A "Dog food delivery"

"DOG FOOD DELIVERY"

All of those around him were clapping, but Damon Gulliver clapped
rather more vigorously and lustily than any of them.

His brother Joe sat beside him, and his eyes were shining, but more
with the prospect of what was to come than pleasure evoked by the
play.

"What did you think Joe ?" Damon asked him, his voice trembling
slightly.

Joe had not minded the play at all, but his mind was firmly on
refreshments, in so far as a mind as frothy as his could be firm about
anything.

They were at the West End debut of a show called "Whiskey Galore!"
based upon the old Ealing comedy film. Damon, as was usual, had been
invited to the after-show party, and it was already clear in his own
mind which of the players he simply had to meet and talk with.

He smiled a little, as he caught another glimpse of Joe in his full
evening-wear. It had been a difficult task indeed to get Joe inside the
dinner suit and stiff formal shirt, as he normally would only wear
jeans and sweatshirts, but it had been well worth it.

Joe looked very handsome, with his young face and fair hair that would
never quite behave, always finding somewhere to stand up in an unruly
fashion. The two of them really did look like brothers that evening,
although Damon was dark and a little taller.

Seeing him like this, Damon thought that Joe too could have been a
model, although he would not have coped with the lifestyle. There had
been too many people trying to take advantage of Damon when he had been
on the circuit, trying to use or get, drugs, money, sex or fame.

Damon had fended them off, but someone as naive and innocent as Joe
would have encountered all manner of problems.

At the party, he did indeed seek out this person whose performance had
caught his attention, but he had the courtesy to introduce Joe to
several people that he felt might amuse Joe first. Joe was delighted to
meet some people who he had seen on television, and they were
captivated by his pleasant manner of innocence and enthusiasm. One of
them was a close friend of Damon, who knew about Joe and was looking
after him as a favour for Damon.

Damon made his way towards Violet Rome, the female lead of the show.
She had a fine voice, strong yet soft. She was slender and dark-haired,
with a sort of longing about her pistachio-green eyes.

She wore a sheath-like crimson dress that clung tightly to her and was
all the better for that. Damon had become captivated by her during the
performance. He had been moderately fond of the actress when she had
played a minor role in Coronation Street, but she was substantially
more impressive up close.

"Hello," he said, handing her a glass of pale champagne, a glass that
was saucer-like, "You were marvellous. I know that's very
show-business, but I don't know another word for it. My name
is..."

"I know who you are Mr Gulliver, " she laughed, and the laugh reminded
him of at least ten pleasant things, which all blurred indistinctly, "I
do read the newspapers, even when I'm not in them. I have seen the
famous cases where you have aided the police. I have always respected
men of intellect."

This was rather disappointing to Damon, but he pressed on nonetheless,
"There is something? it's embarrassing, but if I don't say anything,
I'll regret it for a long time."

"What is it ?"asked Violet Rome, sipping at the liquid in her
glass.

"Simply this, " said Damon, "Seeing you perform tonight has affected me
greatly. I feel as though I am breathing some new kind of air,
something cleaner and altogether better. I would very much like to see
you again, somewhere less crowded."

And so it was that once again, Damon was in love when he spoke with his
brother Francis the following morning. He attempted to describe all of
Miss Violet Rome's finer qualities to Francis, who really was not at
all interested.

Francis knew all there was to know about what made people tick, he was
a psychologist specialising in the worst excesses of human behaviour,
but he didn't really connect emotionally with people at all. He studied
them and understood them as other men might study a particular species
of insect, but he felt no deeper connection to them than any scientist
would attach to a specimen.

In any event, taking an interest in the women who caught Damon's eye
would have been a fruitless activity. They were all as snowflakes - all
different, but only in very small ways indiscernible to the naked eye,
and they tended to melt away before any real study could be made of
them. Francis considered his time valuable, and did not like to
squander it.

Damon described the theatre and the party to Francis, explaining how
delighted Joe had been that they had seats that were high up, so that
he could see the audience as well as the show. There had been a lot of
people there and the party had been crowded.

