“Name?” he began brusquely.

“Dennis Brent.”

“Occupation?”

“Telehistorian.”

“Hmmm – do you have an occupation I can spell?”

“Archivist?”

“Nope.”

“Technical journalist?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Professional writer?”

“Is that with or without a w?”

“With.”

“Three t’s in writer?”

“No – just one.”

“And how many t’s in professional?”

“None.”

“Good. Address?”

I gave him my card.

“Crime?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I did write – with one t – it down but I used the note to mop up a urine stain just before I left the station. I just arrested you because that nice man in the apron told me too. He reminded me of my mum he did. He had the same mad stare and pocket full of knives.”

“I have been wrongly accused of not paying my restaurant bill” I said factually.

“Did you pay the bill?”

“I have not yet paid the bill” I said cleverly.

“Then you’re obviously guilty and I sentence you to… oh wait… that’s not my job. I could’ve been a judge but I never had the Lat…”

“You cannot keep me here on this farrago of trumped up charges” I interrupted.

“I think you’ll find that I can – me being a police man and all that.”

“Ah” I conceded, “that is a good point. Do I get a telephone call?”

“You’ve already had your call – the restaurant owner used it to call me to come and arrest you.”

“But I didn’t make that call” I protested.

“I’d be very suspicious if you did – I’d probably arrest you again for wasting police time.”

“Then you admit it was a waste of police time?”

“No – I had to go to the chemists next to the café anyway. I have terrible trouble with my anu…”

“I’m not interested in that” I told him firmly.

“…and Dr Flapjack prescribed Rektalor which has cleared it up.”

I made a note of that and then continued with my protests.

“I insist I have the right to make a telephone call to my representatives.”

“Oh go on then – but no porn or pizza or I’ll cut you off.”

“Fair enough.” I dialled Ian Devine’s number. I got his answer phone.

“You have reached the home of Ian Devine. I am not here at the moment since I lead a full and interesting life despite what people say about me and as long as you are not a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l, a prole or a h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l prole you may leave a message after the belch. Burrrrp.”

“Ian Devine – this is Dennis Brent, your best friend. Tall chap with a sensible moustache. I am being held at Bendaton police station and would be grateful if you could arrange for me to be released.”

That being done, I was bundled down to the cells.

About an hour later there was a knock on the cell door.

“Can I come in?” asked Constable Forkwitt.

“Enter” I told him.

“The European Commission decided that we had to respect criminals right to privacy and ask their permission to interrupt them. Happy birthday Mr Brent.”

“Sorry?”

“Happy birthday.”

“What a strange remark.”

“I’ve got a cake for you – it was delivered a few minutes ago in a Wetfinger’s Pie Shop van.” He wheeled in an enormous cream covered cake. “You could fit a small person inside there” joked Constable Forkwitt.

“I expect you could” I agreed, an idea coming into my head. What clever friends I had – I’d heard of smuggling a file inside a cake but never a cloned version of Ian Devine. Brent’s Seven had surpassed themselves this time.

“Can I have a slice?” asked the officer.

“Of course you can but I’ll have to blow out the candles first and it’s very bad luck for anyone else to be a police cell while a prisoner is blowing out candles.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

“Then I should leave you to it. I’ll be waiting outside with a paper plate.” He locked the door behind him and I surveyed my cake. It was good to have a friend like Ian Devine with his contacts in the confection industry. I brushed aside some of the cream and saw the wooden heart of the construction. I knocked on the lid.

“You can come out now” I called quietly. I heard a shuffling inside the cabin and stood back lest Pasty Devine should pop out covered in crumbs like his daddy. The crate flew open and a tiny figure sprang out and grasped my throat. But it was not Pasty Devine…

It was Tiny Tom.

“This time” I gasped between throttles, “I really think it could be the end.”