Rahkshan was captivated when she explained how it worked. You simply placed the mat on the floor, with the appropriate line pointing in the direction of the sun; then, as you knelt on the mat, you were automatically facing towards Mecca.
It was only accurate, of course, when within a few hundred miles of Oldfield. The design would have to be modified for use in other parts of the world. Mr. Rahkshan proudly showed the mat to his friends. As well as having direction-finding capabilities it was also a thing of beauty, for Ms Throstle had invested her best efforts, plus a few prayers of her own, in it. One week later he gave her a firm order for twenty similar mats, at an extremely agreeable price, with promises of more to follow.
A month later later they became partners alas, only for business purposes went mail-order and put the other looms into use. They were inundated.
'The secret of a good reputation,' Mr. Rahkshan would say, 'is to produce a good-quality article and deliver it on time. Then you can charge what you want,' and he would give his tinkling laugh that entranced Ms Throstle. The trouble was, they had received so many orders they might have difficulty in achieving the second premise.
Simply packing all the rugs for posting was a gargantuan undertaking.
Fortunately a little factory that made cardboard cartons came to the rescue. They were in Welton, joined on to the back of ABC House, domicile of Aubrey Cakebread.
Business for them was desperate; they were rapidly coming unstuck at the flaps. When Mr. Rahkshan asked them to make boxes for the mats, they gladly offered to pack, address and post them, at a small extra cost. It was a satisfactory arrangement all round. The grateful staff worked all weekend to process the latest order. They finished it late Sunday afternoon, and had just left the factory and were walking down the cobbled lane alongside ABC House, on their way home, when I burst into their midst.
There were about six of them. They were gathered around me, trying to comprehend my gibberings, when Cakebread appeared at the side door. He was brandishing the shotgun, no doubt with two fresh charges up the spouts, and looked intent on murder. The alley should have been deserted at that time of day. When Cakebread saw the crowd he panicked and fled back inside. I don't know if Penny Throstle's mats ever do any good for the people who pray on them, but there is no doubt that they saved my life.
Cakebread had killed Truscott with the second barrel. He jumped into the Rolls and fled through the front entrance. The poor gate man was dozing in his hut when the car smashed through the barrier. He hadn't even known that his boss was in the place. It was a long time, though, before I learned all this.
I was in intensive care for three days, in hospital for three weeks and off work for three months. Who decided that a week should have seven days? All round the world, too. Bet you'd never get today's politicians to agree to it. Hospitalisation gives you the opportunity to ponder on questions like that.
I once went to the funeral of one of my more agreeable clients and I was the only mourner there. It occurred to me then that a measure of a man's life is the number of people who attend his funeral. Okay, so nobody turned up at Mozart's, but there's always an exception. Another good indicator, I have since discovered, is how many visitors he gets when he's in hospital. Numerically I didn't do too badly, but they were all policemen or policemen's wives. I had no illusions Gilbert organised a rota. There were still days when I felt that the hands of the clock were painted on, and I longed for a familiar face to come round the corner. There was nobody special, though.
Except just once. I'd had a bit of a relapse after they brought me to Heckley General and was lying with a tube up my nose and a drip in my arm. The nurse was smiling as she held the screen wide open and told me I had a visitor. Julie hobbled in on her new crutches.
'Hello,' she said, softly.
I tried to smile at her, but my throat felt as if I'd swallowed a chainsaw.
'My mum told me what happened to you. I hope you get well soon. I've brought you something to read.' She wobbled alarmingly on the crutches as she retrieved a magazine from the pocket of her dressing gown, and held up the latest copy of Just Seventeen.
I managed to say 'Thanks' as she placed it on my cabinet.
After an awkward silence she said: 'Martin came to see me. And Claire and some girls from school. I think Claire fancies him. She says she's going to tell him some names of… you know… the drugs thing.'
I shook my head. 'It doesn't… matter,' I croaked.
'Are you in pain?' she asked with concern.
I gathered up my reserves of strength and courage and mumbled: 'Only … when… I laugh.'
She smiled at me. Her face really was bonny. As if an afterthought she dipped into her pocket again and produced the teddy bear. 'He's yours now,' she told me, as I reached out for him.
I held him up so I could see him without moving my head. One eye was missing and an arm was hanging on by a thread. 'What's he… called?'
I asked.
Julie manoeuvred on her crutches and pointed herself towards the way out. 'Douglas,' she said, over her shoulder, 'Douglas Bear-da.'
I watched her swing hesitantly away. You'll be all right, I thought.
Then I drifted off into the best untroubled sleep I'd had for months, with Douglas watching over me from the bedside locker.
They'd removed a few feet of my intestine and a piece of liver, but it wasn't a problem. The doctor told me that I still had twenty-odd feet of gut left, and the liver is the only major organ we have that can regenerate itself. I was in nearly-new condition and my warranty was still valid.
'Just go easy on the alcohol,' he told me, on the morning I was discharged, 'and lay off the fried food.'
'No problem, Doc. What about my sex life? Will that have been affected?'
'No, of course not,' he replied in his most reassuring manner.
'Pity,' I said. 'I was hoping it would have been.'
Chapter Twenty-Two
The waiter asked if we preferred our coffee and liqueurs where we were, or would we rather make ourselves comfortable in the lounge.
'In the lounge?' suggested Gilbert.
Annabelle and Molly nodded their acquiescence, so we all moved through and resettled ourselves in the easy chairs round a low table.
'You know,' said Molly to Annabelle, 'this is the first time Gilbert has ever told me about a case. Usually I have to be content with what I can glean from the papers.' She turned to her husband: 'Go on then, finish it off: what happened to this Cakebread man?'
The waiter appeared with the coffees. He placed them on the table and told me that my tea would be along in a moment, in the tone of voice he normally reserved for customers who'd asked for the ketchup.
When he'd gone Gilbert said: 'Well, the local police put out an APW that's an all-ports warning for Cakebread, but, frankly, they were a bit slow. He made it all the way to Blackpool airport, where his plane was. He'd flown it the day before and left instructions for it to be refuelled and serviced for use the following weekend. It hadn't been done though. He made an un authorised take-off and headed south. The tower alerted us and the R.A.F and various tracking stations, and he was shadowed all the way. When it was obvious that he was making for foreign parts the R.A.F asked the Americans for assistance. Apparently our planes are too fast and the helicopters haven't the range. The Yanks had an 10 stooging around somewhere…'
'What, an old BSA motorbike?' I interrupted. 'My father had one of those when I was a kid.'
'No, dumbo, it's an aeroplane. Weird thing with two big jet engines on the back. Apparently they can fly quite slowly if necessary. So this A10 tagged on to Cakebread's tail and followed him. Somewhere off the Channel Isles he ran out of fuel and ditched in the sea. It was dark by then. A fishing boat recovered his body next morning.'
We sat in silence for a few moments. Death, even the death of an enemy, always deserves a few private thoughts. I poured a cup of tea and sweetened it with half a sachet of sugar.
'Why did he shoot… Truscott, was it?' asked Molly.
Gilbert didn't volunteer a reply, so I did. 'We can't be sure,' I said. 'To begin with, Truscott was bearing down