Francis tried to suppress an involuntary shudder at the idea of
unfamiliar people crowding around him, jostling, touching him as they
brushed by. The whole idea was utterly abhorrent. For a moment he
thought that he might need his pills, but the loathsome feeling passed.
He looked around at the order of his office, where everything was in
its correct place, lined up exactly right, and felt a sort of calm and
control come back over him.

"Did Joe have a good time ?" Francis asked, for he was always very keen
that Joe should enjoy himself. It was difficult for Joe to lead a
normal life as he was so often stuck in the house with Francis, who was
unable to leave, and it was not really safe for Joe to go out
unaccompanied. Francis made sure that Joe had some form of
entertainment most weeks, but always felt a slight guilt that his own
fears impacted on Joe.

Damon started to describe the party again, but very quickly drifted
into a rapturous critique of the rosebud lips of Miss Violet Rome.
Enthralled as he had been, he had not spent long talking to her, as his
duty had been to keep Joe entertained. He was wasting his time with
Francis, more so when he tried to explain that she had previously been
on television. Francis had not watched a television programme for eight
years and before that, only sparingly.

At this point, Audrey Ribbon, the efficient secretary, came into the
office, holding the morning's post. She opened the door just enough to
ease through, as was her custom, knowing that Francis Gulliver became
discomforted by the thought of outside the door being the beginning of
a vast and terrifying space.

With her usual crisp efficiency, she had sorted through the post to
extract all of the circulars, invoices and expenses cheques that she
herself could deal with, to leave just those matters that required the
urgent attention of her two employers.

There were four items in the post that morning, a request from a firm
of solicitors for Francis to carry out a psychological risk assessment
on an individual, which Francis was content to do, some papers and
reports from another such case, and two letters in connection with the
Gulliver Detective Agency.

Both letters were asking the firm to take on a fresh case. Francis read
them very quickly, having the ability to read an entire page in one
glance, gulping the words down. He handed them to Damon, who was not
able to read so quickly. Audrey Ribbon left, and returned two minutes
later with a tray of toast and hot coffee.

"What view do you take ?" Francis asked him.

There was a pause, while Damon finished the letters.

"Well, the one from the old couple is just trivial rubbish. But the
Hampshire police have asked us to assist with the Stockdale killing,
the businessman found dead in his own executive washroom, cut to
pieces. That sounds as though it might be interesting."

"I have read a little in the newspapers of the Stockdale affair," said
Francis, sounding as though something highly distasteful was just
beneath his nose, "That work is pure butchery. There was no artistry
about it at all. The police can deal with that themselves; it is just a
question of applying themselves more seriously to the problem. No, it
is the elderly couple that interest me today. "

Damon read the letter again; for fear that he had missed something of
crucial importance. He took some toast from the tray and bit into it,
showering some crumbs upon the floor.

The letter was handwritten, brief and read :- 'Dear Mr Gulliver, We
wonder if you can assist us at all with a problem which may seem small
to a man of your reputation, but is making our life miserable. For some
weeks now, we have been plagued by a madman, there is no other word for
it. This man has taken some form of dislike to my wife and I, and
exercises this dislike by throwing objects through our front window,
often when we are sitting in our house occupying ourselves peacefully.
The police have apprehended him on two occasions and he is a man who
appears to have absolutely no connection to us. What is doubly
perplexing is that he always throws a can of dog-food through the
window. My wife and I find that we cannot enjoy our retirement or
relax, wary at all times of another missile shattering our peace and
our window. We would very much appreciate your help with this matter.
Yours faithfully, Arthur and Margaret Strong.'

"But this is absolute trivia, " protested Damon, "There's no mystery
there at all."

Francis looked at him with great care and began to apply butter to his
toast. He did so with great care, ensuring that every inch of the bread
was covered by the butter to equal degree. He then sliced the bread in
half diagonally. He looked at the sullied knife with some distaste and
settled on placing it across a small plate provided for the purpose by
Mrs Ribbon, behind the saucers, where it was obscured from his
view.

"Then, my dear brother, perhaps you can explain to me, why it is that
this family are haunted by the man who throws dog-food cans through
their window ? Why should he do such a thing ?"

Damon fumbled for a moment, "Well, he's probably a drunk, or a lunatic.
Or, he has some reason to hate them. In any event, it doesn't seem to
matter."

