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The bits and pieces, of what amounted to nothing more than a dummy, but which had undoubtedly been a struggling man moments before, were gathered up, put into sacks and taken away. Uncle John had enough wisdom to mention nothing of what he’d seen to his fellow officers. He never saw The Captain or the mysterious squaddies ever again. Nor did he wish to.
    That’s it.
    RANKIN’S ENDING
    (The one not for the faint hearted)
    Of course The Captain and the mysterious squaddies of the unlisted regiment didn’t know that Uncle John had witnessed all this. He had shinned down from his box and slipped back to the front desk. So when they came out of the chief constable’s office, all looking somewhat green of face and carrying several large sacks, he was the first policeman they saw. So they said, “Oi, you, Constable, give us a hand to get this evidence loaded.” And they stuck two of the sacks into his hands and marched him out to a waiting van.
    He loaded the sacks in and returned for another two which he also put into the back. There was a lot of talking going on and no-one was looking at him. So Uncle John thought, Well, nobody is ever going to believe a word of this when I tell them, so why don’t I just dig into one of these sacks, take out the nose or a hand or something as proof and stick it in my pocket.
    So that is just what he did. Or what he tried to do. He opened up the neck of one of the sacks and took a peep inside. It was stuffed with all this padding and straps and wooden bits and so forth, but right on the top was the mouth. The lips and the teeth. Uncle John was about to reach in, when the lips parted and the teeth moved and this little voice said, “Help me, help me.” Well, I warned you.

4
Close Encounters of The Third Reich
    Russell never went for lunch. He always waited until Frank went for lunch, then he did some tidying up. He really did want to get at those teacups in the sink. But he didn’t want to offend Morgan, so he usually settled for a bit of dusting and rearrangement. Today he had planned to have a go at the religious relics. John the Baptist’s mummified head needed a dose of Briwax and the phial of The Virgin’s Tears had dried up again, so called for a quick squirt from the cold tap (which isn’t dishonest if it’s just “topping up”).
    But untrue to form upon this day, Russell put on his waxed jacket with the poacher’s pockets [10] and sallied forth into the streets of Brentford.
    The Ealing Road first, he thought. If The Flying Swan ever
had
existed, then some trace of its whereabouts
must
remain. That was about as straightforward as you can get. People’s memories tend to be uneven and unreliable, but as Jim Campbell says, “Buildings are the pinions of history.” If a building had once existed, some trace, no matter how small, probably would remain.
    Well, it might, for Goddess’ sake!
    It’s a very short walk from Fudgepacker’s to the Ealing Road. You just turn right at The Red Lion. Most of the properties are old. Victorian at the very least. There are two pubs there, The Bricklayer’s Arms and The Princess Royal. Further up there’s The New Inn; so that makes three. Not bad in two hundred yards. But this
is
Brentford. And Brentford has the only football club in the country with a pub on each of its four corners.
    Russell reasoned that should there be a gap somewhere, or a new building looking somewhat out of place, there was potential. So he marched up the Ealing Road. He couldn’t trudge, Russell, nor could be plod, marching was all he knew. Or jogging. Well, jogging was good for you, and you have to look after your health.
    Russell would have jogged, but he was investigating, so he marched instead.
    Past the corner tobacconist’s, and the bookies, and the greengrocer, to The Bricklayer’s.
    Russell looked up at the pub in question. It was solidly built. A Victorian frontage, local glazed tile, fiddly bits, window boxes. Dug in, it was. Built to last, and