I couldn’t put if off any longer. I needed to find out what a “Dodgy Barry” was and where I would find both it and two “tabs” of “Jiggle” for Miss Bobbins. Since the only young people I knew in Bendaton were Miss Bobbins herself and Nigel Gusset and they were both ruled out for obvious reasons I decided to use my famed cunning.

“Welcome to Bendaton police station, Constable Forkwitt speaking, how can I be of help or assistance?”

“My name is Mr Bront and I was wondering if you could give me some information please.”

“That’s what we’re here for, Mr Bront. The capital of France is Berlin… or is it?”

“It is not. The information I actually wanted…”

“Is it Oslo?”

“It isn’t.”

“Rolo?”

“No.”

“Bobo?”

“No.”

“What was the question?”

“The capital of France.”

“Why would you ring the police station to ask what the capital of France is? That’s wasting police time.”

“You asked me.”

“To waste police time? I don’t think so sir. We’re very strict about that sort of thing I think. I wrote it down somewhere. Ah yes – rule number 4 – do not waste police time making lists of rules, Forkwitt. There you go – that’s from the Sergeant that is.”

“I need you to tell me everything you know about a character called Dodgy Barry.”

“The drug dealer? Now why would you be asking questions about a pill pushing, dope dealing, hash hawking, skank selling, crack cashing, whiz wheeling, zip zapping, mushroom merchant like him for?”

“You know him then?”

“I am aware of his work.”

“So where could I find… where might he be?”

“You’re not planning to buy illegal substances are you sir?”

“Certainly not.”

“Swear.”

“Blooming not.”

“Swear properly.”

“I promise to tell the truth” I said, crossing my fingers behind me back.

“Cubs honour?”

“Cubs honour.”

“Dodgy Barry usually hangs out either at Mr Pantie’s hat display or near Mrs Numb’s band stand exhibition.”

“I’ll be sure to avoid those two locales then” I lied cunningly.

“Very wise of you sir. Now I must be going – I was on my way to the cells when you called. Apparently one of the prisoners had set fire to his head after reading Sylvester McCoy’s autobiography.”

“That is a convention cal… that is a very good story. My name is Desmond Bront and I don’t go to conventions.”

“I’ll just make a note of that, Desmond Bront, for the files.”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“We’re here to please, Mr Bront.”

“It’s Paris by the way.”

“I’m sorry, I’d written it down as Bront. Good bye Mr Paris.”

I put a quantity of paper money into my wallet which is a wallet even though it may look to childish and ignorant people like a lady’s purse and clambered back onto my bicycle. Ian Devine joked that I was doing more riding than “Ulrika Jonsson” at the “Sports Personality of the Year Awards” but I dismissed his remark as drivel since he was scraping black stuff off the inside of the oven and trying to pass it off as “Topping” for his syrup, treacle and custard tart.

I headed for the Hat Display and what I hoped would be a smooth transaction.

I chained my bicycle to a pensioner who was waiting for a bus that I knew didn’t run on Christmas “Eve” and went in to the Hat Display. I was looking for a seedy looking man and decided that the only sensible course of action was to ask the attendant on duty.

“Excuse me” I began, sensibly, “I’m looking for a Mr Barry.”

“The drug dealer?”

“That’s the… is he?” I said, hastily covering up my slight error.

“He’s over by the berets.”

“Thank you.”

I walked over to a man with a big coat and an evil face.

“Excuse me – are you Dodgy Barry?”

“Barry by name, Barry by nature.”

“I want a couple of “tabs” of “Jiggle” for a friend of mine.”

“I could be an undercover copper you know” said Dodgy Barry.

“Could you? Have you got qualifications or something?”

“No – I mean for all you know I might be a policeman. And this could be an entrapment operation.”

“Is it?”

“It might be.”

“Well is it or isn’t it?”

“Yes”.

“Yes it is or yes it isn’t?”

“No.”

“I could easily take my custom elsewhere you know” I warned.

“I’m the only source of Jiggle in the Tri-Town area.”

“The ‘Tri-Town Area’?” I queried.

“Bendaton, Shagford and Cymm. It’s part of the rebranding operation.”

“You’re the Deputy Mayor – I thought I recognised you.”

“True.”

“And you’re a drug dealer on the side?”

“No – I’m Deputy Mayor on the side.”

“Ah. Is it true about Mayor Urine sneezing faecal matter over Dr Flapjack’s desk?”

“Oh yes. He once coughed up a tampon too. And a lengthy dose of hiccups was traced back to a half digested rubber dolphin.”

“What a peculiar man. How do you suppose those objects entered his body? Some kind of accident?”

“You must be Dennis Brent.”

“Yes… I mean no.”

“Are these pills for Fliccy?”

“Miss Bobbins, yes.”

“That’s ok then. That’ll be two hundred quid.”

“TWO HUNDRED POUNDS?” I said, wobbling as my legs turned to custard. I fell into the beret display. Hundreds of hats of French origin flew into the air. Mr Pantie rushed over and bundled me out of the building.

“I’ll accept a hundred and fifty since it’s for Fliccy” called Dodgy Barry.

“I’ve got twelve pounds plus a five pound Bargainsave voucher” I shouted back.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Mr Brent.”

14:59:58

14:59:59