Francis fixed him with a cold stare, "It is precisely because it
doesn't SEEM to matter that it interests me. Things are rarely as they
SEEM. However, you are in charge of the agency. I would be able to
spare some time for this small, interesting problem, but not for the
larger, more vulgar matter of the hacked-up businessman. It is entirely
a matter for you. "

Damon scowled, but was well aware that there was nothing he could do.
Without the assistance of Francis, he would be no use to the police in
the murder investigation, and might do his reputation as an expert some
damage were he to blunder about on his own.

In addition, Damon knew very well that Francis could keep a bad mood
simmering for several weeks and he was even more unbearable if in a bad
mood. As a creature of the sunshine, Damon found it difficult to cope
with dark moods.

"The dog food it is then."

"Very good, " said Francis, "You may take the tray downstairs to Mrs
Ribbon and request that she telephone Mr Strong to make an appointment.
Oh, and ask her to bring up the small vacuum cleaner. There are some
crumbs on the carpet."

It was Margaret Strong who answered the door to them, a woman with a
pleasant manner, although with a distracted air about her, she seemed
to speak to them whilst at the same time looking over their shoulders
to view the street as a whole. It was a small street, at the very
outskirts of the small town and beyond it were fields and small
woodland regions - the street itself seemed something of an
afterthought, tacked onto the town, some minutes walk from the nearest
other street, as though the planners had discovered extra bricks and
set them to good use.

Margaret Strong seemed to be in her late fifties and was dressed
smartly, though not stylishly, with plain flat dull shoes setting off
her sensible moss-green skirt. The shade of lipstick she wore was
obviously one she had used for some time and intended to stick with for
some years to come. Likewise eyeshadow.

Damon judged that if there were magazines in the house, they were more
likely to focus on cookery than fashion.

He introduced himself and his brother Joe and she welcomed them in,
firstly taking a tiny glance at her palm to check that her hand was
clean. Damon suspected that she had been either baking or gardening a
few moments before.

Damon took a brief view of the street before he entered the house. It
was really the size of a cul-de-sac, three houses on each side of the
road. The Strongs house was at the farthest end of the street and Damon
could see that beyond it lay fields, for several miles. He noted too,
the dark-silver BMW that was parked in their drive, obviously kept in
good condition by loving owners, as it was pristine, without a mark on
it.

Inside, the house was neat and tidy, furnished in a plain manner. The
sofa was rose-pink, with a mild chintz, and a small mahogany
coffee-table was also presen. The downstairs was modelled on an
open-plan, with the living-room and dining room set out as one open
room, with large French windows at the rear, overlooking the garden and
fields beyond.

The idyllic view was marred slightly by the dilapidated warehouse, with
it's broken windows and tarmacked empty car park. It had obviously been
closed for some years. Contrary to Damon's initial impression of
Margaret as a gardener, the garden itself was very plain, with no
flowerbeds, just a simple neat lawn and a patio. Damon could see some
orange netting bags filled with nuts hanging from the branches of a
tree in the garden, with some brown birds nibbling at them.

Towards the rear of the large room were a table and chairs, flush
against the apple-green wallpaper stood a bookcase and there were some
framed photographs on the wall. There was a door leading on to a fitted
kitchen, with beige cupboards and a characterless fridge and sink
unit.

It was all very tidy, but there was something unusual about the
atmosphere, to Damon's mind.

"There's no TV! " said Joe, in some alarm. Even though Francis never
watched television, at home Joe had a television in his room and one in
the living room that he shared with Damon, on the rare occasions that
Damon spent the evening at home.

Mrs Strong looked a little embarrassed, "Yes, we moved the television
upstairs about a week ago. We rarely sit in this room anymore, or have
our dinner at the table. We just find it too worrying, with the window
being broken so often. "

That was what had seemed odd. There was no clutter to the room at all.
And not merely tidiness, Damon was used to that with his brother, even
pathological tidiness. This was a room that was not lived in at all.
There was none of the small evidence of daily life here, no newspapers,
no coasters or cups, there were no lamps downstairs, not even any
crumpling of the cushions where they had been used.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed and there was a sound of water filling a
sink and the brisk noise of hands being soaped and washed. A few
moments later, Arthur Strong walked down the stairs, into the room. He
was older than his wife, with something of the eagle about him. He wore
a check shirt, predominantly light blue, that was open at the neck, and
some light-brown trousers, with knife-sharp creases, and brown shoes
that Damon felt were polished twice weekly. His hair was receding
substantially, but he had sharp eyes and a firm, Roman nose, with
eyebrows that were bushy and active on his behalf, as though
endeavouring to make up for the poor show put up by the hair on his
head.

