The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse Read online

  ‘This wasn’t the same farmer whose ear you shot off?’

  ‘That was an accident. But no, that wasn’t him.’

  ‘Hey, look,’ said Eddie. ‘Up ahead. Stop the car here, Jack.’

  Jack looked up ahead and then he stopped the car. Up ahead was blocked by a heavy police presence. A cordon stretched across the road. Laughing policemen held back a crowd of on-looking toys, a crowd that cooed and my-oh-my’d and peered up at the façade of Oh Boy!.

  ‘Policemen?’ Jack asked. ‘They look very jolly.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by that,’ said Eddie. ‘They won’t bother you, if you do exactly as I tell you.’ And Eddie went on to explain to Jack exactly what he was to do.

  And Jack, having listened, smiled broadly. ‘And I will actually get away with doing that?’ he asked.

  ‘You certainly will,’ said Eddie. ‘And the more you do it, the more you’ll get away with it.’

  ‘Right then,’ said Jack. ‘And what will you be doing, while I’m doing what I’ll be doing?’

  ‘I’ll be doing my job,’ said Eddie. ‘Examining the crime scene for clues.’

  ‘Okay, then. Let’s get on with it.’

  The façade of Oh Boy! was something in itself. It was a triumph. A triumph of bad taste.

  Why it is that bad taste always triumphs over good is one of those things that scholars love to debate, when they don’t have anything better to do, such as getting a life and a girlfriend.

  Is there actually such a thing as ‘good taste’? they debate. Or ‘Is it all not merely subjective?’

  Well, of course there is such a thing as good taste! Some things actually are better than other things, and some people are capable of making the distinction.

  But …

  Bad taste will always ultimately triumph over good taste, because bad taste has more financial backing. There is far more profit to be made from selling cheap and nasty products, at a big mark-up, than selling quality items at a small mark-up. And you can always produce far more cheap and nasty items far more quickly than you can produce quality items. Far more.

  And, as every successful dictator knows, it’s far easier to convince a thousand people en masse of a bad idea, than it is to convince a single individual. It’s a herd thing.

  Or a flock thing.

  Flocks are controlled by a single shepherd.

  Like Little Boy Blue, for instance.

  Peering over the low heads of the toy folk and the higher heads of the policemen, Jack stared up at the façade of Oh Boy!. It was a regular eyesore: big and brash and in-your-face gaudy, smothered in flashing neon that brought up the outline of a leaping lamb here and a snoring shepherd there, in less-than-modest many-times-life-size which simply screamed ‘Success!’

  ‘Very tasteful,’ said Jack.

  ‘It’s as foul as,’ said Eddie. ‘You’ve no taste, Jack.’

  ‘Oh yes I have,’ said Jack. ‘My taste is for wealth. And if this is the taste of the wealthy, it’s tasteful enough for me.’

  ‘Curiously, I can’t argue with that,’ said Eddie. ‘Go on then, Jack, do your stuff.’

  ‘Okey dokey.’ Jack raised his chin, puffed out his chest, straightened the ruffles on his cuffs, dusted down his quilted lapels and then swaggered forward, shouting, ‘Make way, peasants,’ in a loud and haughty tone.

  Toy folk turned and stared. Those who had faces capable of expression glared somewhat too. But they cowered back and cleared a path before the tall and well-dressed swaggering shouter.

  ‘That’s it, out of my way.’ Jack swaggered onwards, with Eddie following behind.

  Policemen loomed, big and blue and jolly, but clearly now to Jack no laughing matter at all. There was something all too menacing about the way they curled their smiling rubber lips towards the shouting swaggerer and fingered their over-large truncheons.

  Jack swallowed back the lump which had suddenly risen in his throat. ‘Stand aside there,’ he told them. ‘I am a patron of this establishment. Step aside lively, oafs. Go on now.’

  Officer Chortle, for as chance would have it, it was he, stared at Jack eye to eye. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, in the tone known as surly. Though naturally he smiled as he asked it.

  ‘You dare to question me?’ Jack made the face of one appalled. ‘I’ll report you to your superior. What is your name?’

