‘I told my daughter to telephone the police but, as usual, she chose to ignore my advice and had therefore only herself to blame when she and the other residents of Flamborough Close woke up one morning to find that a horde of squatters had moved in during the night and were in full possession of “Osborne”. It was then of little avail to complain about the adverse effect such an invasion would have on neighbouring property values or to whine on about the incredible disturbances and annoyances to which we were soon subjected.’ Old Major Gutty’s watery eyes took on a malicious glint as he turned to the agreeable task of listing the disadvantages of having squatters for neighbours. ‘Pop music and jazz blaring out all day long, and the nights made horrible by raucous singing and the twanging of guitars. The garden turned into a rubbish tip and old wrecks of cars littering the roadway outside. Inflammatory posters hung up in the windows.
‘Certain foolhardy members of our little community here attempted to remonstrate with these invading anarchists. Their complaints were met with obscene gestures and verbal personal abuse. I shall not dwell on the manifold nuisances to which this gang of supposedly homeless people subjected us. Suffice it to say that one young lout spent most of his time firing missiles from a catapult at such of our domestic pets as ventured to approach within range of his elastic. The young woman’s behaviour was even more reprehensible. She appeared to be prancing round inside the house in a totally naked condition though, to be perfectly fair, the posters in the windows did to some extent block the view and made it difficult to ascertain the exact degree of her undress.’ A thin dribble of saliva slid down the side of Major Gutty’s chin and he seemed to be breathing more heavily. Still, he was a gentleman of the old school and soon regained sufficient control over his emotions to carry on with his story.
‘One can but imagine the nameless orgies of sex and drugs that took place in “Osborne”. Sometimes the house throbbed with noise. Sometimes it was ominously quiet.
‘Efforts were made, of course, to contact the Bakers, but it appears that they are abroad somewhere and cannot be reached. The house agents, to whom they had entrusted their property, appeared to be quite helpless – not to say spineless – in the face of this rampant vandalism. They did send one callow pup – an office boy, no doubt – to appraise the situation but he was drenched with a bucket of what one hopes was water before he had even managed to ring the front door bell. He beat an ignominious retreat and was not followed by any successor.
‘This disgraceful and scandalous affair lasted until Thursday of this week. Our children were terrorised, our men folk reviled and our womenfolk insulted. Petty crime in the neighbourhood increased a hundredfold and we all suffered as our bottles of milk and daily newspapers were regularly purloined. Representations were made to the police – without avail.’
‘Ah!’ Inspector Horton’s deep voice fell as a pleasant change on the ears of Major Gutty’s bemused listeners. He leant across and tapped the old chap on the knee. ‘I did explain that!’ he shouted, mouthing the words elaborately. ‘You’d no proof you see, that the squatters were responsible for the thefts. And, without proof, the police simply can’t take any . . .’ He broke off as he realised that the major wasn’t getting the message. ‘He’s as deaf as a post,’ he told Dover.
Dover paused in his examination of the contents of Major Gutty’s medicine bottles. So far he hadn’t found anything stronger than a rather pungent embrocation, but he lived in hope. Even a drop of surgical spirit would be better than nothing. ‘He wants bloody shooting,’ he growled, glaring balelully across the bedroom. ‘Long-winded old git!’
Major Gutty was blessedly unaware of these unkind remarks. He recovered his breath and got his dentures settled again. ‘Petitions were organised by some local residents and copies were sent to our member of parliament and the town councillor in whose ward we are situated. You will not be surprised to hear that we had no response to either appeal.’
‘Can’t somebody switch him off?’ asked Dover.
‘Then, suddenly, they were gone!’ Major Gutty waved a bony hand in the air. ‘Flamborough Close woke up on the morning of last Thursday to find that it had been miraculously delivered of its plague. They had done a moonlight flit. I rue, there had been a fair amount of disturbance and noise during the night – car doors banging and vehicles being driven about – but nothing more than usual. Still, ours not to reason why, eh? The occupation was over. The forces of evil had been withdrawn. There were to be no more smells, no more provocatively naked girls flaunting . . .’
There was a welcome break as Major Gutty all but came apart at the seams as he was seized with a violent fit of coughing. Dover viewed the approaching disintegration with admirable calm, but Inspector Horton and MacGregor were made of milder steel.
‘Christ!’ said Inspector Horton anxiously. ‘Do you think we should give him a thump in the back?’
‘Good God, no! Do you want to kill him straight off?’ MacGregor had once done a first-aid course and he tried to remember if a dark blue face was a danger sign. ‘I think we’d better call his daughter.’
But Major Gutty had had a long lifetime of surviving crises and, before MacGregor could make a move to summon help, he coughed himself back into this Vale of Tears and resumed his seemingly endless narrative as though it had never been interrupted. ‘A volunteer force of Flamborough Close residents was speedily organised
