And, as the Gandhis pumped out “The Dalai Lama’s Barn Dance”, and Litany’s vocals and Ricky’s Strat meshed and intertwined and Pigarse’s backbeat drove fists of sound through stomach walls and Dead Boy Doveston’s Rickenbacker bass (the 1964 4001S model) underlaid a funk groove previously only achieved by the now legendary Bootsy Collins, whilst Matchbox Finial produced the power chords, Soap and John made mad eejits of themselves and worked up a sweat you could drown in.

And, as the last power chord crashed out and the final drum roll did its thing and the impossibly fast twiddly-diddly show-off Stratocaster tail-piece flourish blurred away to an end, the audience erupted into orgasmic applause, which shook the ground and registered 3.6 on the Richter Scale.

Which was a pretty good opening for any show.

“Brilliant.” John raised peace-fingers, whistled and cheered.

“That was something,” gasped Soap.

And all around them was hubbub and hollering, pushings of bodies and crush.

“John,” Soap shouted with what breath he could find. “I have to speak to you. It’s very important.”

“Later.” John whistled some more.

“John, it’s very important.”

“Later. Later. Leave it, Soap.”

Soap Distant bawled into John’s ear. “John, I know who killed Jim.”

John Omally froze amidst the roaring, cheering crowd. “What did you say?” he mouthed at Soap.

“I know who killed Jim. I have to talk to you.”

John mouthed a “Come on,” and pushed Soap through the crush.

“Come on!” Wingarde shouted at his chauffeur as the long red, white and logoed limo slid between the building sites of Brentford. “Get a move on, I’m missing the show.”

The chauffeur made a huffy face in the driving mirror. “Well,” said he, in the manner known as camp, “if you hadn’t spent half the day digging on your allotment.”

Wingarde cradled the bundle on his lap. An oilskin cloth swathed the AK47. From between his gritted teeth he mumbled, “It wasn’t my bloody fault that I couldn’t remember where I’d buried it.”

“Excuse me?” said the chauffeur.

“Nothing,” grumbled Wingarde.

“You should have marked the place with a stick or something,” said The Voice in Wingarde’s head.

“A stick?” said Wingarde. “A stick!” he said again.

“A stick?” said the chauffeur.

“Shut up!” said Wingarde.

“Don’t tell God to shut up,” said The Voice.

“Not you, sir,” said Wingarde.

“That’s more like it,” said the chauffeur.

Wingarde whispered into his hand. “You could have told me where it was buried. You are God, after all.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” said the chauffeur, whose hearing was very acute, “and I’ve always rather fancied you. Shall we give the concert a miss, do you think, and just go back to my house?”

Back in Gunnersbury House, with the Gandhis’ music rattling the windowpanes and playing merry hell with the foundations, John Omally sat at his grimy kitchen table and listened in silence while Soap told him his tale.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, when the lad had done. “Oh my God, my God.”

Soap stared at the Irishman. He looked on the verge of collapse. The colour had faded away from his face and his hands shook terribly.

“I’m so sorry, John,” said Soap. “Sorry about Jim and sorry I had to spring all this on you.”

“It’s all right, Soap.” John took breaths to steady himself, but these met with little success. “It’s all right. It all makes sense to me now. Why Geraldo wanted my autograph when he met me. Why Jim was so secretive. All of it. It all falls into place.”

“So you can see why it’s so important that we find Geraldo today.”

John nodded slowly, his voice was scarcely a whisper. “You find him, Soap, and let me deal with Wingarde.”

“Now hold on, John. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stupid?” John’s eyes flashed and his trembling hands became fists. “He killed Jim and that’s all I need to know.”

“Yes, I know that’s how it looks. But we can’t actually prove anything.”

“He’ll confess to me,” said Omally. “And then I will carry out his execution.”

“No, John, that isn’t the way.”

Omally climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached out a hand to Soap, who took it. “Soap,” said he. “This is where you and I part company again. You’re a good man, Soap. Jim was a good man and you’re a good man too.”

“You sound a bit like Brian Epstein,” said Soap. “But please don’t do this, John.”

“It has to be done. Call it revenge, call it whatever you will. But I have to do it, all the same.”

Soap looked up at Omally and they solemnly shook hands. “There’s nothing I can say that will talk you out of this, is there?” said Soap.

“Nothing, my friend.”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Certainly not,” said John. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Soap. “And good luck.”

There had been quite a lot of talk of late in the press regarding the return of the death penalty. Well, in those papers owned by the Virgin Newsgroup at any rate. They’d been running a competition, inviting readers to write in with their suggestions for a new and novel form of public execution that could be broadcast on the Virgin Community TV Network.

Inspectre Hovis had not written in. Not that he wasn’t for bringing back hanging. He was. But the line, in his opinion, had to be drawn somewhere.

Unlike his constables, Inspectre Hovis was not in plain clothes. Nothing about him was plain. He was a character, and as a character he was dressed in style. Today it was a four-piece blue suede suit and a rather dashing pair of riding boots. However, at the present moment, all this sartorial excess was hidden from view. Because Inspectre Hovis was invisible.

He was sitting in one of the latest line in Virgin Community Police helicopters. One with the new stealth mode. This was hovering soundlessly, employing its exterior aural camouflage modification. Based, no doubt, on the principle of Ricky’s silence tape. But who can say for certain?

The Inspectre’s invisible person hung a mere twenty feet above the cheering crowd of Gunnersbury Park.

“Take us up,” Hovis told the pilot. “And make us reappear. The last time I had an experience like this was back in sixty-seven, when Lord Crawford and I did some really bad acid. Mind you, it wasn’t fanboys we saw down there that time. It was vampire sheep.”

The pilot took the helicopter up to five hundred feet and reengaged reality.

“That’s better,” said Hovis, examining his person. “And now tell me about all this electronic hocus-pocus you have on the dashboard.”

“Actually,” said the pilot, who was a stickler for correct terminology, “it’s not called a dashboard. It’s an instrument panel.”

The helicopter dipped alarmingly as Hovis stamped hard on the pilot’s foot.

“Right, sir,” said the pilot, as soon as he had regained control. “Beneath this aircraft is the new High-Spy 3000 Series surveillance camera. One thousand times magnification. Infra-red and ultra-violet tracking systems. Fully integrated missile guidance lock-on facilities.”

“Demonstrate,” said Hovis.

“Certainly, sir. Would you like me to blow up that band on the stage?”

“Very much,” said Hovis. “But I meant the camera. Tell me how the camera works.”

“Well, there’s not much to it, really. Light enters the lens and passes into a system of refracting mirrors that—”

The helicopter took another alarming dip.

“I meant, show me how I work the camera.”

“Just jiggle the little joystick,” said the pilot.

Hovis jiggled the joystick and the camera scanned the crowd.

Soap sat in one of the Virgin control boxes, peering at video screens. These too were scanning the crowd, on the look-out for anyone who was having too much of a good time.