the
Carry On
—’
‘So where’s this body, then?’ asked the officer who wore the helmet. Wore the helmet and carried a truncheon, too.
Kenneth Connor, not to be confused with the other Kenneth Connor, viewed this truncheon with suspicion. ‘It’s a
dead
body,’ he said. ‘It won’t need truncheoning down.’
‘One can never be too careful,’ said the bearer of the truncheon. ‘The dead don’t always stay dead. Sometimes they turn into vampires, or zombies, or booger men.’
‘Put it away, you oaf,’ his capped superior told him.
‘Booger men?’ said Ranger Connor.
The constable sheathed his truncheon in the manner known as huffy.
*
‘Inspector Westlake,’ this superior continued, addressing his words towards Ranger Connor. ‘Here on secondment from the Bramfield Constabulary, having travelled far. This enthusiastic officer is Constable Justice.’
‘Justice by name and—’
‘Shut up, you oaf.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your man here?’ said Westlake, indicating the younger ranger, who had now finished his business with the mulberry bush and was making sheepish faces towards all concerned.
‘Ranger Charles Hawtrey,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Not to be confused with—’
‘The Lone Ranger?’ Constable Justice sniggered.
‘Never,’ said his superior, with a voice of stern authority, ‘never
ever
snigger in my presence again.’
‘No, sir!’
‘So where
is
the body?’ Westlake asked.
‘
I
asked that,’ said Constable Justice, ‘and got no response. Should we run these villains in for concealing evidence, Guv?’
Inspector Westlake cuffed the constable lightly around the head. ‘Return to the motor,’ he told him, ‘get the other cars on the blower and aid them in reaching our present location.’
‘But Guv, the body—’
‘Car,’ said Westlake. ‘Now!’ said Westlake. ‘Do it!’ said Westlake, too.
Grumble-grumble-grumble went the chastened constable. And grumbling so he slouched off to the car, muttering the words ‘booger men’ underneath his breath.
‘Children,’ said Inspector Westlake, shaking his head in sadness. ‘They are sending us children nowadays.’
Ranger Hawtrey made a face. ‘Surely that is illegal,’ he said.
Inspector Westlake yawned and stretched. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘perhaps not the best way to begin a bright spring day, but where
is
the body?’
‘Floating there.’ Ranger Connor lit another cigarette and pointed with it. ‘Headless and horrible and messing up the pond.’
Inspector Westlake peered. ‘Indeed so,’ he said, cocking his head from side to side. ‘You’ve a body there and no mistake.’
‘Your lads will have it out before the park opens, won’t they?’
Inspector Westlake shook his head. ‘The park won’t be opening today,’ said he.
‘But it must,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Even Hitler’s Luftwaffe couldn’t close the park. The park closes on Christmas Days only.’
‘It was closed yesterday, as you know full well,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘And it will be closed today also, and that is that. The pond will have to be dragged in search of the head, and the entire park searched also, inch by inch, by trained specialists in the field.’
‘Them at the Big House won’t like this,’ said Ranger Connor.
‘Them at the Big House will have to lump it, then.’ Inspector Westlake patted at his pockets. As was ever the way with police
inspectors, he was in the process of giving up smoking. ‘You couldn’t spare a fag, I suppose,’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Ranger Connor, ‘I could not.’
The headless body bobbed in the pond. An inquisitive duck peeped in at its neck hole.
At length three further police cars appeared and a white van with the words ‘Scientific Support’ emblazoned in red upon its colourless sides. From this issued a number of men, clad in environmental suits.
‘Spacemen,’ said Ranger Hawtrey, who was standing with his back to the pond.
‘Scene of Crime Investigators. Specialists in their field,’ said the inspector. ‘Forget about Horatio Caine and all that
CSI Miami
toot. You don’t solve crimes by having ginger hair and standing about in a brown suit with your hands on your hips. Or putting on sunglasses and then taking them off again.’
‘Or speaking
very
slowly,’ said Ranger Connor, who was a secret fan of
CSI Miami
.
‘Quite so. Scotland Yard has the very crème de la crème of Scene of Crime Forensic Investigators in the known world.’
‘What are they doing?’ asked Ranger Hawtrey. ‘What is that they’re pulling out of their van?’
‘I’ll have to ask you to move along now,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘The public are not permitted to watch … at work.’
‘…?’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘What is …?’
