“Bendaton resident Dennis Brent (formerly of Brent Towers, Bendaton, now dead and hopefully buried somewhere) is believed to have been murdered” I read aloud from the newspaper handed to me some moments earlier by Ian Devine. “Mr Brent, whose name will be familiar to you all, is not believed to have any friends or family, has no business interests and is not in any sort of demand as a travelling speaker, has not been seen about the village in several days. In light of his pathetic and empty life, the police have announced he is almost certainly dead.

‘For someone like Dennis Brent, there is no possibility of him having gone away on a relaxing holiday or to stay with friends in a big city such as Norwich or Lancaster. He hasn’t purchased his regular groceries from Bargainsave, he hasn’t been seen autographing books in Waterstones and we at the police station haven’t received any anonymous phone calls from Brent Towers informing us of minor illegalities being committed by members of the village. We have therefore taken the step of bypassing the traditional seven-year rule when it comes to declaring someone officially dead. Dennis Brent is without a shadow of a doubt dead. He has gone to meet his maker and I can’t say I envy the almighty having to come face to face with that. If I were Him I’d be questioning my divine perfection as we speak. He’s an atheist’s dream is Dennis Brent. Or should I say he was an atheist’s dream. Rejoice – the past tense is upon us.’

Sergeant Casserole’s statement raises some important questions however. Concerned members of the public have been ringing the offices of the Bugle ever since rumours were started. I can exclusively confirm that an all night street party is being held this evening to celebrate Dennis Brent’s death and that due to pressures of work, Lionel Blair will be able to attend. More immediately, if anyone has any information regarding the whereabouts of one Ian F. Devine they should contact Bendaton Police Station immediately as Mr Devine is the chief suspect in Mr Brent’s murder. Sadly, although Mr Devine has performed great public service in killing Dennis Brent (though for legal reasons we must stress that he is still technically innocent even though we know he must’ve done it) he will still go to prison.”

I sat open mouthed at what I had just read. It was appalling.

“I’m dead” I said at last. “I’m dead and they are having a street party. On the plus side, I’ve never actually interviewed Lionel Blair and it would give me the opportunity to ask him several fascinating questions about Liza Goddard.”

“So you see my problem, Dennis Brent” said a miserable Ian Devine. “They want to hang me by the neck until I be dead and all for a murder I haven’t committed.”

“Hold yourself, Ian Devine, they won’t hang you. These days you’ll probably only get a brief custodial sentence of no more than twenty or thirty years. You’ll be out before you know it. Or at least before you die. Unless your rotundity provokes a fatal attack or seizure, in which case you’ll die behind bars.”

“Oh woe is me” he blubbed.

“Typical. Absolutely typical” I cursed. “You are so selfish – you are only concerned with yourself. What about me? I’m the one that has been murdered. But oh no – all you care about is your own mottled hide. You at least will live to see the future while I rot away in some unmarked grave. Unloved and with only maggots to keep me company.”

“We are both in wretched states” he wailed. “Have two such gentlemen ever faced so bitter a circumstance? You cut down in your prime, me condemned to wither away in some godforsaken gaol.”

“It is indeed a sorrowful day” I agreed. We sat in silence for a few minutes, silently pitying each other and wishing there was some way out of this terrible fix.

“Wait” I said suddenly.

“Hang on” added Ian Devine a split second later (therefore I without a shadow of a doubt thought of it first despite what you may read in another, unnamed, autobiography).

“I’m not dead” I declared.

“So I didn’t kill you” he replied.

“So we’re not doomed” we said together. At this moment one of us lost control of himself (I won’t say which of us it was to spoil his blushes) and kissed Ian Devine on the cheek.

“We must go to the Bugle offices immediately and correct their mistake” I said after an awkward silence.

“Mistakes, plural” corrected Ian Devine.

“My life is more important than your innocence” I said firmly. “For my life begat your innocence. Your innocence could not begat my life could it?”

“Nevertheless, I feel they are two equally important pieces of news and should be brought – equally – to the attention of the editor of the Bugle.”

“We’ll see” I said strictly. I was secretly hoping they would still imprison Ian Devine as I would then be able to take what little there is of any value from his collection and by the time he was released he would be frail and forgetful and I could make him believe he never had anything worth owning in the first place.

“Then let’s clear a path through this rubble” declared Ian Devine.

“And let the world know that Dennis Brent is alive” I added.

“I don’t suppose we could wait until after the street party could we? They’ve ordered buns and I could always go in disguise and eat the buns and not be arrested.”

“No, Ian Devine, we must go now. The world must have the truth.”