  ‘Name?’ went the officer, scratching his head with his truncheon.

  ‘Name,’ said Jack, in an even haughtier tone.

  ‘Chortle,’ said Chortle. ‘Special Constable. My name is on my back. That’s how special I am.’

  ‘Move your stupid rubber arse,’ said Jack.

  Eddie grinned behind Jack’s back. How dearly he would have liked to have said that to a policeman.

  The Special Constable stood aside. His jolly face contorted into a hideous scowl.

  Jack swaggered up the steps and through the great open doorway and into Oh Boy!.

  Now, if it was tasteless on the outside, what would you really expect within? Jack did whistlings from between his teeth. ‘This is really swank,’ he said to Eddie. The bear peered all around and about.

  ‘It’s certainly something,’ he said.

  The Grand Salon of Oh Boy! was a monument to just how far you could truly go if you had more money than taste. The furnishings were of gold and gilt, with settees that dripped tassels and fringes. A central fountain was composed of countless naked pink marble cherubs which sprinkled scented water from their privy parts. The similarly pink marble floor was strewn with pinkly-dyed sheepskin rugs, their stuffed heads showing emerald eyes. The walls were hung with numerous oil paintings of the Blue Boy himself, posed in the most surprising positions.

  There were many policemen around and about. Some were coming and others were going. Most, however, were just standing around, laughing, but looking rather lost. Some were touching things that they shouldn’t. A voice called out loudly to one of these: ‘Don’t touch that, you cretin.’ It was the voice of Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis. Eddie recognised this voice.

  Eddie ducked behind Jack. ‘That’s Bellis,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s the Chief Inspector. Keep him talking for as long as you can, while I give the crime scene a once-over. I’ll meet you back at the car.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack. ‘I say, you! Yes, you there with the perished head. Who are you?’

  Bellis glanced bitterly in Jack’s direction. ‘And who are you?’ he said.

  ‘And that’s quite enough of that.’ Jack made his way towards Bellis. ‘I’ve already had to upbraid one of your dullard constables for his impertinence. I’m a patron of this establishment. A personal friend of Boy Blue. What is going on here?’

  ‘Oh, my apologies, sir.’ There was a certain tone in that sir, a tone that wasn’t lost upon Jack. ‘There has been an incident.’

  ‘Incident?’ said Jack.

  ‘Homicide,’ said Bellis. ‘I regret to tell you that Boy Blue is dead.’

  ‘Dead? Dead?’ Jack put his hands to his face, which made the expression of horror. ‘Boy Blue, my dearest friend? How did this happen?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to view the body?’ There was now a different tone in the Chief Inspector’s voice. A tone of malice, perhaps.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, feigning immoderate distress, ‘I don’t know, I mean, well, is it messy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly describe it as messy.’ Bellis glanced down and Jack followed the direction of Bellis’s glancing. A silken sheet covered a huddled something. The body of Boy Blue, Jack supposed. ‘Go on, have a peep,’ said Bellis.

  ‘My dearest friend.’ Jack made snivelling sounds. ‘I mean, I don’t know. If such a terrible thing has happened, such a shock, I don’t know. I should, perhaps, pay my respects. Oh, I really don’t know.’

  ‘Have a little look,’ said Bellis, a big wide smile upon his rubber face. ‘Pay your last respects.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jack. ‘Perhaps just a little look.’

&nbs
p; ‘Officer,’ said Bellis to one of the officers who was touching things that he shouldn’t. ‘Kindly lift the sheet and show the nice gentleman the deceased.’

  ‘Yes sir, chief.’ The officer smirked, stooped and whipped away the sheet with a flourish.

  Jack stared down and his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell hugely open. And then Jack crossed his legs and he said, ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Ouch would be about right,’ agreed Bellis. ‘You might recognise the murder weapon. It’s his crook. His original crook, from the days when he was a humble shepherd. It was kept in the showcase by the door. It would appear that he was bending over, tying his shoelace. We think someone took the crook, then ran at him, using the bottom end as a spear. It entered his own bottom end, and left via his mouth. Much in the manner that one might spit a pig for a barbecue.’