‘It’s the name of the unit. They are so elite that even their acronym is top secret.’
‘It’s a barbecue,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘They’ve got a barbecue out of their van. They’re not Crime Scene Investigators, they’re a catering unit.’
‘Move along now, sir,’ said Inspector Westlake, ‘or I shall be forced to let my officer employ his truncheon.’
‘They’re getting out a garden umbrella and folding chairs now.’
‘Move along please, sir.’
‘And a crate of beer,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘And alcoholic beverages may not be consumed within the park’s environs without express permission from the management.’
‘You too, sir,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘Job for the professionals
now, this. Thank you for your cooperation. Please go about your business.’
‘But this
is
my business.’ Ranger Connor stood his ground.
His
uniform was every bit as impressive as that worn by Inspector Westlake. His even had medal ribbons sewn into it.
And
his shoes were more highly polished. And this was
his
territory. He’d worked in this park for twenty-seven years. He wasn’t going to be bullied by some bumpkin bobby. Bramfield was a village in Sussex – he’d once passed through it by mistake while on his way to the Bluebell Line (Ranger Connor had a thing about steam trains).
And
he’d had a very trying week, one way and another.
And
there was the matter of the landmines that had been sown on the pitch-and-putt, but he wasn’t going to go into
that
at the moment.
‘I’m not leaving,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘It would be irresponsible of me to do so. I know every inch of this park and it’s my job to see that not an inch is abused. I’m not having your mob trampling my flower beds.’
‘You tell him, Ken,’ said Ranger Hawtrey.
‘I will,’ said Ranger Connor, who hated being called Ken. ‘And furthermore—’
‘Constable,’ called Inspector Westlake to Constable Justice, who was sitting on the bonnet of their police car, smoking a cigarette. ‘Come over here and arrest this gentleman, will you?’
‘Arrest?’ said Ranger Connor. ‘Arrest
me
? On what charge?’
‘For being a ruddy nuisance. There’s a dead man in that pond and I don’t have time to bandy words with you.’
‘Who wants hitting?’ asked Constable Justice, hurrying up and unsheathing his truncheon.
‘The big one,’ said the inspector. ‘If he still refuses to move.’
‘I
do
,’ said Ranger Connor. ‘And I am obliged to warn you, before any attempts are made to hit me in any fashion, that I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest martial art in the world. That my hands and feet are deadly weapons and that I am master of Poison Hand, a cruel, disfiguring and mutilating technique, which—’
‘Threatening an officer of the law,’ said Inspector Westlake. ‘That’s as good as smiting. Strike this malfeasant down, Constable.’
Constable Justice hesitated. ‘Dimac?’ he said in a doubtful, wary tone.
‘Dimac,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘Schooled in Chicago by Count Danté himself. Deadliest man on Earth, Count Danté. I’ve seen Ranger Connor’s certificate – he has it up on the wall in the rangers’ hut.’
‘You have your own special hut, then?’ asked Constable Justice. ‘How interesting.’
‘Constable!’ roared Inspector Westlake. ‘Take these two men into custody
now
. I’m charging them with impeding the course of justice.’
‘I’m sure they’ll move along if you ask them nicely, Guv,’ said Constable Justice.
‘
Ask them nicely?
I’m a police inspector. I don’t have to ask
anyone
nicely.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a member of the Scientific Support unit, ambling up in his environmental suit (sans helmet). ‘Is there a socket somewhere that we can run an extension cable to? We need to plug in the candyfloss machine.’
‘Not now!’ bawled Inspector Westlake, growing most red in the face. ‘Constable, arrest these men at once.’
Constable Justice raised his truncheon and dithered with it raised.
‘I really wouldn’t,’ said Ranger Hawtrey. ‘It’s not worth the months of hospitalisation. And learning to walk again can be a very painful business.’
‘Right.’ Inspector Westlake snatched the truncheon from the constable’s hand, raised it swiftly over his own head …
And …
Accidentally struck the wearer of the environmental suit a really cracking blow to his helmetless head.
Which was witnessed by the environmental suit wearer’s similarly clad fellow workers, who were struggling to erect what looked for all the world to be a tombola stall.
Constable Justice sniggered once again.
Inspector Westlake hit him with the truncheon. ‘I warned you not to snigger,’ he said.
And then the inspector swung at Ranger Connor, and things took a serious turn for the worse.