2pm

I kicked the immobile form of Ian Devine.

"Ian Devine" I said, not too loud or it would attract attention.

"Let me out" came the muffled cry of Bignell.

"Without a stout winch and some unproven physics I fear I will be unable to help you" I told him. I kicked Ian Devine again.

"Hoy" he rumbled. "Someone is kicking me."

"It is Dennis Brent" I said honestly. "You are lying atop Bignell."

"Why?"

"You fainted."

"But why Bignell?"

"I don't know."

"Why did I faint?"

"Get to your feet and I'll explain."

Ian Devine lumbered into an upright position and, ensuring I was out of range lest he faint again, I recapped the tale.

"What are we going to do?" moaned Ian Devine.

"I've got to... um... go... away" said Bignell, singularly failing to impress us with his command of subterfuge.

"We must lie low" I decided.

"What do you mean 'we'?" asked Ian Devine. "I am an innocent bystander. I stood by - innocently - and watched you commit murder. Indeed, it was murder thrice over if we're keeping a body count."

"You must help me - we shall hide in the city until nightfall and then escape into the mountains" I declared.

"Erm" said Ian Devine, backing away in something not unlike fear. He slapped me (having moved back into range to do so - his moving away was a waste of effort and looked dangerously close to some form of Morris dance).

"Thank you" I said, "I needed that. I was becoming insensible. The shock. You must find me a disguise which I can wear until the thing has blown over."

"You went on a killing spree - I'm not sure such things ever blow over."

"I did not go on a killing spree. I asked for a salad - there is a difference. Now, will you buy me a disguise or not?"

"I will, Dennis Brent. I will buy you a disguise and help you hide from justice. If caught and queried I will say you brainwashed me and that my actions were the result of Stockholm Syndrome."

"That seems sensible" I concurred. "I’ll be in that telephone booth until you return."

I waited for ten minutes and sure enough Ian Devine knocked on the door and handed me a brown paper bag.

"I went to Mr Butterspunk’s Laughter Palace and bought you this" he told me.

"Thank you, Ian Devine" I replied. "What did you get?"

"I considered several imaginative solutions but in the end played safe and went for a traditional disguise. It’s a classic but it serves its purpose. I got you a false moustache and a pair of thickly rimmed glasses."

I looked at him severely.

"What?" he asked innocently.

I looked at him more severely.

"What? Prey tell – have I committed a faux pas?"

"A false moustache and a pair of thickly rimmed glasses?" I repeated.

"Yes. What?"

"I already have a moustache and a pair of thickly rimmed glasses. If I put on your disguise I would probably look more like me than I do now."

"I’m not with you" he said, still playing the innocence card. I pointed to my moustache, then to my glasses and then a roving finger so he could take it all in.

"Good heavens, I’d never noticed that before" he said when at last the penny dropped.

"How could you not notice?" I demanded.

"Firstly, I don’t consider the minute details of your face to be of any great importance within the framework of our association – it is your mind which is of real interest – and secondly you have just killed my best friend and his entire immediate family so I may not be displaying all the mental precision one has reasonably come to expect from Ian F Devine."

He was out of breath after that speech so I led him over to a nearby bench for a sit down. I decided, for the short term at least, that I would be best served putting the paper bag over my head and hoping no one noticed me.

I must’ve found the darkness of my bag rather comforting as I nodded off for a moment or two. It was, however, long enough for someone (my finger is pointed at Bignell or possibly Ian Devine trying to be more like Bignell) to affix the false moustache and the thickly rimmed glasses to the outside of the bag so I now resembled a brown and rather papery skinned Dennis Brent.

"I have a plan" said Ian Devine.

"I can’t go to South America at such short notice – I have my recorders to programme…"

"No no" he said hastily. "If you wish to hide a tree, hide it in a forest."

"More to the point, if you hid it carelessly and it fell over, would anyone hear it and so figure out where it had been hidden?"

But my witty remark failed as I still had a bag on my head.

"We shall go to the Elk and Bush. No one would think of looking for you there."

"I see your logic" I conceded, "but don’t you think it might be a little too obvious?"

"They also sell pies at the Elk and Bush and you still owe me six pies…" He suddenly clasped his hands to his chest. "Oh my!" he exclaimed.

"You’re not going to say ‘ak’ and fall over again are you?" I said warily, shuffling to one side just in case (and hoping, since my vision was impaired, that it was the right side).

"You owe me pies" he stammered.

"Yes yes yes – kindly don’t keep harping on about it."

"No – you don’t appreciate it – you owe me pies because I breached Philip Stiffit’s confidence and told you the name of his secret source."

"I am aware of that – I was there when our pact was made."

"But I swore to Philip Stiffit that I wouldn’t tell. I swore on the life of Mr Wetfinger. And now he’s dead because I told you."

"Ah" I said, not knowing what to do when presented with irrefutable proof of the existence of a vengeful god.

"So you know what this means" he blubbed. "It means that I’m just as guilty of his murder as you are. Isn’t that right?" he asked.

"Yes" I told him. After all – a murder shared is a murder halved.