"So, you're the detective chaps ?" he asked, in a genial way.

Damon could easily imagine this couple at a dull party, Margaret being
quiet and handing round vol-au-vents, Arthur dominating proceedings and
topping up people's glasses with ferocious disregard for their wishes.
Damon knew before the handshake came that it was going to be a
bone-crusher, and he was right.

Damon confirmed their status, while Joe still looked in amazement at
the place where the television should have been. He could see the small
marks left in the pale-grey carpet by the castors of a television
cabinet, and the plug socket just above the skirting board, with no
plugs inserted.

"I think I've seen your other brother, " said Arthur Strong, "Didn't he
used to play rugby? About eight years ago, I saw him score a cracking
try against South Africa. Still lost the game, but it was a hell of a
try."

"That's right," said Damon, "My brother Francis. "

"Whatever happened to him? He was a good player. Just stopped turning
out, all of a sudden. Injury was it ?"

"Something like that, " said Damon.

Just as things were becoming a little awkward, Joe piped up, standing
next to one of the framed photographs on the wall, "This is a Pallas
warbler. Very rare."

Arthur Strong beamed with deligh, a man being asked about his pet
subject.

"Indeed it is, "he said, "Took that photograph myself, on the Scilly
Isles, was it two years ago Margaret ?"

"Three I think dear,"she said.

"No, I'm sure it was two. Went there on holiday. Margaret's got
relatives down in that part of the world, but it was the birds that
drew me there. Saw quite a few rarities. Took some damn good pictures
too. Had this one blown up, put in a nice frame. Developed it myself,
in the darkroom upstairs. Nice to see someone who can recognise a rare
warbler. "

Mr Strong enlarged for some time on a variety of issues, including the
habits of certain birds, the rugged charm of Scotland and the Scilly
Isles, the dreadful fashion of foreign holidays, draining English money
away from our economy to benefit other countries.

Damon was losing the will to live, "Shall we talk about your vandal
?"

A dark cloud passed over Arthur Strong's face, and he coloured at the
cheeks, "Bloody rogue," he said, "Eight times he's thrown stuff through
our window. Costing us a fortune to put right, and he just keeps doing
it. "

"You said that the police had caught him?"

"Police! Called them every time, didn't we dear? Finally they turned up
and caught him, more by luck than judgment. They catch him bang to
rights and what happens ? Bloody caution, that's all. Smack on the
wrist, naughty boy, don't do it again. Never bothered to ask us what we
thought should happen. Then, six days , he's back again, doing the same
thing."

"Did they tell you his name?"

"Tell you what, young fellow. If I'd got in my car and chased him, and
done five miles over the speed limit, the police would've taken more of
an interest. Wouldn't have been a caution for me. "

"Glenn Pressman," said Margaret, in her quiet voice.

"Thank you, "said Damon, "And do you know this young man ?"

"Lives in the town, but that's as far as it goes. He doesn't live this
end of town, more in the centre I've never met him, never laid eyes on
him until he started throwing tins of Pedigree Chum through my
front-window. "

Margaret went into the kitchen and Damon could hear the sound of
running water again, and then the snap of an electric kettle being
turned on. She called to ask Damon and Joe how they liked their tea. A
house like this, coffee wasn't even an option.

She came back a few moments later, with cups of tea and plates with
warm buttered scones, fresh from the oven.

Arthur Strong talked Damon through the whole affair. The vandal, Glenn
Pressman was in his early twenties, very short cropped hair, as though
he were in the Army ("pity he isn't, would have knocked some sense into
him") and usually wore jeans and a jacket, bright yellow in
colour.("One of these logos, Tommy something. And Plimsolls on his
feet, the expensive kind.")