  Jack nodded his head and chewed upon his lower lip. The manner of the murder was, to say the least, grotesque. The problem with it was – and Jack, for all he could do, was now finding this a real problem – the problem with it was that, in the darkest way possible, it was also very funny indeed.

  Jack looked over at Bellis.

  The moulded smile upon Bellis’s face was spreading up towards his ears.

  ‘Right up the old farting box,’ said Bellis, restraining a titter.

  ‘How dare you!’ said Jack. ‘This is no laughing matter. My dear friend. My …’ Jack chewed harder upon his lip and told himself that this wasn’t funny. It wasn’t. This was a dead man here. It wasn’t funny!

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bellis. He let free a giggle, then controlled himself once more. ‘Cover him up again, officer.’

  The officer, still smirking, stooped once more and recovered the corpse.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Bellis, with as much solemnity as he could muster up.

  ‘Terrible business,’ Jack agreed.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Eddie, when Jack returned to the car to find him waiting there. ‘Most unprofessional.’

  ‘But I was rude,’ said Jack, settling himself back behind the driving wheel. ‘You said that I should be as rude and obnoxious as possible. Act like a rich man, you said. Behave badly.’

  ‘I mean about the laughing,’ said Eddie. ‘ “Terrible business” you said to Bellis and then the two of you collapsed in laughter.’

  ‘It was nerves,’ said Jack.

  ‘It wasn’t. You thought it was funny.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘But it was.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought it so funny if it had happened to you.’

  ‘Well, obviously not. Other people’s misfortunes are far funnier than your own.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Eddie, shaking his head as he said it. ‘Well, perhaps it is, a little. But that’s not the point. It’s another murder and that isn’t funny.’

  ‘Well, it’s really nothing to do with us. We’re supposed to be investigating the murder of Humpty Dumpty. That’s what Bill got the money for.’

  ‘You don’t think that perhaps these two murders might be in some way connected?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘How should I know? This is the big city. How many murders do you get here in a week?’

  ‘On average?’ said Eddie. ‘None.’

  ‘None?’ said Jack.

  ‘None,’ said Eddie. ‘Humpty’s murder was the first ever murder of a meathead. Which is why, in my opinion, the newspapers are covering it up, spreading the suicide rumour to avoid panicking the population. Certainly toys are forever getting into fights and pulling each other to pieces. But that doesn’t count as murder and doesn’t merit a police investigation. This is men who are being killed, Jack. The old rich. This is serious stuff.’

  ‘So you’re thinking … What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ said Eddie, ‘that it’s the same murderer. I’m thinking that Toy City has a serial killer on the loose.’

  10

  ‘What is a serial killer?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It’s a term that I’ve just made up,’ said Eddie. ‘It means a killer who murders more than one person. Serially. One after the other.’

  Jack whistled and diddled with things on the dashboard. ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said he. ‘But what about evidence? Did you find any clues?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Eddie, making a very pleased face. ‘Firstly, the killer did not run at Boy Blue, using his crook like a spear. The crook was fired from some contrivance across the street. One of the panes of glass in the front door was shattered. The crook was removed from the showcase and fired at Boy Blue when he was bending over.’

  ‘Tying his shoelace,’ said Jack.

  ‘Did you see any laces on his shoes?’

  ‘I didn’t look.’

  ‘I did,’ said Eddie. ‘I peeped. He was wearing slip-ons. Boy Blue bent down to examine this.’

  Eddie displayed a bundle on his lap. ‘And before you ask me what it is, I’ll show you. I was able to liberate it before some big clod of a policeman stood upon it. Have a look at this, Jack.’

  Eddie unwrapped the bundle and Jack stared down.

  ‘Bunny,’ said Jack. ‘It’s another hollow chocolate bunny.’

  ‘Just don’t eat this one,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s evidence.’

  ‘Of your serial killer?’

  ‘It could hardly be a coincidence, could it?’

