"Robert Rankin - Brentford 04 - The Sprouts Of Wrath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

'Would you care now that I whisper?'
'What have I to lose, saving the nine pounds?'
Omally leant forwards and poured a stream of whispered words into Pooley's left ear. Jim stood there
unblinking. A piece of chewing gum upon his instep attracted the attentions of an ant.
'Ah,' said Jim at length, when Omally had run dry of words.
'Ah,' said John, nodding enthusiastically.
'No,' said Jim. The word is no.'
The word is yes, Jim, the word is yes.'
'No, no, no!' Pooley shook his head in time to his 'nos'. 'Never, and again no.'
John put his arm about his best friend's shoulders. 'Believe in me,' he said. 'Would I steer you on to a
wrong'n?' Jim chewed upon his lip in hesitation, and as the

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old saying goes, 'he who hesitates is banjoed'. Then you'll do it, Jim?'
'Why not?' Pooley sighed pathetically. 'I will be the laughing stock of Brentford, the butt of all ribaldry in the
Swan for months to come, a veritable byword for buffoonery, what do I have to lose?'
'But think what we might do with our winnings.' 'You cannot be serious, John, you are telling me that...' Omally
clapped a hand across his partner's mouth. 'Not even here,' he said, pressing a free finger to his lips. 'Walls have
ears.' Jim shrugged and sighed simultaneously. 'Now then,' John continued brightly, 'I suggest you bung a couple
of free-rangers into the old non-stick and have a bit of brekky. We have a busy day ahead and I've a couple of
phone calls to make.'
Shaking his head in dismay, Pooley dug eggs and sausages from the fridge. The bangers were Walls. They
didn't have any ears.




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6

At shortly after nine: Norman returned from his paper-round whistling a tuneless melody which may or may
not have been 'Dali's car'. Just before he reached his shop, however, he discovered to his chagrin that he still
had a single copy of the Brentford Mercury in his bag. Being uncertain as to whether he had posted one to
Neville when he first set out upon his round he popped it through the Swan's letterbox. Just to be on the safe
side.
The part-time barman, who was still recovering from not only his undeserved nasal larruping but also the
trauma of discovering the first ever copy of the Mercury to arrive on his doormat, looked up in horror at the
arrival of the second and quickly reached for his dog-eared copy of Krafft Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis.

At shortly after nine-fifteen: Inspectre Hovis strode into Brentford police station. He awoke the snoozing duty
officer with a summary blow to the skull from his silver-topped cane, identified himself and poured forth a
torrent of instructions, demands, directives, exactions, mandates, impositions, requisitions and ultimatums.
Pausing only to draw breath and savour the bewildered sergeant's look of horror, he asked, 'Are you receiving
me?'
'Loud and clear, sir, loud and clear.' Sergeant Gotting's head bobbed up and down between his blue serge
shoulders. He was only the second man in Brentford to encounter the great detective, but he was the second to
really truly hate his guts.

At shortly after nine-thirty: Jennifer Naylor steered her