The attacks had started about six weeks earlier, and there had been at
least one a week. It was always a can of dog-food, through the
downstairs front-window, that looked onto the street. And it was always
in daylight, although at various unpredictable times, and always when
they were in.

"Did you pass Chadwick Textiles on the way in ? About five minutes down
the road ? " Arthur asked, with a strange note of pride.

"Used to be my business that, sold up about five years ago. Course, the
new people aren't doing so well. Lost all the contracts to the big
stores, had to lay a lot of folk off. Bottom just dropped out of the
market, they do all the machining abroad now, where it's cheaper.
Proper sweat shops. I always say, I got out at the right time, isn't
that right dear ?"

Margaret confirmed that indeed, that was exactly what her husband
always said about his previous business.

Damon finished his tea and scone and made some notes. He could see
Margaret Strong hovering nearby, ready to collect his cup and
plate.

"Please, " he said, "Allow me. I never let a lady do the washing-up.
"

She protested, but he was very forceful. He collected everyone's cup
and plate and went into the kitchen to run some hot water into the
bowl. He added a squirt of washing-up liquid. Margaret followed him
into the kitchen, looking rather nervous to have someone encroach on
her territory. Arthur Strong was talking vigorously to Joe about
bird-watching in the main room. The kitchen was tidy, if bland, with
tiles with country-scenes etched on them, and a single window that
looked out to the side of the house.

"What do you think ?" asked Damon, as he began to rinse out the
cups.

"I'm sure I don't know anything, " she said, "Arthur is the one who's
most upset. I don't like the noise and I'm frightened the glass might
hit me when it breaks, but I hate what it's doing to Arthur. He can
never relax. He just waits all day for the young man to appear and
throw his can. He can't take his eyes off the window in case he turns
up. I'm scared he'll try to tackle him and get hurt. "

"Do you know anything about this Glenn Pressman ?"

"Not much, " she said, "I have asked some friends who live nearer the
centre of town. He's supposed to be a bit of a tearaway, rough family.
His brother was in prison. Stolen goods apparently, but he's out now.
"

After he had dried the cups and plates with a tea-towel that had a map
of Bath on it, he thanked Mrs Strong for her gracious hospitality and
he and Joe took their leave of the Strongs.

There was much to think about, and he thought that his next course
would be to speak to the police, to see whether they would share any
information with him. Arthur Strong had given him the name of the
police officer who had caught Glenn Pressman, and that seemed like a
good place to start.

Damon parked the two-seater outside the police station and noticed that
there was a W H Smiths just a little further along the street. He told
Joe to wait in the car, and nipped out to Smiths to buy something to
keep Joe occupied while he talked to the police. He returned with a
Double Decker, a can of Sprite and a copy of both Smash Hits and New
Scientist - Joe would quite happily devour both. He gave these to Joe
and turned the radio on for him, promising to be back in a few
minutes.

Inside the police station, the officer he needed to speak to was
off-duty, so he asked to speak with the Custody Sergeant instead.
Reluctantly, the bored officer on reception agreed to call the
Sergeant, who came out to the main desk to see what the problem was and
how quickly he could get rid of it.

"Aren't you Damien Gulliver? " Sergeant Cook said when he arrived, he
was about thirty-five, with a pleasant open face, short brown hair, had
put on a few pounds over the years, but knew his job inside and out. He
smelled a little of Fahrenheit aftershave- fifteen years earlier it
would definitely have been Brut.

"That's right,"said Damon.

"You helped out with that Archer baby, found the kid when everyone had
given up."

Of course, it had been Francis working behind the scenes who had
actually provided the solution to that case, but Damon had taken the
credit at the time and was happy to do so again.

He chatted with the Custody Sergeant for a few minutes about various
murder cases the brothers had worked on, and then brought up the
subject of Glenn Pressman.

Once the officer who had been on reception realised that Damon was a
famous detective, he decided to stay around and see if he could learn
anything, and went to the unusual lengths of actually paying some
attention.