  Jack made free with another whistle. ‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked. ‘Back to Bill’s office?’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Eddie shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ll go back there for a while. As this is the only clue we’ve got, I think we’ll follow it up. Do you fancy a visit to the chocolate factory?’

  ‘Do they give away free samples?’ Jack asked. ‘Because I’m really quite hungry again.’

  ‘Rewind the car and drive,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll show you which way to go.’

  Jack was beginning to gain some sense of direction. The major streets of the great metropolis were slowly beginning to familiarise themselves. It wasn’t all such a mystery any more. Well, a lot of it was. But some wasn’t.

  ‘I recognise this bit,’ said Jack. ‘There’s Tinto’s bar, and right along there is Bill’s office.’

  ‘Straight on,’ said Eddie, ‘up Knob Hill.’

  The hill road wound upwards, as hill roads will do, unless you’re coming down them, of course.

  Jack drove past Nursery Towers. ‘What’s that dark-looking house at the very top of the hill?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s where Mr Anders lives.’

  ‘The kindly loveable white-haired old toymaker. I’d like to visit him; do you think we could stop off and say hello?’

  ‘Not without an appointment,’ said Eddie. ‘And you’re on your own when you do it.’

  At Eddie’s instruction, Jack turned off the hill road and was very soon outside the gates of the chocolate factory.

  If Oh Boy! had been tasteless, the chocolate factory was style personified. It was an elegant building, composed of yellow brick, all sweeping curves and fluted arabesques. It rose like an anthem, in praise of life’s finer things.

  ‘Ugly-looking dump,’ said Jack.

  Eddie shook his head.

  ‘Do you want me to be rude and obnoxious again?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to put you to the effort.’

  ‘It’s no effort, I assure you.’

  ‘Just follow me,’ said Eddie.

  Now it is a fact, well known to those who know it well, that detective work is rarely straightforward, because finding things out is rarely straightforward. Getting information from folk, when folk do not wish to part with information, can be difficult. Is difficult. And on the rare occasions when folk are eager to part with information, it often turns out that this information is inaccurate. Which can lead to all kinds of confusion.

  But if, at the end of the day, and such like, the information you have managed to acquire, in the course of your detective work, leads to an arrest, then you’ve got
a result. And if the suspect is convicted, then you’ve got an even bigger result.

  And if the suspect is a murder suspect and gets sent off to the electric chair, then you’ve got an even bigger bigger result.

  And if it turns out later that the murder suspect was in fact innocent, and was sent off to the electric chair because the information you acquired was inaccurate, well, tomorrow’s another day, isn’t it? You can try and get it right the next time.

  The chocolate factory had big gates at the front. There was a gate-keeper in a tiny box beside these gates, keeping them, as it were.

  Jack sniffed the air. It smelled sweet. It smelled of chocolate. Eddie addressed the gatekeeper. ‘This is, er, Lord Dork,’ said Eddie, indicating Jack. ‘He is a connoisseur of chocolate and I’ve brought him here on a special visit.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ said the gatekeeper. ‘Because I’m a special gatekeeper. I’m the head gatekeeper. Because, although, as you can see, I’m only a head, I’m also the gatekeeper. Which makes me the head gatekeeper. Which makes me very special, don’t you agree?’

  Eddie nodded and peeped in at the special head gatekeeper. He was indeed nothing but a head. A little round wooden head. ‘So, can we come in?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘No,’ said the gatekeeper. ‘We’re closed to all visitors.’

  ‘But this is Lord Dork. The Lord Dork.’

  ‘One Lord Dork is much the same to me as another,’ said the gatekeeper.

  ‘So you’re not inclined to grant us entry?’

  ‘Even if I were, I couldn’t. Look at me, I may be a special head, but I’m only a head. How could I possibly open the gate?’

  ‘Who generally opens the gates, then?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Search me,’ said the gatekeeper. ‘I’ve been here for years, in rain and snow and fog and fug; I’ve yet to see those gates open up at all.’

  ‘But don’t the workers go in and out?’

  ‘There aren’t any workers,’ said the gatekeeper.