They found the distinguished, experienced, white-haired, older man sprawled on the floor of Westminster Abbey, in the historic heart of traditional
“I’ve absolutely no idea what’s going on,” said Inspector Mitchell. “Wye aye, man, we divvent a clue,” exclaimed Sgt Conway with rough Geordie honesty.
As an American academic specialising in a spurious made-up subject, with a surprising ignorance of basic Renaissance art, mediaeval history, architecture, geography, but a penchant for plagiarising 20 year old books and a completely unfeasible ability to attract leggy French totty, I am of course just the person the Police would turn to in order to solve a serious crime.
“There are 197 suspects,” said Inspector Mitchell. “They were all in their constituencies at the time.”
“Anything suspicious?” I asked.
“They were all in their constituencies. Look, Professor Longjohns, I haven’t the time to solve this mystery. There’s an armed gang of lunatics running around
I surveyed anxiously the scene. The white-haired, experienced, older man was lying in a pool of (non-blue) blood. Strewn around him were piles of expenditure plans slashed to pieces. There were also four sixteenth century Italian paintings arranged in a line, to which the corpse’s contorted fingers were pointing at bizarre angles; a collection of half-completed crossword puzzles; a helicopter ticket to Blackpool; some discarded photographic negatives; a couple of computer CDs and a switched-on open laptop; on the floor were chalk markings of dots and dashes; and the wall was smeared with writing in blood. Absolutely nothing to go on.
I rolled the body over – because, as you know, it’s standard Police procedure to not check the corpse for clues – and gasped. Underneath the victim was a crushed bottle of fizzy water and some mint imperials.
“Inspector,” I stammered, fighting for air. “We are dealing with a sinister right-wing cult of incense-burning messianic fanatics.”
“Exactly. This slaying was the work of Opus Dave.”
TO BE CONTINUED…..