"Course, you realise I can't really tell you anything, " the Sergeant
said,"Data Protection and all that. Still, I can't believe someone
famous is taking an interest in one of our cases. "

"Well, my company exists to help people, " said Damon, laying it on
thick, "And Mr and Mrs Strong are deserving of my help. They really are
very troubled. "

"Right, " said the Sergeant, taking a look around and then leaning
forward to speak in a lower voice, "Well, hypothetically, I could talk
to you about a hypothetical case of someone called? Ben Pressman. Would
that help ?"

Damon smiled, "It certainly would. I'm always interested in imaginary
people."

"Well, it's an odd one, I tell you that. This Ben lad, he had a little
bit of minor form, possession, little bit of petty theft. No more than
that. He had an older brother, who was a proper villain. Mixed up with
some real bad characters. But Ben seemed to stay out of all that. Until
all this breaking windows started."

"And this Ben, " said Damon,"Was he drunk when he was brought in
?"

"No, far from it. Sober, not high. Very calm. Didn't protest about it
at all, said that he'd done it. Just wouldn't say why. Wasn't really
much point in dragging him before the courts for something as minor as
that, so we just cautioned him, let him go. Couldn't believe it when
the Strongs rang to say he'd done it again. He'll go before the courts
if it happens again, but he'll get community service, something like
that. "

"Hypothetically, " reminded Damon, not wanting the Sergeant to forget
his justification for sharing this information, "So, hypothetically,
did he seem at all, disturbed or anything ?"

"What, mental ? No, this Ben lad, hypothetically, seemed as normal as
you or I. Didn't need to get an appropriate adult in, he was over
eighteen and no suggestion that he was limited or mental."

"Thank you Sergeant, " said Damon, "You've been very helpful."

"I have heard, " said the Sergeant, "That hypothetically, there might
be rumours that this Ben uses heroin, but he wasn't high when he came
in. "

Damon shook his hand and prepared to leave, but noticed that the
Sergeant seemed to be plucking up courage to say something else. He
stood and waited for the Sergeant to make up his mind.

"I don't suppose? it's the wife you see. She's a big fan, and I don't
think she'd forgive me if I didn't get an autograph. Do you have any
signed pictures?"

Damon blushed, despite his success as a model and now famous detective,
he still found this sort of thing a little embarrassing, "I don't have
any signed photographs, but I'm happy to sign any piece of paper you
have. "

"I can do better than that, " said the Sergeant, "There's an instamatic
camera in forensics, I'll just borrow it. Wait a minute. Fetch the
camera for me Pete."

And shortly afterwards, Damon was writing, "Keep solving the crimes
Rob, your friend Damon Gulliver" on an instamatic picture of him and
the Sergeant, standing together and looking like close pals.

When Damon got back to the car, Joe had finished both of the magazines
and told him excitedly both about developments with super-dense black
holes and Hannah from S-Club-Seven's dream holiday and favourite fast
food.

Damon used the mobile to contact Francis, who sounded grumpy as usual.
Francis still tended to view even telephones as contact with the
outside world, which he hated to think about. Damon gave a detailed
account of everything that he had observed, having learned from
experience that a broad-brush approach was pointless with Francis, who
would just demand detail, detail, detail.

"Your thoughts brother ?" Francis asked him, with some degree of
sarcasm.

"Well, I'm ruling out mental disorder and drink from what the Custody
Sergeant told me, but drugs might be a possibility. "

"I don't believe so, " said Francis carefully, "I don't think heroin
tends to operate in that manner. It might be a factor of sorts, but I
don't think it's an explanation."

"My other theory is malice, " said Damon, nodding at Joe, who was
showing him the lyrics to some moronic plastic-pop song printed out in
full inanity in Smash Hits, "Maybe they upset someone, or they had a
dog that bit someone, or Pressman's dad was one of those made redundant
when the factory was sold off. Pressman was just trying to intimidate
them, scare them. "

"Consider this, " said Francis, "The vandal comes in daylight, wearing
conspicuous clothes, rather than at night, dressed in dark items, so
that he would be undetected. "

Damon considered it, but it was making his head ache, like eating six
bowls of vanilla ice-cream one after the other.

"Question, " said Francis, "If Pressman is a mere vandal, why is the
BMW parked in the drive completely unscathed ? You said there was not
even a scratch on it. If someone wanted to punish Mr Strong, his pride
and joy is clearly his car, which would be very easy to damage."

