Brentford could. And Brentford did.

If you were looking for an action man in Brentford, for a man who combined the courage and adventurousness of Indiana Jones, the true grit of John “The Duke” Wayne, the chandelier-swinging skills of Dougie Fairbanks Jnr, the “I-ain’t-got-time-to-bleed” toughness of Jesse “The Body” Ventura and the big-cock action of Long Johnnie Holmes, that man would be—

Soap Distant.

At least in his opinion it would.

Although those who knew Soap well might have questioned certain aspects of this character assessment, they would have agreed that any man who had journeyed to the centre of the Earth was deserving of certain respect. And if he chose to spice up his CV somewhat, he should be forgiven.

And when he told people about things he had actually done and things he had actually seen and how he himself knew that things that shouldn’t have changed had changed, he should be believed.

But he wasn’t. The Lord of the Old Button Hole had pegged him as a loony and his conversation at the Brentford nick with Inspectre Hovis had only complicated matters further and made him more confused than ever he had been.

So what was Soap to do?

He certainly didn’t want to sit about in bars and chit-chat. He wanted action and he wanted it at once.

What did he want?

Action!

When did he want it?

Now!

And so it came to pass, upon that evening previous, that Soap Distant had taken his leave of Inspectre Hovis in a suitably action-packed fashion.

“I’m leaving now,” said Soap.

“You’re not,” said the Inspectre.

“I am,” said Soap. “There is much I need to know and, interesting as this conversation has been, I feel it is now time for action.”

Inspectre Hovis leaned across his photo-crowded desk. “I’m arresting you, sunshine,” he said.

“Arresting me!” said Soap.

“For harbouring a wanted criminal and aiding and abetting him in the course of his escape from justice. Such crimes incur considerable fines and if you do not have the wherewithal to pay, you may well find yourself in one of the Virgin workcamps, manufacturing the rattly bits that are put in Ford Escort doors.”

“What?” cried Soap. “What?”

“David Carson, the cannibal chef.”

“Small Dave?” said Soap. “But how—”

“The thing about police surveillance cameras,” said Inspectre Hovis, gesturing variously round and about, “is that they are simply everywhere. Everywhere. A few years ago people were outraged by them. They complained that they violated human rights. That it was Big Brother. But people don’t complain any more, do they? Not since the police force put a little spin on them with the aid of television crime shows. Now people watch their TVs and see the crims caught on camera and have a chance to phone in and grass them up. People just love surveillance cameras now. They make the man in the street feel that someone is watching over them. And that’s always a comfort, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it is,” said Soap. “But I’m innocent of all charges and I’m off. Goodbye.”

“Not so fast,” said Hovis. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

The Inspectre rootled around amidst the photos on his desk and unearthed a video cassette. This he slotted beneath a small portable television type of a jobbie, the screen of which he turned in Soap’s direction. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said.

Soap watched as the screen lit up, and stared at the image displayed. It was a view of the Flying Swan’s front doorway, evidently filmed from one of the flat blocks opposite.

Soap watched as the onscreen pub door opened and he and Omally came out and walked away.

“That is a violation of human rights,” Soap complained.

“Those who are innocent have nothing to fear from the law,” said Inspectre Hovis.

Soap looked at Hovis.

And Hovis looked at Soap.

“Sorry,” said Hovis. “It just slipped out.”

“And I should think so too.”

“However,” said the Detective in Residence, “this particular doodad has more than one trick up its sleeve. The footage you have just seen was taken this very lunchtime, when the forces of the law were surrounding the Flying Swan in the hope of arresting the cannibal chef. But he somehow sneaked past us. Now how might that have been?”

“How should I know that?” asked Soap, making the face of all innocence.

“Let’s see what the doodad has to show us.” Hovis tinkered at the television jobbie. Soap’s image reversed and froze and expanded to fill up the screen. And then it went all multi-coloured.

“Oh,” said Soap. “Whatever is that?”

“Thermal imaging,” said the Inspectre. “Clever, isn’t it? We use it to track criminals from helicopters. That makes good television, too. The crims try to hide in dustbins, but their heat signatures give them away. Lots of laughs all round.”

“I’m not trying to hide in a dustbin,” said Soap.

“No, and at least you’ll know better than to do so in future. But tell me,” Inspectre Hovis pointed to the colourful Soap on the screen. “What would you take that to be?”

“What?” Soap asked.

“This area here. Up the back of your coat. Surely that is the heat signature of a tiny man, all crouched up, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Soap. I’m nicked, he thought.

“You’re nicked,” said Hovis. “I have you bang to rights.”

“Now look,” said Soap. “I can see that this doesn’t look too good for me at the present and I can see that on the evidence it would seem that you have a case. But, as dearly as I love justice, and I do love it dearly, don’t get me wrong, I’m afraid I can’t stay around here any longer. I have important things to be doing and I—”

“Have to stop you there,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Have to give you the necessary caution. Must keep things all legal and above board.”

“Would you take a bribe?” Soap asked.

“Certainly not,” said Hovis.

“Well, could you pass my case on to an officer who would take a bribe?”

“Nice try,” said Hovis. “Novel suggestion. But I think I’ll just bang you up in the cells until the accounts department can work out just how much you owe us in fines. Now, do you want to go quietly, or will I be forced to summon in a couple of constables to rough you up a little?”

“I am a Buddhist,” said Soap, “and I abhor violence. So—”

And here at last Soap got his chance for some action.

He gathered up his hat and goggles, thrust them on and with no thought for anything but the said action, rushed the Inspectre’s office and flung himself through the plate-glass window.

If this courageous deed had been captured on camera it would have been well worth a play on Crime Watch. Viewers would no doubt have taped it for their private collections and played it in slow motion, and freeze-framed on the good bits and even run it in reverse, which is always good for a laugh, if you’re suitably sad and lonely.

But it wasn’t, so they couldn’t, so to speak.

For there were no surveillance cameras trained on the Inspectre’s window. Not that there weren’t any trained on the building. There were, loads of the buggers. But these were all aimed at the ground floor.

And Inspectre Hovis’s office was not on the ground floor.

Inspectre Hovis’s office was on the twenty-third floor.

A bit too high up to merit surveillance.

Now it came as some surprise to Soap that, having smashed through the plate-glass window, he did not land immediately upon the ground. He had assumed, incorrectly as it proved, that he was on the ground floor and the spectacular rooftop view of Brentford[11] that met his eyes for a mere split second was pleasing to behold. But the pleasure was fleeting and tempered by a feeling of alarm and, as he began the rapid rush downwards, alarm in turn became terror.