“No,” said Soap. “Oh no no no.” And his head began to swim and he began to rock both to and fro. And then he toppled off his box and fell upon the floor.

There is a deep dark pit of whirling blackness that detectives who work only in the “first person” always fall into in chapter two. After a dame has done them wrong and a wise guy has bopped them over the head. Soap did not fall into one of these. Soap fell headlong into full and sober consciousness and leapt to his feet with a fearsome yell.

“Kreegah Bundolo!” cried Soap, which all lovers of Tarzan will recognize to be none other than the cry of the bull ape.

“Have a care,” cried the editor in ready response. “Beware the poison hand that mutilates your flesh.”

“Pictures!” shouted Soap. “I have the pictures!”

“Pictures?” went the editor. “Look, I was young and I needed the money.”

“Eh?” went Soap. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Do you want me to duff you up a bit? I’m feeling quite in the mood.”

“No,” said Soap, swaying on his toes. “I am a Buddhist, I abhor all forms of violence. But I do have the pictures. To prove my story.”

“Whip ’em out, then. Let’s have a look at the buggers.”

“Ah,” said Soap. “Well, I don’t have them on me.”

“Ah,” said the editor. “Isn’t it always the way?”

“They’re at Boots the Chemist, being developed. I’ll have them back by Thursday. I’ve got the receipt, here, I’ll show you if you want.”

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble. Why don’t you just come back on Thursday, with the photographs, and we’ll talk about it then. I think we might be able to come up with something moderately convincing, if we put our heads together on this one.”

“Moderately convincing?” Soap was now clearly appalled. “But it’s the truth. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

The editor settled back in his chair and sniffed at his bright red rose. “Mr Distant,” he said. “I am a professional journalist. The truth rarely plays a part in my work. I sell papers. The more papers I sell, the more money I make. If papers told nothing but the truth they wouldn’t be in business very long, would they? Most news is terribly dull. You have to put a bit of a spin on it.”

“What’s a ‘spin’?” Soap asked.

“It’s a slant, if you like. An interpretation.”

“A lie,” said Soap.

“Just because it isn’t the truth doesn’t mean it’s a lie.”

Soap Distant picked up his hat from the floor and stuck it once more on his head. “I will get to the bottom of this,” he told the editor. “Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”

“Do whatever you like, Mr Distant. But if you wish to pursue this, and you do have some pictures, and the pictures look moderately convincing—”

“Grrrr,” went Soap.

“If the pictures come out OK, then I’ll see what I can do.”

“Right,” said Soap. “Right. Well, we shall see what we shall see. But when I get my knighthood from the Queen—”

“Ah yes,” said the editor. “The Queen. This would be Queen Elizabeth, I suppose.”

“Of course it would be, yes.”

The editor set free another sigh. “You really must have been underground for a lot longer than ten years,” he said. “Queen Elizabeth was assassinated twenty years ago.”

“Twenty … twenty … ass … sas … sass …” Soap’s jaw flapped like a candle in the wind.

“Fair pulled the old shagpile rug from under us all, dontcha know,” said Mr Justice, shifting suddenly and seamlessly into his Lord of the Old Button Hole persona[1]. “But listen, me old pease pudding, can’t spare you any more time for the mo’. Got me personal Penist popping over in five little ticks of the clock to give me me Tuesday reading. So why don’t you cut along like a nice gentleman and call back Thursday with the old snip-a-snaps. And here” – the Lord fished out his wallet and extracted from this a one-pound note – “you seem a decent enough cove. Take this as a down payment on the exclusive. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

Soap took the oncer in a pale and trembling hand.

“And no naughties like going to another paper, eh? I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin, you know.”

“No,” said Soap, “no,” and he shook his head numbly and dumbly.

He gazed down at the oncer in his hand and then he screamed very very loudly.

For the face that grinned up from that one-pound note was not the face of Her Majesty. It was instead a big and beaming face. A bearded face. A toothy face.

It was the face of Richard Branson.

Down it came in great big buckets,

Emptied from the sky.

Watch the batsmen run for cover,

Cursing you and I.

Cursing rain and speedy bowlers,

Ill-timed runs and garden rollers.

Saying “This is not my day, I wish that I would die.”

Down came frogs and fancy footwear.

Down came trees and tyres.

Raindance wizards on the hillsides

Dowsed their pots and fires.

Saying “This is not too clever.

Will this rain go on for ever?”

Saying “Blame the rich land barons. Blame the country squires.”

Down came dogs and armadillos.

Down came latex goods.

Turnips ripe and avocados.

Full sized Yorkshire puds.

Packets of nice Bourbon bikkies.

Ancient Bobby Charlton pickies.

Ivy Benson tea dispensers, small Red Riding Hoods.

My mum has left the washing out.

She was well peeved.

The blue sky clouded over and the rain came pissing down.

In his present state of mind it was pretty much all Soap needed. He trudged back down the High Street, striking out at the rain with a rolled-up copy of the Brentford Mercury.

The Lord had given it to him. Free, gratis and for nothing.

As a sign of good faith. Or something.

The three-inch banner headline had done nothing to raise Soap’s spirits. It read “LECTER” ON THE LOOSE. Followed by the tasteful subhead “Knob-gobbling cannibal psycho-chef evades police dragnet”

Soap splashed his feet through puddles and as knife-blades of water rained down on his hat, confusion reigned in his head.

What was going on here? This wasn’t April Fool’s Day, was it? He unrolled the sodden paper, lifted his goggles and studied the date. April the first it was not! He scrunched up the press and consigned it to the gutter.

“That’s where you belong,” he told it. And then a little thought entered his head. There was one easy way to find out the truth of all this. Well, of some of it anyway. Soap rootled in his pocket and dragged out the one-pound note. Go into the nearest shop and try to spend it. Simple, easy, bish bash bosh.

He stopped dead in his trudging tracks and looked up at the nearest shop. The nearest shop wasn’t a shop as such, though it was a shop of sorts. It was a cop shop. It was the Brentford nick.

“All right,” said Soap. “If you want to know the time, ask a policeman. So …” And then he paused and he stared and he went, “No no no.”

Soap knew the Brentford nick of old and, like most of Brentford’s manly men, had seen the inside more than once (though never, of course, through any fault of his own). But this was not the Brentford nick he knew. This was a smart, updated nick. A nick dollied up in red and white. A nick that no longer had the words METROPOLITAN POLICE above its ever-open door. A nick that now bore a big brash logo instead.

And what was printed on that logo?

What was it that made poor Soap go, “No no no” in such a dismal way?

The words VIRGIN POLICE SERVICES.

That’s what!

Soap took a step back, tripped on the kerb, fell into the road and was promptly run down by a red and white police car.