"I don't know, " said Damon, completely stumped.

Francis gave a small purr of pleasure, "The important thing in this
case Damon, is to determine exactly what the important thing is. Once
you have done that, the rest falls into place quite neatly. "

If there was one thing that irritated Damon beyond all other, it was
being patronised by his elder brother. It didn't matter how often it
happened, it was still wounding on every occasion. He put his mobile
phone away with some venom.

"Where to now ?" asked Joe.

Damon chewed his lip, "I think we'll try to find Glenn Pressman, see
what he has to say about the whole thing. "

Eventually, by asking around and giving five pound notes to the wrong
sort of person, Damon tracked Glenn Pressman down to a snooker club
called "Michael's Pockets". He had a quick look at the place, which was
above a pizza restaurant and decided that he wasn't going to park the
two-seater outside. Reluctantly, he felt that he had better take Joe in
with him, as it would be unfair to leave Joe in a multi-storey car
park.

The problems began as soon as they entered the place, when a bored
woman with a bob told them that it was members only.

"How do I go about joining then ? " Damon asked, fumbling in his wallet
for identification.

"You need to be recommended by one of our existing members, " she told
him, before returning to the word search in Take a Break magazine, her
pen hovering uncertainly above the letters and her brow furrowed.

Joe took a quick peek at her magazine, and although it was upside-down,
he had no difficulties with it, "Found Ainsley, " he said, pointing,
"Backwards diagonal, there, see. "

The woman was impressed out of her torpor, "I can never do the backward
diagonals, " she said, "I'd have been looking till I went blind. I can
send off now, have a chance to win a thousand pounds. "

Damon seized his chance, "Is there anyone here that might recommend me
as a member ? "

The woman scrutinised his face, before coming to a conclusion, "John at
the bar over there. Buy him a drink and he'll propose you as a member.
Never known anyone so keen to get in here before. "

"Well, we're both very keen on snooker, " Damon told her, "My brother
is getting withdrawal symptoms. "

Once membership was arranged and John had finished his drink (Jack
Daniels and coke, for the record), Damon paid for the table and a light
came on above it. Damon handed Joe a cue, and set the triangle on the
table. He let Joe fill the triangle up with red balls, as Joe liked the
shinyness and heaviness of the balls. He then showed Joe which spots
the other balls went on and explained the rules to him.

Joe was clumsy at first, having never held a snooker cue, but once he
had fluffed a few shots and Damon had given him some tips, he began to
get better. He was much better with the angles than Damon, his
mathematical brain revelling in it.

After three frames, Damon's friend from the bar came over and mentioned
to him that Glenn Pressman had just come in. Damon pushed two pound
coins along the wooden frame of the table to him.

"Thanks. Get yourself another drink. "

Pressman was wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and his Tommy Hilfiger
jacket, carrying a snooker cue in a thin black case. He obviously
played fairly regularly.

Damon went up to him, "Hello, Glenn is it? "

"What's it to you ? " asked Glenn, as Damon was very out of place in
the snooker hall, dressed in a smart suit and a crisp white shirt with
cufflinks.

"I just wanted to get you a drink in. What is it, lager ? "

"Cheers, " said Glenn, never one to pass up a free drink, but he was
still suspicious.

He slurped at the cold pint of lager, "Who are you then ? "

"My name is Gulliver, and I'm working for some people locally. I wanted
to talk to you about broken windows. "

"Got a warrant ? "

"No, I'm not from the police. "

"Then thanks for the pint, but sod off. I'm saying nothing. "

Damon paused for a second, but Glenn was serious. He would get nothing
further here. He went back to his table and finished off his third
frame with Joe, but his heart wasn't in it.

There was nowhere left for his investigation to go, he had considered
every aspect of the case and he still had no idea what would make a
young man, even one of dubious character, throw cans of dog food
through the front window of a harmless old couple.

Damon sighed. He could either get a bed and breakfast room for the two
of them and hang around in this dull, seedy town for another day,
discovering nothing, or he could swallow his pride, ring his brother
and grovel for the answer, then having time to arrange a table for that
evening and take Violet Rome out for dinner.

