I sighed, rather more loudly than I might have wished.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I muttered to myself.

‘Well,’ said my brother, whose hearing was clearly more acute than I might have expected, ‘that’s where it gets rather iffy. You see, I can tell you with complete confidence that they were not women.’

‘And?’ I said, without too much interest.

‘They weren’t men either,’ said Andy. ‘In fact, I have no idea what precisely they were. Aliens, perhaps.’

I looked at Andy and I shook my head. Sadly was how I shook it.

‘No,’ said Andy, gazing at me. ‘No, I’m not mad. I mean it!’

Aliens indeed!

My brother’s madness wasn’t going to help this situation. Not that it ever helped any situation, particularly. In fact, the more I thought about it, perhaps, ultimately, all this mess was not my fault after all. It was my brother’s. If he hadn’t bitten the postman’s ankle, then the postman would not have run away and I would not have been able to take possession of all that musical paraphernalia.

So perhaps I should just blame Andy and have done with it.

But nice as these thoughts were – and they were nice, because I was going through a bit of a mental crisis, particularly as he had got the trench coat – none of this was going to help in retrieving all the aforesaid musical paraphernalia.

‘Still,’ said my brother, ‘aliens or not, they have left a pretty clear trail. Following them to their hideaway shouldn’t present many difficulties.’

And I said, ‘What?’ As well I might.

‘The lorry they used to transport the stolen goods,’ said my brother. ‘It left a trail.’

‘It left tyre marks, perhaps,’ I said. ‘But the snow has covered them, surely.’

‘Don’t call me Shirley [10],’ said my brother.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But the tyre tracks are covered by snow.’

‘I’m not talking about tyre tracks,’ my brother said. ‘I’m talking about oil. There’s oil all over the place – it must have leaked from the lorry. We can follow the trail of the oil.’

And, ‘Ah,’ I said. Because it was clear to me, at least, that the oil in question had probably not leaked from the lorry, but rather from our leaky old Bedford van. But then, if, by some unlikely means, my brother could actually follow the route taken by the Bedford, it would Shirley [11] lead to the same place as the lorry.

‘So how do you propose to follow the trail?’ I asked of my brother. ‘Employ the services of a bloodhound, would it be?’

‘Don’t be silly, Tyler.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But please tell me.’

‘I will take up the scent myself.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘What did you say?’

‘All is clear,’ I suggested.

‘You’ll have to assist me, of course.’

‘But of course.’

I hadn’t noticed that my holdall was in The Divine Trinity, but I noticed it now as my brother reached down, unzipped it, rooted about in it and then brought to light something rather furry-looking.

‘And what is that?’ I asked of Andy.

‘It is my dog suit, of course.’

‘But of course.’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’ Andy asked. ‘Because if you are-’ And he left the sentence unfinished, as the suggestion had sufficient power in itself not to require an explicit description of the potential horrors.

‘No, no, no,’ went I, shaking my head with vigour.

‘I will have to ask you a favour, though.’ And Andy slipped out of the trench coat and doffed away his fedora. ‘Take these, if you will be so kind, and put them on.’

‘Right,’ I said, without the merest hint of a question.

‘I’ll need to tog-up in the dog suit to really do the job properly. That’s where I messed up with my tiger-at-oneness – no suit. I couldn’t get the real feel for being a tiger. So I ran this suit up myself.’

And Andy was now climbing into this suit, which had arms and legs and paws, a tail and a zip up the front. And then he put on the dog’s-head mask, which looked, I must say, very real.

‘That looks most convincing,’ I said to Andy.

‘Well, it should. It is made from real dog.’

‘Right,’ I said, and I tried very hard indeed not to be sick on the floor. But I did have the trench coat and the fedora. And so, without further words being said, I togged-up and felt a very definite detective-at-oneness sweeping over me.

‘Help me on with the collar,’ said Andy, and I did.

‘And take the lead.’ And he nodded at the lead, because he couldn’t lift it up between his paws. ‘And keep a very tight hold on that lead. There’s no telling what might happen if I got loose.’

‘Right,’ I said, hopefully for the last time that day. But probably, I suspected, not.

And then we were off!

Andy dropped to all fours and sprang through the open doorway. He sniffed about at all the oil. And there was a lot visible as the snow, it appeared, didn’t stay upon such oil. And then he was away, with me clinging on to the lead. Away at the hurry-up on four paws went our Andy.

And he was good, for a sniffer-dog.

We reached the allotment gates and Andy leaped into the road. And off we went at considerable speed with Andy now barking enthusiastically.

‘Barking,’ I said to myself. How apt.

At short length we arrived at the derelict building that had posed as The Green Carnation Club.

Andy straightened up and growled at me.

‘What?’ I asked him.

‘You could have told me I was following your van,’ he said.

‘My van?’

‘I picked up your scent at The Divine Trinity. You might have mentioned that this was your band.’

I did chewings on my bottom lip. ‘You really picked up my scent?’ I asked him.

‘Well, I am a dog, aren’t I?’

‘Oh yes, you certainly are.’

‘So let’s get on with this tracking.’ And he growled loudly once more, took to some further barking and set off again at a goodly pace.

We headed towards West Ealing. Then through West Ealing and out to Hanwell. And then, in Hanwell High Street, Andy stopped and scratched at the ground and howled very loudly indeed.

‘Are we there?’ I asked. And then noting where we were, I groaned. We were right outside Jim Marshall’s shop. The shop from which all the equipment had originally come.

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

‘Oh what?’ said Andy, straightening up.

‘We’re outside Jim Marshall’s. He must have paid those lady-men to retrieve his equipment.’

‘No,’ said Andy. ‘That’s not it at all.’

‘It’s not?’

‘It’s not. I just stopped because I need to take a poo.’

‘Oh no, Andy!’ I said, and I threw up my hands in alarm.

‘In the gents’ toilet over there,’ said Andy, pointing with his paw. ‘You really can be so silly at times.’

I apologised to Andy and he went off to have a poo.

I stood and waited, doing little marchings on the spot to keep the circulation going in my toes whilst admiring my reflection in Jim Marshall’s window. I was clearly born to this profession (as an adjunct to being a world famous rock ’n’ roll star with a sports car and a speedboat, of course).

I looked really good.

At little length Andy returned and I swear he was wagging his tail.

‘That’s a very posh bog,’ he said. ‘They even have a resident bog troll.’

‘You mean a toilet attendant,’ I corrected him.

‘Same thing. He had the nerve to suggest that dogs should do their business in the street-’

And I could feel another ‘oh dear’ coming on.

‘He won’t be doing that again,’ said Andy. ‘And now I think we’d best press on.’

And he was down on all fours once more.

And off and away at a run.

‘Andy,’ I cried as I stumbled after him, hanging on for the dearness of life to the lead. ‘Andy, why are you doing this?’