There really was no choice in the matter. Damon picked up his mobile
and telephoned Francis, who sounded delighted to hear from him. Damon
gritted his teeth and prepared himself for a patronising lecture on the
simplicity of the problem that had utterly baffled the man the tabloids
called "Mister Mystery" or "The real-life Sherlock".

"Glad to hear from you Damon, " said Francis, and Damon could almost
see the grin coming down the phone, "I've just been speaking to your
friend Sergeant Cook on your behalf of course. He has just made the
arrest. "

Damon was baffled, "Arrest ? But I've just been with Glenn
Pressman."

"Oh dear, " said Francis, "Still a little bit behind the times. No, I
explained to Sergeant Cook that you had solved the mystery and had a
very nice tip for him. So he went off and got a search warrant, and
what do you think ? You were exactly right in your deductions. "

"Which were ? I forget. "

"Well, as I told you earlier, that the important thing in the case was
to decide on what was really important. The rest of it were just
trimmings. Was it important that the Strongs themselves were being
persecuted ? No, because the car was untouched. Was the dog-food itself
of significance ? It didn't seem to be, there was no dog in the house,
no photographs of previous dogs. So, boldly, you determined that the
dog-food itself was just happenstance. "

"So what was significant ? "

"The breaking of the window. It was not important as vandalism, but as
a consequence in and of itself. "

Damon pondered on this, but was still rather bemused, "But why would
anyone want to break a window ?"

"Why does a magician employ a glamorous female assistant ? " asked
Francis in reply.

That was more straightforward, "For distraction. So that the audience
looks at her for a second, while the magician does something else. It's
misdirection. "

"Exactly, and that's how you. Damon Gulliver, Mister Mystery, managed
to solve this baffling case. For after all, what would happen if
someone's front window kept being broken ? "

"They'd be worried, frightened. They'd be waiting for it to happen
again... " Damon said slowly, beginning to grasp it, "They'd be looking
out of the front window, watching for Glenn Pressman. "

"And, " said Francis in triumph, "If you are always looking out of your
front window, what are you not doing any more? "

"Looking out of the back window, " said Damon with dawning realisation,
"But what possible interest could it be to anyone whether Arthur Strong
looks out of his rear window ?"

"Picture the scene, " said Francis, "You're a local criminal, with some
connections. You have a bit of form for handling stolen goods, you know
where you can lay your hands on more, keep it for a while, then sell it
on when the heat has died down. You find yourself a nice little
warehouse, shut for years, easy enough to get into. There's nobody
really around to see you moving stuff in and out, it's at the back end
of beyond. There's only one house in the street with anyone living
there. "

"Just one problem, " continued Francis, "The people who live there are
retired, so they're in all the time. And what is worse is that the man
is a bird-watcher, always looking out of the back window at the birds
feeding from his bags of nuts. And, he likes to take pictures too, so
he is often at the window with a camera. That's the last thing you want
if you're moving stolen goods into your perfect hiding place. "

Damon understood it now.

"But the good thing is, you've got a little brother who's into smack.
Expensive stuff, smack. He could do with a few quid and would be
willing to do you a favour. So, you come up with a scheme, to get the
Strongs looking out of the wrong window. Just pure misdirection. You
know the criminal system, Glenn is only going to get a slap on the
wrist. And after a few weeks, he won't even need to break a window,
just walking around outside will be enough. And the Strongs' are
watching for him all the time, even when he's not there. "

Damon made a sort of noise, but without any words. Francis took this as
an encouragement to continue.

"It really was quite brilliant, " said Francis in admiration, "To find
a petty criminal prepared to put a bit of artistry into his work. Far
more gratifying than dealing with a murderer who is essentially just a
butcher, with no pride in his work. The only thing that was more
brilliant was the fact that you, the real-life Sherlock Holmes, were
able to solve it the moment that Joe saw that picture of the bird on
the wall."

Damon sighed, and grudgingly said, "Yes, that was pretty
brilliant"

Later that evening, after the last performance of "Whiskey Galore! "
had concluded, Damon explained his brilliance to Violet Rome in a quiet
restaurant, while pressing her hand lightly. Of course, the whole
Francis motif was invisible in his account, as was the arrangement. And
of course, the lady was suitably impressed by his keen mind.